PREVIEW

Chapter 1

Penny slid her roller chair close to Cheyenne’s workstation so she could whisper a confidential question. “How rich is Cody, anyway?”

Cheyenne rolled her head toward Penny, a chewed up pen sticking in one side of her mouth. She regarded Penny, one eyebrow raised. Yes, Cody was rich, but the question seemed to have come out of nowhere and needed more context. When Penny stared and offered no more, Cheyenne said, “I don’t know. Pretty rich, I guess. Why?”

“How much does it cost to rent a yacht for two weeks?”

“Oh,” Cheyenne said, removed the pen from her mouth and tossed it underneath her iMac. She stretched, and then checked her watch. Two hours until go-time. She said, “We all pay our own way. The yacht belongs to a friend of Cody’s, but we all chip in.” Though the truth was, Cody and Carla might be paying more. They were getting the suite with the attached bathroom, after all. No one called Cody and Carla on it because it was suspected that Cody might be floating more of the bill than the rest of them. Byron loved to do math in his head, and laying in bed a few nights ago, he told her he thought Cody probably paid half, and the other seven of them split the other half. Byron suspected Cody paid almost eighty-grand for the charter.

Penny said to herself, “I bet it’s like two-hundred thousand.”

“I don’t think it’s that much,” Cheyenne said. “And we’re paying our own way.”

“Cody is so hot,” Penny said, again muttering it to herself, chair still butted up against Cheyenne’s, her eyes staring off dreamily out the tall factory window. “I listen to his podcast. He’s hilarious.”

Cheyenne said to Penny: “What could you find interesting about a bunch of ex-soldiers talking about politics and guns?” Penny wore baggy grandfather cardigans, wool skirts, and vintage chambray work-shirts she buttoned right up to the collar. Her nose was pierced, her arms and hands completely tattooed with a dark-fantasy nautical theme, long hair but with a fringe of micro-bangs cut only about an inch long. This made room for the enormous librarian glasses she wore.

Penny shrugged. “It’s not my style, but I feel like I know the guy.”

“He’s come by here a handful of times.”

“I know. But we talk.”

Cheyenne regarded Penny—her star employee—and waited for her to come out of her reverie. When Penny finally looked her way, Cheyenne said, “Thank you for your service.”

Penny rolled her eyes and looked offended. “They talk about more than just war and politics.”

“Cody’s married, Penny. You know I know him through his wife, right?”

“Yeah-yeah, you went to school with her. Sorority sisters.”

“No. Well, kind of. We weren’t the same sorority, just the same campus. Cody’s in love with Carla,” she said, intending it to be the end of the conversation about the attractiveness of her friend’s husband, rolling back to her workstation to get some work done before it was time to leave for the airport. But she wheeled the chair back toward Penny to add: “And Carla’s the kind of girl you wouldn’t want to cross.”

Penny said, “Cody’s hot, but so are his friends.”

Carla’s husband, Cody Weber, invested in a watch company after he got out of the army and the company took off. All their friends watched this guy they used to know as a soldier, who was married to one of the girls, become a millionaire. Carla did well on her own, selling Manhattan real estate, but when Cody’s dad passed away, the Weber brothers divvied up their modest inheritance and Cody took his whole stash and gambled it on a business startup with some special forces guys he knew. The startup was a military watch company. Now the company did more than watches, had a big social media presence, and Cody had become a sort of underground celebrity.

Cheyenne said, “I’ll put in a good word for you. But they don’t seem your type, Penny.”

Penny stared at her screen, a swooping black velvet swatch over a royal purple background, and said, “I think I’m tired of my type. I wouldn’t mind a guy who hates New York and has his shit together.”

* * *

The flight left in three hours and they were still an hour from LaGuardia. And Chey wasn’t even in the car yet. Outside the Uber’s windows, Tribeca foot-traffic bustled along past the grafitti-scrawled walls and down the fire-escape alley that divided Chey’s building from her neighbor. Byron sat in the back sending emails from his phone, dealing with last minute stuff from the office and working with the general contractor building their new place in Westchester. Last thing he wanted, going away on a yacht vacation in the Virgin Islands, was dealing with general contractor headaches. He’d set up a schedule of minor milestones for the GC to accomplish over the next two weeks, things that wouldn’t need consultation. The next two weeks were about very few things. Eating, drinking, swimming, sleeping, drinking, sunning, and drinking. It’d been a while since the whole crew got together. Times changed fast. Four years ago, they all lived in the same neighborhood, saw each other down at the Blue Bottle or The Knitting Club, three nights a week at least. It sucked getting older. Despite how many great things were going on in all their lives, those early post-college days were pretty golden.

He set his phone down, smiling, then looking out the window. Still no Key. He groaned and rubbed his forehead.

The uber driver said, “Plenty of time still.”

“She can be a little late or a lot of late. You never can tell with her.”

Cheyenne and two of her friends from their former Park Avenue design firm, branched out on their own, doing designs for garment companies, specializing in sneakers and sneaker collaborations. They’d got themselves a second floor office in a Franklin Street five-story, and a handful of decent clients, and put out the word Bergamôt was in town. He didn’t get the accent circonflexe, but Chey assured him it was cool and had powerful symbolic meaning.

The Uber driver said, “That her?”

Byron scooted between the front seats to look out the window. A young woman with long chestnut hair had bounded out of the building on the north side of Franklin, arms splayed out in the pose of apology. Cheyenne saw him in the Uber and mouthed a theatrical Sorry as she waited for a car to pass on the one-way so she could cross to the Uber.

“That’s her,” he said, chuckling. His cute and design-savvy—but also somehow tomboyish—wife trotted across Franklin to the driver-side rear door. Byron shoved it open for her. Chey jumped in, all long and skinny legs in black denim, sporting all-white Japanese sneakers. She darted him a kiss and pulled the door closed. “You bring all my stuff?”

