SUMMER SWAP // Part 2 // Chapter 5

HAPPY THANKSGIVING! to all the American friends out there

***

Byron unbuttoned his shorts, then slowly zipped the fly down. Carla opened her eyes when he did. Looked down to see that he was taking his shorts off. She closed her eyes again and said nothing. He slipped them down, stayed hunched, kicked the shorts off, but kept them close in case he needed to snatch them back quick. He sat down naked on the lounger next to Carla.

It took a moment of resolve, then he lay his hands on Carla again, stroking up her ribs, then bringing his hands together like diving into a swimming pool, stroking them up the center of her chest and touching her collar, smoothing her collarbone, coming up to her neck. Carla lifted her chin. He stroked down, this time spreading his hands outward.

He was going to do it.

He brought his hands down over the swoop of her amazing woman flesh, around and over her nipples, watching her skin glisten in the wake of his oily hands, watching her nipples flick as his hands passed over them. Watched her nipples swell and grow larger. He pushed upward, going over the nipples again, down the center of her chest. He played with her like that for a while, spreading the lotion on her. His cock pinched between his thighs, feeling like a steel rod that had been left out in the sun all day. Burning hot on the skin of his inside thighs.

Carla said, “They’re not fragile. You can be a little rougher with them.”

That was a definite invitation. That was about handling her breasts. That was not about putting protective sun lotion on her. That was about giving her pleasure.

He ignored her, moving his hands down her ribs again, down over her hipbones, leaning over so he could alternate his hands, easing them down the fronts of her thighs. She parted them, and he could see the neatly tucked folds of her labia. His mind tumbled over, bright whiteness blotting out his vision for a second. He brought his hands up again, his thumbs scooting up the insides of her thighs, pressing down on her flesh and making it swell. But he bailed before he touched her pussy, thumbs working outward, up to her hipbones again, not coming near the part of her that he would wanted to touch so bad.

Eyes still closed, Carla said, “It’s pretty bad ass, you know, how you’re not freaking out.”

His eyes focused on the soft, supple shapes of her vulva, legs slightly parted, that plump cloven mound visible to him. From the angle he looked, he couldn’t see the packed layers of her folds, but he was mesmerized getting such a bright daytime look at what should be hidden from other men. He said, “Freak out about what?”

“I like how you’re cool. Like, you checked out Cheyenne, swimming down there with two guys, all of them naked, and you didn’t clasp your hands over the sides your head like that kid from Home Alone, you know what I’m saying?”

“I’m not exactly tickled.”

“Yeah, right you’re not.”

“I’m not. But I’m not going to freak out.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Look at Arlo and Lily. You think if Lily went out swimming with those guys the way Cheyenne’s doing that Arlo would just like chill out?”

“No,” he said and laughed.

“Seriously, if that happened with Lily, our whole vacation would be ruined. Arlo would freak out, grab Lily, get on one of those jet skis and take off for shore.”

“He’s good to her.”

“No, I’m not saying he’s a bad husband. I just mean there’s a certain sense of composure. Like, I know that Arlo can lose his shit over something. But there’s something relaxing about being with you, knowing how you’re . . .”

“Cool?”

“For lack of a better word.”

His eyes were still between her legs.

Carla was quiet while he massaged that area of flesh just below her belly button and inside her hipbones. Stroking up and down, wondering if he would ever have the nerve to try and touch her pussy. Knowing he shouldn’t. And wait—knowing he wouldn’t. Cheyenne was skinny dipping with other guys, but that wasn’t some kind of license.

“I think she’s having fun,” Carla said, like she knew he was thinking of his wife.

“Cheyenne?”

“I think she likes the way things have been going.”

“Yeah. We talked this morning.”

“And you guys never thought about . . . You know . . .?”

“Thought about what?”

Carla took her time, eyes still closed. Her eyebrows rose, and she said calmly: “Swinging.”

He snorted, then chuckled. “What do you mean swinging? Like messing around?”

“You know what I mean.”

Byron drew his hands away from her belly, resting them on his knees now. This was a proposition. He said, “No. I’ve never thought of it,” somehow insulted while also complimented. Carla would sleep with him.

