Indoor Pool
T.H.Sandal
Published by T.H. Sandal at Smashwords
Cover Photo: Crystal Float (detail) by Matthew Bowden
Copyright 2012 T.H. Sandal
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Indoor Pool
You might remember that I used to work as a ticket collector at Waterloo. No? Then you'll have to take it as read. That was the case. I was a ticket collector. A fact that has little bearing on this story except to say that the job came with certain perks – very few actually – of which the best was the entitlement to cheap travel on the railway.
You could use this to commute if you had a need, or you could save it up and be a little more adventurous. You'll be pleased to know that I took the latter option – otherwise there'd be not much of a story to tell.
In each of the four years I worked on the barrier I would use up my entitlement on a cheap journey to places far away from London. Ideally, far from anywhere, to somewhere that did self-catering but which also had a modicum of facilities to ease the boredom when I couldn't get pen to paper.
These were – to employ the more fashionable nomenclature – writing retreats for myself; at least non-organised ones, because otherwise you'd end up paying some arty type with a good head for business.
And you need to be careful of that sort. Writers who also organise workshops and such like. It doesn't take a business brain to work out that if these people were any good at writing they wouldn't have to organise these money-making ventures. Me, I collected train tickets for a living.
At least I was honest enough to recognise that in the general scheme of arty type stuff, I was pretty crap. But I did enjoy it and so to spend a week out in the wilds on what are usually reconstructed farms with plenty of uninterrupted time to put pen to paper – or fingers to a keyboard – well it was worth it.
On this particular occasion, I found a place in the heart of Exmoor. If you don't know, suffice to say that it's situated on the border of Devon and Somerset, and includes a good portion of coastline. Although the purpose was to stay in and use the facilities, it was well-placed to get out if the need, or the boredom, arose. As it happened, I didn't venture out at all, but then neither did I write much. Sometimes life's like that I find.
It was, as I intimated, a reconstructed farmstead with various barns and outbuildings re-developed to create a series of self-catering units in which could sleep any number from two to six. Being as there was only one of me – that was the intention, honest – I booked the smallest nest, with an open plan kitchen/lounge, a bathroom and a bedroom with a double bed. The facilities included a game's room and, more important for my daily plans, an indoor heated swimming pool.
The intention, for those interested enough, was to get up at a sensible time – but not too early – get in the pool and swim for half an hour or so, have a good breakfast, then work through the day until it was time to cook an evening meal. I'd worked out that apart from the dried staples I would bring with me, I could get enough fresh food from a nearby farm shop and wouldn't need to get out at all. Given that the nearest village was a good five miles away and I didn't have a car, being able to get the food easily was pretty essential.
And that was it basically. I arrived on a Saturday afternoon and was shown to my little barn by what might previously have been the farmer's wife – but was now an ex-accounts executive in her mid-forties, originally from Lambeth, who'd fled the city and used her huge collection of yearly bonuses to set up a different kind of life.
The husband, so she told me – she was a very talkative woman – her husband was away looking at an investment opportunity in the Lake District. She then informed me, as she was showing me around my barn, that she'd be joining him there the following day and that they'd asked a relative to look after the place for the week ahead.
I hardly took this in at all, but was glad at least that this woman, who was likely to talk to you for half a day given the opportunity, wasn't going to be there to spoil my week. The next day I was up in time to see her drive off in a low slung black BMW, no doubt an essential aspect of living the life, and couldn't help but breath a huge sigh of relief.
I gave her five minutes to race back for her forgotten suitcase before changing into my swimming trunks, donning a pair of jogging bottoms, a t-shirt and a pair of espadrilles, picked up my towel and my goggles and headed straight for the swimming pool. The previous day I'd seen no sign of any other guests and had every hope that I'd have the pool to myself and beyond that, an extremely productive week.
****
Have you seen the film Stealing Beauty? It's not bad if a little cliched. Liv Tyler, the fabulous Liv Tyler, visits an artist community ostensibly to re-visit a childhood sweetheart and also find her father. Jeremy Irons is there, a real artist and the one you just know she'd like to have as a Dad. Trouble is, he's dying of cancer and though he'd make a great Dad, you don't want Liv ending the film in tears because he's dead. She doesn't need a dead Dad when her Mum's just killed herself.
