One Upsmanship
April Fool's already holds a pretty special meaning for us. Like I said, it's my family's favorite holiday -- well, okay, definitely not my mom's, but she tolerates it. My brother Todd throws a party every year at the end of it. It's a good time. We all bring something weird to eat, with the rule being that it has to be edible and at least tolerably tasty. Beer's allowed, but if you want to hang with the Belville boys, you have to do shots instead. We're talking Prairie Fire. We're talking Big Bangs. We're talking Cement Mixers. Every year one of us assholes is bringing something new and fun to the party. Last year it was bacon whiskey. Year before that, it was some godawful mixture called Toothpaste. You can probably guess what it tasted like.
Lucy came to the party last year, the hottest thing to walk through Todd's door since he accidentally set his wig on fire one Halloween when he was out barbequing and singing like he was Mick Jagger -- no joke, we're idiots. Fresh off both a breakup and the idiots at the news station she worked for firing her due to budget cuts, she was ready to party in a slinky pink minidress that plunged down between her breasts in a way that said, "Hey, big fella, eyes down here the rest of the night." She was dressed to fuck and I was addicted in about three seconds. Especially with her flaming red hair and lips I wanted to get medieval on and pillage until I came deep down her throat.
Look, I'm not exactly a fucking poet, all right?
She was a guest of one of my other brother's wives, and fit right in with the rest of the lunatics. There's only one rule at that party -- no one under eighteen -- so we lived it up while none of the nephews, nieces, and assorted younger hanger-ons were around. Lucy did the customary opening shots -- which was always optional, as was everything at the party -- and bellowed with us the sweet, sweet lyrics of Mmmbop, our party theme that year of choice. As was also tradition, Todd gave a speech with the other four of us flanking him. We stood up on a garden wall, and when I looked into Lucy's twinkling eyes, I had the first notion I was in deep, deep trouble with this one.
We played a variation on the chocolate game, with a bottle of tequila in the middle and boxing gloves instead of the bar of chocolate and oven mitts, and I knew I was going to fuck this woman or die trying when she rolled a six, put the gloves on, then instead of gripping the bottle with her hands, she got down on her hands and knees and used her cleavage to hold the bottle while keeping it shoved against her body with the gloves. Then she tilted back and let the neck of the bottle spill into her mouth, mad with laughter.
My sister-in-law Tayla, one of the best goddamn wingmen on the planet, introduced us shortly thereafter. Most the tequila had gone all over Lucy instead of in her mouth, leaving her dress sticking to her knuckle-biting curves. Fighting the urge to drool over her well-plastered tits was like fending off a Nazi werewolf army single-handedly with a spork, but I managed it.
I was playing bartender at the moment, mixing up jalapeno margaritas for a few of the guests, and I offered Lucy one. With a smile that spoke volumes of the dirty things this woman was capable of doing, she said, "Get me any more drunk and you could probably take me on the stairs."
"Is that a no, then?"
For an answer to that, she grabbed a bottle of vodka, spun off the cap with her thumb, took a tiny sip, and held out her hand. I didn't actually fuck her on the stairs -- we were, after all, surrounded by family -- but I did bribe the crew in the game room with the pitcher of margaritas to clear out and give us twenty minutes. I had Lucy's panties off her and stuffed into my pocket in about as long as it took for them to shut the door. We fucked hard enough to rattle the pool balls, making it sound like thunder every time I bottomed out in her soaking wet cunt.
I didn't think anything could top that day until I came up with the idea to propose to her this year.
Yeah. April Fool's has some pretty special meaning to me, then.
* * *
I never thought this day would actually come again, me proposing to someone. I was married once, a brief, dark fling when I was finishing up college. She was a couple years older, a museum guide and a librarian, and so very much an intellectual hipster it makes me grind my teeth to think of how stupid I was for falling for her.
But I did. The engagement was all of about two weeks, the marriage six months. During the ugliest fight of my life, she told me I'd never amount to much. I told her she was a pretentious dick-killer. I think that made her proud.