“In the trunk, Chey,” he said as the Uber driver pulled the Tesla into traffic and got them heading out of lower Manhattan. Fuck, he hoped it wasn’t going to be tight—he hated getting stressed about shit like that.

“Oh my God, I’m so excited,” she said, breathy, settling into the seats and looking out at the pedestrians as they right-turned onto Lafayette. Byron took her hand and held it between them. Chey leaned forward and said to the driver, “Be honest, did he trash talk me while he was waiting? Saying how I was going to be late.”

The Uber driver said, “He said only kind things,” but gave Cheyenne a wink like they both knew he was lying.

“I’ll bet,” she said, settling in next to him again, smiling to herself. “I need this vacation so bad.”

“Me too,” he said to her, leaning in to kiss her temple.

“Did you get the thing straightened out about the garage floor foundation or whatever?”

“I did—”

“You know they called me, right?”

I know.”

“Said he couldn’t get an answer from you, and they needed to—”

“It’s all taken care of now, Chey,” he said soothingly, stroking his thumb on her palm. “I put them on autopilot for the next two weeks so we can just relax.”

“Oh man, I’m so stressed, babe,” she said, running her hair back with her free hand. “I need to relax.”

“We’ve got two weeks with our friends in the Caribbean. Two weeks of nothing but fun and sun.”

Chey purred a low sound and snuggled to his side. Then she looked up to him. “Not too much fun.”

“There’s a limit?”

“Not like the old days, babe,” she said and smiled.

“Chey,” he reassured her, “We’re adults now. All of us are grown-ups. We’re not twenty-two. We’re practically middle-aged—”

“Hey,” she said, aggravated.

He chuckled. “Thirty’s around the corner, babe. Get used to it. All I’m saying is all of us have matured through the years.”

***

Nine people, forty minutes past midnight, in a houseboat on bobbing black water in the middle of Lake Charlotte. Four married couples, making eight people, plus one man newly divorced, a total of nine, all sitting around a card table on the yacht’s top deck, protected by the overhead canopy strung with fairy lights. Music they listened to in college beat from the houseboat’s integrated stereo system. Littered around their feet and interspersed on their table were the emptied bounty of their awesome sunshine day on the water. Knocked over tubes of sunscreen, the caps popped open. A snorkel. One Flipper. Countless beer cans depleted of their sudsy contents. Empty White Claws. Two drained bottles of Canadian rye. A sopping wet T-shirt. Abandoned flip-flops . . . 

Byron looked at his three cards through beer-bleary eyes. Ace of clubs, king of hearts, and the seven of spades . . . The spades were useless. The king might be okay. But if Scarlet had a higher spade she could beat his king. The rules were complicated in their impromptu card game, and the stakes were high. He did not want to have to choose Truth or Dare.

“By-ron, By-ron, By-ron,” his husband-friends were chanting now in a low hushed sound as he contemplated. Some of their wives told them to be quiet. The girls peered over Scarlet’s shoulders, assessing her cards, but they couldn’t see his.

When Byron’s wife, Cheyenne, whispered in Scarlet’s ear, Sullivan slapped her arm, saying, “No cheating.”

“How is it cheating,” she said, “if I don’t know what Byron has?”

“It doesn’t matter if you know what Byron has. Scarlet is going to make this choice by herself.”

Cheyenne said, “I wasn’t talking about her cards.”

“Oh boo-hoo,” Sullivan said, “you’re such a liar.”

“I’m not lying,” she said but began to smile.

Byron said, “Stop lying and cheating, Cheyenne.”

“Just play your card already,” she told him.

He made his decision. He lay down the King. Scarlet wouldn’t have what she needed.

Cheyenne smiled, peering over Scarlet’s shoulder again, and now Scarlet smiled, too. Scarlet was about as iffy on the rules as he was, but she liked the way Cheyenne smiled. She picked her card and lay it down . . . 

* * *

The girls cheered and laughed. Carla pointed a finger at him and sneered in his face. “You fucking lose, Byron!”

The married guys covered their faces and groaned; someone punched him in the arm. He would have to take his lumps.

“Truth or dare, bro?” Cody asked.

It wasn’t going to be truth. His friends—no, the girls—were ruthless.

“Dare, I guess.”

Cheyenne said, “Sorry, what was that?” She leaned forward with a hand cupped at her ear.

“Dare,” he said, louder. Then, quieter: “I guess.”

Now he covered his own face in his hands and winced waiting to hear what they would have to say.

So far this evening, Sullivan had to streak around the yacht’s lower deck. The girls had tossed Pringles at his naked body from above, and as he went around the skirt of the upper deck, on the opposite side of the hand-railing, they’d they’d tossed anything they could find at him as he tried not to slip off and fall into the water. Then later Carla had to do it too. And what a boon that had been. Carla had big honkers. All the guys wondered what Carla would look like with her top off (except for her husband Cody). And then they’d watched tonight in the dim light from the cabin below them as Carla walked outside the hand-railing without a stitch of clothing on. Those big pillowy breasts of hers mashed between her forearms, sometimes swinging around, jostling and jiggling. It had been quite the sight, and probably took a lot for all the guys, not to mention what a fucking turn on it was so long as Cody wouldn’t get mad at them.

Carla leaned next to Scarlet and whispered in her ear, sly eyes on Byron.

Scarlet smiled. “You sure you want a dare, Byron?”

“I don’t want truth,” he said.

Cody said, “Sounds like Byron’s got a mistress.”

There was a lowing sound amongst the crowd, everyone looking at Cheyenne.

Cheyenne scowled at Cody. “You’re such an asshole.”

“I’m kidding,” Cody said.

“I don’t want truth. I’ll take the dare,” Byron said. “And, no, I don’t have a fucking mistress, you idiots.”

Scarlet laced her fingers together and leaned forward, prepared to reveal to him the parameters of his dare. Carla leaned close and repeated her suggestion in Scarlet’s ear. Scarlet said it. “Toilet paper game.”

