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theGreatxIam

Darkness Considered as an Elemental Plot Device, or,
Lights Out
Part 2 (of 3)
An Anniversary Waltz story
By theGreatxIam

The sun burned off some of the night's humidity as it
rose fat and orange on the second day. It pierced the
condo's waterside windows, pushing everyone out of bed.

The showers could only offer cold water, and even that
was closer to tepid. The morning was filled with petty
annoyances: nicks and cuts from shaving, three
different people going through the motions of making
coffee before each realized the futility, sighs over
chocolate melted into the contents of a too-hastily
packed drawer.

Pete was in a particularly foul mood, though perhaps
that was only in contrast to the sunny smiles of the
three women and the skylarking of Steve, who whistled
his way around the kitchen assembling a dry breakfast
of bananas and wheat flakes.

The women chose to skip breakfast. Squeezing into
barely-there bikinis -- gold for Paula, red for Lucy,
leopard print for Sam -- they grabbed cheap romance
novels and headed for the beach.

After Randall transformed his bed back into a couch, he
borrowed the car keys and headed out "to explore."

But a few minutes later he was back, having turned
around when he saw Bobbi Jo coming the other way. She
was hailed as a conquering hero when she popped the
trunk of her replacement rental to reveal two coolers
full of ice, a case of assorted liquor, steaks and
other less spectacular comestibles. Despite a buzz of
questions she refused to say how she'd produced such
precious cargo. 

After her arrival the day took on a festive air.
Everybody dove into the ocean. The guys got out first,
beaching themselves on towels spread far apart. Each
one made a show of scanning the horizon, following the
path of dive-bombing gulls, staring intently at
driftwood formations.

But their eyes always returned to the four women
splashing and swimming just off-shore.

Except for the color of their suits -- and the color of
Sam's skin -- all four presented identically beautiful
backsides. From the front, Sam's features were
distinctive, and Bobbi Jo had a few more crow's feet
around the eyes, a rounder jaw line than Lucy and
Paula. But their curves were equally developed, their
legs identically long. The beads of sweat on the faces
of all three men did not appear to be due solely to the
sun.

When the women marched back up the beach, Randall
tended bar. Sam found a stash of volleyball equipment
under the stairs. They defied the heat with a spirited
game until Randall twisted his ankle and some of their
dwindling ice supply went toward keeping down the
swelling.

Pete ruled the barbecue, and a few cold martinis
restored the good cheer as evening fell. A sliver of
moon even made an appearance, offering a few dim shades
of gray in the deepening night. 

Everyone stayed around the grill long after dinner was
over, even though the conversation wandered aimlessly
through trivial topics.

"It's so peaceful out here," Steve said as darkness
descended. "And look at the stars! I've never seen the
sky so full. It's like diamonds on black velvet."

"Speaking of diamonds," Lucy said teasingly, "isn't
this your anniversary? What are you two doing out here
with all of us?"

Paula lobbed her last sliver of ice at her double. "Us?
You're the newlyweds. You're not supposed to be able to
keep your hands off each other."

"Newlyweds?" Lucy produced a ladylike snort. "It's
almost a year. We're another old married couple."

Randall paused as he was tossing a paper plate into a
garbage bag. "I'm not so sure about that," he said.
"Maybe the honeymoon's not over yet."

Pete poked Randall in the side. "I think," he said,
"that the honeymoon ended the first time your bride
heard that buzzsaw snore of yours."

Maybe the poke was harder than the moment called for.
Or maybe Randall hadn't been as oblivious as he
appeared to the way Pete and Lucy eyed each other. For
whatever reason, the older man jerked sharply away at
Pete's touch and brought his fists up.

Steve stepped between them, waving them toward neutral
corners. "Hey, how about sleeping outside? Anyone up
for that? Paula?"

"Outside?" She stretched the word into four syllables.
"Where?"

