Anniversary Waltz #3: Darkness Considered as an Elemental Plot Device
Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Consensual, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Cheating, Swinging, Interracial, Black Female, White Male, Oral Sex, Voyeurism,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Alternative title: Lights Out Paula and Steve get away to a tropical island for their tenth anniversary. They didn't count on a hurricane.
Steve Oldham crept up the carpeted stairs as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb Randall. But as he got to the top, the noises made it obvious Lucy's husband was not asleep. Nor, Steve assumed, was Lucy -- the groans he heard were a harmony of male and female.
He paused, one foot on the landing, the other still on the stairs. His room was only twelve feet away, but he'd have to cross right in front of the pull-out sofa where the action was. If he crawled, keeping low -- no. That was too much like a bad sitcom script.
It was a dilemma. He was tired and achy, and his bed was only feet away. He paused, considered waiting for his wife. But Paula's after-sex showers were legendary in length. And his back was killing him. Then he realized: If Lucy was down here, then her bed upstairs must be empty. He could lie down there awhile to give his back a rest, then come back down.
Up one more flight of stairs, Steve blinked. After three days, he still hadn't adjusted to the pitch black nights. True, they were lucky the condo hadn't been battered by the previous month's hurricane, like so many others. And they were getting a big discount on the rental because the power was going to be out for their entire long weekend stay. But it was a pain, trying to navigate in a strange house when you couldn't see the nose in front of your face.
He bumped that nose into a wall he also couldn't see before feeling his way to Lucy's door. He fumbled with the knob and got the door open a crack before the sounds within made him freeze.
At first he was completely confused. How could Lucy be fucking in two places at once? Then he smiled. He must have gotten the rooms confused in the dark. And if this was Pete's room, his buddy must have gotten lucky with one of the other house guests -- or, knowing Pete, both. Well, the guys always had said Pete could charm the pants off a lesbian. Steve guessed they were right.
With only one stubbed toe, he found the other second-floor room and settled into the bed. No sooner had he sighed with relief, though, than he felt someone crawling into bed beside him. Before he could even say hello, soft lips were on his. A hand reached down, slipped under his pajamas, grabbed his cock. Paula must have made the same decision on the stairs, he thought. But, wow! Twice in one night! She hadn't been this eager since they were dating!
"Florida?" Paula looked up from her chair. "For our anniversary?"
"Sure!" Steve's face was beaming. "It's perfect. You wanted sun? You got it! Beach? Check! And the best thing..."
"We can take the kids! Disney! Epcot! The whole deal! We'll make a family vacation out of it!"
Paula kept her sigh to herself. It should please her, she thought, that Steve was so devoted to the children -- red-haired Suzy, with her slim good looks, their first-born, and little Ricky, with his broad nose and crinkly black hair. Paula loved them too -- they looked so nice, walking alongside her, bookending her blonde, leggy strut. But, really. There was such a thing as being too devoted. When Paula thought of getting away from it all, the kids were two of the things she counted as part of the "all."
All she said was, "But, sweetums. It's our tenth anniversary. Do we really want the children along?"
And she batted her long lashes.
"I know," he said, "but they'd love it, and --"
"Darling, wouldn't you love a little time alone... with me?"
"Yes, but --" Steve faltered.
Paula could smell victory. She went in for the kill. "Tell you what. We'll take the kids later in the year -- when the rates go down. But for our anniversary, we'll go away -- just for a few days -- to someplace where there are no theme parks. We'll just stay in a house by the beach, cook steaks on the grill, and in the evenings --" She let it trail off. She knew she had him. Saving money, eating red meat, making love -- he could never resist.
Steve flashed a grin. "You win. I'll call the agent and see if he can recommend --"
"Mestife. It's a little island in the Caribbean. Bobbi Jo told me about it. Sun, sand, surf, and she knows a lovely condo right on the water. Oh, Steve, it's perfect! Say yes."
"But I've never heard of it."
"Of course not! That's the great part. It hasn't been discovered by the riffraff. Bobbi Jo says we'd have it almost all to ourselves. Doesn't that sound nice?"
He raised his hands. "OK. I surrender. Mestife it is."
"Great! I'll call Bobbi Jo right now."
"So she can make her plans, of course. I mean, she tentatively planned to take those days off, but now she can --"
"Bobbi Jo's coming with us?"
"Of course. The condo has four bedrooms, and we all can split the cost."
"All? Who's all?"