There was a snicker, everyone else looking around, mystified. What the hell was the toilet paper game?

Carla whispered in Scarlet’s ear again.

Scarlet snickered, covered her face, embarrassed. “Toilet paper tube game. Boy, that’s a mouthful.”

“What the hell is a toilet paper tube game?” he said, trying to figure out what he had to do with a toilet paper tube.

“We need a referee,” Scarlet said, looking to Cheyenne, then shaking her head no. “No, I can’t trust you.”

“Can’t trust me to what?” Cheyenne said.

Then around to Carla again, Scarlet said, “Carla it was your idea, you ref.”

“All right, champ, come on with me,” Carla said, standing up now. He couldn’t tell she had those big Hooters under her sweatshirt. But she still looked pretty, even without makeup, her wavy hair hanging in wet ringlets around her shoulders. And while Carla wore a sweatshirt, when she stood, Byron saw she still sported her skimpy bikini bottom. Carla held out her hand and wiggled her fingers. “Let’s go, Byron.”

“What do I have to do?” Byron said, standing up shakily.

“Oh, this is cruel,” Cody muttered.

Byron looked to Cody. “What is it? What do I have to do?”

Cody laughed.

Byron said to Carla, “I’m not putting the toilet paper tube up my butt, I can tell you right now, we can go back to truth.”

“Your butthole is safe,” Carla said. “But we have to go downstairs.”

* * *

The yacht they’d rented was a big one. Four bedrooms, a living room, a kitchenette, two bathrooms. And not cheap. They were four couples, plus one divorced dude, Philippe, looking to get away in the middle of the summer, and they all chipped in a decent chunk of cash to rent this yacht. All the amenities were top-notch. Tile floors, marble counters, walnut cabinetry. Carla led him down the steps onto the main floor and into the nearest bathroom, holding his hand.

He said, “What are we doing?”

“Just get in here,” she said, coming in behind him then closing the bathroom door behind her. The place was luxurious but small and he felt cramped.

“What do I have to do with a toilet paper tube? Or are you going to do something?”

“Trust me, I’m not doing anything. I have to be here to verify.”

“Verify what?”

It was Friday night, and all the men on the yacht had been in here doing their business. In the trashcan next to the toilet there were four empty rolls of toilet paper. Carla plucked up a cardboard tube and said, “These are a standard size, Byron.”

“Right,” he said, still not getting it. “I don’t want to have to drink anything either. I had enough to drink today.”

“What, you think you’re going do shotgun something with a toilet paper tube? Who am I—MacGyver?”

“Oh no,” he said, “do I have to put my dick in it or something?”

Now Carla smiled, pushed the toilet paper tube against his chest. “That’s exactly what you have to do.”

“Why?”

“It’s a size test, dummy.”

“So what about my size?”

“Are you worried? It’s too late to choose truth now.”

“I’m not worried,” he said.

“Then put your dick in the tube and let’s see what happens.”

“What the hell is going to happen?”

“It’s a dumb sorority thing we used to do, Byron. Is your boyfriend bigger than a toilet paper tube.”

“That’s a thing?”

“You want your boyfriend to be longer than a toilet paper tube and thicker. Or the other girls will make fun of you.”

“Oh, okay,” Byron said. “I think I can do that.”

“Mr. Braggart. Wow, look at you, a regular porn star. Do I need to back up when. you do down that zipper?”

“I’m not a porn star,” he said. “But I think I’m bigger than a toilet paper tube.”

“I don’t know,” she said, taking back the toilet paper tube and examining it. “I think this is like average size. You need to know, looks can be deceiving.”

“A toilet paper tube? It doesn’t look that big.”

“All right then, tiger, show me what you got.”

“I can’t do it with you looking—Cheyenne will fucking kill me.”

“I’m going to turn around. You’re going to put your dick in the tube. Then you tell me and I’ll turn around and take a quick look and then I’m looking away again.”

He looked at her pretty, unblemished face for a long moment, waiting to see if this was a joke. “Fine,” he said at last, “turn around.”

Carla turned around in place, bare feet padding, and he was looking at the backs of her legs now. She was cold, and had her hands tucked up under her sweatshirt.

He said, “Wait a second.”

“What?”

“I’m supposed to be hard?”

Carla half-turned. “What’re you, stupid? Of course you have to be hard.”

“I’m not getting an erection with you in the bathroom, Carla. Cheyenne will kill me. And what about Cody?”

“What do you think we’re going to do? Just get a boner and put  the toilet paper tube on your giant dick like a little top hat and we can both get out of here.”

“I can’t get hard with you standing here.”

Carla glanced over her shoulder at him, smiling. “Most guys get hard with me standing here.”

“This is crazy,” he said.

“Hey, Byron . . .?”

“What?”

Byron looked up as Carla flipped up the low hanging hem of her sweatshirt and exposed to him her bikini-clad butt. A nice one. Generous and fleshy, but so round. She wagged it left and right. Then covered it up again. “Getting hard?”

“My God, this is so weird,” he said. 

“Is it getting hard?”

“I’m just standing here—I’m not doing anything.”

“Hurry up, Byron . . .”

“Okay-okay, hold on,” he said, frowning, glancing at his reflection in the mirror, standing in his T-shirt and sweatshirt and his baggy shorts. A toilet paper tube in his hand. He pushed down the elastic waistband of his shorts, taking his underwear down with it to mid-thigh. Checking to see if Carla were to glance aside, would she get a peep of his penis. But there was a bump out, and Carla leaned against it. If she looked left she wouldn’t even see the mirror, even though they were standing so close together.

But there was something happening. Even though this was weird and awkward, and deep down he knew Cheyenne would be mad at him standing with Carla and his dick hanging out, he began to stiffen. He said, “I have to put my hand on it.”

“I don’t care what you do, just hurry up. I left my drink up there.”

“Okay,” he said, now putting his hand on his dick. “Fucking Cody is going to be so mad at me.”

“Why?”

