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I had joined the community center by my new apartment, supposedly, to “socialize” myself with my new neighbors and make friends—this was what I told my mother on the phone last night, and I thought it sounded convincing enough. I had just moved to this town the previous month to start a new job, one I was very excited about. However, my mother worried constantly about me, as I was one of those people who always received “needs improvement” checkmarks in the “socializing with others” box on my elementary school report cards. Never mind that I socialized just fine once I got to know people—I was just one of those people who had always been slow to warm up to others. However, this, to my mother, translated into being antisocial. So, I was joining the community center to make friends.
In reality, I was joining it because it had a pool.
I haven’t always loved to swim. In fact, I was terrified of drowning in water over my head until I was about eleven. That year, however, I decided to try swim lessons again, and once I got over the embarrassment of being the oldest kid in a class full of six-year-olds, I discovered I loved the water. I joined swim team the following year, and continued swimming throughout high school. I was never very competitive, was never one of the kids cheered on dramatically at meets because I was in a dead heat for first place, or even second—but I loved it. The way my body would glide weightlessly through the water when I pushed off from the wall, my powerful frog-kick that never went lopsided or broke the surface during a breast stroke race, my best event. I wasn’t very fast, but I had good form.
I pulled into the parking lot of the center after work one Tuesday evening, navigating through a light early fall drizzle as I maneuvered into a space. The pool was open late on Tuesdays for free swim, and there was no need to compete with the swim lessons, water aerobics, and “Get Baby Acquainted with the Water” classes that often took place in the other lanes. Plus, it was a rainy weeknight, which might not have meant much at a larger place, like the Y, but here, it meant that the pool was probably going to be dead.
I changed into my bathing suit in the (as predicted) mostly empty locker room, actually feeling brave enough to strip out of my street clothes by the lockers, instead of in a changing stall like I usually did. My suit was a blue one-piece that I’d had for several years—broken in, but not terribly worn-looking. I noticed as I pulled it over my hips that it was a little tighter than I remembered, probably because I hadn’t worn it for several months.
I pulled the suit carefully the rest of the way up, slowly easing it over my breasts, and tugging the shoulder straps into place. The suit did indeed fit rather tightly, and I could see in the half-mirror over the sink that my nipples were quite visible through the stretchy blue fabric. I reached down between my legs, almost absent-mindedly, to adjust the crotch of the suit, in order to avoid a potential wedgie, and felt a sudden rush of blood fill me with heat. Just how long has it been since I’ve gotten laid? I thought. If I was getting horny from the mere act of putting on a slightly ill-fitting swimsuit, I was in trouble. I checked the mirror once more before I left the locker room, noting that my cheeks were slightly flushed (the humidity in here, I told myself). My nipples still strained against my suit, so I decided to wrap my beach towel under my armpits. There. Much better. It wasn’t like there was going to be anybody out there anyway. I didn’t know what I was worried about.
I pushed through the heavy swinging door, and the sharp, clean smell of chlorine stung my nose. The air was even thicker and more humid than it had been in the locker room, and a slight haze hung over the water. I surveyed the pool briefly, noting an elderly woman wearing a swim cap doing a lazy side stroke in the far lane, and a young man in the middle lane teaching a little boy how to hold onto the wall and practice flutter-kicking. Save for them and you, the room was empty. I slipped off my flip-flops, depositing them underneath the first chair I encountered. Then I quickly unwrapped my towel and hung it over its plastic back. Your lifeguard chair was situated right next to me, and I briefly debated walking behind it so you would take less notice of me. Shaking my head in disgust, I pushed the thought out of my head and squared my shoulders. I couldn’t believe how self-conscious I was all of the sudden. As I walked in front of the chair, something inside me warmed ever so slightly, and I turned my head and craned my neck to look up and at least acknowledge you. I didn’t want to seem rude, after all.
The first thing I registered about you was that you were wearing a shirt with your community center-regulation swim trunks—a detail I found a tad odd for a lifeguard. Every other male lifeguard I’d ever seen had seemed painfully eager to show off their abs, their muscled chests, and firm istanbul escort biceps. Also, from a more practical standpoint, it was probably easier to save a drowning person’s life when you weren’t weighed down by a waterlogged T-shirt.
