The Devil Comes Out at Night Pt. 07

A big thank you to my editor for helping me learn more and more about the wide world of grammar.

*****

Every time I go to the mall I stop in at my favorite store, Silkie's, and I look at their lingerie and their bikinis. I often buy one or two things, especially if they're from the sale rack. One thing I've been keeping my eye out for is an animal print bikini. I don't want leopard print because Jeana has one of those, but I know how much my Donald loves seeing her in it so I've been looking for some other type of wild animal to adorn the sexy parts of me.

The other day I hit the jackpot. Zebra! It's probably not a bikini most fifty-two-year-old women would wear, but I think it's unbelievably sexy. It's cut perfectly for me on top and a little cheekier than what I usually wear on the bottom, but I think it works because my diet and exercise are working wonders on my lower half. It's a fabulous little bikini, pure blacks and pure whites, and it's made of thin synthetic fur that's just like a zebra's hide. My first fur bikini! I love it!

I decided to hide it from Donald until our usual Saturday date with Jeana and Bob on the boat, but I couldn't wait to wear it so I put it on for my backyard exercises a few days after I bought it. My next door neighbor was out in his backyard sweeping his patio when I walked outside. I rolled out my exercise mat on the grass and I waved.

"Oh, hi Martin," I said.

"I think you're singlehandedly keeping the bikini store in business," he said, smiling.

"Oh, do you like this one?" I asked, looking down at the sexy way it cradled the busty top of me. "I kind of love it."

"Yeah, it's...really nice. They all look like they're made for you."

"Oh, thanks." I wandered over closer, and he walked toward me. We met at the low hedgerow that separated our yards. "How are you and Ellen? Is she still volunteering at the library most days?"

"She is, yes. She was home the other day, though, and saw you out exercising."

The way he said it made me worry. My whole body tingled and blushed with embarrassment. Was she home, I wondered, on the day when I'd lost myself in that quick, face-down masturbation? Good Lord almighty, I thought to myself. This is bad!

I tried to stay calm. "Really? What day was that?"

"Oh, a couple times I guess. She mentioned your bikinis. I tried to...explain it to her, but...she wasn't too happy with me."

"Oh no!" I said, relieved that it seemed like she hadn't seen the masturbation. But I knew Martin had seen it, and it was my first time speaking to him since then. My tingly blush didn't go away.

"No, it's no big deal," he said.

"So, what did you tell her?" I asked. The tingle was fueling the hormones that make me flirt; I felt my tummy pull in a little and my chest arch out. It was subtle, but happening nonetheless, seemingly out of my control.

"Oh, I just told her that you and Don spend weekends on a boat with your friends, and you've been getting double duty out of your bikinis for your exercise. She wondered why I knew so much, and she wondered if your boat friends are the same ones who...well...the folks we've seen visiting."

"Oh," I said, taken aback by the two plus two that was being added up. Could Martin and Ellen hear us at night? Was our new swinger lifestyle leaking through the cracks? Good Lord, had Martin and Ellen heard me fucking Bob? "Yes," I said. "That's them. Bob and Jeana are their names. They're church friends. They keep their boat on Odaya Lake."

"You know, I thought I remembered you saying they were church friends. I mentioned that to Ellen and she said no, they couldn't be."

"Really?" I said, feeling the worry again. "Why would she say that?"

"Oh. I'm not...really sure," he said, sounding flustered. "I...uh...I wouldn't ask her about it if I was you. She gets fussy sometimes about things that are none of her business. We'll try not to be nosy neighbors. You folks are certainly good ones. Neighbors, I mean."

"That's nice of you to say, Martin. We like you guys, too. Neighbors are like a crap shoot, aren't they. You might get a perfect one or you might get a fifty-something who tries to look young a bikini."

"Or you might get both," Martin said, smiling just enough to often his eyes in a beautiful way.

I smiled softly, too. "You know," I said, "I get sort of in a zone when I exercise, and I lose track of things. If I ever...make you uncomfortable...I guess what I'm trying to say is if you'd like to have your backyard back to just the birds and the squirrels, don't be afraid to say so. I can exercise inside just as easily. For some reason I think sweating in the sun helps with my weight loss. Have you noticed I'm down fourteen pounds?"