“I’m trapped in here with you with my dick out.”

“I’ve got my back to you. You’re such a prude.”

“I’m not a prude at all.”

Carla flipped up the hem of her sweatshirt again, and shifted her hips left and right making her but bounce. “Just get this done already.”

“Oh my God,” he said.

Carla said, “Pretend this is Cheyenne’s butt. Forget I’m even here.”

Now Carla let the hem of her sweatshirt down again and he closed his eyes, trying to manhandle his dick as quietly as he could. Getting it aroused, but it was tough to get a hundred percent. There was something about the anxiety of being in this room with her like this that was preventing full hardness.

“You hard yet?”

“It’s getting there.”

“Don’t tell Cody,” Carla said.

“Don’t tell Cody what?” he said, as Carla turned around. He shoved the hanging hem of his sweatshirt down to cover his penis. But Carla wasn’t looking, she had her face away and eyes turned up. Before he could ask her what he was doing, she scrolled up the front of her sweatshirt and exposed her bikini-clad breasts. He hitched a breath. Her thumbs tucked under the bikini bra, pulled the cups up and outward and she jounced in place until her big breasts hopped free and swung and bounced before him.

“Holy fucking shit,” he muttered.

Carla wagged her chest making her breasts go left and right and around and around. They made soft fleshy sounds when they bounced together. They were big and beautiful, her nipples were soft but slightly puffed. A cheery brownish pink not much different than the color of her natural skin.

“Hold on,” he said, staring at her breasts while jerking his cock underneath the front of his sweatshirt. “Oh my God, holy Jesus, Carla, don’t tell Cody.”

“You don’t tell Cody,” Carla laughed and shook her breasts again.

“Holy fuck, this is working,” Byron said.

“Good. What’s the big deal anyway, all you guys stood there watching me go around the outside of the boat without a stitch on. You saw my cooch.”

“You can show me your cooch if you want,” he said—completely joking.

Carla rolled her eyes, still looking away, held up her sweatshirt with one forearm now, then thumbed down the front of her panties showing off the shaved cleft mound inside them.

“Oh my God,” he laughed. “Carla, you are fucking crazy!”

“Is it hard?”

“Yeah, it’s hard,” he said, “a fucking hundred percent hard right now.”

“Then do it,” she said, letting her bikini bottom snap back in place and the sweatshirt fall around her hips again.

“Yeah,” he said, tugging up on the front of his sweatshirt now, his erection sticking out straight ahead. “Shit, where the fuck did I put the toilet paper tube?”

Carla looked around. “It’s fucking on the counter, you dummy.”

“Are you looking at my dick?”

“I’m supposed to be looking at your dick, Byron, just get the toilet paper tube on it.”

“All right,” he said, and Carla wasn’t averting her eyes. Standing there and watching. He took the toilet paper tube, lined it up with his erection, then began to slide it over his penis. The head went in, the toilet paper tube continued, and he was surprised that he would fit inside it. And embarrassed now. He thought this thing wouldn’t even fit.

“You’re going to be longer,” Carla said.

He better be longer. Jesus.

The toilet paper tube pressed down into his pubic hair and the head of his cock poked out beyond the end of the roll.

“Looks like you were wrong,” Carla said.

“Whatever,” Byron said, yanking the toilet paper tube off, mad, tossing it in the trash. He pulled up his shorts, angled his erection to the side and up. “It’s longer.”

“It is longer,” Carla said, leaving but not thicker unsaid.

“That’s what you’re going to tell everybody.”

“Thinner than, but longer than.”  She was smirking at him.

“Is that bad?”

“No, Byron, it’s not bad at all. That’s normal.”

“That’s what you said at the sorority?”

“As long as it was longer or thicker. Didn’t have to be both. Though both was definitely better.”

“I’m longer.”

“You pass the test, Byron, just relax already,” Carla said and patted his chest. “I just think it’s hilarious you thought you were to be splitting that tube in two.”

“Can we just go already,” Byron said. “Don’t you need your drink or something?”

Chapter 2

When they returned to the top deck, their friends were waiting for the result. It was Carla up ahead of him, hopping up on the deck and waiting for him to join her.

Scarlet said, “Well?”

“Drumroll please,” Carla said, and Arlo abided her, drumming his fingers on the table top. There were less people on the top deck then there should be. Byron scanned, looking to see who was missing. Cheyenne wasn’t here. Was there someone else not here? He said, “Where’s Cheyenne?”

Carla said, “Byron is longer than a toilet paper roll.”

Scarlet exclaimed, “Yeah,” and clapped her hands, winking at him. Lily joined in, smiling at him affectionately, clapping her hands. Arlo laughed.

Cody said, “You guys were sure down there long enough.”

Carla squeezed in behind Amy, saying, “What?—we had to fuck, Cody, what do you think?”

“Such a bitch,” Cody laughed, and Carla leaned over and kissed him on the lips. He rested a hand on her bare thigh, thumb stroking her skin.

Byron said again, “Where’s Cheyenne?”

Scarlet said, “Girth?” leaning back in her chair to get Carla’s attention. “Carla— girth?”

“Not so good,” Carla said, and Scarlet laughed.

“Aw, you guys are so cruel,” Cody said.

Byron squeezed in past Arlo, and took a spot on the bench seat leaning back on the aluminum railing. “Did you miss the part where I’m longer than the toilet paper tube, dip shit? Where’s Cheyenne?”

Scarlet said, “Oh.”

“Oh what?”

“You guys were down there so long we played the next hand. She’s off doing her dare.”

“Oh yeah?” Byron said. “What’s Cheyenne’s dare?”

Cody said, “Touché, pal. Toilet tube test or whatever you call it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Cheyenne lost her hand just like you,” Cody said.

Scarlet waved at him. “Sorry, buddy. I picked the same thing.”

“What do you mean? Toilet tube test with who?”

“With Philippe.”

“Are you serious?” Byron said. “Wait, she’s down doing the toilet tube test with Philippe?”