"The beach! We can lay down towels, look up at the
stars --"

Paula shook her head. "Get bitten by bugs, crawled over
by who knows wha-- yipe!"

Sam had crept up behind Paula and silently brushed her
fingers just below the sweep of blonde hair. Paula
leaped two feet in the air, but she came down laughing
and good spirits gradually resettled on the group.

When they finally went back inside, it was only with
evident reluctance, in ones and twos, trudging past the
silent hot tub and in the back door.

---- ---- ----

Steve lingered longest, heading out for a walk along
the shoreline, watching phosphorescent waves sparkle
toward land. He was as happy and content as he could
remember being in a long time. True, he missed the
kids. But Paula may have been right about that; they
probably needed time away. Judging by last night, the
trip to Mestife had already brought some zip back to
their marriage.

That thought stirred his loins, and he pointed himself
back to the condo, which he could make out as a tall
shadowy rectangle against the deep blue night.

Drawing closer, he heard voices, easily identified as
Sam's Southern drawl and Bobbi Jo's hyper staccato. He
came around the side of the patio's side wall and
stopped, leaning back into the shadows.

The hot tub's cover was folded on the patio's deck.
Bobbi Jo and Sam were getting into the tub. They had
lit a candle, another treasure from Bobbi Jo's
mysterious cache. In its flickering he could see they
were naked.

Steve hugged the wall, slowing his breath. The candle's
glow accented the curves of their breasts, silhouetted
their bodies, made shifting, hypnotic patterns on the
water. When Sam grasped the sides of the tub and slid
under to her neck, she looked like she was slipping
into quicksilver. When she bobbed back up, liquid light
cascaded off her dark flesh.

The subtle light erased the age difference between the
two women; Bobbi Jo's eyes gleamed like a young girl's.
They settled at opposite sides of the square tub, but
soon they were gliding closer together. Bobbi Jo's hand
reached out, pulled Sam to her. Their faces hovered
inches apart. Then, as slow as a gay rights bill in a
Southern legislature, the distance between them
narrowed. Their lips met.

Steve's cock was throbbing in his swim trunks. He was
slightly guilty about being a voyeur and slightly
afraid of being caught. But when the thought of
interrupting the women flitted into his head, he
swatted it away like a pesky fly.

Bobbi Jo and Sam had their arms wrapped around each
other. Their kisses touched to cheeks, necks, eyelids
as they floated into the middle of the tub. In an
erotic water ballet, Bobbi Jo arched her back and very
slowly tilted until she was floating on her back. As
she shifted, Sam's lips landed softly on the older
woman's breasts, trailed down her stomach, reached the
folds of her cunt.

Steve put his hand into his trunks and stroked his
turgid dick. Bobbi Jo's legs were splayed wide, giving
him a clear but shadowy view of all the action. Precum
leaked out the tip of his cock and he spread it over
the knob and down the pole as he watched Sam's tongue
lapping away.

Water sloshed over the side of the tub, spattering onto
the deck, as Bobbi Jo responded to Sam's ministrations,
rocking her ass up and down. The younger woman had to
stop several times to gasp for air, but she clung to
Bobbi Jo's waist. Suddenly her head disappeared beneath
the water. Sam popped back up, shaking off a spray that
glittered like fireworks in the candlelight, while
Bobbi Jo's moans rolled over her.

Steve's hand was flying over his cock, and his
breathing had grown so harsh that he ducked back behind
the patio wall and sank to a crouch, worried about
being discovered. Only when his heartbeat had slowed
and he could breath without rasping did he silently
crawl back and peek around the wall again.

Bobbi Jo had Sam pinned against one side of the tub and
was smothering her with kisses. They were mostly
underwater, but Steve could see Bobbi Jo's shoulder
bouncing up and down. From Sam's shrieks it was obvious
her lover's fingers were buried deep within her cunt.