The second thing I noticed was your very dark hair and pale skin, another striking contrast to the other lifeguards I’d seen here—even though this was an indoor pool, the other lifeguards appeared perpetually blond and tan, to the extent that I had wondered my first few times here whether this was a job requirement.
I looked up and met your eyes the best I could, given the odd angle of my neck. “Hi.” My voice came out way too loudly, echoing off the green and gray tiles. “Kinda dead here tonight, huh?”
You looked down at me and grinned. “Yeah. That’s why I brought a book. Don’t tell my boss, she kind of frowns on it if we’re not watching the pool all the time.”
I smiled back. Your voice was intriguing, silky and playful. “I won’t tell, don’t worry.” Your eyes had done something interesting when you grinned, crinkling in the corners and dancing mischievously. I wasn’t close enough to make out the title of the book you were reading, but when you shifted in your seat, it brought the lettering on your T-shirt into focus: “Always a Browncoat.” I smiled slightly.
“I’m just going to swim a few laps. I promise not to make you dive in after me. Enjoy your book.” I started padding away from the lifeguard chair, but couldn’t resist: I turned to look back at you, wanting to see what you looked like in profile. My heart lurched and began racing when I realized that your eyes had been following me as I walked away. Quickly, you diverted your gaze back to the paperback in your hands. I turned back around, feeling the flush in my cheeks and neck. Fuck, you were cute. I felt my crotch swell slightly again, and looked down to find that once again, my nipples were at full attention. Dammit. I needed to get in the water immediately, if for no other reason than to hide my sudden, confusing arousal under its camouflaging ripples.
I sat down at the edge of the pool and dipped my hands in to check the temperature. Cold around the edges, but I knew my body would get used to it quickly. I checked to make sure my hair was firmly in its knot on the back of my head, and carefully pulled my goggles down over my eyes, applying pressure with the heels of my hands to seal them. I’d had many a nightmare race where my goggles hadn’t been tight enough, and they had filled with water immediately upon entering the pool from the diving block. I leaned forward and put my hands one over the other, keeping my fingers straight and cupping my palms. Then I slid forward into the water, using my feet to push off the wall. The seal on my goggles held, and I was in business.
I began breast stroking my way down to the other side of the pool, keeping my palms cupped, bringing my arms down and around, and back up to my mouth. Like you’re scraping down the sides of a bowl of cookie dough, then bringing them up to your mouth to eat it, my old swim coach used to say. My legs frog-kicked, my head went under the water smoothly at the top of each stroke, and soon, I was lost in the soothing rhythm of swimming. I had missed this. I almost forgot about the lifeguard and how horny I was. Almost.
It was when I was taking a rest on the wall nearest the lifeguard chair that I noticed you looking at me. Not obviously, but unmistakably. You used the book as a prop, I noticed, glancing down at it occasionally, but mostly just tilting your head down and keeping your eyes on me from under those dark brows. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, it excited me. I looked around, noticing that both the older woman and the father-son duo had left the pool. I was feeling reckless and horny, a combination that could only lead to trouble.
Pushing back off the wall, I treaded water and looked up at the lifeguard chair, waiting for you to notice me. Finally, you did, putting your book in your lap (I noticed you didn’t bother keeping your place), and looking down at me, amused. “You drove everyone else away, eh?” Damn, your voice was sexy.
I made a show of looking around me, feigning surprise. “I guess I did. What a shame, huh?” I put my feet on the floor of the pool and stood up. The water covered me only to the middle of my stomach, and I knew you could see my nipples.
“You looked like you were having fun down there,” you said.
Boldly, I called back, “You looked like you were having fun up there. How’s the book?” Your face reddened, and I knew I had you. I checked the clock. It was almost nine. “Hey, what time does the pool close?” I asked.
“Technically, ten,” you replied. “But it’s usually empty by nine, and I’ll sometimes close up around nine-thirty.”
I paddled over to the edge of the pool directly under the lifeguard chair. “Well, it’s just about nine now…and it looks pretty empty to me…I think escort bayan you should close up now and come down here so I can talk to you without getting a cramp in my neck. What do you say?”