Incidentally, the casting of Liv as a character looking for her real father is so appropriate given that she had much the same problem in real life that it makes you wonder. Not wonder much, I'll grant you, but it's there.
And on that note, I'd like to suggest also that having Tod Rundgren for a Dad would have been much better than Steven Tyler. If you don't know why then you need to do a bit of research on rock history but I'll give you a clue – one was a genius and the other was a loud singer with a large mouth.
Anyway, the plot essentials have little to do with my visit to Exmoor. Of more relevance is that the opening scene involves a bit of nakedness near a swimming pool – not from Liv, I should add, though she later bares a breast – no, the nakedness actually comes in the form of Rachel Weisz, playing a character called Miranda, who is very much the aloof artist.
You've probably got a good idea that we'll get around to the concept of nakedness at some point, so the word I'd like you to keep at the forefront is aloof.
Now, the more discerning reader will have worked out that I didn't find the pool empty and the really clever ones will already have known that the person using it was the 'relative' who was looking after the establishment for the week. Both are, of course, true. And it wouldn't be much of a story if this relative wasn't young, female and achingly attractive. Well of course she was all of those.
I'll get round to a description in a minute but it'll have to wait because when I walked into the pool room she was doing lengths of front crawl and there's not to much to see when you're watching this from the poolside. Except, that is, when she performed a tumble turn just below where I was standing – a very nice but fleeting view of her lycra clad buttocks and a tantalising impression of her pussy beneath – but that was the limit.
Not wanting to frighten her, I walked purposefully along one the side of the pool to the other end, making sure it was the side she was breathing towards so she could see me. I didn't discern any reaction, but she was wearing goggles and though they were tinted, nobody with goggles swims with their eyes closed, so she must have seen me.
At the other end I stripped off my t-shirt and jogging bottoms, placed them with my towel in one corner where it was dry, kicked off my espadrilles, donned my goggles and launched myself into the pool with something approaching a racing dive. I swam one length underwater, just to acclimatise, another three lengths of passable front crawl then settled into a powerful but restrained breast-stroke.
Knowing that there was somebody else in the pool, I expected her to stop at the end of a length inviting a polite introduction, but she didn't, she just ploughed on, maintaining quite an impressive pace and a consistency of stroke. I decided she wasn't a top notch swimmer, not international class certainly, there wasn't that sense of ease and power or the length of stroke you expect.
My guess was a good club swimmer, used to putting the lengths in. A couple of times, when our turns coincided, I made the effort to keep pace, still using breast-stroke. It was manageable but not comfortable so I eased back again.
In a pool with sparkling water, it would have been easy enough, especially swimming breast-stroke, to get an impression of what this woman looked like, but circumstances didn't allow for that. For a start the water was quite murky – not dirty, just badly maintained – and secondly, I was swimming well to one side, not wanting to make her uncomfortable by getting too close. However, what I could see, when our relative progress allowed it, suggested an extremely trim body, not built like those international swimmers might be, but certainly fit from exercise.
After about fifteen minutes, I made a turn and saw that she had stopped at the far end. I decided to play it cool and maintain my pace, but it seemed it wasn't her purpose to wait and introduce herself. Instead, in an intermittent viewed scene by virtue of my breathing above water and stroking below, I saw her strip off her swimming cap, shake out long golden hair, haul herself out of the pool, wrap a towel around her and walk out the pool room.
I might have groaned but stuck to breathing out. However, what I had seen was enough to stir my prick. She had the most delectable arse you could hope for, made more tantalising given that her costume had crept between her buttocks. Long legs to go with it, a suggestion of nice breasts – lycra doesn't care much for revealing too much shape – and, so far as I could tell, a very attractive face. She seemed fairly tall, but it was difficult to tell for certain without standing next to her, certainly her figure suggested it.
Just as she was walking through the door, and just as I was descending back underwater, I saw her turn and look in my direction. It was enough to see some classical lines, bright eyes and little else.
Determined at least to keep to my routine, I finished my swim, towelled myself, stepped out of my trunks and got dressed again. Back in my little barn I cooked myself a good breakfast – sausages, bacon, eggs, beans, fried bread – ate it and settled myself in a straight backed chair at the table I'd set up in front of the window. I had paper, a pen, the lap top on and open, but had absolutely no idea what to write.