Sullivan thought this was uproarious, holding his stomach and laughing. “Oh how the tables have turned. This guy practically fucking tripped over himself trying to get down stairs to do it with Carla.”

Byron said, “I didn’t even know what it was, Sullivan.”

Scarlet said, “Well, if it makes you feel better, Cheyenne doesn’t know what it is either.”

“How long’s she been down there?”

Cody said, “You know how it is. Long enough to fuck.”

“Are you guys fucking with me? Is this part of my fucking dare? See how long I can keep my shit together?”

They all laughed, and while he liked provoking humor, he was scanning their faces. It had to be a joke. “You’re joking right?”

“What? No we’re not joking. Cheyenne’s doing the toilet test thing with Philippe.

Cody nudged his arm. “Just go down there, kick the door in.”

Carla put two fists in front of her mouth milking and circling, miming the act of sucking a cock.

“Oh my God,” Cody said, mimicking Cheyenne’s voice, “you’re so much longer and thicker than a toilet tube.”

“I’ve never seen anything thicker than a toilet tube,” Carla said in the same voice, almost unintelligible because she was laughing so hard.

Arlo groaned and  sat back saying, “You guys are fucking twisted. I mean seriously. Holy shit . . .”

“What?” Steve said. “We’re only joking.”

Arlo said, “Yeah, but seriously, miming that, like she’s down there blowing him? It’s funny, but seriously, that shit hurts.”

“I can take it,” Byron said. “There’s no way Cheyenne—”

Cody said, “Is sucking his cock?”

Sullivan said, “Oh my God, what an asshole.”

“I’m still joking,” Cody said, acting incredulous that nobody else thought this was funny.

“Who’s next, anyway?” Scarlet said.

Arlo said, “I’m up,” and took his spot in the chair for the guys’ side, waiting for Scarlet to shuffle cards.

But now Byron’s leg was jumping, trying to act casual, leaning back on the cushy bench seat of the top deck on the boat. He was looking out into the blackness, listening to the soft breeze pinging the wind chime hanging on the deck below them and the soft lapping of the waves against the boat’s hull.

Cheyenne right now was downstairs in the bathroom with a guy he hardly really knew, and this guy had his dick out. They were going to measure his dick together. Cheyenne was going to see if Philippe’s dick was bigger than a toilet paper tube.

What if it was bigger? What if it was way bigger than toilet paper tube?

Or what if it was smaller?

What if tonight when you got into bed Cheyenne realized how lucky she was? That was possible too.

He chewed his cheek and shook his head. Every time his mind wandered and fell onto the thoughts of what Cheyenne was doing right now in the bathroom with a guy who’s shorts were probably down mid-thigh.

But Cheyenne was only doing what he had done with Carla. Nothing that happened between him and Carla. Although Carla did show him her tits. He should tell that to Cody right now.

Oh yeah, smart mouth, your wife showed me her tits so I could get hard. Oh sorry, did I hurt your feelings? How about this one: showed me her cooch too. How about that buddy? Flipped down her bikini bottoms to show me her pussy. Your wife wants me to fuck her so bad.

Cody would say But you’re not even as thick as a toilet paper tube, Byron.

* * *

Arlo won his hand and everyone shouted.

Byron looked up, lost his thought but suddenly brought back to reality, everybody laughing and clapping.

“Truth or dare, truth or dare?”

Scarlet was blushing. “I don’t know . . . I don’t know what I want to do . . .”

“Pick dare,” Cody said to her, “one of can take you down to the bathroom and measure your dick.”

More laughter, but all Byron could do was crane his neck around, trying get a peek down to the deck below to see if Cheyenne was headed up the ladder yet.

How long were they going to be down there? How long did it take for this guy to get hard and pop his dick into a toilet paper tube? What the hell were they doing?

Scarlet shook her hands out saying, “Okay, okay, I guess . . .  Dare. I pick dare. But I don’t want to go swimming.”

Cody rubbed his hands together. “Guess who’s going swimming . . .”

“It’s dark out there. Please, don’t make me do that.”

“Oh, that’s exactly what you’re doing, Scarlet. Naked, and—”

Scarlet’s husband Sullivan leaned over to whisper something in Cody’s ear.

“No,” Cody said, laughing. “That’s cruel. I think it might be illegal—”

Carla burst out of her chair. “Hey,” she said, “here there they are . . .”

It was Cheyenne coming up the ladder to the deck, and Byron jolted, relief hitting him. Cheyenne was blushing bright red, her eyes a little glassy looking, coming up in her sweatshirt and bikini bottoms, flip-flops slapping her naked heels.

 Cody shouted, “Well, what’s the verdict?”

Cheyenne shook her head no, and Philippe was coming up the steps behind her now with a smug smirk on his face.

“Verdict, what is it,” Carla said pointing at Cheyenne.

Cheyenne waved her hands back and forth like she didn’t want to answer. She looked his way. Their eyes met and she looked away. Cheyenne looked guilty and apologetic at the same time.

Carla said, “Sullivan, drumroll again.”

Sullivan drummed his fingers on the table’s edge, going on and on and on, waiting for Cheyenne to give them their answer. Philippe came into the group, sat at the end of the bench three spots down from Byron.

Carla waved off the drumroll saying, “Cheyenne, we need an answer.”

Cheyenne rolled her eyes, plopped down in her seat. She said, “Not even close.”

The small smirk on her face punched Byron right in the heart. Like she’d been impressed with what had happened down in the bathroom with Phillippe. Impressed with what she had seen.

Everyone broke out laughing.

Carla grabbed Cheyenne’s arm, trying to get her to look her way, needing clarification. “What wasn’t even close?”

“It wasn’t close,” Cheyenne said, looking a little stunned.

“Longer?”

“Yeah,” Cheyenne said. “Yes. Longer.”

“And girth?”

