X-Men: That Seventies Swap

"I'm pretty sure we could eat caviar on his dime, so long as we did the Friday night thing," said Rosalyn.

The Thing was how they'd come to refer to their arrangement—not that they ever really talked about it when Danny was underfoot.

Sydney, of course, wasn't a lesbian, didn't enjoy the Friday night thing like some sort of man-hater. Sure, she came, but that didn't mean she enjoyed it. It was just the best way to motivate Irving, and as a good wife, she was willing to make that sacrifice. In the past two months, he'd lost twenty pounds and kept them off. He'd quit smoking, cut down on booze—it was getting so he could climb more than a few flights of stairs without skipping a breath. So if the price she paid for getting Irving healthy was to do those dirty, disgusting, homosexual things with Rosalyn...

Besides, Rosalyn liked it way more than her.

***

Irving had to admit, Rosalyn looked better than Olivia Newton-John in her spandex work-out clothes. His, on the other hand...

"What was wrong with my old track suit?" he asked her as he tried to keep up with Rosalyn's routine, shimmying around on the Twist 'N' Tone she'd bought from the store at a bargain of five dollars. It felt like he was using a hula-hoop without the hula.

"That ratty old thing you wore cuz you wanted to be Bruce Lee?" Rosalyn demanded. "Baby, look at your sauna suit. It's all scientific, aerodynamic, those people at NASA probably wear them. All your body heat is sealed in so you're sweating twice as much."

"I don't think that's a good thing," Irving said, wondering if his lightheadedness had more to do with that or, again, Rosalyn in Jane Fonda gear.

"Sweat is bad for you, Irv, everyone knows it. You gotta work it out of your system. You don't want a sweat build-up! Alright, stop." Rosalyn stepped off the Twist 'N' Tone. "Time for a jog."

There was nothing, of course, that Irving loved more than running around a perfectly good street (for cars) at seven in the AM, wearing a silver trashbag, so he could give his one wife and his other wife an excuse to sleep with each other. But hell, it was better than a divorce. Everyone knew that crap was ruining the American family.

***

"Hey, where are my girls?" Irving called, striding through the door to deliver his coat and hat to the hall tree, his briefcase onto the ground. He remembered before his heart attack, he came home just a lump, no energy to do more than watch the boob tube. He could only screw on weekends, that's how much energy he had. Now he felt like a new man and he owed it all to lesbian sex.

Sydney came out of the kitchen, scowling mock-seriously. "Shh, Danny's asleep." She gave him his smile as she kissed his cheek. "Welcome back."

Irving heard Rosalyn's rapid footsteps around the corner, before she slowed to turn it. Her face flattened with dismay, seeing Sydney had greeted him first. Nonetheless, she grabbed hold of Irving and kissed him passionately on the lips. "It's not the same without you, daddy."

"Well, as long as we're kissing..." Sydney nipped at Rosalyn's shoulder. "Why don't we move this party to the bedroom? Gotta reward our man for bringing home the bacon."

"She's been trying to fuck me all day," Rosalyn whined. "She's some kind of pervert, you know."

Sydney glowered at her, though she'd long since given up on Rosalyn ever admitting she was the one who got off on it. Hell, hadn't she been flouncing around in that polka dot halter top all day, just daring Sydney to make a pass at her, even when it wouldn't do Irving any good? And that was the only reason she was doing it. She didn't need Rosalyn to get off. She could do it herself, all she needed was a fresh pack of batteries.

Irving slapped Sydney's ass, signaling her to cheer up. "Hey, I wouldn't have my little pervert any other way. Like the lady said, let's party."

One arm on Sydney, the other undoing his tie, he started for the bedroom when Rosalyn stopped him with a hand on his chest. "What's this?" she demanded.

"What's what?" Irving asked, turning his body protectively away from her.

"What's what," Rosalyn repeated mockingly. "This!" She tugged out his collar to expose the splotch of red there.

"It's not what you think!" Irving insisted.

"Marinara sauce?" Sydney cried.

"It's nothing, me and the boys were getting lunch—"

"I made you lunch!" Sydney said, her voice raising an octave.

"We thought we'd go out to eat, talk some business, shoot the breeze, you know how it is. I had a martini or two, made some contacts, probably drummed up a lot of business for the gallery. I had to eat something, it would've been weird if I didn't. I told them I would prefer wheat germ, they would've thought I was a kook!"

"So you had a deep-dish pizza?" Rosalyn sniffed at his collar. "Extra cheese? Provolone? Anchovies?"