The "never amount to much" comment pissed me off to the very core of my soul. I was a straight-A guy in one of the best business schools that didn't require a donation from some rich family's bank account to get me in the front door. I kept fit and muscular with a low-carb diet and an absolute fuck-ton of working out and swimming. I'd landed an internship for a highly regarded money management firm. I knew where I was going, and I knew I was money in the bank. All she had to do was wait, and she couldn't.
The truth is, though, I loved her, and I loved her hard. The divorce slammed a wall into place when it came to women in order to become the investment manager I knew I could be. I graduated top of my class. I was brought into the same firm I interned with at one of their highest starting salaries they'd ever given out, and I earned every penny of it. You might have watched Wolf of Wall Street or Boiler Room and think I'm some kind of opportunistic shark, but the truth is anything but that. Do you know how I go into Las Vegas and always walk out richer than I started? Because I don't fucking gamble. My money's diversified into safe bets that'll only keep going up. I don't need to play poker because I'm going to be richer tomorrow than I am today. So will my clients.
At work, I'm ice cold. I don't jump onto trends. I'm not dropping millions into cryptocurrency. What I do is mentally jerk off to tiny fractional percentage gains. I roar like a goddamn lion when one of my software investors can afford to lease the new year's BMW.
But off hours? Away from the office? I'm out to always have fun. I'm the hungriest guy in the room. I'm the man you don't leave alone with your hot wife desperate for something other than the husbandly missionary pump and dump or your just-turned-eighteen daughter ready to have her core hollowed out by a real man for the first time in her life. Or both -- my boss's supermodel-level wife and his twenty-something daughter are freaaaks.
I'm not here to convince you I'm a nice guy. I'm not. Lucy knew that. This year, for April Fool's, she knew how to set up the perfect Rube Goldberg machine of delightful fuckery to get me to act exactly how she knew I would.
I love her batshit crazy ass.
* * *
Lucy unofficially moved into my place about five days after we met at the party last year. I say unofficially because one day she showed up with a suitcase, and we never really talked about her leaving after that. That was weird for me. My longest relationship since my divorce lasted maybe a month, and that was so far beyond the usual one-or-two-night stands that it was, until Lucy, weird unto itself. I guess I just didn't want Lucy to go, so I never talked about it. Plus, she makes amazing souffles. You don't jinx good souffles.
As a former local news anchor she was in high demand around the city, so she landed a nice six-figure PR vice presidency. We focused on our careers outside the house, but back home, our clothes were off more often than they were on. She was on the shot, and I loved nothing so much in this world as seeing her drip me out of her pussy lips onto the bed or the concrete around the pool or on the carpet or down the front of the washer. I don't think there was an inch of that house that didn't need to be steam cleaned. She gagged on my cock like she was bobbing for apples. Her ass became my second home. We were addicted to each other.
Jump forward to mid-February and enter, house right, Samantha Dunlop. Can't blame her one bit for wanting the place next door, especially with the curved arches of the rear patio leading out to her pool and backyard. We didn't actually see her for two weeks after the "For Sale" sign disappeared from the lawn, but we were friends with the realtor and she said Samantha was a knockout but didn't know what it was she actually did.
We figured that out real fast.
When Lucy and I saw an Alfa Romeo pull in and out of the house's attached garage, we -- and by we, I mean she -- bought a gift basket of wine, chocolate, cheese and crackers and headed over. I was expecting blandly attractive, like most the other thirty-to-forty-somethings down the block.
I wasn't expecting the young, vivacious sexpot who opened the door in booty shorts and a red tee over what promised to be even bigger tits than Lucy's. The teased-out dark auburn hair, the sultry eyes and heavily painted face, they made Samantha seem so worldly in her attractiveness, as if she'd been painted by a runway model's makeup team. The shocker, I'd learn later, was she was only twenty-two.
"Ooh, competition," Lucy said, and I nearly choked when Samantha not only laughed, but invited us in.
They got on fast. Attractive women can be spirited and mean, but there can also be a camaraderie there, one that develops of shared experiences of the natural prejudices against them. Both Lucy and Samantha were wildly intelligent, charming, and dangerously attractive, and that drew the contempt and vitriol of just about every other woman on the block.
