Provocation

You should know, this whole series is a story about swinging. But it is a series by Publius68, so if you want or simply expect a lot of drama, revenge, and broken relationships, move on now. You won't enjoy this, and I don't want to waste your time. And as usual, it would be better to start with chapter one.

Oh, and if you hate slow burns, it might not be the series for you, either. The whole thing is one long, slow burn. But because it is also a story about contradictions, there is plenty of sex amidst all the slow burning...

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Provocation - Two

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Bro advice to men in relationships: Do not use a fictional honey-do list as an excuse to get out early from a social evening.

The night before, I had pled the need for sleep and avoiding a hangover to justify Gwen's and my intense need to ditch our friends almost two hours earlier than usual on a club night, so we could go home and boink each other's brains out.

Yes, we so boinked. In one of the most intense series of acts since we first became a couple, no less. We fucked repeatedly, and creatively for over an hour before we both fell asleep, so tired that we forgot to brush out teeth.

When we woke on Sunday morning, we noted the rather disastrous consequences of that omission on each other's breath, but we still immediately fell back into sex anyway.

Gwen laughed as I shied away after a quick kiss, but I didn't care. The great thing about boobies is, they can neither produce, nor sense morning breath. I bent lower over my love's delicious breasts, grasping my favorite, the left, and squeezing its firm handful to thrust up the nipple toward my face. I took but a moment to admire that splendid button, round, proud, and wrinkled at its base with desire, in full flower but a moment after we awoke. Then I clamped my lips around it and nursed hungrily.

I did not even have time to fully enjoy the first breast, much less start to devour the second, before she had pulled me over atop her and guided my cock into her depths. Sure, I had serious morning wood like I hadn't sported in a good while, but she was also already more than ready to take me, and that usually took more than I had done so far. What's the female equivalent of morning wood? Daybreak Damp?

When we finally crawled out of bed and dragged our weary asses to the kitchen for breakfast, Gwen suddenly laughed, "Nice ploy, claiming you had chores to do today to get us out of there last night."

"I thought so."

"It was unnecessary, though," she giggled. "Those three all knew exactly why we were so in a rush to get home!"

I started to object, but nah, it had been pretty obvious. Instead, I shrugged and ate some more eggs. "So, assuming your genitals need some recuperation time like mine, what do you want to do this afternoon?" I asked idly. "The new adventure film is out..."

"Sounds fun," Gwen replied, "but we can't. You have that whole honey-do list to get to work on, remember?"

"Huh? I do not have any projects on tap," I said firmly. "That is what made it such a great ploy."

Gwen laughed prettily. "Darling, when are you going to learn? I

always

have a honey-do list. I just don't always choose to bring it up." She smiled at me cutely. "Since your day is supposedly heavily scheduled with chores, you can start with cleaning the downspouts and getting the ranunculus bed we discussed planted."

"All that?" I yelped. "We haven't even bought the fucking ranunculus...es, ranunculi? that you want to plant, you know," I temporized.

"I know!" Gwen said, horrifyingly happily. "You get a free trip to Home Depot out of it. You always love that."

This was unfair. I do love going to Home Depot.

What?

I'm a suburban commando. Shut up.

"I don't have time to do all that today," I tried.

"Come on, baby," Gwen said, sliding into my lap and simultaneously biting into her English Muffin. "You can do it. If you do," she said, leaning in to croon in my ear, "when it is cocktail time tonight, I'll forego mine and just drink your cum while you have your Manhattan..."

There is a reason honey-do lists get done...

That said, had we had this conversation the week before, even with her dangling that reward, I'd have fought for the movie. There is a good chance that I'd have won.

But after the shit Gwen and I got up to to rile each other up last night? And the results of that riling since? She could have asked me to clean out the Augean Stables, and I'd have given it a go.

*

At 5:30, after some very brief cleansing of the day's dirt and sweat, I sank into my chair in our living room, a cold, pristine Manhattan on the table beside.

Instantly, Gwen came into the room, smiling. "See? You got it all done."

"I did," I smirked. Then I grumbled, "But I had to keep things brief at Home Depot to pull it off. I did not get nearly as much tool browsing time as I wanted."

"It didn't keep you from buying that... what was that green thing?"