"Well, us. And Bobbi Jo and Sam. Plus Lucy and Randall --"
"What, and Teri too?"
"No, she couldn't make it. But I thought you could ask Pete. We haven't seen him in ages -- at least two wives ago, isn't it? And you two used to be such good friends."
"Sure. I guess. But -- I thought it would be just the two of us."
"It will, Steve. Just the two of us. You won't even notice the others. Trust me!"
Paula had been right, Steve thought ruefully. They had Mestife to themselves.
A bug the size of a three-month-old infant splatted against the windshield. It distracted him just enough that he missed the chance to check the name of the turn-off as he passed it. All he could see ahead of him before the headlight beams steamed away into darkness was more debris scattered over the narrow blacktop -- palm fronds, shards of wood, pulpy messes he couldn't even separate into mammals, reptiles and amphibians.
They had flown into Mestife utterly unaware that a hurricane had passed through just weeks before. Since only a few people had been killed, it apparently hadn't risen to the attention of the TV station Steve relied upon for news. But it was immediately clear something was wrong once the prop plane touched down. The airstrip looked like a war zone. A hot, steamy war zone.
Steve's starched Hawaiian shirt wilted the second the humidity rolled off the tarmac onto them as they ducked their heads to exit the plane. He felt something on his neck and slapped at it, expecting to find a mosquito. Instead, he sent up a spray of sweat. He checked his dark hair: It was matted to his scalp just seconds after he'd left the air-conditioned plane.
As if the heat and humidity weren't enough, the rental agent who met them explained about the hurricane. Power was out over most of the island, with emergency generators keeping only essential services open -- the airport, a grocery, stuff like that. Most definitely not luxury three-story condos for crazy American tourists.
The prospect of four days and three nights, with no AC, no TV, not much of anything, was enough to make Paula vote for getting back on the plane and going home. But Bobbi Jo held firm. Steve wasn't sure whether that was because the place had been her idea or because she couldn't take any more delays before she got her hands on Samantha, the college student Bobbi Jo insisted on referring to as her protege.
In the end -- and after several drinks in the hotel bar, with its working ice machine -- they'd agreed to tough it out. Squeezed into two small rental cars, the seven of them followed the rental agent to their condo.
Seven, it was, because Margrit, Pete's latest wife, had backed out at the last second, turning on her heels while they were waiting for their connecting flight in Atlanta. She hadn't said anything to the rest of them, but from overheard snatches of the argument she'd had with her husband, Steve gathered Margrit was not pleased by the attention he showed to the other women.
Pete was a hound. But, then, he'd always been. There'd even been a time when Steve had gotten jealous over the way Pete treated Paula. By now, though, he realized Pete just couldn't turn it off; the (bottle) blonde bomber came on to every set of tits-and-ass he met. On this trip, he seemed to have Lucy in his sights, but that was understandable. Once-mousy Lucy had blossomed into a real looker. The money of her new husband, Randall, had paid for a major reconstruction project, and Lucy's body was now as stacked as -- well, as Paula's.
In fact, all the women at the condo were wet dreams waiting to happen. As Steve shifted in the seat of the car, peeling his bare legs from the sticky plastic, he felt a little guilty to realize that the hard-on trapped painfully in his shorts wasn't just due to his own wife. The sight of Lucy in her teeny bikini, with her spanking-new ass and tits spilling out and her freshly blonde hair sweeping over her shoulders, had already at least twice forced Steve to take refuge, until the bulge subsided, in his and Paula's bathroom, tucked in their master suite on the condo's main floor.
The condo had a simple layout. The two-car garage shared the first floor with a bedroom, a bath and a small sitting room just big enough for two chairs; it was the path to the back door that led to the patio and the beach. The stairs to the rest of the house were at the other end, leading from the front door to the first floor's living room. You had to walk through the living room into the kitchen to get to the big bedroom and a half-bath. If you skipped all that and kept going upstairs, you hit the top floor -- a narrow corridor with a bedroom on either side and a bath at the far end. Everything was done in shades of white that Steve thought of as beige and beiger but the women insisted had names like "ecru" and "eggshell."
He and Paula had been awarded the best room because it was their anniversary. Pete accepted one of the two smaller upstairs bedrooms because he was baching it -- no one was surprised he'd gone on when Margrit walked away; Pete had gone through too many break-ups to let one more crimp his plans.
