Sarah stood bouncing on the diving board, her toes curled over the edge. Boing, boing.
She knew Junior watched her from below and she wanted terribly to pull her wet bathing suit out from between her bum cheeks, but she didn’t dare do anything so unladylike with eyes on her. Especially not his eyes.
She pretended not to notice, but she felt him looking. Her nipples were still hard from the water and the dusk air as she practiced her dives repeatedly. This was the best time at the pool—no little ones crowding the board, shivering in line.
Sometimes when Junior waited for her in the water, the way he flapped and flailed, never staying still, made her wonder if he was hiding a hard on. Old enough to get them, too young to figure out when to let them show.
Little did he know, he could just follow her into the locker room shower. She’d run the hot water and stand away from the spray of it, waiting. If he met her there, she would let him.
She would let him roll the straps of her wet one-piece over her shoulders and down her goose-pimpled new breasts. She would stand still and let him, her arms relaxed at her sides as he kept rolling that clinging lycra down her ribs and past her belly button and hip bones, all the way down where it would catch at the meeting of her thighs. By then her private place would be naked to him and she would have to open her legs to get the damp suit to slide down even lower. What would he do?
Would he know cup her there? To press a finger in and in and in, knuckle by knuckle? Would he know to twist it—that finger inside her private place? Then pull it out, still cupping all the rest of her skin, and push it back in, and twist again, curving, massaging, fucking her tightness with that one finger? Would he dare try a second? When she whimpered would he know that’s what she wanted?
He’d press his hardness at her leg, and bite her ear and whisper humid compliments. So pretty. So pretty. He’d grab her breasts for sure. But he’d be too scared to put his lips on her red nipples. And he’d never think of asking for what he really wanted. He’d never beg for her to touch him—to rub it, to suck it. Let me put it in, please, just the tip. He’d never guess her answer would be yes, not Sarah, the Queen of the High Dive. He’d never imagine she’d happily wrap her hands—fresh from the morning’s piano lesson—around every aching inch of it.
He had no idea he need not flap and flail like a fish in the water. She was bouncing on the board, fully aware of and counting on gravity.
This post was written for Wicked Wednesday, a site where writers share erotic stories (fiction and non) every week. The fun is hosted by the brilliant and gorgeous Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes, whose endeavors you can support at Patreon.
Read more fab Wicked Wednesday “On the Edge” entries here!