Where I'd wanted to listen to well-constructed sentences in my head, all that was present was the remembered image of the golden-haired woman's buttocks rolling over into a tumble turn, or being hoisted from the pool. I could see her long legs, the impression of her breasts, the sharp lines of her face. After half an hour of that, I moved over to the sofa and tried to read, but without success. So I moped. There was little else to do.
Later that afternoon I happened to look out of the window and saw the woman atop a horse cantering around a paddock. Whether she could see me I couldn't say but she was close enough for me to get a good view of that arse wrapped up nice and tight in a pair of crisp, creamy jodhpurs.
She knew what she was doing certainly, which meant that she was sitting upright with a wonderfully arched back and her arse sticking out. I noticed she wasn't wearing any type of riding jacket, making do with a sweat shirt, and whatever support she was wearing underneath, if indeed she was wearing a bra at all, wasn't doing much to prevent her breasts from moving in sympathy with the horse.
Then she moved up to a canter and my mouth began to water.
****
The next morning's swimming session brought no progress at all. She was there when I got in, performing her lengths with an equal amount of gusto and without stopping for a moment. I thought of making ridiculous waves in the hope of choking her with water but decided that such a move would be slightly immature in the circumstances. The only discernible change was a different costume that had somehow worked itself further between her buttocks and as a result revealed more flesh when it was time for her to get out.
As fortune or perhaps fate would have it, I was further down the length when this happened and got a slightly better view than the day before. Nearer or not, she wasted little time grabbing her towel, wrapping it around her body and departing the pool room. But she also gave me another flashed glance and I thought I detected a subtle smirk as well but decided quickly enough that I was deceiving myself.
After another large breakfast and a total lack of inspiration, I settled myself in for an afternoon's reading with the only viable improvement being a the possibility of another horse ride. Indeed, it was nearly time as I imagined it, and I'd found myself loitering near the window, when my fevered wait was interrupted by a knock at the door. Convinced that even one simple pleasure would be denied, I marched across my little barn ready to have sharp words with whoever had disturbed my misery.
But when I opened the door, there she was.
Please note that the following dialogue comes with a degree of applied fiction – I can’t remember exactly what she said.
“I'm so sorry to disturb you,” she announced in a distinctly posh accent.
Close up she was stunning, with smooth, full lips, strikingly blue eyes and carefully plucked eyebrows to show them off. Taken as a whole, she had an innocent face, hot yes, but not the type of face you might expect to find in your bed the morning after a noisy club. And not a match for what I could see in my peripheral vision , the very distinct shape of two glorious breasts beneath her top and, seemingly pointing up at me, two proud nipples poking through.
“Auntie Marnie said you were a writer and under no circumstance should I interrupt you, but … well I'm ...”
“Really, there's no reason to worry.” I said it with as much sincerity as I could muster while inwardly cursing Auntie Marnie, consigning her to a poverty-stricken hell. Driving a Morris Minor. “No reason at all. Would you like to come in.”
“Oh no! I'm afraid I need some assistance and you're the only one around. It's Yorkie.”
She said the last as though that might explain everything.
“Yorkie?”
“He's a terrier,” she replied. “He's got himself into a fix and I can't get to him. I was hoping you could ...”
“Of course.” Oh God, yes. “Of course I'll help. Where is he?”
“In the barn. I'll lead the way. As long as you don't mind.”
“It's really no trouble. Please, lead on.”
I gestured away, prompting her to move and thankfully she complied, swinging round and heading off. For such an emergency, she didn't exactly hurry, but I was hardly going to point it out, because was dressed ready for riding in her jodhpurs. They enclosed her arse as though they had been sprayed on.
Now that we were close I could see that she wasn't as tall as her figure had suggested. She came up to my nose level. Above the jodhpurs she was wearing a tight fitting cotton top that traced the line of her waist and accentuated the swell of her hips. There was no tell-tale strap line of a bra coming across her back and when she made a turn round one of the re-developed barns I had a side view of her right breast swelling under the cotton.
From the way it moved with the impact of her boot heel hitting the cobbles it was obvious that they were unsupported and very likely didn't need to be. Above all that she had her golden locks hoisted up in a messy bun that exposed the run of her neck. It all looked so casual.