Sullivan started his drum roll again. Cheyenne giggled, covered her face for a second, pressing her cold fingers to her hot cheeks. She said, “What do you mean girth?”

“Could he get it inside?”

“No,” she said, rolling her eyes up, “I told you: not even close . . .”

More laughter. Arlo rolled his gaze Byron’s way sympathetically as if to say Sorry, man, I know how this must feel.

* * *

No one ever pursued Scarlet on her dare, and Scarlet blended into the background with an expression showing she couldn’t believe she’d got away without doing it. But nobody wanted to make her swim underneath the boat; it was only funny because she was so afraid. It was late, and making someone swim under the boat when they were afraid to was a dumb idea, and unsafe, and in the end they all just hung out talking on the deck, their impromptu and made-up game of hearts-plus-war-plus truth or dare becoming a memory.

Except for Byron, who couldn’t stop thinking how his wife had gone down to measure another man’s penis. And it had been bigger than his.

So—even though once Cheyenne finished her drink and went to the cooler to get herself another, came around the table and curled up next to him on the bench, cuddling in the space between his arm and his ribs—everything was still not okay.

Byron cradled Cheyenne against him, kissed the top of her damp hair and she hugged him and sipped on her White Claw. The whole while all he could think was that she had been down in the bathroom—much the one like he was in with Carla—small cramped space with a guy who’s good-looking, tall, and his dick was apparently bigger than a toilet paper tube.

And why had they been down there so long?

That was still a puzzle. Could Philippe not get it up? That should make Byron feel pretty happy, but it didn’t. It only reminded him that his wife was persistent, waiting Philippe out until he got erect. And what did she do to get him erect? Did she thumb down the front of her bikini bottoms and show this guy her sweet little pussy?

It was crazy: that thought made him hard.

With his sweet wife curled up next to him, he was shifting in his spot, lifting a leg so his bulge wouldn’t show.

Philippe drifted off, and eventually Cody and Carla fell asleep together, Carla in Cody’s arms.

Cheyenne kissed Byron’s cheek, then gathered up his hand in both hers and stood, guiding him to follow. “Come on, baby, let’s go to bed,” she said.

“Good night, guys,” he said, standing—then hunching, realizing his erection hadn’t gone away yet. It was still humped out in his shorts, and he shoved the front of his sweatshirt down to cover it, scooting between the bench and the seats, Cheyenne still holding onto his wrist.

Chapter 3

They descended the ladder, Cheyenne going first, then they entered the main cabin, walked down three bedrooms, passing the bathroom where he’d been with Carla, and into their small bedroom suite. The king size bed took up most of their space. Bump-out closet, a mirror, a small built-in dresser. The bed itself was raised up about 3 feet off the ground. You had to climb up and onto it and it butted right up against the window. When you were sleeping it looked like you were adrift on a raft in the water.

Cheyenne turned on a small lamp affixed to the wall at the bedside, and climbed up onto the bed, patting the spot next to him. He slung off his sweatshirt and climbed up to join her. Her lips were on his as soon as he was on the mattress. She had her small warm hands cupped to his neck and then his cheeks, and she breathed deep while she kissed him.

It made him mad. Cheyenne was horny.

He should be excited that his wife was horny, instead all he could think was that he was not the source of her arousal. It was another man. It was being in that bathroom with Philippe and his big dick that got Cheyenne’s motor running. But he went with it, holding Cheyenne’s waist and kissing her in return.

Cheyenne let her hands off his face, shrugged off her sweatshirt, sitting in bed now with him in just her bikini. He untied the back, let the cups fall free and thumbed her nipples. She gasped and moaned, ran her nails through his hair. He said, “You’re horny.”

“So horny,” she said.

“Yeah?” he said, getting them both on their sides and laying down face-to-face, kissing her and rubbing her hip. She was almost naked, her perfect body taut and warm under his palm. “You’re horny for me?”

“Are you horny for me?” she said, thumbing down her bikini bottoms, pulling her legs out of them.

He pushed down on his shorts, taking his underwear with it, and Cheyenne cooed seeing his erection bouncing between his legs. He lay on his back, tossed the shorts off the bedside.

Now he craned his arm to the bedside and flicked off the light. Cheyenne’s mouth went down on his hard cock and he groaned and tightened his stomach feeling his wife’s slippery wet mouth sliding down his shaft. He palmed her head while she bobbed her mouth on his throbbing cock and gently squeezed on his balls.

Byron lay in the dark now, eyes rolled up with pleasure, thinking of his wife exactly like this, getting Philippe hard so they could see if his penis would fit inside a toilet paper tube. Cheyenne trying and saying Oh my gosh, it won’t even go in the tube.

He palmed her neck, pulled her off his cock and guided her up to his side again. He held her in his arms, and she kissed him, pumped her stomach against his hip, put a knee up on his thigh, wanting his cock inside her.

“You’re so horny,” he said.

“I’m so horny,” she laughed.

“Why?”

“Who knows why, let’s just do it,” she said, chuckling.

“I want to talk about what happened.”

Cheyenne’s body stiffened, but then the stiffness eased away. He could picture her face too. That face she did, knowing where he was headed with something and not wanting to go there, and putting on a sly smile to change the subject. Only he couldn’t see her face right now and she was powerless against him.

Cheyenne said nothing, rubbed the inside of her thigh up and down the belly of his erection.

“We should talk about it.”

“What’s there to talk about, Byron?”

“Aren’t you mad at me?”

“No.”

“You’re not mad at me at all for that toilet thing?”

“No.”

“Are you going to ask me?”

“Ask you what?” Still kissing, still stroking, trying to change the subject.

“Are you going to ask me if I’m mad?”

Cheyenne sighed and there was a grumble of discontent hidden inside it.

“What?”

“Fine. If you’d rather talk...”

“We’ll talk first, believe me, Cheyenne.”

“Okay, let’s hit it. Where do you want to start?”

“It was a stupid game,” he said.

“It was nothing. It was just stupid fun.”

“So you thought it was fun?”