You grinned again, and placed the book on your seat, turning around and making your way down the chair’s ladder (obviously, I couldn’t help noticing your cute ass as you did so). You pulled the Browncoats shirt over your head and tossed it on the chair with my towel. Then, you stepped over to the edge of the pool, sat down, then slipped delicately into the water, splashing me playfully as you did so. Standing next to you, I realized how very short you were—you couldn’t have been more than an inch taller than my 5’4 height. You had a slight build, and looked like you didn’t spend your days lifting weights.
I swam closer and treaded water directly in front of you. Our faces were on the same level, and I was finally able to get a better look at your eyes. Brown, as I’d suspected—but lighter than most people’s brown eyes, with flecks of gold. They were deeply set in your pale face, two round toffee candies framed by dark lashes.
You moved back ever so slightly, and I sensed your discomfort. “I’ve never done anything like this before,” you murmured.
“Like what?” I responded. “Fool around with a random pool patron at work?” I reached out and touched your shoulder. “It doesn’t have to lead anywhere,” I told you. “It can just be fun.”
I placed my mouth over yours slowly, and you gave a soft noise of shock. For a moment, I thought you would pull away, but instead, your lips softened under mine and your mouth opened in response. We kissed like that for nearly a minute, not touching each other anywhere else. Soon, however, the temptation became too great for you, and your hand wandered deliberately down to my breast. Gently, you pinched my highly visible nipple through the wet fabric, and I made a noise somewhere between a yelp and a moan. You grinned through the kiss and pulled away.
“Too hard?” you asked innocently. Without waiting for my answer, you pinched the other nipple, a little harder. This time, I all but screamed with pleasure—nipple stimulation is one of my favorite things. Sensing this, you gently pulled both straps of my suit off of my shoulders, and eased the fabric down so both of my breasts were exposed to the warm, chlorinated air. Then, you bent forward and trapped my left nipple between your lips. I gasped and dug my fingernails into your shoulder. I could feel your tongue swirling over the sensitive nub in lazy rotations, while the suction from your lips drove me mad. I’ve heard of women who can orgasm from nipple stimulation alone, and I wasn’t going to deny that I was definitely close. But I needed more.
I arched my hips forward gently, closing the mere inch or two gap between your body and mine, until I was just barely touching the slight bulge in your swim trunks. Your mouth was still around my nipple, and if you had noticed the sudden sensation, you didn’t let on. I rocked myself forward a little more, the water resistance making this mission even hotter, and our bodies collided again, in slow-motion. This time, you made a soft, pleased sound deep in your throat, and your hand went down between my thighs. Deftly, your thumb probed the taut, slick fabric at the crotch of my suit, finding the place where my ultra-sensitive clit begged to be touched. I didn’t want to give myself away, but when I squirmed slightly under your hand and moaned, I could tell you knew you had me. Your eyes gleamed like twin caramels, slightly damp after being sucked on. You smiled mischievously and said “I think we should get out for a bit—there are things I want to do to you that the water might make slightly awkward.”
You helped me over the edge of the pool, and climbed out after me, hoisting yourself gracefully onto the concrete floor. “Where’s your towel?” you asked. I pointed in the general direction of the chair I had draped my towel over when I had entered the pool. It seemed so long ago now. You returned, knelt down in front of where I was huddled on the floor, dripping wet (in more ways than one), and gently spread my towel on the ground.
I obliged your request (or was it a command?), not entirely sure what to expect, and felt your hands exploring my body, over my suit, which somehow turned me on even more than I think it would have if I had been naked. The fabric stretched tightly (the suit really was too small) over my breasts and stomach, seeming to magnify my nerve endings, making them even more sensitive. You traced your fingers down my sides, then ran them lightly just under the edge of my suit, where my thighs met my body.
“Please touch me,” I whispered. Grinning, you tapped my clit lightly, over the fabric, which I could tell was erect and straining against my suit. I all but screamed at the sensation, and you smiled even wider and did it again. Lighter. And escort istanbul again. Harder. Finally, when you could see I could take no more of your teasing, you slipped your fingers under the fabric again, only this time, you gently pulled the fabric to the side, so I was completely exposed to you. Thank God I’d gotten a bikini wax last week. I had yet to find a doctor or a dentist since moving here, but I had found a waxer. I obviously had my priorities in order. It was slightly uncomfortable, but what you did next made me forget all about it.