When we got to the barn she immediately started climbing a huge stack of straw, her arse struggling beneath her jodhpurs. “He's behind here,” she said over her shoulder. At the top she suddenly stretched out on her front, most likely so she could look down the other side. Her legs were still upright, her body now horizontal so she was bent at the waist. It was a beguiling sight.
“Yorkie! Yorkie! He's still there, you'll have to come up.” I was hardly going to refuse.
In a few bounds I was by her side, lying on the straw and looking down a narrow gap between two huge stacks. At the very bottom, seemingly unharmed and looking back at us was Yorkie, a dirty looking terrier. It was easily twelve foot to the where he was and it struck me that while I could easily jump down, climbing back might well pull the whole pile on top of me. Whatever the circumstances I didn't fancy that at all.
Fortunately, a quick look round the barn revealed a sturdy enough ladder and in only a few moments I’d managed to haul it up onto the straw and position it with enough space for me to climb down. The biggest hindrance was Yorkie's attempts to fight the ladder when it reached the bottom.
Seconds later, I was down with him and though he thought the game was still good and wanted to fight some more, I managed to scruff him sufficiently to get the both of us up the ladder without mishap. It was a cinch, but you'd never have known it.
“Oh I don't know how I'll ever thank you,” she exhaled, once I'd passed Yorkie to her. How indeed, but I managed a more polite response.
“Really, it wasn't difficult.” I said, climbing back onto the straw. She let Yorkie go and he bounded down the pile to stand expectantly at the bottom.
“Honestly, I'd never have dared do that. Listen, you must allow me to repay you.”
“There's really no ...”
“There absolutely is!” There was a certain stridency to her words that made me want to smile and I had half a thought to refuse again, but by then she was already in mid-flow. “I'm afraid I'm not up to much in the kitchen, but perhaps I could drive you out for a meal tonight. It's only a little pub I'm afraid, but the food's good. Of course, if you've got work to do, I do understand, but I'm so grateful ...”
“I'd be delighted,” I said, as much to give her time to take a breath as to satisfy my own lustfulness. She grabbed my arm and her face lit up.
“You will! Oh, I'm so pleased.” Letting go of my arm she jumped down the stack in two bounds. I'd have loved to see what did for her breasts. “Could you be ready at seven?”
“Seven's fine,” I said, descending the stack at a more sensible pace.
“Wonderful!” She intoned, heading through the barn door. Over her shoulder she shouted her name, adding a by the way to make it stick. I shouted my own back and then she was gone. I looked down at the terrier and he looked back expectantly.
****
Time passed slowly that afternoon. The tedium was temporarily curtailed when I saw her through the window, walking and cantering on her horse. Besides the more obvious attractions, it struck me how large the horse was and, as a consequence, exactly how wide her legs were parted.
Such thoughts were curtailed when she spotted me and gave a wave. I waved back, considered going outside to watch, then retreated to the sofa and tried to read. It was still early in the week and I didn't want to appear too keen. Certainly not as keen as I was because she'd probably phone for help.
Have you seen … well any Woody Allen film would here because he always has a self-depreciating scene, one in which he convinces himself that he's nowhere near good enough for the good things in this world. In fact his essential truth right across his most famous films stems from the Groucho Marx quote that 'he'd never join a club that would have him as a member'.
Such was my predicament that afternoon. It wasn't that I was devoid of experience, it wasn't as though I hadn't slept with a succession of women, and even had the occasional exciting encounter, but when you convince yourself that you're not even in a league approximating the one your about to play in, nothing much can persuade you otherwise.
Certainly a rather unlikely set of circumstances had conspired to deliver a date with this gorgeous woman, but could it go any further than that.
The other confidence problem was that I didn't have that much to wear, having restricted my clothing to such essentials as jogging bottoms and two pairs of jeans, one acceptable the other not. The what to wear problem was easily enough solved, but not that inspiring. As it was a needn't have worried. On most counts.
At ten past seven – fashionably late – by which time I'd been ready to leave for around forty minutes, a loud blast on a distinctly tinny car horn had me out of the door in a matter of seconds. I found her standing next to a delicious Triumph Spitfire. It was in British Racing Green with a grill on the front rather than a sleek nose. Being as this was getting into Autumn, it had a hard top installed. You have to know the car to appreciate it.
She was in jeans with a loose blouse over another close fitting cotton top, her hair done up in a messy bun. I wasn't sure which I fancied more. Close up I decided that the best part of the outfit, including the car, were her jeans.