That might have got the ball rolling on their friendship, but there was also the fact that Samantha was just a damn decent soul. Okay, example - she volunteered for things. Like... actually volunteered for them. She didn't just whip out the metaphorical or literal checkbook for causes. She went to animal shelters and helped clean up after them and feed them and do the sorts of things assholes like me say they're going to do and never actually get around to. In this day and age, who does that? Saints, that's who.
But there was the devil to Samantha too, a side she kept very well hidden. Lucy sussed out of her after a night of too much wine that she was a camgirl and Internet model of modest fame, earning nearly two hundred thousand a month for her various videos and donation sites. We found that out, and later that night, in bed together, Lucy's hot breath tickled my ear as she whispered, "That turned you on."
"Well... yeah."
She giggled and reached down to stroke me. "Want to dig up one of her videos and watch it together?"
We did. I think Samantha knew, in retrospect, that's exactly what we would do when she told us. I think her and Lucy had some kind of freaky sexual twinness happening. In any case, she gained two new subscribers that night, lifelong ones. We watched Samantha suck and play with a dildo while Lucy bounced up and down on my cock, her ass to me and rippling every time she slammed down. She came like a freight train that night, long, loud, hard. Three, maybe four times, I'm not sure. By the end of it she could barely move. Some of the best sex of our relationship, and that included the weekend we got away on a party yacht with friends and fucked while dolphins played alongside the boat.
* * *
Jump forward again. April Fool's Day. Do or die. My biggest gamble since I was an idiot proposing to another woman in another lifetime, but I didn't think it was much of a gamble at all. Not with Lucy.
My house was a pretty grand single-story home. The interior's nice -- my bathroom was like something out of some cyberpunk wet dream -- but you didn't really understand the price tag until you were in the backyard with the immaculate rock gardens, the cacti, the massive stone boulders smoothed just enough to make for comfortable seats. The pool was a goliath of a thing, shaped like a dog-leg of a golf course. The hot tub took up one side of that, raised a foot or two up off the pool.
At one corner of the concrete pathway surrounding the pool was an uncovered patio area with a couple lounge chairs. I'm a vain man, and I like to tan all over, so I was completely nude and resting on my stomach, eyes closed, contemplating the chaos about to come when the car was dropped off soon for Lucy. A friend at an upscale BMW dealership was in on the whole thing, and was going to bring it by gift-wrapped in a bit red ribbon. Inside would be a card, beautiful in design, with "Happy Anniversary!" on the front, then "...but this isn't your present. April Fool's, sucker."
I had a half-dozen deliveries like that prepared, each one smaller than the last until we eventually wound up at Todd's party again this year, where the whole gang of them would be dressed in formal wear, with a red velvet pillow and a ring on it. I was pulling a brother card on this one and made hem swear that this would come with no pranks or gags, because that WAS the gag. Lucy would be expecting one last leg pull, but the proposal was going to be as serious as I could make it. And then we'd get shit-faced and hopefully smash our best parts on Todd and his wife's bed. They deserved it. They were supposed to bring me back my good power drill weeks ago.
Inside the house, Lucy locked herself in the bedroom all morning after we had a celebratory breakfast of me eating her out to two orgasms and her sucking me down to the root until I fed her about a gallon of my very finest frothy morning cream. Well, that, and huevos rancheros.
I didn't know what she was up to, but it was no secret that she was planning something to do with my favorite day. I just couldn't figure out what. I looked in every corner of the house for a hint. Nothing. I stole her phone and glanced through her texts -- which sounds stalkerish until you realize she's done that to me since day one -- but she was too good for that, deleting a few texts and even sending a few messages from my phone saying things like, "HELLO PAUL I KNOW YOU ARE WATCHING HEEHEE HOHO YOU'LL NEVER GUESS MY GAME-O."
Did she suspect my proposal? Yeah. I think she did. Before I bought the ring in early March, I tried to bring it up casually. Real subtle shit, like, "You ever think about how hot it would be after you gave birth to spray down my face with your milk?" That got a scrunched face out of her and a, "Like... right after birth? I'd need, mm, four or five months."
We are nothing if not classy.
Anyways, back to the plot, four thousand pages later. I was getting my man-buns all nice and toasted out in the sun before the night's festivities when I heard a car slow and pull into my driveway. I grabbed my phone and checked it. Right on time. I grinned and settled back in.