Gently, you parted my legs, and began exploring the folds and creases I hadn’t seen myself with a hand mirror for a very long time. You tugged lightly on my labia, dipped a finger into the wetness that was quite evident at this point, and brought it up to your face, inhaling deeply. No guy I had been with had ever done this before, and it fascinated me. You placed the finger, slippery with my own lubrication, on top of my clitoral hood, and rubbed it very slowly, increasing the pressure gradually until I gasped.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” I accused playfully. You only smiled. I was almost unbearably turned on by now, and I had to admit, it was only partially from you touching me; much of my arousal stemmed from watching your caramel-colored eyes dance as you explored me, watching your dark brows knit in concentration as you acquainted yourself with my body. Finally, you tilted your head even further forward, and I felt the barest flicker of electricity as your tongue touched my clit.
“Ooooh,” I moaned softly, arching my back. You ran your tongue down from my clit through the syrupy wetness in my slit, and back up, stopping on that hot button to do exactly what you had been doing with your finger just moments before: you kept your tongue stationary, positioned on top of my clitoral hood, and pressed down, lightly at first, then harder, until the intensity of the sensation made me cry out. My voice echoed off the tile walls, and I barely recognized it as coming from my own throat; it seemed more like I was listening to the disembodied soundtrack of a porn film. Was that really me? I was so close to coming, but my vagina needed attention as well; it needed something inside of it. You seemed to sense this, and instead teased me, by placing your mouth over my clit, so your lips formed a light suction around it.
“Put your fingers inside me,” I begged. Instead, you merely increased the pressure of your lips ever so slightly. Stars exploded in my vision, and I clawed frantically at the towel underneath me. “Fuck,” I moaned. My entire body was throbbing, it seemed, begging for release. Without warning, your lips were replaced by your tongue once again—only this time, you began swirling it quickly over my clit in a frenetic circular motion. I wasn’t sure whether this was more or less torturous than the slow pressure of your lips; I only knew that if I didn’t come soon, I might actually lose my mind.
Finally, you gave me what my body had been begging for. You took one finger and placed it just at the opening of my vagina, circling it lightly. Then, you pushed it in just to the first knuckle, fingertip-deep. Your mouth went back to my clit, suctioning lightly and swirling your tongue over it as you worked your fingertip, first quickly in and out, then slowly, leaving it inside me and twisting it from side to side. Slowly, you pushed your finger in further, until it was halfway inside me. Your fingers, and hands for that matter, were surprisingly large, considering your slight frame. Usually, my body demanded two, even three fingers, in order to properly get me off. But I felt stretched and full with just your index finger inside of me. And then you turned your hand, palm-up, and pushed your finger all the way in. I could feel the delicious sensation of having my G-spot stimulated as you cocked your finger against the ridged, spongy tissue, applying firm pressure, knowing exactly what I needed.
I moaned. “Fuck, that feels so good. Don’t stop.” It was the last coherent thing I remember saying before your hand and mouth took me away, tongue suddenly beating out a rapid pattern on my clit, finger working that magical spot deep inside, until I came with an intensity that surely rivaled the Hindenburg explosion. Once again, my voice echoed off the tiles, only this time, it was a high, breathless scream that found its way back to my ears. My vaginal walls clamped down around your finger, pulsing rhythmically, coating you with even more wetness as my orgasmic fluids seeped out of me, soaking into the towel. Slowly, even more slowly than you had entered me, you drew your finger out, and my body instantly felt the void where it had been. I trembled.
“You got me all wet,” you scolded playfully. I sat up then, tugging my suit back over my crotch only because the sudden change in position was causing it to strangle my leg. I took your finger in my hand, and pulled it into my mouth, sucking my juices off you. They tasted sweet and salty at the same time, and I held them on my tongue for a minute, breathing slowly through my nose to experience the full effects of their taste and scent. Then, I grinned wickedly at you, and said “Your turn.”
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