They were old Levis that I guessed, from the way she'd cinched them round her waist with belt, were actually men's rather than women's. I reckon she must have got them from a charity shop, chosen specifically for the fit around her buttocks, though they were also loose enough to encroach between them. God they were sexy.
The whole set up, including the car, gave off that same casual air that I'd glimpsed that afternoon. I couldn't even tell if she was wearing make up, though if she wasn't then she didn't need it. Likewise, the Triumph was gleaming and without so much as a blemish.
What was I doing? In five year's time – I was guessing that she was still young, nineteen perhaps, may a touch older – in only a few years, this woman would be married either to a seriously rich bastard from the City, or maybe into the nobility. And there was me, a failed writer, one of life's piss takers. What chance. Seriously, what chance. But while there was a sniff …
I have to say it was a particularly pleasant evening. The drive, through the typically narrow country lanes of Devon, was … exhilarating is probably the best word for it. She drove with one hand on the wheel – held from below with her knuckles up, work it out in your head – the other hand caressing the gear stick all the while talking enthusiastically about her other horse, a jumper called Cedric.
The pub, the Golden Hind – I did like that – was very much the country establishment. Low ceilings, huge fireplace, four real ales, home-cooked food. If you're not familiar with British pubs, that won't mean much, but … well try a Google image search and you'll get the idea. Most importantly, it wasn't noisy and impersonal, it was cosy and accommodating.
We secured a table in a secluded corner and ate our food – she had a steak and ale pie with mash, I had a medium rare steak with chips and trimmings – while I listened again to horse stories. During pudding she asked a few sensible questions about my writing at the end of which she spoilt it by asking why it was that I hadn't got anything published.
Let me tell you, that's just about the worst question to ask a failed writer after you've read his work – I say his, because men are stupid enough to think they're good, while women are sensible enough to know they're crap. Anyway, whatever you do, don't read a writer's work and then tell him that he should “... get it published.” As though all it takes is a second class stamp and an A5 envelope.
Now this was the surface detail. In addition, while I mooned at her in desperation, she began to get rather touchy feely, if you know what I mean. Whether this was a natural thing, or whether she was trying it on, well you can be the judge, but for my part, I wasn't going to talk her out of it. With hindsight, I'd say it was mostly about emphasis, tapping my knee for example to stress a point. It didn't seem to be provocative – not that I'd have minded of course.
I didn't join in, but I did, on the way out of the pub, place a gentle hand on her lower back as we were edging through the crowd around the bar. It was a gesture of care if anything rather than an expression of the pure lust that I was actually feeling. That said, I did, so I thought, sense a reaction. Maybe she backed against me slightly, increasing the contact and maybe too I discerned a quick flash of a smile.
The drive back involves the active use of what a friend of mine like to call the FM handle. It's often sited above a door, though in a Triumph Spitfire it's actually part of the door. It wasn't that she'd been drinking, she only drank diet tonic water with lemon, it was more that she was excited. Perhaps excited. Anyway, I had a good hold of this handle all the way back.
I should add that the initials FM stand for Fuck Me.
Back outside my little barn I got out of the car on unsteady legs. It wasn't the best preparation for what my male mind imagined should happen, but I needn't have worried. She asked me whether I'd be swimming in the morning. I told her I would. She said that she wished me a good night. I told her that I'd enjoyed the evening then I watched her arse sway back across the courtyard to the main farmhouse.
****
Men, is has to be said, are not the most perceptive at the best of times. The question they all need an answer to at some point in their lives, at most points actually, is does she or does she not fancy me. And the need for that answer is not that he wants to plan his course of action so much as anticipate the likelihood of being made a fool of if he acts on the wrong assumption.
However, in order for the man to gauge the probability for being a fool or not, he has to assess the available information. While a woman likes to think she's given out all the necessary clues, the man only takes only what will confirm his desired outcome. Mistakes happen. They have to. But which is worse? That the man assumes he likes her or that the woman can't bring her self to tell him straight that she doesn't.
Now this is something I know. It's not unacquired knowledge and wasn't at the time. I knew then that men, my self including, do not possess the best perceptive capabilities and that we can make mistakes. I also knew that acting on the wrong assumption might involve a harsher penalty than being made a fool off. But I had convinced myself. Despite the night out leading to nothing more than a polite goodnight, I was almost sure that this woman had the hots for me.