"It was Bill's idea! He ordered for us! I only had one slice, I told 'em I had a big breakfast, I swear!"

"You know the rules, Irv!" Rosalyn brandished her finger at him like it was a riding crop. "We only do this for you, because us girls have needs and you can't satisfy them with that bum ticker of yours!"

Sydney nodded along, not even noticing how strange it was for her to be allied with Rosalyn. "You think I want to eat her pussy? Or grab her ass, or suck on her breasts, or kiss her? Kiss her?" She threw her hand out to indicate Rosalyn, which Rosalyn thought was a bit unnecessary.

"Ladies, c'mon, it was just a little slip. Just a teensy, tiny, little-bitty cheat on my diet. Look at me, look at my tummy!" He pulled his shirt up. "Look at it! I don't even have that muffin thing anymore. You really think I have to stick to every little tiny thing the doctor says when I'm so much better?"

"That's the deal," Sydney said plainly. "I'm going to bed."

"Me too!"

Irving groaned as they walked out on him. He'd been waiting for their Friday night thing all week.

He wondered if Danny still hid those Playboys under the loose tile in the bathroom.

***

"I'm so fucking pissed!" Rosalyn said, putting in her curlers. At the counter beside her, Sydney brushed her teeth. Irving had bought a house that was way too big for a single-child family, but with Crazy Aunt Rosalyn (as Sydney thought of her) moving in, they'd sectioned off the many bedrooms and bathrooms into male zones and female zones. It was incredibly freeing to go to the bathroom and not have to put up with beard hair in the sink or a raised toilet seat.

Rosalyn often thought one of those great girl comics like Lily Tomlin should make a joke about how men couldn't put the toilet seat down. It'd probably get a lot of laughs, since it was so true.

"Here we are, two gorgeous women," here Rosalyn threw in a slew of furious gesticulating to convey, in three seconds, that while she admitted Sydney's beauty, she still saw herself as much sexier than the other woman, a more moral person, more intelligent, a better mother, etc. "Willing to degrade ourselves for a man as long as he does one simple thing and doesn't have a heart attack. And what does he do? Men!"

"I know. Irving's probably the best in the lot you can get without moving to Hollywood and dating Harrison Ford, and he still ain't much. Makes you wish you could just date a girl, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," Rosalyn agreed, before frantically disagreeing. "Not that I would! Having sex with a lady is one thing, but dating one? I mean, c'mon, why would you wanna be so weird? I'm glad he had his marinara sauce, since now we don't have to have sex. I'm gonna thank Jesus tonight, for not making me have sex with you."

The thing was, as rational and objective as Sydney considered herself compared to Irving, and especially compared to Rosalyn, she still felt the need to prove a point sometimes. That's why she said what she said next.

"You know what would really teach him a lesson, though?"

"Jesus?"

"Irving."

Rosalyn put her hands on her hips. "No, what?"

"If we had sex without him. Didn't let him watch, didn't even let him listen. I bet it'd tear him up inside, knowing we were making it and he couldn't even get a peek."

Rosalyn's eyebrows fired up. "That's a great idea!" Then she kissed Sydney, who had honestly thought she would take more convincing.

***

Irving knocked on the bathroom door, much relieved after a brief conversation with the Playmate of the Month. "Girls, you alright in there? You've been a while. C'mon, come to bed. It's late."

"Sydney can't talk," Rosalyn reported. "She's going down on me. It's so hot and sexy!"

"What?" Irving dropped down to look through the keyhole, but they'd thought of that, even if the architect hadn't. The hole was plugged up—Irving thought by a pair of panties. He tried to see under the door. "Listen, I know you ladies are upset, but that's no reason to do anything rash now! Why don't you let me in and we'll talk about it?"

"Oh Gawd, Irv—she's licking my pussy! I always knew she was a slut, but I had no idea she was such a fucking rugmuncher! I wish you could see how crazy she's going for my cunt! She lives for it! Can't get enough of it!"

Inside, Sydney briefly removed her mouth from Rosalyn's sex. "You know what would really drive him crazy? If we gagged you. That way, he wouldn't even be able to get off on hearing you moan in pleasure."

Rosalyn's eyes sparkled. "Do it!"

So silenced, they made love. Both enjoyed it more than they thought the other did.

