Billie-Jean & Sammie-Rae V
The sun beats down on the Sunhaven Pool complex, turning the air into an unpleasant, humid soup of rising chlorine and cheap banana and mango sunscreen applied to kids.
Arnold stands by the equipment shed, his tight polo shirt straining against his stomach, sweat beading at his hairline like he's already run a marathon.
He's barking orders, his clipboard a weapon of deliberate separation or merciless awful pairing.
"Sammie, you're with Kyle on the deep-end filters. Check the pH levels every hour," Arnold, pen tapping, his voice grating.
"Billie, take Kevin. You two are on toddler pool skimming duty and the lost property sort-out."
I glance at Sammie. Her dark eyes meet mine, a flicker of shared frustration passing between us before she turns away, grabbing a testing kit.
Kyle is already bouncing on the balls of his feet, a ball of unchecked energy in a red Speedo that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Kevin, my assigned partner for the session, is worse. He's a slab of muscle and ego, the fabric of his swimsuit straining to contain a bulge he clearly thinks is a gift to womankind.
We head to the lost property bin behind the main office.
It's a plastic crate overflowing with damp towels, forgotten goggles, and sand-covered toys. The air here is stagnant, heavy with the scent of developing mildew.
I'm mechanically sorting through a tangle of neon armbands when Kevin holds up a scrap of fabric, a triumphant grin on his face.
"Check this out, BJ," he leers, stretching a pink G-string between his fingers.
The lace is frayed, but that doesn't stop him.
"Some girl lost her knickers. Maybe she's still here looking for them? Or maybe she's not wearing any now."
He winks, a sweaty, unappealing gesture that makes my stomach turn.
He tosses a lacy bra onto my pile, the underwire poking out like a bent finger.
"Imagine the owner. You think she's hot? Bet she has a rack to match this."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes, keeping my voice flat.
"Just bag it, Kevin. Let's skip the fashion critique."
"Come on, live a little," he scoffs, grabbing a mesh bag and shoving the underwear inside.
"It's just a bit of fun. You're always so serious. Never see you clubbing."
I want to find my Friday girl.
I want to be anywhere but here, breathing in Kevin's aggressive deodorant while he objectifies lost laundry.
I look past him, toward the deep end where Sammie is laughing at something Kyle said. Her head is thrown back, her ponytail swaying, her olive skin glowing under the midday sun. She looks radiant, even from here, a vision of everything I actually want.
After I scrape leaves from the toddler pool edge, I take a drink break.
My phone buzzes in my pack.
I steal a glance under the pretence of checking the time.
It's a notification from Sammie's mum's Facebook.
"Girls' night out! Xclusive DreamBoyz tonight! 💃🕺"
I snigger, the sound lost in the splash of nearby swimmers.
The DreamBoyz—the local male revue group that's mostly abs, hair gel, and thrusting hips.
Sammie's mum is "talking her out" to see them.
I imagine the evening: loud music, oily men gyrating on stage, and Sammie's mum trying to look twenty years younger while tossing dollar bills. I imagine Sammie, stuck there, bored out of her mind, her knickers staying decidedly dry while her mum tries to catch a dancer's eye.
It's a tragic, hilarious image that makes going back to the leaf scraping almost bearable.
When the shift finally ends, Sammie has already gone.
So, I'm Friday night, home alone. The sun has dipped below the horizon, leaving a streaked orange sky.
I curl up on my bed, shoving my banana cream bolster between my thighs, squeezing tight to relieve the dull ache that's been building all day.
On my laptop, a Rom-com—something with a grand misunderstanding and a rain-soaked kiss.
I spoon half-melted cookie dough into my mouth, the sugar rush doing little to dampen the restlessness as my thighs circle my bolster.
Then, the screen lights up, cutting through the dim room.
Sammie: "My place, now."
Followed by an address.
The spoon clatters into the tub. I'm up, grabbing my keys, the ice cream can melt.
Sammie's room is dim, lit only by a string of fairy lights draped over her headboard, casting a warm, amber glow over the messy bed.
She's on the mattress, wearing nothing but a mischievous grin and a sheer, loose robe that falls open as she sits up, revealing the curve of her hips.
"I'm giving," she says, her voice low and husky, "and loving."
She reaches into her nightstand drawer and pulls out the Magic Wand.
The heavy, white head of the vibrator looks imposing in the soft light.
She flicks the switch, and a low, steady hum fills the room, a sound that vibrates in my chest.
I strip off my clothes, the fabric hitting the floor before I even reach the mattress.
I climb in, and she guides me, positioning us so our legs scissor together.
The heat of her is immediate, intoxicating. She presses the vibrating head between us, nestling it against both our folds at once.
It finds the sensitive groves and grooves.
A deep, resonating buzz that travels straight from my clit, in an inverted wishbone of sensation, both sides of my girly canal.
"Oohh! Mmm, mmm!"
"Look at me," Sammie whispers.
My crinkled flaps and my cute pink nub deliver rapid, fast, intoxicating sparkles of bliss.
Yet mine and her orgasms develop inside locked eyes.
Her brown eyes are wide, pupils blown dark with arousal.
Her mouth the perfect O. Then teeth over her bottom lip.
I know my tongue flicks in and out. Sammie's does too.
Her face becomes one extended smile.
She rolls her eyes, her eyes close, then open.
Thumbs shared in each other's mouths.
We rock together, a slow, grinding rhythm. The toy is trapped between our clits, a bridge of pleasure that connects us.
Two sets of wetness mixing, the slick friction making the pressure intense, almost unbearable in the best possible way.
"Oohh, Sammie," I breathe, unable to look away.
She leans forward, capturing my lips in a kiss that tastes of mint and life.
Her tongue sweeps into my mouth, mimicking the rhythm of our hips.
The vibration builds, a relentless wave that pulls us higher. I grip her thighs, my fingers digging into her soft skin, anchoring myself as the pleasure crests. Arms enfold bodies in the impact of release.
Her moans vibrate against my mouth, and I feel her pussy spasm against the toy, triggering my own release.
We shatter together, our bodies locking up, cries swallowed by the kiss, the toy humming relentlessly beyond what we both detonate.
Chest's heaving, the toy still buzzing between us until Sammie reaches down to turn it off.
I nuzzle into her neck, smelling coconut sunscreen and sex, the world narrowed down to her bed.
"Holy crap," Sammie whispers, her body going rigid beneath me.
"That's my mum downstairs."
Footsteps. Heavy, rhythmic thuds on the porch. The front door opens and closes with a slam that vibrates through the floorboards.
Her mum's voice and a man's.
"She's a MILF," Sammie says, "But she's still my mum. She'll check on me!"
I scramble off the bed, grabbing my clothes in a tangled bundle.
Sammie is already up, shoving the Wand under her bed and throwing on a t-shirt.
"Go, sweetie," pointing to the window.
I climb onto the sill, the cool night air hitting my flushed skin.
"The vine trellis will hold your petite weight," she adds.
I look back at her.
She's standing by her bed, looking wild and gorgeous.
I blow her a kiss.
"Saturday's girl gets her fingers working," she whispers, returning the air kiss.
I drop into the bushes below, landing with a soft thud.
I don't look back, just race toward my car across the street, my heart pounding, a rhythm that has nothing to do with the run.