“Are you sure you’ve never thought about it?”

“What would make you think I’ve thought about it?”

“That throbbing boner you have,” she said, nodding her chin to his crotch.

He closed his legs together again. “Sorry, that’s from—” And then he was embarrassed to say it was from rubbing her naked body when he knew it was also from knowing his wife was up to questionable things herself.

“What from touching my titties? That’s why you had it before you even started? Before I even rolled over.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You totally did. Just relax. You’re getting uptight and I’m just having a conversation.”

She sat up a little straighter now, adjusted the lever on the back of the lounger, pushed her hair back from her face and lay in the sun again. She ran her hands up and down her stomach, evening out the lotion he’d spread on her. “You ought to consider it you know?”

“I don’t think I want to do that.”

“You don’t think you want to, or you know you don’t want to?”

He wasn’t ready to say out right now. The answer was no. So instead, he said, “Cheyenne would never go for it. She’s too jealous.”

“You might be surprised.”

“She’s really jealous.”

“You are too. Up to a point.”

“I like us being faithful.”

“It’s not unfaithful if it’s something you two do together.”

“Both of us?” For some reason, he’d only thought of himself as swinging. Not Cheyenne. Now he was chewing his lower lip, thinking of Cheyenne with Philippe. Thinking of her in that bathroom and how much he hated it and yet it turned him on. “I don’t know. . . . Hey, are you saying you guys . . .?”

“Me and Cody? Yeah.”

“Both of you guys do that? Swing, I mean.”

“Yeah, sure. I mean not every weekend or anything, Byron. A couple times a year we like to have fun.”

“Both of you do this?”

Now Carla opened her eyes again, and looked at him with a hand held above her brow to shield the sun. “It’s not a big deal. When we do it, it’s a great kick. And then we go to work on Monday and it’s not a big deal at all. Life as usual. Yeah—we find people we like. Cody finds somebody he likes, I find somebody I like.” She rolled her eyes around then looked at him.

It was him.

Did Carla get turned on by putting the toilet paper tube over his dick last night? Now he was complimented again.

“It’s really bright out,” she said. She let her hand fall against his knee. It was held not in a fist but with the flats of her fingers against the pad of her thumb. Her hand glistened with the oil she collected off of her own body. She let her knuckles roll down the inside of his thigh but his legs were too close together. He brought them closer to stop her hand.

She said, “I had a boyfriend in college who went stunning with me naked, got a sunburn on his dick so bad he almost lost his dick.”

He met her gaze, and they both looked at each other, her loose fist paused between his thighs, halfway from knee to scrotum.

His knees widened in small increments, and Carla’s hand slid along his leg, every inch he allowed. Soon her pinky knuckle touched his scrotum and he jolted. He sucked his stomach in and held his breath, eyes electric and darting, hands gripping tight the edge of Cheyenne’s lounger.

His gaze darted from Carla’s eyes to her hand to the stairs where someone might come up and see them. Every protestation formed in his brain but tumbled on his tongue.

He watched now as Carla’s fingers curled along the dorsal side of his erection. She was looking at his cock, her eyes right on it. Her thumb touched the underside of his shaft, just above his hanging testicles.

“Holy shit,” he sighed.

Carla slid her hand upward on his shaft, pressing along the raised cable edge of his absolutely bursting erection

“We wouldn’t want you to lose this nice cock, now would we?”

Her thumb stroked back down, fingers caressing the topside, and he had to stop her. She shouldn’t be doing this.

Her hands stroked up again, and a sudden hard brick formed somewhere above his bladder. His eyes opened wide and something startled him. His balls rolled over, his stomach muscles cabled.

“Oh, wait, don’t—”

But Carla did. Fingers caressing up the topside, index finger tickling the flared lip of his cock head while her thumb pressed hard under the chin, stroking up to the cloven underside of the hardest erection he could remember.

His hips bucked, his ass muscles flexed. His cock ejaculated.

He hissed, squinted and grimaced. Stomach scrunched hard, holding on for dear life, like a fighter pilot ejected from a plane.