The next morning, she was already in the pool ploughing through her desired lengths. I didn't expect her to stop and she didn't. So I took up the challenge. After a four lengths of a good front crawl warm up, I committed to my breast-stroke and kept pace with her. But I didn't try and keep level with her, I made sure I was at least half a length behind. I tell you, it wasn't easy, but I managed it.
After fifteen minutes or so she stopped at the far end. As soon as I saw that, I took a big breath, went under and pulled hard, hoping I'd timed it right ...
Have you seen Apocalypse Now! No don't tell me you haven't. I mean, can you even spell it. Look, it's a modern, film version of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness and centres upon one man's mission to bring to an end the activities of an out of control employee. It's that simple. The book is a critique of African Colonialism, the film is about Vietnam. Two different centuries, one basic fuck up. Don't under-estimate the natives because, one way or another, they'll get you in the end.
Anyway, towards the end of the film, the man on a mission, played by Martin Sheen, turns into the cold killer that his bosses pay him to be. He stalks the mad Colonel played by Marlon Brando and in his approach to Marlon's lair, he rises up out of the water. Sounds simple doesn't it.
“Marty, Baby! All you have to do is duck under the water then emerge from it. Do it slowly so I can catch it.” Now we don't know for sure that Francis Ford Coppola, the Director, actually called Sheen Baby. Being from New York, or there about he might have called him Boibee. Who can tell? But that isn't my point.
Sheen rose up out of beautifully clear water. He hadn't just ducked down and rose again, because there would have been ripples. Maybe he swam from somewhere else, but if he did that, he had to come up in exactly the right place for the camera and looking in exactly the right direction. These aren't easy things to work out. Watch out for it next time.
Where Sheen might have had ten or more attempts, I had just one. I rose out of the water – it wasn't smooth and clear I'm sure – I rose up just as she was hauling herself out of the water. Standing up, I had a superb close up view of her arse, the swimming costume half-engorged by her her buttocks which were, by necessity, half-exposed as a result.
Ignoring the obvious for the moment, I reached out, took a firm hold on her waist with both hands, and pulled her back into the water. She gave an excited little yelp that she might have learnt from Yorkie and turned round to face me. Neither of us said anything. We stared at each other for a few seconds then, keeping my actions slow and deliberate, I raised my hands to her shoulders, hooked my fingers under the straps of her costume and pulled them over her shoulders.
She was already breathing hard from her excursions in the pool, but as the costume descended her mouth opened and she started panting. Not wanting to miss the event, I dropped my gaze and watched closely as both breasts were squeezed under the tight lycra of her costume, revealing themselves in tantalizing inches. I heard her gasp as they emerged with an utterly delightful jolt. They reverberated for less than a second before assuming their natural shape.
I let go of her costume, leaving it bunched around her upper waist, resumed my gaze into her face, before, again with slow hands, taking hold of both breasts to examine them with a casual disregard of the social niceties. She did nothing to hinder my gentle massage, just stared up at me breathing hard. When I pinioned both nipples with thumbs and forefingers she winced slightly and her hands came up out of the water to rest against my stomach. Slowly they slid up to my pectoral muscles and she gasped as I drew out both her nipples.
Then she reached up and ripped my goggles off.
****
Let me tell you, buoyancy is a wonderful thing. Acrobatic sex in the bedroom can be dangerous, but in the pool you can do just about anything. Being able to hold your breath is an advantage but not always necessary.
We made our way up to the deep end. Or at least to the point where I could stand up with my head above water and she couldn't. This obliged her to hang on round my neck and wrap her legs round my waist while we engaged in a bout of enthusiastic snogging. Meanwhile I got hold of her buttocks for the first time, easing them around, getting in between them, generally having my way with those two juicy portions of flesh.
When her costume, which was still jammed in place, started to get in the way, I walked to the side of the pool, prompted her to hold on, then stepped back so I could raise her hips in the water. Her costume came off with a delectable jolt from between her legs and I threw it onto the side. Giving her a bit of a stare, just to make the point, I pulled her legs apart, hooked them over my shoulders and got my face into her pussy.