***

The diary went on in purple-prosed detail halfway between the lesbian pulp books Raven had found in Rosalyn's room and the Harlequin romances she'd found in Sydney's. It was clear to Mystique that they'd both enjoyed it more than they thought the other was. Rosalyn was glowing in her descriptions of Sydney's beauty, even if she was insistent on she herself being stunning, a 'one-of-a-kind beauty'.

Well, she was half right. The woman's biggest problem was being unwilling to admit her lust for the woman she was fucking. Human foibles. So odd. Raven wondered what she could do to help out her 'sister'... repay her for the kindness of allowing Raven to borrow her life for a few days.

Chapter 3: 1979

"What are you doing in here?"

Raven looked up sharply. She'd been in Irving's den, looking for whatever information she could find on his bank accounts—boredom and repetition had made her thoughts wander. Now Sydney Prosser, the bane/light of Rosalyn's life had discovered her.

"Just looking for a pen," Raven said, of course flawlessly imitating Rosalyn's accent. "You'd think Irv would have one around somewhere."

"They're in the jar by the phone. Like always."

"Really? I could've sworn there weren't any."

Sydney wouldn't be put off so easily. Her hands were on her hips; she had a good lecture cued up. "Danny said you didn't fix him lunch."

"He's a big boy. He can get himself lunch if he wants."

Sydney shook her head. "Have you been drinking again?"

"I'm sober—" Raven restarted the sentence with a bit of outrage Rosalyn might apply. "I am sober as a judge!"

"Yeah, right." Sydney moved in close and smelled her breath. Raven stood there and let her. She liked having Sydney that close. For a woman who couldn't change her shape, Sydney had a pretty nice one. "You're actually not drunk."

"Don't sound so surprised," Raven huffed. "By the way, I know why you're really so concerned about my drinking habits?"

Sydney folded her arms over her breasts, an eyebrow up—this ought to be good. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah—it isn't right to have sex with a girl that's had one too many. But when she's clean and sober, you don't have any excuse not to fuck her."

Raven saw Sydney's fingers tighten on her biceps, denting the flesh. "I—I don't want to—that was just for Irving, I would never—"

"I came so many times that night," Rosalyn hadn't been specific in her diary, but her dream journal had been full of volcanoes, lightning strikes, bombs going off—"Didn't you? Or did you hold it in until you could get to the shower and finger yourself?"

Sydney lowered her head. "I came."

Raven put her hand on Sydney's cheek. If Sydney thought it was a little cool to the touch, she said nothing. "And it was good, wasn't it? Liberating. We've both been so frustrated lately—didn't it feel great just to let go? Have something just for us? Irving can't, but even if he could—that's something else—it's not what we have—is it?"

How many times had Rosalyn thought these words, tried to say them, wished she could? The same dream in her journal, all the time, and she kept pretending she didn't know what it meant. Raven smiled inwardly. She wondered how relieved Rosalyn would be to come home and find that everything had been done for her so that she had exactly what she wanted.

"I don't know what we have," Sydney admitted, gasping when Raven leaned down and kissed her folded arms, peppering her lips along Sydney's forearm.

"We have a surprise for you." Raven took Sydney's hand, drawing it out of her crossed arms, and pulling it down to her pants. As the days passed, she thought the ray was wearing off. She'd been able to shift just enough to capture the real Rosalyn's curves, although she now preferred wearing clothes to shifting into them. But she still had enough juice for one of her favorite tricks. In the same way she could imitate a watch or a belt, she had long ago learned to shift herself a strap-on dildo. And the best part was, since it was technically part of her body, she could feel it. Just like a man would.

Sydney gasped as she felt the hard silicone surface, its sleek contours, its length. Raven smiled at her, all need and want. "And we have all the fucking you can handle," she told Sydney. "You've earned it."

There was a sofa in the corner of the den. Sydney thought a lot of the time Irving was 'working', he was just lying down and having a nap without any of the craziness to bother him. This was craziness too, though. The kind of craziness Sydney had gone to him for.

"Lock the door," Sydney pleaded, and Raven nodded tightly before going to it. She stripped off all her clothes on the way there, firmly turned the lock, then turned back to Sydney. In just her skin and shifted dildo, she felt almost herself again.

Sydney didn't undress so readily. She pulled down her jeans and her panties, kicked them off her long legs, and sat almost modestly on the sofa in her big Foreigner T-shirt. Irving had taken her to that concert.

Raven went to her. She had decided she would be gentle with Sydney, as gentle as she'd be with a virgin. Raven had used sex many, many times before to accomplish many different missions, but it'd lost none of its pleasure. She'd resolved to enjoy herself, even if it didn't fit a hundred percent with her cover. She didn't think Sydney would exactly mind.