"It's a multi-tool," I said haughtily. "You use it to... cut multiple things," I finished swiftly, not wanting to get into the various uses for a multi-tool, none of which I was that clear on. Gwen just smiled at me skeptically. "It uses the same batteries I already have for the saw and the drill," I added hotly. "That saves a lot of money."

"Regardless," she said, letting me off the hook, "I am soooo glad you succeeded, so I get to suck your cock."

"If I had failed, you could have chosen to console me," I tried.

"Oh, darling. It doesn't work like that. Once I lay down a marker, I have to stick to it every time. Precedent lives forever." Gwen is a paralegal...

I rolled my eyes. I also observed inwardly that my cock was not currently being sucked.

She saw my thought and laughed. "Well, I am very glad that precedent has been satisfied, so I can get my reward."

With that, she tugged her dark green, cotton knit shell up over her head. Nice. Even nicer, she had at some point ditched the bra that I had seen her put on that morning. Gwen's tits are not as big as I sometimes selfishly wish they were, but I don't wish that often because, damn, are they great as is.

For me, there is no better look for boobs than when a woman is pulling her shirt off, up over her head...

They still looked awesome as she swept her hands downward while sinking to her knees before me. Looking up, she crooned, "Enjoy your cocktail..." Her warm tits pressed against my bare knees as she made short work of the fly of my shorts. But instead of pulling them down, she just left them wide open, and tugged the waistband of my underwear down only enough to tuck it under my balls.

My cock waved free and firm, and I reflected how smart I had been to sponge around down there after I got done, before calling cocktail hour.

Gwen stroked my dick for a moment, idly intense. Then she looked up at my drink. "Let me just have a sip," she said.

I held my drink away and looked at her suspiciously. "You are going to drink half my cocktail, aren't you?" I asked.

She just looked at me, and I relented, lowering my hand so she could reach it. Gwen took a single, dainty sip and handed it back to me. "I have a different beverage in mind," she said, and started to lick my member.

Cocktail head was not a new or unique thing, though in the past it had been the result of me actually doing something major like helping a friend of hers move, or the time I had agreed to get up at 3:30 am to take her to the airport for a golf weekend with her friends to which I was not invited.

I loved the current state of affairs. I loved it even more as Gwen began to wrestle my cock with her tongue inside her mouth. My only tiny fret was whether this newly elevated state of horniness would be sustainable...

My lady shifted around on the floor between my legs, moving into a languid, comfy position, her lips never quite leaving my cock. Her breast rubbed electrically against my calf. She tugged my cock gently, and shifted it to point directly into her mouth in her new, relaxed posture. Then she stuck out her tongue and rolled it around my head slowly. After a brief clasp of her lips upon my tip, she proceeded to drag that agile tasting appendage up and around my length in the most agonizingly wonderful way.

I was just taking a sip of my cocktail when she suddenly lavished a firm, wet stroke of her tongue against my frenulum, and I gasped. I had to cough as I sucked a trace of the Manhattan down the wrong pipe.

Do not breathe high-proof cocktails.

But I controlled the cough swiftly. The wink she gave me, along with how she then maintained eye contact and slid me deep between her lips, made even my stinging throat forget about its problems.

Honestly, Gwen acted as if the whole, magnificent blowjob was for her enjoyment, not mine. When she was done, I did not even have the chance to offer to make her a Manhattan of her own and return the favor before she had headed off to the kitchen to make dinner.

I did eventually get my head between her thighs, after dessert. And once I was well into things, I can assure you that I was likewise down there for my own enjoyment!

*

On Wednesday, we got a call from Sammy. He had a date for Saturday and was begging off clubbing for the week. When we found out on Thursday that Deidre's mom had decided to extend her visit through the weekend, we called off things for the week as a group.

"On the one hand, we can go back to the jazz club on our own, without any bitching" I said. "A week off from hearing loss sounds wonderful." I paused for a moment. "On the other hand, I'd been kind of thinking about the chance to recharge the, um, provocations."

Gwen laughed, but bit her lip at me. "I, um, had kind of started thinking the same thing. But I wasn't sure."

"You know I wasn't mad, just motivated," I reassured her.

"I noticed," she chortled, and we both blushed a little. "No, I was worried about Sammy. He struck out last week, and I was feeling like he better score this time, or I'd be blue-balling my co-worker two weeks in a row!"

