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Message-ID: <41381asstr$1048241403@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: theGreatxIam <max_wojtylak@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Anniversary Waltz #3 - Part 2/3
Date: Fri, 21 Mar 2003 05:10:03 -0500
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alteration is made to the body of the work. Copyright 2002,
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 hercunt.

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 withhim?"

"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. Andagain.

"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

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