She parted Sydney's legs, kissed each of her knees, saw the thatch of ginger pubic hair waiting for a woman's touch. She kissed above Sydney's knees, then on her thighs—now she smelt Sydney's arousal growing—but instead of going to it, she rose and kissed Sydney's stomach through the T-shirt. Sydney moaned incoherently; Raven silenced her with a kiss on the lips. It kept going and going, the other one prolonging it each time one thought of letting it end. Not passionate, exactly, but a slow, unyielding sharing of lips.

Somewhere in the middle, Raven opened Sydney up with the tips of her fingers. Then, as the kiss grew more heated, she rose—Sydney tilted her head up to keep the kiss going. Raven melted their lips together; their tongues stopped their dance and the two women breathed each other as Raven lowered herself onto Sydney. Into her.

Raven was a confident woman, bordering on arrogant. She considered herself a prodigy when it came to phalluses. She had seduced some of the best cocksmen in North America, and she had replicated their techniques to masterful effect on several willing women. She found fucking Sydney easy and recklessly enjoyable, producing moans from her as effortless as tapping out a melody on a Casio keyboard.

Still, as simple as it was for her to bring Sydney to orgasm, she still loved it. She quite lost herself in Sydney's tightness, her wetness, her heat. She didn't even notice Irving turned his key in the door and opening it. Nor the several minutes he spent staring in awe and excitement as her ass bounced up and down, driving her cock deep inside Irving's wife.

***

Rosalyn woke up in a hospital room right out of the Starship Enterprise. No Captain Kirk, though, damn the luck. Just a bunch of metal, a bunch of beeping things, a bunch of toning things. What were they monitoring, her or a robot?

It wasn't long after she woke up that the nerd came in. "Raven—I'm sorry to have to tell you this. I've run every test I possibly can with what I have to work with and all the results came back baseline. Raven... you're human."

Rosalyn sat up straight. "Of course I'm fucking human! What the fuck is wrong with you? You drug me, bring me to this crazy science lab, now you've run tests on me—all so you can tell me I'm human? What the fuck did you think I was, a house plant?"

"Raven, please, there's no need for this act. Whoever you think you're impersonating now, the ray has locked you in one single form. Hey, listen, if it makes you comfortable, you could undress." He tried a smile. "Maybe I could find some blue paint for when you're, err, naked."

She slapped him. "You've got big fucking problems, buddy, major fucking problems! And that's before I call my boyfriend. I'm dating Pete Muscane, you piece of shit! He's a legbreaker for the mob and when he finds out about you..."

Ignoring her, the nerd stroked his chin. "Are you really that disoriented? I knew the ray had a physiological effect, but I had no idea there could be mental degradation as well—"

"Who are you saying is mentally degraded, four-eyes!?"

He held up his hands placatingly. He seemed to do that a lot. "Alright, you're disoriented. I should have realized that sooner, I'm sorry. My name is Hank McCoy, I'm a friend of yours. Your name is Raven. I guess I'm a little hard to recognize without the blue fur—"

Oh God, he's a crazy person. Rosalyn immediately stopped thinking of pointing out the ways Pete Muscane would be doing Hank McCoy bodily harm. It'd come better as a surprise, anyway. Instead, she'd better play along with him. She spent all her time hanging out with a pair of grifters, after all. She should've picked up a thing or two. And if she'd convinced that slut Sydney that she was actually enjoying fucking her, then she could do anything.

"Raven—that sounds familiar," she said in a soft voice. "I'm sorry. I'm not really feeling myself. Everything's all wobbly and... blurry." She swooned. He caught her. This con stuff wasn't so hard. "Hank? Yeah, I... I think I remember. What happened to all your blue fur, Hank?"

"I started taking a serum, remember? To suppress my mutation? I take a shot every morning, and another if I get—worked up."

Oh. So that's what it was. A sex thing.

It was a guy, of course it was a sex thing.

Rosalyn used her most sultry voice. "Worked up?" she asked, innocently but with her eyes very un-innocent.

Hank swallowed hard. "Emotional. Or excited... any... natural... urges."

Rosalyn stroked his forearm. A big kid. Just like Irving. Wanted someone to take care of him, play with him, do all the hard work. How was she supposed to respect Sydney when her job was so easy?

Wait, was Hank's skin a little blue? "Usually I can fight it down," he said, pulling his hand away.