"You look...fabulous, Margaret. Yes, definitely, the hot sun helps; I think I read something about that. I'd keep doing it if I was you. And that zone you get into...that's...good, too. But maybe...if you see Ellen's car in the driveway..."

"Oh, sure!" I said, feeling as tingly and flirty as a teenager. "Well, I guess I'll get at it." I looked down at my deeply tanned, zebra-clad body again. "The first time doing my moves in a new bikini is always a little risky. These things are all made in China these days."

"Yup," Martin said, taking advantage of my subtle invitation to look me over.

Goosebumps flared on every inch of me and I smiled shyly and walked back to my mat. I went right to my hands and knees, arching my back lower than a church secretary should. I extended a leg straight out behind me and held it still, until the muscles protested, and then I lifted it and lowered it, over and over, working the glute muscles in my ass. Martin was there, discreetly watching, slowly and quietly sweeping his patio. I wondered what his preferred view would be — the side of me, as I was most days, so he can see the curve of my ass and gravity working on my tits, or maybe the front view, of my hanging cleavage, wobbling fore and aft and side to side as I work my moves? I was pretty sure the back view would get a lot of men's votes, and I made a mental note to roll out my mat that way another day, after checking to make sure Ellen's car isn't in the driveway.

—

I think the neighbors can hear us when Bob and Jeana are here.

That's what I should have said to Donald when I spoke to him on the phone that day, or when he got home from work that evening, but I didn't say it. I made no mention of it, or of my flirty conversation with Martin, and I also said nothing about my almost daily exercise in my bikini with him watching. I was increasingly reckless with my sexuality, and I guess I didn't want anyone to call me on it.

It made little sense. Martin's wife Ellen is a nice woman, but if she decided to start telling people about swinging sex at my house it wouldn't be good; not for me, or for Donald, or even for Bob and Jeana and Cynthia. Under the right circumstance we could all go down in a ball of flames.

And yet I persisted. I masturbated again in the backyard a few days later, face down, like before, but with my exercise mat rolled out so as to give Martin a view of the feet and legs and ass end of me, legs that were spread a bit to let him see the movement of my fingers under the thin crotch gusset of my yellow bikini bottom, a gusset moistened to near transparency by my sweat and my arousal. The orgasm was potent, overpowering my will for silence, forcing stuttering moans out of me. My back arched deep, the way Jeana's does, and my ass was thrust into an upward position, entirely fuckable. I licked the pussy taste from my fingers as I lay there stunned and breathless; I'm not sure if Martin saw the finger licking, but I think he did, and I think I was glad of it.

It had started simply enough, with that small decision to orient my mat sideways that day. I justified it in my mind by telling myself it would even up my suntan, but I knew full well I'd get a thrill out of doing down-on-all-fours leg lifts —the kind that look like a dog peeing on a fire hydrant — with Martin looking square at the ass end of me. I'll blame it on feeling good about myself; my ass and my thighs really do look pretty good these days, at least when compared to last winter when I was hitting the donuts pretty heavily after church.

I've come to realize I'm an exhibitionist. A voyeur, too, I suppose, but it's being seen that does something drug-like to me. It's a subtle drug, but a completely addicting one. Brain chemicals are fascinating things. Sex and exercise both seem to trigger the feelings, maybe because they're very similar activities. It's no wonder I can't keep my fingers away from my clit after a satisfying workout, but does it have to happen in my backyard? Martin must think I'm mental.

Actually, I'll blame it on Bob. He's the one who opened my Pandora's box, that fateful night in that cabin in the Adirondacks, seducing me into my bathing suit, and then out of it in front of him and two other nice men. It was the night I was born. Margaret, the exhibitionist. She didn't exist before that night, as far as I know.

And now...good Lord, now...masturbating in broad daylight in my backyard, with a nice, older male neighbor watching from not far away, close enough hear me gasp and moan. Most people would call it a serious problem, but not me. I feel free of the shackles of convention. I think fifty years of Christian doctrine was enough for this old gal.

—

Donald suggested inviting Bob and Jeana and Cynthia to a backyard barbecue at our house. He said it seemed odd that Cynthia hadn't been over to see where we live, and he was right. Bob and Jeana had been over quite a few times, and I didn't want Cynthia to feel left out. Of course I knew the barbecue and the cocktails would lead to swinging sex, possibly upstairs and down, and of course I made no mention to Donald of my suspicion of our thin walls and listening neighbors. After all, Martin had never come right out and said anything.