Lucy had the other upper room to herself. Randall was camping out on the roll-out sofa bed in the living room on the main floor. No fight there for the two lovebirds; Randall sheepishly admitted to being such a heavy snorer that Lucy and he always slept separately -- "Except when we're not sleeping," he'd said with a wink.
That had left the big basement room with its two twin beds for Bobbi Jo and Sam. More temptation there, Steve thought, even if they were carpet-munchers. He suspected that was a part-time thing, anyway. He knew that Bobbi Jo had a few men in her past. And Sam -- god, she made him drool just thinking of her -- dark-skinned Sam seemed to flirt with everyone indiscriminately.
Her flirting was so obvious that it must have irked Bobbi Jo, whose enthusiasm had begun to wane the moment her chortles of glee at uncovering the hot tub on the back patio, just outside her room, had turned to a groan of disgust when she remembered that hot tubs run on electricity, too. Sam had dipped in a hand and pointed out that the water was still warm and clean, but from that moment on the frown on Bobbi Jo's face had deepened. Since her frizz of red hair had sagged at the same rate, she had more and more resembled a sad-faced clown.
A clown with a killer body, though -- slightly taller than Paula, but in much the same proportion now that age had filled in her former lankiness. And absolutely incredible legs.
It was the prospect of having those legs on display next to him, Steve had to admit, that had gotten him onto this godforsaken road in the pitch-black night. Bobbi Jo had taken the other car into town as evening fell, on a mission to find bug spray and mosquito netting. The insects didn't bother the others -- not after they'd drenched themselves in repellent. Steve had suspected it was just an excuse for her to get away from Sam's goo-goo eyed fascination, which seemed to be focused that evening on Paula, of all people.
Bobbi Jo had been gone for hours and they were getting worried when an island kid pedaled up and knocked on the door. He said Bobbi Jo's car had foundered on an uprooted tree just outside the village; she was going to spend the night there. Lucy and Paula had objected, and even though Sam didn't seem too concerned, Steve had volunteered to retrieve her.
But he had almost left the road twice already, the detritus of bugs on the windshield was making it hard to see even the short distance illuminated by the headlights, and he could barely keep his eyes open. Steve gave up, swinging the car around in a three-point turn. Bobbi Jo could fend for herself.
Even though all the windows in the house were open, the breezes that staggered through the condo wouldn't have stirred a wisp of dandelion fluff. The heat hung on the walls like a shroud and dripped from the sheets as everyone within slept fitfully. The only sounds were the buzz of flying hematologists, the intermittent ploink of a leaky faucet in one of the four bathrooms and the window-rattling snores from the bald, middle-aged man sprawled on living room sofa bed.
On the top floor, the snores were somewhat muted by having to climb up carpeted stairs, but the ploink of the drip echoed, ploink-sploink-ploink.
There is a reason they call it water torture. The not-quite-regular concussions could not be ignored, would not fade into the background.
There is a point at which even sweltering heat is better than annoying sound. Pete, tossing back and forth on the queen-sized bed that almost filled his room, sat up, staring at the open door. Or at least in the general direction of the door; on a moonless night everything is just different shades of black.
With a toss of his head, Pete got off the bed and felt his way to the door. As he swung it closed, a corresponding squeak came from the other side of the hall.
"Yeah. The faucet getting to you, too?"
"Uh -- nothing. Never mind."
"Cool." He swung the door to, then popped it open again. "Luce?"
"Ah -- good night."
"Good night, Pete."
The doors closed. On the inside of both rooms, the occupant stood, one hand still on the knob. Seconds passed. Hearts beat.
Then, slowly, Pete opened his door again. He stepped into the hall. His head swiveled, as if trying to locate something by sonar -- a heartbeat, perhaps. But any other sounds he might have heard were covered by the insistent poink-sploink. His lips thinned to a narrow line. He turned toward the sound, stepping carefully down the dark hall. As if by force of habit, he kicked the door closed as he entered the bathroom and groped for a light switch. It clicked up and down without effect. Cursing softly, he stumbled toward the dripping faucet.
Out in the hall, another door opened. Lucy's head popped into the corridor, followed by the rest of her naked body. Closing the door behind her, she crept across the hall. Her hands found the open door; a smile bloomed. Soft as a sigh, she tiptoed to the bed and climbed on top.