I stared at her with amused outrage, and she broke down laughing.

I started to open my mouth to tell her that with just a bit more effort and enjoyment on her part out there, Sammy would have had a laundry problem, not a blue ball problem. But I didn't. I didn't want to make Gwen uncomfortable with any of this.

And if she managed to cause that laundry problem in the future, it would be hi-fucking-larious.

So, instead of putting my foot in my mouth, I changed the subject. "Well, we don't have to worry about that this week. We do need to worry about my prep for Friday's dinner with Ron and Cathy."

"Your prep? You are not cooking dinner. I am."

"Gwen, you cooked the first time," I said. "My turn. I'm thinking of doing fresh pasta for my lasagna."

"You will be thinking nothing of the sort," Gwen said firmly. "This whole month is supposed to be a moving

fancy

feast. Cathy served us pheasant last week, for chrissakes! We are not offering lasagna in return. I. Am. Cooking."

"But..."

"Darling," Gwen rode over me. "I am reminded of late that you have an enormous number of wonderful talents," she winked. "I can't imagine what brings that to mind..." She caressed my cheek with feather-light fingertips, ending by a brush over my lips that yanked away before I could suck them in. "But

haute cuisine

is not among your talents. I cook. You assist."

"I like my lasagna," I grumbled.

"Honey, it's just not what is called for this time. Next time they come over for a movie, you can do your lasagna and knock Ron's socks off," I was reassured.

We don't usually get together with them every week, and when we do, it is often not at one of our homes. They are our show buddies, be it movies, plays, concerts, or other events. Maybe half the time we get together at one home or the other for a drink after. But this movable feast was something Cathy had gotten from one of the old-time books on entertaining she was into lately. I grimly determined that the next time we got together at our house after this month, I was going to damn well use the excuse to finally buy a pasta roller. I was also grimly determined that we would eat popcorn (and lasagna) and finally watch

Pirates of the Caribbean

like Ron and I had been pushing for.

But this week, since Gwen's firm had a big trial, I would be the one grocery shopping for whatever topper of a meal she was going to try to deploy.

*

Gwen went for Asian. We offered up a giant Pupu platter, featuring the oversized, round hibachi grill we had gotten as a housewarming gift and had never yet used. When she first told me her plan, I was prepared to be mulish, wondering how beef skewers and egg rolls were better than my fresh pasta lasagna, even if it did feature a flaming cast iron grill on our dining room table.

When she showed me the actual menu, I had to shut up. By the time we started prepping everything Thursday night, I was fully on board. I was left only with the complaint, "Really, though? Finger food doesn't exactly say fancy to me."

"It's fancy food, not fancy dress. Finger food goes back a little ways in human history, you know," I was told. "We will all be wearing tennis clothes because of the heat, for crying out loud!"

Fine.

But as we got dressed for the evening, I had to snark, "That isn't quite how you usually dress for the courts, is it?"

Gwen continued to fasten up the really nice, delicate white lace bra she was putting on. It matched the spiffy thong panties she sported below. "We are not actually playing tennis tonight! I'm not stretching, bending, and jumping, so I don't need those sweaty modesty shorts. And I sure as hell am not strapping down the girls for no reason!" She winked and shook her lace-covered confections in my direction saucily. "I want them looking their best! Especially with Cathy and her bazoombas in the picture," she added almost sullenly.

I rolled my eyes reassuringly at Gwen. She has great tits, and they look a damn sight better in this lacy bra than the sports bras she wears on court.

That said...

I admit to being a fan of big tits. Sorry, it's true. The Bazzombas In The Room are always a nice bonus when we see Cathy and Ron. Just Cathy, actually. Ron is in as good a shape as I am, but neither of us does enough chest work to have bazoombas...

Before Gwen could reach for her skirt or shirt, I stepped up to her, wrapped an arm around her, and slid my hands down her back, over the warm bare cheek of her ass, and finally on down between her legs.

She squirmed instantly. "If you do that any longer, I am going to come like a banshee," she warned as my fingertips probed.

"Mmmm," I said, probing some more.

"And immediately after that," she said, trying to twist away from me, "I will hit you. Because I would have to change these panties. That would mean I have to change the bra as well."

"We could take the panties off first," I offered, tugging at the slender crotch of the thong, though mostly just to work my fingers into her.