“Shit, oh shit,” he grunted, ass muscles jumping, cock flexing, semen squirting.

“Oh Byron, Byron,” Carla laughed, snaked her grip a little tighter, then ran the pretty pad of her thumb in dime-size circles, going fast on his frenulum. More semen spurted. Long wiggling ropes danced.

Byron heaved breath, and closed his legs on Carla’s arm. She laughed the whole time, saying, “Wow, what a show, look at this . . .”

He grabbed her wrist to stop her. “Holy fuck,” he said. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything, Byron,” she said, laughing. She withdrew her hand, honestly tickled with what happened, smiling wide with her mouth open, looking at his dick. “What a fucking hair-trigger.”

“That’s never happened before. Oh my God, what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. I touched you with my thumb, and you hit thermonuclear detonation. Jesus,” she said, holding her hand out now, looking at the strands of pearly seamen that went from her index knuckle, zigzagged the back of her hand, across her wrist and all the way up the inside of her forearm.

He said again: “That’s never happened. Like that’s never happened ever before.”

“I’m honestly sorry,” she said, still laughing, leaning forward, completely buck naked, soft rolls in her middle, big breasts swinging. She retrieved her T-shirt, turned it inside out and cleaned her hand. “I swear to God, Byron, I was not trying to make that happen. Are you okay?”

“I’m so fucking . . .” And now the reality was sinking in. Cheyenne. Oh man. “I shouldn’t have let you do that,” he said.

“I was just playing around. I really didn’t think that was going to happen.”

“I’m so embarrassed.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’m so ashamed.”

“It was an accident. Don’t worry, it’s between us. Get your shorts on.”

“Yeah,” he said, “okay hold on,” bewildered, body going through regular day motions now as if the weirdest, strangest, wrongest thing in his whole life hadn’t just happened. He pushed his legs through his underwear, brought the shorts up, tucked his lagging erection into his underwear, zipped the fly closed.

“No harm, no foul,” Carla said. “Unless Mr. Big Mouth just has to tell Cheyenne.”

“I have to tell her.”

“Don’t do that,” Carla said, hand and arm clean now. “I’ll tell her.”

“Will you?”

She said, “I’ll make it right. Okay?”

“I can’t lie to her.”

“Let me deal with it. Would you let me do that?”

“I can’t believe I did that,” he said again, elbows on his knees now, grabbing his temples and running his fingers through his hair. “What is wrong with me?”

“It’s just an accident. Don’t worry about it. She won’t even be mad. She can’t be mad.” Carla patted his knee.

“What do you mean she can’t be mad?”

“The thing she did with Philippe.”

“The toilet paper tube?”

“Yeah. She can’t say anything.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

Carla’s eyebrows bowed skeptically. “Cheyenne handled Philippe’s dick. And it’s not my fault you’ve got a hair-trigger.”

“Cheyenne didn’t handle his dick.”

“Okay, whatever.”

“Who told you she handled it?”

“What did she go down there for?”

He scoffed. “Did you handle my dick?”

Carla raised her palms. “All right, all right. Cheyenne didn’t handle Philippe’s dick. . . . Mission one, Hair-trigger, is I need you to go get me a clean T-shirt okay? Go down to my room—”

He put his hand over the hand on his knee. “You need to knock off the hair-trigger thing. I am not a hair-trigger. That is not normal. Not for me. Like never. Not even when I first had sex.”

“You want to know what it was?”

“What?”

“It wasn’t me. It was Cheyenne.”

“What, because I was doing something wrong?”

“No, you were doing something right. Cheyenne was down there with those guys, and you were thinking about it. And you like it,” she said, tapping his knee with the index finger.

He should protest, but Carla wasn’t wrong.

She continued. “It’s the newness. The strangeness. Why do you think we like to swing? Do you know how crazy it is when you’ve never been with somebody before, and you’re allowed to do it? And you have, like, weird sex, and you don’t know how it’s going to go. Sometimes it’s amazing, sometimes it’s just okay. . . . Then after, when it’s over, you curl up in bed with the person you love.”