“Didn’t you think it was fun?”

“What are you insinuating, because I was down there with Carla?”

“You sure went down there in a hurry.”

“I didn’t know what it was. I wasn’t in a hurry, by the way.”

“You were pretty eager to get down there. Probably thought it had something to do with Carla’s tits.”

“That’s not even fair. Why would you even say that?”

“Because you’re trying to make this about being jealous, and I’m arming myself against your argument. Did you go down there to see her big titties?”

“No.”

“And what did I do?”

“Are you saying I’m thinking you went down there to see his big dick?”

“That’s where you’re trying to get to. I’m just trying to shorten the route.”

He said, “Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not. I told you I’m not. You want me to be mad at you because you’re mad at me. You want to turn this into a fight and I don’t even want to fight. . . . It was funny. She went down there and you didn’t know what it was. I believe you. I know nothing happened between you and Carla. You going to tell me she didn’t show you her tits but I’ll ask Carla tomorrow and she’s gonna say yes, she showed you her tits. I’m not going to be mad. You already saw Carla’s tits. I don’t care. She has nice tits and I know you like them.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Byron, it’s not weird to like tits. Don’t touch them, that’s all.”

“I didn’t touch them.”

Cheyenne raised an eyebrow. “So she showed them.”

“Oh my God,” he said, “how is this on me now?”

“Do you think it was such a great idea to start this conversation? We could be fucking right now. You could be coming inside me but you’d rather turn this into something dumb and boring and cardboard.”

“That’s what you think of me, I’m cardboard?”

Cheyenne rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s what I was saying.”

“Again, you’re mad at me. I didn’t do anything.”

“And there’s that insinuation again that I did something.”

“You did.”

“I did the exact same thing you did, Byron. I went down to the bathroom to see what a toilet paper game was. I had an idea, yes, I knew it would have something to do with a penis. It’s pretty obvious because a toilet paper tube is cylindrical. I’m not a dummy. But I knew it wasn’t going to be anything bad.”

“You don’t think it was bad?”

“Byron, you did the same thing. You put your dick inside a toilet paper tube in front of Carla. You have nothing to say.”

“I wasn’t . . . it wasn’t my idea.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” she shouted.

“Okay, okay,” he said soothingly, looking for her wrists and then holding her hands. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mean to shout.”

Byron was quiet a moment. “I went down there, and I didn’t know what it was. Carla turned her back and I was reluctant. But then she was encouraging me to just get it done, and she wasn’t looking. I tried to get hard. I couldn’t get all the way hard and I didn’t ask her to, but yes, she flashed me her chest. Okay?”

“And that got you hard?”

“Oh God, I should’ve seen that coming.” He’d walked right into it.

Then, surprisingly, instead of being mad, Cheyenne touched a finger to his lower lip. She said, “Carla’s got nice tits.”

“They’re not terrible,” he said.

“Okay?”

He shook his head and sighed. “Talk about shortening the route.” 

“What does that mean? What route?”

“Now I’m following your path and I see your destination.”

She said, “What’s my destination?”

“Your destination is for me to understand that it’s okay for you to appreciate that Philippe has got a great big good-looking dick.”

And instead of being aghast or offended, Cheyenne chuckled.

“You think that’s funny?”

“No, what’s funny is that was pretty insightful.”

“It was?”

“Yeah, I called you out on it, and I left myself open. You saw right through me.”

“So I got it right?”

“I’m not saying Philippe has a big good-looking dick, you dummy. But I want you not to be mad at me, that’s all.”

“So what happened down there?”

“Nothing happened, Byron. Seriously, nothing happened.”

“You were down there for so long.”

“Yeah, whatever. We were talking.”

“Talking about what?”

“Just about stuff.”

“What kind of stuff? You were down there talking with him and his pants were down?”

“No. His pants weren’t down. We were just hanging out in the bathroom and talking.”

“That doesn’t even make sense, Cheyenne, sorry, I don’t understand what you’re telling me. You went down there and nothing happened? You just were sitting there and talking? Like, it sounds suspicious.”

“Suspicious how? What do you think I was doing down there? Philippe’s a nice guy. We were just chatting. He’s divorced, and he’s having a hard time getting used to it. I mean we know that he was the one who call it off with Paloma, and that’s okay. And he was okay with it and they didn’t fight, and everything’s fine now. But he’s trying to get back out and dating, and everything is just so shitty.”

“At what part did you measure his dick?”

“We didn’t have to.”

“What do you mean you didn’t have to? Did you guys cheat or something? Philippe just told you that he was bigger than a toilet roll?”

“No, he just . . .”

“Could he not get it up?” And now he was worried what Cheyenne would’ve done to get Philippe erect. And would she tell him?

“No, he didn’t get it up.”

“Aw, that’s bull shit. See? You guys were cheating.”

“No, we were not cheating.”

“Then how can he be bigger than a toilet roll tube, how can you say that?”

“He was bigger than a toilet roll.”

He was silent a long time waiting for her to finish. But slowly he realized her response spoke volumes, and reality began to pool around his feet. “He didn’t have to . . .?”

“Get it up? No. He showed me before he . . .”

“So, you’re saying . . .?”

Cheyenne nodded, lips slimmed. “It was bigger already.”

“Without being hard?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

“That’s not crazy,” she said. Then: “Is that crazy?”

“You don’t think that’s crazy?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Can I ask you a real question?”

“Okay. Go ahead.”

“Is that why you’re horny?”

She made an exasperated sound.

“Well?”

“Like . . . Maybe. But it wasn’t just that. It was the whole day and the whole night. And it wasn’t just Philippe, it was seeing fucking Sullivan streaking around the deck and he was naked—that was kind of, I don’t know, hot . . . and Sullivan didn’t have a . . .”

“Have a what?”

“Sullivan has a normal dick. It’s not like Philippe showed me the size of his and now I just have to have sex.”

“And you didn’t show him anything?”