"Sure, lets do it," I said. "You wanna do ribs on the grill? They'd love them I think."

"Yeah, that sounds good. It's been a while since we've had them."

I called Jeana the next morning, and I texted Cynthia at the bookstore. They were both happy about the idea. Cynthia called me on her lunch hour, asking about the possibility of bringing Ryan along with her; after meeting him on the boat she'd had a couple of dates with him and they were hitting it off nicely.

"Of course. Bring him along," I said.

"You wouldn't mind? I didn't know what kind of a party it was going to be."

"Oh," I said, thinking about the big sex party that was sure to break out at my house. "Well, I...hadn't thought about it. So far we were just thinking food and drinks, but you know us, we all just sort of play it by ear these days."

"Okay," she said. "I'd love to have you guys get to know him better."

"It's a date, then," I said. "It looks like Saturday is the only evening when we're all free. Donald and I are going to skip the boat; his ribs take forever to cook. I think Jeana and Bob are still going to be at the lake if you want to go."

"No, I don't want to be all tired when we get to your house. The hot sun always wipes me out."

"Yeah, I know," I said. "Okay, see you Saturday. Seven o'clock."

Cynthia called me again that evening. She and Ryan were at Ty's motorcycle shop and Ryan had mentioned the barbecue. Cynthia asked me if Ty and Nikki could come Saturday night.

"Oh," I said to her. "Hang on a minute, let me run it by Donald."

I put the phone up against my shoulder to muffle it. "Cynth's wondering if Ty and Nikki can come Saturday. They sorta already know about it. That's a big group; will we have enough food?"

What I should have said was 'That's a big orgy; do you think we should? What will the neighbors think?' But I didn't say that.

"You don't understand men very well if you think I'd possibly say no to having Nikki in my bedroom," Donald said.

"Oh, you're just assuming that?" I said, smirking at my sweet, happy looking husband. "You've gotten awfully sure of yourself lately, mister."

I unmuffled the phone and put it back to my ear. "The more the merrier," I said to Cynthia. "I'm surprised they don't have plans on a Saturday night."

"They were going to go to that Swingtime club, but they looked happy about maybe seeing you guys again."

"Really? Huh."

So that was that. It seemed that my house — the one with the Christian memorabilia scattered around, the picture of Jesus on the wall in my bedroom, and the oversized Bible on a desk with the notepad next to it for study — was quite possibly going to be the scene of a sex orgy with a group of tattooed bikers. It should have shocked me and given me pause, but instead all I thought about was what clothes I'd wear.

—

Friday at Bob and Jeana's house was very mellow and subdued. Our relationship with them had taken on the feel of a fourway marriage, with our get-togethers quieting down, sometimes watching a movie on the television, sharing an interesting article in a magazine, talking about work, and mothers and fathers, and nieces and nephews.

That's how it was on Friday; a lovely quiet evening, watching Sharon Stone look so middle-age sexy in a new romantic comedy. Toward the end of it I quietly opened Bob's pants. My mouth was drooling wet. It was the slowest, quietest blowjob I've ever given, and I think it was one of the best. As the movie was ending Jeana mounted Donald reverse cowgirl style, so they could both see the TV. He was still dressed, with his pants pushed down a little; she was naked from the waist down and fully clothed from the waist up. It was a beautifully quiet, slow fuck, and she looked gorgeous in the dim light. Just watching her breathy orgasm made my toes curl.

—

Donald and I spent the day Saturday getting ready for guests. I straightened up the house and made some summery side dishes — tomato and cucumber salad, my mother's potato salad, and cornbread from a recipe I got from Anne Williams at church the summer before, after a pot-luck supper.

Donald tended his big Weber charcoal grill, adding briquets once in a while, keeping track of the slow, smoky cooking of his spareribs. It took hours to get the meat to the point where it was tender and nearly falling off the bone.

At one point in the late afternoon I looked out the window and saw him talking to our neighbor Martin. My heart beat faster. I wondered if Martin would mention my backyard bikini exploits; Donald knew I exercised outdoors once in a while, but I'm sure he assumed I wore sweatpants and a t-shirt, the way I do when we use the workout gear in our spare bedroom.

My mind drifted back to party prep mode and I forgot about Martin until Donald said something, right before the guests arrived, that stopped me in my tracks...

