Billie-Jean & Sammie-Rae VI
The Saturday sun takes on a pressing weight, slumping my shoulders as I stand on the blistering pool deck.
The smell of chlorine is a given; this morning, add to it the faint, sweet scent of ice cream flavours from the stall across the grass.
Peter Arnold puffs out his chest, his tight polo shirt looking ready to surrender. A small hole under his armpit.
"Alright, Bronze Cross candidates! Today we separate the lifesavers from the lap swimmers."
He gestures with a meaty hand.
"Laps first, then CPR drills, then timed swims. This is how you'll pair…."
My stomach sinks.
I know who's coming.
A tangle of unchecked energy in a red Speedo's bounces on the balls of his feet beside me.
"Partner?" Kyle grins, all teeth and no brain.
Across the deck, I see Sammie get paired with Kevin.
A slab of muscle whose swimsuit strains to contain his bulge, he shoots her his standard sleaze ball look.
I love the roll of her dark, almond-shaped eyes.
We start with laps. The water is a cool, blessed relief, slicing through the oppressive heat.
Kyle is fast, but all splash and no technique, churning the water into a froth. I focus on my own stroke, the clean rhythm, the way my body cuts through the blue.
After, we haul ourselves out for CPR. Arnold lays the Resusci Anne dummy on the deck.
"Okay, Kyle, you're up. Thirty compressions," Arnold instructs.
Kyle straddles the dummy's plastic torso, his hands laced together.
He pumps down, his face a mask of mock-seriousness.
"You know," he grunts between compressions, "I'm pretty good at pumping things."
He waggles his eyebrows at me.
The air around him becomes all aggro deodorant and perspiration.
"And hey, Billie-Jean," he says on the next push, "you look like you'd be a good kisser. You know, mouth-to-mouth and all."
I bite the inside of my cheek.
I don't answer.
Instead, I stare at the dummy's vacant, flesh-painted face and wish this to be over.
Finally, it's my turn.
As I kneel, my mind drifts. Friday night. The dark of Sammie's room, the low hum of the Magic Wand we shared. The way it felt against me, a deep, thrumming vibration that started in my clit and resonated through my entire frame.
Sammie's whisper in my ear, her breath hot against my neck. Then her words, cryptic and teasing, as she left me gasping.
"Saturday's girl gets her fingers working."
What did she mean?
Focus, girl, on your fingers and the compression.
A loud, metallic, clunky clank echoes across the pool complex, followed by a sickening crunch.
The water slide, the pride of Sunhaven, shudders to a halt. A spray of water jets from a broken pipe near the top.
"Sweet mother of—!" Arnold yelps, abandoning us completely.
He sprints towards the mechanism, a frantic man on a mission. He's soon surrounded by a mess of oily manuals, discarded spanners, and his own rising panic.
With Arnold occupied, Kevin and Kyle are left staring at the pool.
"Supervision, you two!" Arnold shouts over his shoulder. "Watch that big teenage group, no dive bombing or running."
Manual open, afterthought in our direction, "Girls, grab your lunch."
Sammie catches my eye from across the deck. A slow, sly smile spreads across her lips. She gives a tiny, almost imperceptible nod towards the small, windowless staff office.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
"Break," I say to her.
I start walking, and Sammie falls into step beside me.
As we near the office door, she leans in, her voice a low murmur against my ear.
"Uh, uh, girl, you're working."
The promise in her tone makes my pussy throb.
Inside, the door clicks shut. The room is dim, lit only by a single desk lamp. It smells of old gum and empty cola cans, the air close and heavy.
I don't have time to process it before Sammie is on me. Her hands are in my wet hair, tugging my ponytail loose as her mouth crashes against mine.
This isn't a gentle kiss; it's a hungry, desperate thing, a Friday night leftover.
Her tongue pushes past my lips, and I taste her—the part that is uniquely Sammie.
A girl pashing a girl. A girl is pashing me. Snogging my face off, and I'm enveloped in my own slice of heaven.
She backs me up until my legs hit the desk. Her hands move from my hair, down my neck, over the damp fabric of my red one-piece. Her thumbs brush against my hardened nipples, and I gasp into her mouth.
"You are so fierce, ah! Ahh!" I breathe.
Her fingers find the strap of my swimsuit, pulling it down over my shoulder. Her mouth follows, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down my neck to my collarbone. Her other hand slides down my stomach, over the slick Lycra, and presses firmly between my legs.
The pressure is exquisite.
"Your fingers are so good," I moan, my head falling back.
With practised ease, she tugs the crotch of my swimsuit aside.
Her fingers slide through my folds, finding me already soaked.
"Wow, your fingers are so perfect," I whimper as she circles my clit.
She pushes one finger inside, then another, curling them just right.
The rhythm is immediate, relentless.
I embrace my flesh expanding. I seek her inward pressure. I crave each twist and curl. My folds spread. My juices drizzle in seeping drips.
"Get your Saturday fingers working, pet," Sammie invites.
I fumble with the straps of her own suit, my hands shaking with need. I get it down, my hands finding the generous weight of her breasts, her nipples taut against my palms.
I mimic her, sliding my hand down her soft stomach, under the fabric of her suit. She's so slick, so inviting. I find her clit, swollen and ready, and I rub her in time with the thrust of her fingers inside me.
Her fingers slide through my folds. I join her action.
Slick to slick. Like satin to velvet. A charmeuse, a sateen sheen. Plush like saturated velour. A souse of slush skin, fingers, up and down, gossamer light, lubricated by nature's juices.
Then fingers soaked in the glorious finger-frigging plunge. Digits impregnating sharing intent. The rush, the frigging finger rush for orgasmic release.
A filmy smear of gossamer slosh, the fucky-pucky squelch of rapid, rapid finger pummelling inside another girl's puffy womanly folds.
Her oohh's mixed with my aahh's!
Till all that exists is ungainly, tangled limbs and tatty breaths, and the hum of that overworked refrigerator, that won't be denied its place in summer heat.
The desk lamp casts long, dancing shadows on the wall.
Her thumb presses hard against my clit, and the pleasure builds, a tight coil in my belly.
"Ah! So good! Beyond Good. Oohh! Aahh!"
Just words and sounds torn from my throat as my orgasm crashes over me.
Indescribable, personal, defining.
I feel Sammie's pussy spasm around my fingers as she comes too, a low, guttural moan escaping her lips.
"Aahhh!"
We lean against each other, slick with sweat and drips of pool water, our breathing slowly returning to normal.
A sharp push on the door makes us both jump. We scramble to put right our swimsuits.
"Billie, Sammie! Excellent work on the rescue drills this afternoon."
Arnold's voice, muffled by the door, is full of genuine surprise.
"Christ, the door seems jammed, something else to bloody fix."
Sammie opens the door, holding a crushed Cola can.
"Those boys missed the bin, jammed the door."
"Yeah, messy sods. Still, you outworked them in the pool. You two can head out. Kevin, Kyle! Another hour with the textbook!"
We leave the jocks to their fate, walking into the sea breeze of the afternoon.
In the carpark, Sammie grabs my wrist.
Her grip is firm, her expression intense.
"Sunday's girl," she says, her voice low and clear, "is bonny, carefree, openly gay."
A backhand wave, and her red two-door is out of the carpark.
A tremor runs through my entire body, a seismic shock of fear and what I don't want to name.
Never have I wanted to confront.
I shake my head, my blonde hair whipping against my cheeks.
My voice is a choked, panicked whisper.
"I could never come out!"