She narrowed her eyes into mean slits. “No. I’m not Carla.”

“You guys had a good chat down there. You were down there forever.”

“Yeah, we did have a good talk.”

They were both silent for half a minute, both of them on their backs now and looking up at the ceiling. He rolled toward his wife, rested his hand on her hipbone. The tips of his fingers traveled that valley down between her legs, and he found her sopping wet. He began to stroke at her opening, going low coming up high, finding her petals fully engorged and her clitoris swollen. Cheyenne breathed deeply while he fingered her, then she raised her knees and let her legs fall open wider. He pushed fingers inside of her, and she touched his arm, her other hand holding his wrist. He fingered her until his eyes grew adjusted to the dim, and the pale moonlight began to settle on his wife’s soft curves. He could see the raised ridge of her rib cage, the hard bolt of a nipple. He watched her breathe, charcoal light playing on her supple body. Cheyenne’s pussy made soft wet smacking sounds around his plunging fingers. He twirled her clitoris then plunged and cupped his fingers inside her. He got her painting.

He said, “How did you prove he was bigger than the toilet roll?”

Cheyenne mumbled a complaint, but then whispered her reply. “He showed it to me and it was obvious.”

“You didn’t check?”

“He pulled his pants down and I laughed because it was like we didn’t even have to check.”

“But you checked?”

“I held the toilet roll next to it.”

“You touched it?”

“Not my skin, Byron, just the toilet roll.”

“And it was longer?”

“It was longer. And then I tried to slide the toilet paper tube onto it, but like the head wouldn’t even get in the opening at all.”

“Are you laughing?”

“It was so funny,” she said.

“Should I think it’s funny?”

“No.”

“Why’s that? Should I be worried?”

“No,” she said. “Now that’s funny.”

“And you didn’t touch his dick?”

“Nope,” she said, beginning to hump back against his plunging fingers. “That feels so good,” she whispered.

“You’re changing the subject like you always do.”

“Would you please just fuck me.”

Byron brought his fingers out, swirled her clit, then mashed on it, kneeing her to roll over toward the window. He spooned behind her, thumbed his aching ramrod of an erection upright till the tip found the hot wet groove of his wife’s opening. He slid himself up inside her, and all he could think about was Cheyenne alone with Philippe and his big dick. “He said he wasn’t even hard at all?”

“Not at all,” she whispered, her soft, airy voice strung tight at the feel of his erection sliding inside her. She moaned when he got deep. “Oh God.”

“Just a big old dangling dick,” he said.

“Just a big, hairy, soft dick,” she gasped.

“You’re turning me fucking on, Cheyenne.”

She chuckled, then reached behind her and dug her nails into his thigh. “Fuck me,” she said.

And he did, going slow, knowing she wanted it hard and fast but wanting her to beg him. He slid out, then all the way in, and almost all the way out again. Keeping the pace dreadfully slow, watching her silvery moonlight profile the whole time. Studying her. He said, “Would it be too big for you?”

“No,” she said.

Byron jolted and Cheyenne liked the feel of him stabbing into her deeply. “You could take his big dick?”

“Yeah,” she gasped.

Now his stomach squirmed, his intestines like a nest of snakes. She said it wasn’t crazy seeing that big dick, and now she said she could take it. Dirty talk with your husband would suggest saying you couldn’t take it. But Cheyenne said she could. A curious interest in his wife’s mind, he was sure of it. And now he was thinking maybe she’d had it before. A big dick. Another boyfriend with a huge dong. He said, “You could take it?”

“Yeah,” she gasped again, rolling her hips against him, her butt cheeks patting against his hipbones.

“You could take a big dick like that?”

“Mm, yeah,” she said.

“You could take it deep?” he said, thrusting himself inside her, hard and all the way, every inch he had.

“I could take it deep,” she gasped, and now he was the one who was losing control. Gripping her arm, the strokes getting fast, erratic.

His hand swept around, fingers mushing through his wife’s soaking sex, two fingers finding the hard knot of her clit in all those luscious slippery folds and swirling hard on it while his iron-hard cock thrusted in and out of her. Cheyenne went wild. “This little pussy’s too tight for a big dick,” he growled.

Cheyenne mewled and grabbed her own breasts. “God, yes, Byron, oh God,” she cried.

“You want his big dick inside you?”

Cheyenne stammered, unsure but still aroused. “No,” she croaked.

The right answer, but he demanded she say yes. He told her: “Tell me you want it, Cheyenne.”

She complained in her throat, knowing saying such a thing would be depthlessly taboo, but getting into the dirty talk with her husband. “I . . . want his big dick.”

The words sent him off like a rocket-ship in the most unexpected way. Hearing his wife say something so sexually awful ignited the combustion low in his belly that would erupt the contents of his balls. The wheels were already in motion, his cock sending out streams of pre-come inside her right now, making their union slippery. “Tell . . . tell me you’ll take his big dick.”

“I’ll take it,” she cried, writhing underneath him, her legs kicking as he fucked her hard from behind, not side-by-side anymore but him almost on top of her, Cheyenne with one leg splayed out, her feet curled in the bed sheets.

He grabbed her knee and pinned her to the bed and fucked her hard, wanting to come deep inside her. Thinking of someone else doing it. Thinking of her making these exquisite sounds because she was being spread apart by a dick that wouldn’t fit inside a toilet roll eben when it was soft.

Cheyenne was the first to come, and once she stiffened and squeaked and gasped, it was all over for him too. The thought of Cheyenne right now imagining another man’s oversized cock fucking her proved too much and he exploded inside her. It sent Cheyenne off again and she wailed with pleasure.

He pushed in as deep as he would go, cock flexing and twitching, streams of his ejaculate filling her up.

He collapsed on his wife and rolled to the side. The frivolity of the day, the quantity of beer, the heat of the daytime sun, and his incredible orgasm, all had his eyes closing and his mind slipping into deep unconsciousness, Cheyenne still moaning at his side.