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theGreatxIam

Darkness Considered as an Elemental Plot Device, or,
Lights Out
Part 1 (of 3)
An Anniversary Waltz story
By theGreatxIam

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 ..."

"Yes?"

"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."

"What's that?"

"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."

"Why?"

"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.

"Lucy?"

"Yeah. The faucet getting to you, too?"

"Yeah. Bummer."

"Pete?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Uh -- nothing. Never mind."

"Cool." He swung the door to, then popped it open
again. "Luce?"

"Yeah?"

"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:

"Pete?"

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.

End of Part 1