Steve's hand returned to his pole. His strokes kept
time with Bobbi Jo's as he daydreamed about stripping
off his trunks and boldly climbing into the hot tub.
The women would welcome him into their embrace. Three
pairs of hands would dive into the water and seek out
carnal pleasures. When they were all ready, Sam would
spread her legs wide. Steve would float into her arms,
suckling the breasts that floated enticingly before
him. She would grow impatient. "God, I need your cock
in me," she'd sob, "I need that big, beautiful monster
inside now. Fuck me, Steve, fuck me!" He'd wiggle his
dick over her cunt for just a few seconds and then
plunge in, spearing her. Bobbi Jo would press her naked
body to his back, urging him on. "Shove it into her,"
she'd say, "fuck her good, Steve!" He'd stroke faster
and faster, churning the water as he pistoned in and
out. "Oh, yes," Sam would cry, "yes-yes-yes-yessss!"
She would come hard, almost knocking him backwards. And
when it was over Bobbi Jo would push him aside. "I'm
going to eat her," she'd say. "I'm going to slurp all
that tasty cum out of her pussy." Sam would climb up
and sit on the edge of the tub, opening wide. When
Bobbi Jo's head ducked between her lover's legs, Steve
would slide in behind. He'd pop into Bobbi Jo's slit,
sliding easy in long strokes. But then Sam would smile
at him. "Put it in her ass," she'd say. "Go on." He
would, though it was a tight squeeze. He'd have to hold
his dick with both hands, just the knob protruding, and
ease his way into the tiny puckered hole. Bobbi Jo
would pick her head up in shock, but Sam would push it
back to suck her cunt. Meanwhile the rosebud would open
bit by bit until the whole head of his penis popped
inside. He'd take it slow then, feeding more and more
into her until before he started stroking in and out.
Sam would come again, milder. Then he'd feel his own
orgasm building. Bobbi Jo would shout as hers hit. And
at last he'd ... he'd ...

"Where are the towels, Sam?"

"I think I tossed them by the wall when we came in."

Steve dove for cover, his heart pounding and beads of
sweat filling his eyes. He landed in a heap on the
sand, a hand over his mouth to cover his panting.
Frantically he pulled his trunks back up as his mind
raced through increasingly implausible explanations and
decreasingly acceptable apologies. By the time the
blood had stopped rushing through his ears, he couldn't
hear anything on the other side of the wall anyway.

Even so, he sat still for several minutes before he
dared turn his head. It took several seconds for him to
realize the significance of the unwavering darkness:
The candle was gone.

With his cock painfully stiff, Steve levered himself to
his feet and poked his head around the wall. The coast
was clear. He let out a long sigh.

Squaring his shoulders, he strode into the condo. Three
feet inside, where the moon glow gave out, he got
tangled in the volleyball net and almost hit the floor
face-first before he regained his balance.

Even when his eyes adjusted to the dark, he found the
sliver of moonlight was little help. The shadowy
places, like the stairs, were as black as ever. The
windows on the main floor let in all the illumination
there was, but it was like watching an old
black-and-white film noir. On a TV with a fading
picture tube. While wearing sunglasses.

Still, he could make his way silently through the
living room to his bed.

Luna was only a sharpened scimitar in the night sky,
but there was a full moon in the bedroom. Stretched out
naked on top of the sheets was a familiar form with its
crown of blonde hair. She was face down, legs spread
just enough for him to make out the shadowy lines of
her cunt.

Steve's cock throbbed. He yanked off his trunks and was
on her in seconds.

He was too horny to bother with preliminaries. Covering
her body with his own, he fitted his dick to her slit
and pounded against her dry hole. His hands went to her
sides, grabbed her tits. He rolled them with his palms.
The nipples grew taut. She stirred, murmured.

"It's me, Paula," he said, feeling a little foolish.
Who else would be fucking her? "Sorry to wake you, but
I just gotta have it. I need you so bad!"

She wiggled her ass. He was afraid she would push him
away again. But she just got to her knees, offering him
an easier target. And she used her fingers to moisten
her pussy, getting it ready for him.