"I would also have to do my makeup again," she snapped.

I let her go. I knew how long she had spent on her makeup already. I didn't want to have to entertain Ron and Cathy all by myself for that long.

She smiled. "But I appreciate the sentiment," she said. Then she grabbed my cock through the loose fabric of my shorts. As she had expected, I was half-hard. She twitched her grip, then released me to slide on her skirt.

"The things I'm going to do to you once they leave," I said, as if to myself.

She smiled as she slid the tunic over her head. "I have that waterproof silicone lube we got online," she said slyly. "I'm thinking it might be time to try again to finally fuck in the hot tub."

"I'll call Ron and explain to him how we tragically burnt everything, and he and Cathy should just go to Olive Garden or something tonight," I said.

I was struck by one of our pillows.

*

"A giant, elevated Pu-Pu platter?" exclaimed Cathy as we went into the dining room after a round of fairly large cocktails. "That is so awesome!" she burbled on, green-eyed with ill-concealed jealousy. I suppose it is easy for her to look jealous, as her eyes are green full-time.

"It does look good," Ron put in, less enthusiastically. He looked around at the absence of chairs or silverware at the table. "Ummm..."

"It's finger food, Ron," my lady teased. She picked up one of the slightly sticky meatballs with her fingers and popped it in her mouth. She chewed and swallowed swiftly while she still had his attention, then licked her fingers clean... slowly, making a production of the process for him. By the time she was done, she had no trouble keeping his attention. Or mine. "There are no chairs because that will make it easier for us all to reach for things," she went on briskly. "No napkins either," she added, sucking her index finger extra clean.

I laughed at her echo of our Saturday shenanigans and let her have her fun. If she did to Ron what she'd done to Sammy the week before, poor Ron would probably die. There is no manual for that sort of shenanigans in 1960s entertainment guides, or even in modern insurance commercials.

Cathy laughed, but asked, "Nice. But really, no napkins?"

Gwen rolled her eyes dramatically. "I'm so sorry about your husband's blindness. Can't you see the roll of paper towels right there on the table, Ron? There's a wastebasket underneath, too."

I laughed quietly to myself that Cathy had also been so busy watching Gwen suck her fingers in Ron's general direction that she'd missed the roll, too.

And we dug happily in, sticky fingers and all, while Cathy regaled us with an hilarious story from the police blotter that her newspaper's editor was refusing to publish, 'because we are a family paper!' We had unconsciously arranged ourselves in Boy-Girl-Boy-Girl fashion around the table, as Cathy and Ron had insisted on the week before, leaving Ron and me facing each other with our respective ladies to our left.

In the pause that followed Cathy's story, Gwen scolded Ron. "You left that half-eaten," she said, pointing at the Crab Rangoon in question. We had all, despite the plate-less nature of the event, laid out for ourselves a paper towel in front of where we stood, like Americans who instinctively could not handle a communal, finger food meal.

"I'll get back to it," Ron promised, not convincingly. "Crab Rangoon is not my favorite."

"You didn't use any of the sauce. It needs the sauce," Gwen insisted. She seized another rangoon and dunked it liberally in the sauce she'd come up with that was, honestly, fucking amazing. She held out the sauced-up dumpling thingy to Ron. When he hesitated just a fraction, Gwen took a single step closer and offered it right to his lips. His eyes flared wide, but he opened his mouth in self-defense before she jammed it in there anyway.

He bit down and then stiffened in surprise. "Mmmph! Dish loog," he managed with his mouth full.

"You know better than to doubt my cooking," Gwen growled playfully. But she did not remove the rest of the rangoon from in front of his face.

Ron swallowed, then smirked and snapped his mouth at the second half, catching Gwen's fingers between his lips for a moment.

Cathy giggled. "Careful! Ron gets a little dangerous if you actually manage to get him to try something new!"

I took her word for it. I'd never seen Ron try anything new since I'd known the guy. Quality dude, but not the adventurous type. I shook my head in amusement. Actuarials...

But Gwen caught my eye, which had been trained on her the whole time. She hadn't been able to resist provoking me a little. I just thought of the hot tub later.

Well, mostly I thought about the hot tub later. But after another minute or so, I realized that the paper-wrapped shrimp was all the way over in front of Gwen, and Cathy had not had any yet.