On the main floor of the condo, the snores from the living room rolled into the master bedroom like thunder. Paula tossed aside the pillow she'd squeezed around her head, pulled her hand from between her legs. She stripped off her black nightgown and cast it aside. Silent as a nun, she slipped out of the bedroom, past the noise on the sofa, up the stairs, down the second-floor hall. When her outstretched hands brushed door frames on either side, she hesitated. Then she stepped through into a room, closing the door behind her.
At that same moment, on the floor below, another woman was stepping into another bedroom. Sam, her filmy nightgown whispering against her smooth skin, swept each foot before her with each step, at last touching the polished wood of the king-sized bed's frame.
Upstairs, the bathroom door opened. Pete walked down the hall. Stopping halfway down, he reached out his hand. Finding the door before him closed, he opened it and stepped from dark to dark.
The headlights could barely pierce through the smeared insect remains that coated them. Steve's hands gripped the wheel tightly. He almost missed the half-broken sign at the front of the condo and had to turn sharply when the stump of a palm suddenly materialized from the gloom right in front of him. Leaving the car parked askew, he found the front door and let himself in.
Climbing the stairs to the main floor, the sound of snores grew louder. It was with relief that he closed the bedroom door behind him, shucked off his sweaty clothes and got into bed.
A murmur next to him made Steve reach across the big mattress. His hand found the soft sheerness of a nightgown, the tantalizing roundness of a breast. His cock sprang to life as his fingers trailed down the lush curves and cupped a tight butt covered in the gown's gentle folds.
The murmur turned into a low moan. Steve almost mounted her right then, but he remembered Paula always complained about his impatience. And this was their anniversary. Time to give her a present.
Without a word, he slid down and got between her legs, which parted eagerly. His fingertips brushed the inside of her thighs. It was so dark in the room, they would have to do it by Braille, he thought. He figured he knew the route, though truth be told, it had been a long time since he'd gone down on her.
She sighed when his fingers found her slick pussy lips, groaned when his thumb made contact with her clit. Just before he put his tongue to her, he whispered his adoration: "Paula, darling, I love you."
Her legs jerked up then, and her hands came down, caressing his face, lingering on the sandpaper of his chin. A long, snaking "Mmm" was her only response as he pushed his tongue inside her.
Her thighs settled around him, and he lost himself in loving her, plunging his tongue as deeply as possible, letting her secretions cover his face. Steve didn't have a lot of technique, but at least he could offer enthusiasm. Judging from the noises echoing off the walls -- much more than Paula usually made -- the effort was appreciated.
He cupped his hands under her sweet ass, pulling her even closer as his tongue flicked against her clit. He played with it like a cat with a ball of wool until her hands came down on him, pressing into his scalp. She bucked her hips up, froze in place, relaxed, did it all over again and again, screams ringing in his ear as her fists pounded on his back.
Then it was over. He crawled up to kiss her, but she was already twisting around. Her lips closed around his pole and Steve's breath caught in his throat. It had been a long time for that, too.
Her touch was softer than he remembered, her tongue more tantalizing as it swirled around and around the ridge that ran around the circumference of the rubbery head. She took her time, sometimes pulling her lips off and just rubbing the tip in her hands. He wished he could see her do it, but she was just a darker shadow in the shadows; even her blonde hair couldn't be seen in the gloom.
In a way, that made it even more erotic. It gave free rein to his fantasies; he could imagine it was anyone sucking his cock -- Raquel Welch, Celine Dion, even sexy Sam, Bobbi Jo's friend. But he found none of those imaginary lovers got him as excited as knowing that it was his wife whose head was bobbing on his dick, his wife whose eager sucking was making those horny noises, his dear Paula whose frantically stroking hand was bringing him closer, closer to the brink.
And over it, a gushing orgasm, all of his jism disappearing down her throat. Steve's head pounded into the pillow as she continued to suck him long after he'd stopped coming. It was sweet torture. Then a miracle. He was hard again.
She moved, and he expected her to climb onto him; she liked to be on top.
She did get onto him, but facing away -- she'd never done that before. Steve was so happy; she was as eager to make this anniversary special as he was.
Special, indeed, as she guided his dick into her cunt, her hot, wet cunt. She squatted down, letting him slide all the way inside her and stay there, absorbing her heat.
Something brushed his chest, then fluttered away. He reached out to find she'd slipped off her nightgown. His hands found the curve of her spine, the soft valley of her waist. With a flexibility he'd have thought was lost, she bent backward, keeping his cock impaled in her. He was able to reach around, to take her supple breasts. The unusual position made them feel different, but wonderful.