Steve entered in one swift thrust with a mighty groan.
This was, he told himself, turning into the best
weekend of their marriage. She was so willing, so open,
so -- shit, she was fucking back at him even doggie
style! It was like she was a new woman.

He took advantage, plowing her furrow while he held her
waist, bucking his hips back and forth like a gas
driller, steady and deep.

She met his thrusts, even wiggled around. It was
incredible and unexpected; he didn't know how to deal
with it. All too suddenly he felt the surge in his
groin. Though he gritted his teeth and tried to hold
back, it was no use. The heat spread up his cock. Jism
shot out into her twat, pulsing to detumescence.

Just like that, he was so tired. Couldn't keep his eyes
open.

Steve flopped onto the mattress and fell asleep.

---- ---- ----

Paula followed Lucy up the stairs to the main floor. "I
don't know where he went," she said as they got to the
landing. "Sleeping under the stars, probably. I hope he
doesn't drown at high tide."

"Paula!" Lucy giggled. "You're terrible. Talking about
your husband that way. A wife should never do that."

Paula raised an eyebrow, a gesture barely visible.

Lucy smiled and her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Randall must be in the bathroom," she said. "Have to
keep up appearances, don't I?"

Paula pulled her friend back down into the staircase.
"So -- you never have told me. This whole snoring thing
-- that's just an excuse, right? To get him out of your
bed?"

Lucy shook her head. "No! Or, not mostly. He's not bad
at all when he gets going. But the snoring drives me
crazy and he starts it the second he goes to sleep. If
I could find a cure, well (she elbowed Paula) -- you
might not have had such a fun night last night."

The flush from the bathroom startled them. Lucy ran up
toward the upper floor as Paula entered the master
suite.

She went through what she could of her nightly bathroom
routine with the aid of a stub of candle, then blew it
out and flopped into bed.

Paula had scarcely closed her eyes when sounds of
turmoil came thumping and shouting from somewhere in
the condo. She fumbled for her nightgown but couldn't
find it in the faint moonlight. With a shrug, she
walked naked to the door of the room.

The noise seemed to be coming from upstairs, and it was
getting more ominous -- a crash, someone yelling
"Stop!" Paula crossed the living room and ran upstairs.

At the top of the stairs, she could dimly make out
shadows tumbling about. As she stepped down the hall,
something suddenly toppled onto her, knocking her to
the floor. Before she could even say a word, another
heavy object piled on, knocking the wind out of her.

When it all got untangled, Paula discovered that Pete
had fallen on top of her first, and Randall had jumped
on him. Just why they were fighting was harder to
untangle, because everyone was talking at once.

"This maniac," Pete said, "this ... this ... faggot --
I wake up and he's got his cock ridin' on my ass and
he's chokin' the hell out of me!"

"He wants to fuck my wife," Randall said, "and then he
says I'm a homo! I'm going to kill him!"

"These guys," Lucy said, "are both nuts! I'm trying to
get to sleep and all of a sudden World War Three breaks
out in the next room!"

"He started it!"

"No! He was in --"

"They're both crazy!"

"He --"

"I --"

"They --"

"Shut up!" Paula used the same tone that Nanny always
did with the children. To her shock, it worked. She
crossed her arms and tried to look stern. But, in
crossing her arms, she'd been reminded she was stark
naked. She moved her hands to her crotch. Even in the
shadowy hall, she could feel the men staring at her
tits. She flailed her arms up and down until Lucy went
back into her room and came out with a dark, fleecy
bathrobe that Paula slipped on gratefully.

Dignity restored, she sorted out the claims: Pete was a
lecher, Randall a homicidal homosexual, both of them
insane. "All right," she said, "now --"

Randall interrupted. "Lucy, where did you get that
bathrobe from?"

Randall's wife stared at him. "From my bedroom. Where
did you think?"

"But I thought -- I mean, you said -- your bedroom's on
that side?"

