“I understand.” Dawson patted her hand. “Just remember, you’ll be with people you trust, and no one’s going to pressure you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
“You’re sweet. But I’m not nervous about the fucking. I’m nervous about the chess.”
“Oh,” said Daw, looking a bit crestfallen over the fact that his solicitousness had been misdirected. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Livia’s going to make short work of both of us, as far as I can foretell. Your only consolation will be in winning your game with Clement. And there’s not much challenge to that. I mean, Clement’s a genius . . . but he’s a right-brain genius.”
“Yeah. Damn, I almost wish I could just compete against you. We’re so well matched.”
Dawson chortled suggestively, and stroked his wife’s thigh. “But, darling, it’s a swingers’ night.”
It had been a glorious coincidence that Gail and Daw had found out that their friends were chess players right around the time the swinging experiment had been discussed. Conversation had revealed that Livia was a chess wizard, even by Gail and Dawson’s standards . . . and that Clement, not to be outdone, had some swinging experience dating back to a previous marriage. “It was a number of years ago,” he had explained, “but I think I still remember how to do it.” He’d smirked charismatically at Gail as he said that, and the idea of having his body between her legs had immediately shifted from a speculative folly to a compelling contingency.
Predictably, Livia had been the one to insist that the inaugural sessions of chess and swinging be mixed. “I don’t know how good I’ll be at fucking an auxiliary man, so I want to make sure we also do something that I have a proven talent for.” Dawson’s face had turned adorably red at this remark.
Livia’s chess set pitted an unapologetically vivid shade of purple, luscious like a silk negligee, against a sky blue that reminded Gail of cotton panties. “Chess, to me, is not a black and white game,” Livia stated as she carried the magnificent board toward a glass coffee table. “It is as rich with ambiguity and possibility as human endeavor.”
“Easy there, girlfriend,” Gail teased. “I said I’d screw your husband, but I never said I’d listen to your aphorisms.”
Livia, having situated the chessboard where it belonged, rebutted Gail’s point by throwing a sofa cushion at her.
“It’s good that you two are drinkers,” said Clement, bearing tumblers. “Livia has suggested we play vodka chess tonight.”
His wife cackled mischievously. “But it’s only fair if all four of us are drinking the martinis.”
“Fine with me,” said Daw. “Just don’t laugh if I accidentally capture your king’s rook’s olive with my queen’s knight’s onion.”
This was going to be fun, thought Gail. Dawson would make certain of that.
They’d considered using two boards for side-by-side play, but Clement had recommended that they do one round at a time. “We want an intimate vibe, not a convention atmosphere.” No one could argue with this. “I think we all need to be focused in the same place. That goes for the whole evening.”
Gail squirmed on the sofa as she recalled those words. The idea of two couples collectively “focused in the same place,” making the most of an “intimate vibe,” piqued her pussy, as the first sip of martini piqued her tongue. She was a wine connoisseur, and not much of a hard-liquor fan; but vodka seemed like exactly the right thing tonight. Maybe she was more nervous than she’d realized about the fucking. If so, it wasn’t a negative kind of nervousness. She was pleasantly keyed up.
She studied the two men as they settled into position at the coffee table, cross-legged on the floor. Clement’s pale eyes had always attracted her, and this evening they were set off extra-handsomely against a silver oxford shirt. She noticed how comfortable Dawson appeared, black-denim ass on the carpet and drink to his side, and this made her feel comfortable as well.
Livia, assuming correctly that Gail would take her up on the offer, was handing her the dish without waiting for an answer. Livia smiled at her over the polished-wood nut bowl. It was a rare conspiratorial grin from a friend who was close to Gail, in a way, but usually too fascinated by her own mental trajectories to show signs of intimacy.
Gail noticed, not for the first time, what a finely detailed beauty Livia possessed—from her thin nose and curls of chestnut hair; to her petite breasts; to her sensuous hips, and beyond. Sitting next to Livia on the couch, Gail could smell a delicious cocktail of subtle perfume and sweet skin. She was so glad that Daw was going to sample this refined flower of flesh and intellect.
An image of Dawson’s sturdy cock splitting Livia open on his lap shot through Gail’s head and moistened her panties. But she forced herself to concentrate on the chess game, so as not to slide into a sexual heat too early in the proceedings. It was only 5:30, and four cross-couple matchups—and dinner—lay between this moment and the extracurricular portion of the gathering.
Clement expressed a preference for music while they played, and Daw didn’t object. “It won’t improve my game,” Clement admitted. “Even Mozart can’t do that. But I’ll relish the chess more.”
“His pawns look so suave when they topple to the strains of violins,” kidded Livia, leaning forward to massage her husband’s shoulders. He turned his head, and they kissed with enthusiasm.
While Clement darted to the stereo, Gail admired his tight, lean legs, and the lock of hair at the nape of his neck. She licked her vodka-suffused lips, then made eye contact with Dawson, who was beaming at her.
As everyone knew, Clement the right-brained painter was out of his league. By twenty minutes in, his now-sparsely-populated half of the stage was a smorgasbord of threats to his king. His queen had long since been retired from the board, and it tickled Gail to fantasize that Clement’s queen was happily ensconced with one of his equally obsolete purple bishops, who looked like they would make good vibrators for someone restlessly awaiting her king.