"Oh, I invited Martin to come over for a bite to eat. His wife Ellen's away for the weekend at some sort of library conference."

"You did?" I said, probably sounding much too surprised. "Do you think you should have? Aren't we...," my voice quieted to an excited whisper, "...having an orgy?"

Donald smiled a little and chuckled. "I don't know. Are we? I'm sure no one will say anything while he's here."

"You're sure? How can you be? We barely know our new friends. Nikki's so young; you know how young people are, they don't always think about what they say before they say it."

"They go to a swinger's club with lots of older folks," Donald said. "I'm sure they know all about being discreet about things. And anyway, I spent a half an hour talking to Martin about my ribs. It wouldn't be very neighborly if I didn't invite him to try them, would it?"

"No. Yeah, I get it. I'll just be...nervous, that's all." Once again I wanted to tell Donald that I was pretty sure Martin had heard us having sex with Bob and Jeana, and once again I didn't say anything. I don't know why I couldn't bring myself to be totally honest. Maybe I was ashamed at the way things were escalating, or maybe I'm just dumber than I think I am. Or maybe the Devil had a gag in my mouth, one of those rubber ball gags that strap on around the back of your head, like you see in the dirty dirty porn. "I just hope...everyone's careful."

"I doubt if we're going to be talking about blowjobs and fucking right off the bat," Donald said. "We're all civilized people, we can have a normal conversation with a seventy-year-old neighbor."

"He's not that old!" I said. "He's sixty-five. He retired early."

"Oh. You've been chatting with him?"

My mind flashed to masturbating out on the lawn with Martin watching. My whole body tingled and blushed pink, and I'm afraid my face might have been beet red. "Yeah, we talk. He's out working in the yard a lot on my days off. He's really very nice."

"Oh, I know," Donald said. "Couldn't be nicer."

—

Just before seven o'clock a faint roar caught my ear, a roar very similar to the one Ty's boat made on the lake that first day we met him and his friends. But this time it was motorcycles, serious ones, with gleaming chrome and fat tires and monster motors that shook the ground. It sounded like an entire gang of them but it was just two, Ty's and Ryan's, each with a sexy girl onboard, spread legged and assy, looking perilously perched right above ridiculously wide back tires.

Nikki was the first to hop off and show herself to all the neighbors who were certainly looking out their windows. She wore a midriff baring black tank top with nothing under it, because she's the kind of girl who probably never smothers her perfect tits with a bra, even at a funeral. A thick black leather belt was looped through the waist of faded bluejeans that looked classic, like a favorite old pair of Levi's; tight ones that clung to her petite curves like a second skin. I was surprised to see stylish little high heeled boots on her feet, instead of, oh, I don't know, big clunky biker boot's, I guess. Her Medusa's-snakes hair looked just as wild as it did on the boat, matted a little on top from the almost useless looking little helmet that she took off. She left it on the seat of the bike and she stretched out her back and her shoulders with a tit thrust that was more than a little eye catching.

Cynthia was the next one to step off, taking off her own little helmet and shaking out her streaky blonde hair. She was in bluejeans, too, and I think they're the very same tight stretchy ones she wore to that work day at church; the ones that, when she was on her hands and knees, taught me much about the phrase 'camel toe'.

When she was shaking out her hair, fingering it into place, I wondered if she was braless under her white t-shirt. It would have been a bold move, being as busty as she is, but it turned out she was wearing a minimalist bra, a stretchy one that gave her a natural shape and a wonderfully sexy bounce.

Ty and Ryan were dressed in the classics, too. Blue jeans and black t-shirts. Ty's shirt had his bike shop logo on it and Ryan's was a well-worn old treasure from a long-ago blues festival. They both fit snugly, showing off muscular chests and arms. It was a look that just wouldn't work on Donald or Bob, but Ty and Ryan looked born to it, with their flowing swept back hair and their bad boy swagger.

They were all making their way up our front walkway when Bob and Jeana's car pulled into the driveway right behind the bikes. The timing of their arrival added to my nervousness about Martin because the reunion took place where the whole neighborhood could see it, and of course Donald and I had been drawn out the door into the middle of it. Full-body hugs — the kind really good friends give — lots of lovely smiles and even a few kisses and casual ass grabs were freely happening. Bob already had a lump in his pants. I was glad when we finally made our way indoors.