Pete groaned. "You thought she was in my room?"

"No," Randall said. "Or is it yes? I thought you were
in her room. Well, first I thought you were her. Then
it was obvious you were you, but in her --"

Lucy put a hand over her husband's mouth. "I stand by
my original verdict," she said. "They're both nuts."

"But, wait," Randall said. "When I hugged Pete" -- he
shuddered before going on  -- "he said, 'Lucy, is that
you?' Why did you --"

Lucy sighed. "He probably just said 'Who's that? Who?'
You need a hearing aid."

Pete nodded. "Or I think I said, 'Who the fuck is
that?'"

"Or," Paula chimed in, "he might have said,
'Scooby-Doo, where are you.'"

Three faces turned toward her.

"I mean, if he was dreaming," Paula added weakly.
"About Scooby-Doo."

"Right," Lucy said. "I think it's time we got back to
bed."

"Totally," Pete said, entering his room and closing the
door behind him.

"Sounds good," Randall said. He walked into Lucy's
room.

His wife stayed in the hall.

Randall stuck his head out. "Coming, snookums?"

"In a minute, dear. You get into bed. I'll be right
there."

He disappeared into the room.

Paula pulled Lucy close. "I thought you wouldn't sleep
with him?"

"No, what I said was, I couldn't take his snoring. But
he's awake now. And when he's awake, oh, mama, he can
deliver the goods. You know what they say about bald
men."

"What?"

Lucy choked a laugh. "Virility!"

"I thought that was big feet."

"Big feet is big cock. Randall's no giant. But he sure
knows what to do with it."

Just then, a tree toppled in the hall, crashing through
the forest and landing with a snort. Then it did it
again. And again.

"Damn!" Lucy slapped the wall. "Too late! Now I'll
never get to sleep."

"You could go downstairs," Paula said.

"The sofa bed? No, thanks. Those things kill my back."

"No, my room."

"Ohhh."

"No. Yesterday was fun, but don't get ideas. I'm not
Bobbi Jo. I'll take the sofa. Really, it's all right."

They split up downstairs, Lucy going into the bedroom
after one more desultory attempt to invite Paula to
share the bed, just for sleeping.

"Sorry," Paula said. "I don't think I could resist
you."

She sat on the sofa bed, unmoving. After a few minutes,
she decided Lucy must be asleep. On tiptoe, Paula crept
to the stairs and went up. Halfway there she heard some
faint noises below. She froze, holding her breath, but
with the snoring from above she couldn't make out
anything else. Must have been Sam and Bobbi Jo, she
thought, if it was anything at all.

In the upper floor's hall, she glanced curiously at the
door to Lucy's room. Another mammoth roar rolled out.
She closed that door, opened the one across the
corridor and slipped inside.

Pete was curled up on the far edge of the bed, facing
away. Paula let the robe slip to the floor and got in
next to him.

He rolled off the bed instantly, landing in a crouch
with only his eyes above the mattress. Paula was on her
side, facing him, and she watched with bemusement as
his hands crept up to clutch at the sheet and he slowly
pulled his head up, staring at her.

"Wh-who -- what --" He was holding himself well back
from the bed.

"It's Scooby-Doo, silly." She tried to caress his hand.
He pulled it back.

"Is this a trick?"

Paula just looked at him.

"I mean, you're not Lucy, right?"

At that Paula giggled. "Do I look like her?"

"Well, kinda, yeah, in this light. But -- OK. Steve's
not hidin' around here somewhere?"

"Steve's out communing with nature. It's you and me.
What's the matter? Big bad Randall scare you?"

"Hey, that dude is wacko! I swear he was gonna kill
me."

"Aw, poor Pete. So you're too much of a fraidy cat now
to want me to stay? Guess I'll have to --"

Pete scrambled onto the bed.