Within another few moves, Clement and Mozart had capitulated.
“Time for the next round of drinks?” asked Clement, moving swiftly from capitulation mode to host mode.
Daw was still working on his first, but Livia and Clement had empty glasses, and Gail’s was getting there. She gulped what was left, enjoying the burn, and got in line for her refill.
She and Livia settled in for their matchup. The vodka was already taking a toll on Gail’s concentration, but she’d agreed to the four-way inebriation pact, so she couldn’t complain. Besides, she knew that even soap-bar sober, she couldn’t hope to triumph over Livia’s formidable chess circuitry.
Their hosts had let the stereo go idle—per Livia’s preference, when she was playing. Gail had liked the violin concertos, but she now appreciated the friendly quiet of the room. The anticipation in the air, the slow-cooking essence of sexual chemistry building among them all, made the silence feel anything but empty. Clement sat on the floor at Livia’s side, nursing his drink, and Gail noticed how sensitive his lips looked.
Moisture trickled lazily into Gail’s fuchsia thong, making her short black hairs damp and aromatic. It excited her to think that her underwear was exposed to the vacant space under the table. She smoothed her miniskirt in her lap—an excuse to grant herself an instantaneous touch—and Livia’s eyes met hers.
“Blue moves first, sweet.”
“Go on, sweet,” Daw echoed playfully from the sofa. “Or do you need a pat on the ass to get you going?”
Gail laughed immoderately. No, she didn’t need anything to get her going. Not that she would have objected to a pat on the ass.
She went with her safest opening, but all too soon it was clear as vodka that her first-move advantage was history and her peeps were drifting into uncertainty and, inevitably, trouble.
But the beauty of it was that she didn’t really care. Her competitive streak was submerged in the warm, pulsing waves of her libido. As they played on, she imagined being undressed by Clement, with Dawson watching intently.
Despite this umbrella of eros and serenity, it came as a shock when Livia actuated a ploy whereby Gail had to sacrifice her queen to protect her king. Gail swallowed her pride along with the next gulp of vodka. Then she sought comfort.
“Guess I could use that pat on the ass now,” she told Dawson.
Her husband set his drink down, and began to get up. But Clement raised a polite hand. “Please, Daw. This one’s on me.” He spoke softly, enchantingly, his smooth voice slightly hairy around its edges. He approached Gail and, with great gracefulness, squatted beside her. Smiling self-consciously, she leaned forward on her knees to elevate her skirted behind for him. He gave her a flirty, gentle swat, and she felt her clit twitch.
There was a moment of precious silence.
Then all four of them cracked up. The ice had been broken.
Even Livia’s attention no longer appeared to be entirely on the game, as she quickly destroyed Gail’s remaining defenses and claimed her victory. As for Gail, what little there was left of the contest passed by her in a blur, with the hopeless moves that were forced upon her happening as if automatically.
Over dinner—a simple sandwich spread, as chess and sex and cooking would have been a bit much—Clement suggested they take turns describing each other’s attractive features.
“I’ll start,” he said between mouthfuls of Swiss on rye. “Gail has a beautiful chin. It’s rounded but confident, like she’s up for anything.”
“My husband has fine nipples,” Livia proceeded to say, with a matter-of-factness that Gail found touching.
Gail cleared her throat; and, when she began speaking, it took her by surprise that she was choosing to talk about the only other woman in the room. “Livia, lady . . . your bottom, my dear. That day at the beach, in our bikinis—I wanted to eat you up.” Suddenly, it felt natural to Gail to be lusting after a round, feminine ass.
Daw chipped in. “I’ll second that, Liv. Gail can vouch for a few rhapsodizing comments I made last night regarding your tush.”
Livia’s eyes grew large. “You’re kidding.”
Daw shrugged. “Well, you know, there was nothing good on television . . .”
“Okay then, Dawson,” Livia purred, “Let me say that you have a very handsome bulge in your pants.”
“You probably tell that to all the fellas you’re about to cream in chess.”
About to cream. Gail was on martini number three and wondering idly what it would feel like to stick her finger into Livia’s cushiony derriere. But this didn’t stop her from savoring the thoughtful strength of Dawson’s back as he crouched over the chessboard, setting the pieces back to their starting configuration.
“Your guy’s got muscles,” Livia breathed with a slight slur, making the last word a wet, molluscular mussssels.
Gail noted the implied comparison with Clement’s stick-figure elegance, even before Livia rendered it explicit: “Clemmy’s my pretty boy, but sometimes I crave some meat to sink my teeth into.” Gail wagered that Daw could hear their conversation, at least on a subconscious level. The back of his neck seemed to glow a little pink as Livia’s remarks diffused into Gail’s ear like a hot vodka mist. Livia wriggled, and her narrow shoulder bumped Gail’s arm.
Jeremy is a favorite author here on Every Night Erotica click here to read more from him.
Jeremy Edwards is the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off and the erotic story collection Spark My Moment (both published by Xcite Books). His libidinous short stories have been widely published online, as well as in over forty anthologies. His work was selected for The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, vols. 7, 8, and 9, and he has read at New York’s In the Flesh and Philadelphia’s Erotic Literary Salon. Jeremy’s greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile. Find Jeremy here: http://www.jeremyedwardserotica.com.