My friend honked, and the bedroom window slid open. "You expecting someone?" Lucy called.
"Nope."
"Mind getting it? I'm... doing something."
"Kind of naked, baby," I called back.
"Like that's ever stopped you from answering the door," she said, but the window shut and she went to answer it. A moment later, I heard a yeep of happiness. That's what it was, too. I'd call it a shriek, but it wasn't that shrill. Lucy's happy noises were something like out of an anime.
Over the fence, I heard, "What's going on? She sounds happy."
I grinned to myself. Take a peek over the fence, Samantha. Get an eyeful. "She thinks she's getting a BMW. Wait for it. In about... ten... nine... eight... seven... six..."
"Ohhh no," Samantha said, and chuckled.
"YOU SON OF A BISCUIT EATER!" Lucy bellowed. Happy noises and all, she could sound like a demon on a bender when she was upset about something.
"There it is," I said, satisfied and settling my head back down.
Lucy charged back into the house and out the back, coming right for me like a bullet. I didn't bother looking up until she poked my butt cheek. Then I turned my head and asked innocently, "Who was it?"
"That was pretty good," she said, poking me again. "Three out of five stars."
"Only three?" I asked, wounded. I flipped over onto my back, enjoying the dozen tics fighting for control in her face.
I thought maybe given Lucy's hour or two of preparation she'd be dressed sexy, but all she wore was a loose tee and sweats. Not that she didn't look great, but I was hoping for lingerie or a camisole or maybe that fine vinyl skirt that showed off the bottom of her ass and a tiny bit of her pussy. But nope, casual was the order of the moment.
"You're lucky to get that many." She smacked my stomach. "Your brothers always said your April Fool's game is strong. So far, I'm not seeing it."
"Ooof," I said, grinning lazily.
"What'd he do?" Samantha called over.
"Made me think I was getting a new car. But there was a card inside that said this was his prank. Weak, Shrimpy," she said, reaching down and squeezing my anything-but-shrimpy.
I yawned and folded an arm under my head. "Let's see you one up me, newbie."
"I can outdo you right now."
"Oh yeah?"
One thing about Lucy -- she's fast. When she ran track in high school and college, she eked out the fifth fastest time in the hundred-meter sprint. Not just of the year -- of all time. And a small school it wasn't. So when she snatched up my clothes and sprinted away from me towards the fence, I stood no chance of catching her. I was barely on my feet before she was chucking everything -- shirt, shorts, skivvies -- over the top and into Samantha's yard. But her mad dash wasn't done yet. She cast a wild, gleeful look at me as she went for the house -- and the locks on the door.
Too late, I realized what she was doing. I tried to go for the bedroom and the patio door there, but she must have been psychic, because that was locked too. Sometimes I could open the window from this side if it wasn't shut properly, but damn it, Lucy had snapped the window down nice and tight.
"Samantha," I called. "I seem to have misplaced my shorts."
"They're hanging on my cactus," Samantha said.
"Mind tossing them back?"
The bedroom window cracked open and Lucy yelled, "No surrender, Samantha!" Too late, I tried to catch it before she slammed it shut again.
"Sorry, Paul, but I think you're going to have to come get them. I might get... hm... pricked after all."
I was naked and clothesless. And in possession of my things was the second hottest woman on that block.
Lucy grinned at me out the window. "You think I won't?" I asked her.
"I five-dog dare you," she said. "April Fool's, biiiiyutch."
"And you say my game is weak," I said, shrugging.
Without any more hesitation, I went for the gate leading to the front of our house, hoping there weren't any kids out and around the block. I made sure to give it a good slam for emphasis as I left the backyard and padded down the sidewalk to the grass dividing Samantha's house and ours.
A jogger passing by gaped at me hanging dong, and I nodded cheerfully. "Morning, Mrs. Velasquez. Happy April Fool's."
"Good... good... yuh huh," Mrs. Velasquez said, turning to gape at my bare ass as she slowed down to a crawl.
Samantha broke out into giggles as I reached over her gate and unlatched it. I strode in as it clanged shut behind me, my cock sorta kinda getting a little bit into showing off for Samantha. Well, you reap what you sow, Lucy, I thought to myself.
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