He was as predictable as ever, which reminded Paula why
she had picked him for an affair years ago, and why she
hadn't missed him all that much in the years since it
ended. He was an old shoe, and Paula preferred hers new
and in many different designs. But -- she gave up on
the shoe analogy after a few false starts -- he was
safe and he was there. Those had always been his best
attributes.

Well, she thought, those and enthusiasm. They had swung
around into their traditional 69 and Pete's tongue was
doing its Eveready bunny impersonation on her cunt.
Sometimes she used to get a picture in her head of a
tousle-haired boy at a county fair pie-eating contest
when she thought of his approach. Effective, but
unskilled.

Whatever, she thought, swirling her tongue along the
bottom edge of his dick's bulbous head. As long as he
got the job done. She sensed the slight expansion in
his cock and pushed her lips farther down the shaft
while her hand jacked him off faster and faster. It was
over in seconds, hot cum splashing the back of her
throat.

She pressed her lips tighter to hold him inside her
mouth as his dick deflated. She had to be careful. He
got extra-sensitive after coming and just brushing the
wrong spot with her teeth might make him jerk away.

Which was definitely not in the program, because Pete's
sloppy lapping had her near the edge.

She shifted around so his face would fit even tighter
into her crotch. While his machine-gun tongue was
exciting, though, Paula felt something lacking,
something keeping her from her peak. Idly she let her
hand drift to her chest and play with her tits,
twiddling the nipples to hardness. Ah, she thought,
that's it.

Her hand spidered down to her crotch, slipping under
Pete's head. As soon as her fingers reached her clit
she knew she was right.

While his tongue fucked her cunt, plunging through the
pungent folds, she applied herself to her love button.
Faster, faster, matching Pete's pace. Then fireworks, a
Roman candle shooting sparks through her whole body.
The best orgasm Pete had ever given her, she realized
-- she just needed to help him out.

It was so good that she wanted only to lie back and
savor it. But Pete's cock was stiffening in her mouth,
and she knew what that meant.

As a fucker, he as a real woodpecker. Paula had used
that description once to her friends. It was only their
raucous laughter that had alerted her to wordplay
within. She had been serious. Pete had only one speed
and no subtlety. She sighed and began to go over in her
head her schedule for the next week. She knew that once
Pete got into gear he was good for fifteen minutes, at
least. 

Eventually his banging and the way it made her tits
bounce became distracting. Paula knew it was no use to
ask him to slow down. Most of the time, in the past,
she would just let him pound -- it was a workout, at
least -- or roll on top of him to try to control the
pace.

But it had been a long time since they'd done it, and
she felt a certain nostalgia. And, she thought, when in
Rome ...

So Paula spread her legs wider, clapped her feet down
hard on the mattress and rutted back at him as hard and
fast as she could.

"Far out!" Pete greeted her response enthusiastically.
"That's the way! Fuck me, baby! Now you're getting it.
Give it to me! Gimme that monkey love!"

He always had a knack for saying the wrong thing, she
thought. But, forget that. This fuck was just too much
fun to let him spoil it. They bounced and bucked on the
bed, cunt and cock meeting again and again in titanic
collisions. At first she had clutched at his smooth
back, digging in with her nails. As they drove on,
though, she put her hands flat on the bed, giving her
even more leverage as they slammed together.

It was wild, it was sweaty, it was just what she needed
after a lazy day. Paula surfed passion like it was a
perfect wave and had to stuff a pillow in her mouth to
keep from screaming when she hit the top.

Somewhere in the middle of her orgasm, Pete must have
come too. Apparently she'd bounced him off in
midstream, though, for when she crawled out of bed
later and slipped on her bathrobe, she discovered a
crackly dried trail of jism across her belly. She
scraped it off and padded downstairs. It seemed darker,
but she was too sleepy to wonder why. Cooler, too; she
even slipped under the covers of the sofa bed.. A
soothing, soft drumming began to lull her to sleep. It
grew louder. Paula pulled a pillow over her head and
drifted off.

End of Part 2