The heat of the room and the vigorousness of their lovemaking drenched them in sweat. They slipped and slid as they fucked. It made it all the better. He roared with pleasure as he drove his dick into her pussy over and over, and she slammed down on him just as lustily.
When it was over, they came together, his cum bubbling out of her quim, dripping down his dick. They stayed coupled for several minutes, lazily stroking, until she collapsed to one side and crawled off. As he waited for her to return from the bathroom, his eyes closed and he drifted off. Sometime later, he felt the bedsprings give as she got back into bed. He rolled over, kissed her, and went back to sleep.
Paula closed the door behind her and paused, waiting in vain for her eyes to adjust. It was no use, and she stretched her hands out again as she inched forward. She felt linen at her fingertips and got into bed. The other side creaked. Two voices said the same thing:
Then Paula put her hands out, felt two firm breasts. Other hands were groping her. Her mind whirred through the possibilities like a wheel of fortune and came to rest. This time the two voices had different questions.
"Lucy?" That was Paula.
"Paula?" That was Lucy.
"I'm sorry," Paula said. "I thought this was Pete's room. Uh, I mean --"
"It is," Lucy said. "But -- I thought you and Pete -- wasn't that over years ago?"
"Yes, but, well, it's not so easy to find men these days, with the kids and all, so -- Wait a minute. You and Pete?"
"I know. It's crazy. But those blue eyes of his -- well, you know. And this heat, it's got me all antsy. I just wanted something to take the edge off."
"What about Randall?"
A laugh came from Lucy's side of the bed. "You're going to lecture me about fidelity?"
"Hey!" Paula was hurt, though a bit puzzled herself about the reason. "I mean, you're practically a newlywed. And I thought you and Randall were, well --"
"We were what? In love? Look, Randall is a nice guy, but more important he's a nice rich guy. I don't mind giving him some every now and then, but I need more."
"So Randall's not hot stuff?"
Lucy laughed again. "Are you kidding? There's a reason no one calls him Randy. When he gets going, yeah. He's the best lover I've ever had -- well, in the top 10. But I'm not going to wait around for his shining moments. I figured Pete would be a more, ah, reliable source."
"Speaking of which, where is he?"
"Beats me. I came over here and the bed was empty. Maybe he took a leak and lost his way."
Even as they talked, the two women had kept their hands on each other's breasts. Almost absent-mindedly, Paula had begun to squeeze her friend's tits. She felt Lucy doing the same to her.
The talk faded away as they moved closer together. Lucy kicked off the sheet. Her silky leg glided along Paula's. Their hands left their breasts, hugged each other close. They moaned into each other's mouths as their lips pressed together.
Lucy was the first to pull back. "What are we doing?" Even as she whispered, though, her hand was tracing the curves of her friend's body.
Paula bent her head forward, spoke into Lucy's ear. "Just taking the edge off," she murmured. "Just taking it off."
And they kissed again, tongues meeting. Paula would have preferred a good, stiff cock, but she knew from experience that there were special pleasures to be found with someone who really understood a woman's desires. She stretched out, pressing her nipples to Lucy's.
They made love lying side by side, legs entwined, cunts pressed together. At first it was enough to rub sex to sex as they shared soft evanescent kisses. In time they needed more. Paula put a hand to Lucy's slit, felt fingers at her own. They built up through tentative touches to all-out finger fucking, frantically stabbing into each other's recesses. Their kisses grew bolder as well, lusty open-mouthed collisions, tongues jousting. They rolled over and back, bedsprings protesting the assault.
Paula explored her friend's reconstructed body curiously. It was a little bit like seeing herself in a mirror. Lucy had apparently remade herself in Paula's image, down to the rebuilt cheekbones. That was her hair, even her style -- except the original didn't have those almost-concealed dark roots. Even her tits -- with extra firmness, true, but a certain artificiality as well. It was flattering to be the model for someone else's makeover. And, she thought with perhaps a hint of vanity, she couldn't imagine a sexier lover.
Lucy came first, gasping and clutching Paula's flesh. Then Paula felt her own body responding, muscles and flesh ripped from conscious control as passion throbbed through every nerve.
They held each other close awhile longer. In time the heat got to Paula. She disentangled herself from Lucy, sound asleep, and crept out. In the hallway she put an ear to the opposite door and heard light snoring.
Back in her own bed, she slid beside Steve. He rolled over and dropped off to sleep immediately. Paula soon joined him.