Swingers - Pt 2

 

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Swingers Pt 2

by

Abyrne Mostyn

With the soft ‘snick’ of the door, he glanced about the room finding nothing of note. It was a simple room made for nothing in particular, save preparation. This was new. Usually, they would gather in a room with those from the group that evening and mingle away until something or someone triggered their interest and they moved to a room apart from the crowd. Tonight with its props was bound to be interesting. At parties past they had been paired up randomly instead of left to mingle and select by their own choices. From what he had seen in his bag, this night might be as well. How intriguing. How exciting. Would they know, or would the adventure be finding ‘the one’?

Every party was different, and yet the same. The evening’s festivities concluded there was always a take away, and that was what made it worth returning time and time again. You never knew what the take away would be. Colb and Tangyr had made the take away their secret prize. Each morning as they left, neither would tell what they had been given as their ‘keepsake’, instead rushing home to show the other what, and how.

Pondering this, sitting on a small sofa thinking back over the past, catching the lilting laughter from across the hall as Tangyr found something amusing, the previous March popped to mind. The theme that night had been tropical and everyone had come dressed for a luau. The party had proceeded as it usually did, each couple finding a space, and their gifts in one of the rooms above. Colb had brought home coconut body oil and massage implements, while his partner that night, a svelte blonde had gotten a grass skirt with a pearl thong. Tangyr had gotten a fun prize, a collection of edible fruit body paints, all the flavors of the islands. They had put them to good use upon reaching their upper west side loft that morning.

Between the coconut oil and the various fruit smells you would never have guessed that a cold March wind was blowing through Boston. Tangyr sprawled out on the throw looking every bit fresh from the islands.  They had escaped to the beach for a Sunday morning, listening to a steel drums cd they had from their honeymoon to the Caribbean years before. Her dark hair fanned out above her, long tan legs and curvy shape wearing nothing but fruit body paint and a smile. She was radiant. Her generous curves flush with excitement; he could not help but be aroused. She was perfect.

Perfection of course being speculative. To him she was everything and then some. More than a mouthful, but just right for his hands. Her stomach not ‘Hollywood rail’ but more reminiscent of Hollywood Rat Pack days. Curves and cushion. Soft and feminine. The kind of female that a man could lose himself in and not worry about breaking. Sturdy. Strong. A woman made for a man like him. She was not flab, but she shook a little with the tickle of the watercolor brush when he applied the paints. Sexy as hell.

She was erotic defined. Not afraid or so intimidated by herself to let herself be seen. To be touched. To be tasted. God how he had done all of that and more. Her silhouette in the other doorway tonight nearly had him grabbing her and whisking them back home. Her ass, high and heart shaped made him drool. She would jab at herself as having ‘too much in the tank’, though he believed it was just so she could hear him say how much he loved it, and show her. Watching that door close across the hall had been painful. Even now, the evidence of his want for her making him have to shift on his journey down memory lane back to their Sunday in Hawaii.

Watching her was easily his favorite past time, but watching her paint herself where she wanted him to go was like winning Super bowl tickets sitting on the sidelines with the players. He nearly blew twice when she drew the tiniest trail...so close, but not quite where he was dying to be. Painstakingly slow she drew his path, giving him explicit directions on where to begin and where the “X” was on this treasure map of hers. Changing flavors here and there, explaining the need for variety and complementing tastes and such, he was nearly rabid by the time she had stopped giggling, was done and ready.

The most difficult was to return the torture. Nibbling here, sucking there, and flatting his lips together to suck tight to the trail but not overshoot and miss the rest of his journey. Her moans, and squeals changing over to wails and weeping as he gave back exactly along the path, teasing her higher.

Stopping just short of the end, looking up with a wicked grin, grabbing the mango orange paint, spreading her wide and pouring half the jar along the rift of her. Her speechless moment of confusion becoming a raspy wail when he announced, “I have decided to finish the treasure hunt later...I rather feel like snorkeling.”