There was a wonderful sense of vocal panic, giving a good impression that this was all new to her, but if there was any fear present, it didn't show in her body because her hips quickly raised of their own regards, pressing against my tongue which was working its way between her pussy lips. She tasted of chlorine, naturally enough, but I quickly licked and sucked that away and soon she was delivering up sweet juices and little gasping cries as an accompaniment.
When curiosity got the better of me, I flipped her over, stuck my face between her buttocks and searched out her other rose bud. There was slightly more panic at that, but again, nothing to thwart my progress.
Soon after that, I pulled the string on my shorts, dropped them down and let free my fully erect prick. Backing her up against the side, I got between her legs and guided myself towards her pussy. I felt her hand down there making the final adjustment then I was pressing in. She was really tight and I could tell by the look on her face that it wasn't without a bit of pain, but presently the unusually wide rim of my prick created enough of an opening for the whole shaft to suddenly become engorged.
She wasn't spared. While she held on to the sides of the pool, I pulled her legs apart, raised one up so it was pinioned between us, then gave it to her, driving my prick hard into her. To be honest, I was surprised at my own aggression. It wasn't just lust. Maybe there was a bit of class consciousness involved, the common man having his way with the nobility.
Raising her other leg, I managed to effectively fold her in two, then, when the position proved stable I got my hands underneath her, pulled her buttocks apart, and started easing a finger into her arsehole. That really set her off.
I imagine the natural rhythm of my thrusts created a lovely wave pattern in the pool though I didn't think to look. Conversely, I did hear the pool room echoing with her cries and that was delicious.
****
This was Tuesday morning and we had four full days before Auntie Marnie was due to return. We didn't waste it I can assure you. I got an upgrade into the best barn which sported a massive double bed, a bathroom decked out with a shower and a jacuzzi, and to top it all a sauna.
That first afternoon, we spent nigh on four hours moving from sauna to shower to jacuzzi before starting the process again. At one point I fucked her silly for twenty minutes in the sauna, her legs bent back so her calves were against her ears with me rearing over her and the sweat oozing from every pore. The look on her face, a mix of passion, a touch of fear perhaps, and real animal lust, that kept me in place just as much as the thrusting sex.
Later we stripped the bed to leave just the undersheet. She positioned herself on top and rode me like a horse. At first I grabbed her tits, but as her excitement grew I laid back and watched them move, the pair creating an undulating pattern that had them moving up and around. I loved the sense of exposure it created, the sudden reversal of social position; that this posh creature had been reduced to a gasping, wanton animal whose breasts were open to view and swinging about wildly.
When that was done, I put her on her knees and fucked her from behind, pushing her legs wide apart so she was all on view. I got my thumb into her arsehole and she cried out in her passion. Then I gathered up her hair – it was long enough to reach the small of her back – pulled it hard enough so she had to raise her head, then got up on my feet and rode her at the gallop.
We fucked in the pool on each day. We fucked in the Triumph – just to say we had – we fucked in the barn, but only once because the straw was a nightmare. We fucked in the shower and the jacuzzi and again in the sauna. We fucked on the sofa, in an armchair and, precariously, on a dining room chair. But mostly we stuck to the bed.
Yet, as is usual with such encounters, the strongest memories were not always concerned with the fucking. Not in the strictest sense. That delicious moment when I lowered her costume for example. I think about that a lot.
Another time on the bed, I got to fucking her tits, straddling her to do so, driving my prick between them and towards her face. She hadn't been too keen on sucking me off, but this time, with her unable to get away, I acted on a whim and got above her to leave little option.
I think she hoped to get away with a bit of tongue action, but I wasn't having it and purposefully pushed myself into her mouth until her lips were stretched around the wide rim of my prick. I held it there for a few moments, loving the look in her eyes, then pushed again until the entire head was in and her lips were closed around my shaft.
I kept at it for a good fifteen minutes. Not fucking her mouth in earnest – I think that would have been a bit too frantic – but just savouring the sensation of her lips about my prick, the sense of domination again. Taking my time I'd move the head in and out, forcing her lips apart, stretching them again until they snapped tight on the shaft.
At first she had her hands on my stomach, pushing against me, making sure I didn't get in too far, but once she had more confidence, once she was sure I wouldn't be fucking her properly, her hands moved round onto my buttocks.
The surprise in her eyes when I came inside her mouth was great. It was hardly a full load, how could it have been considering, but it was enough certainly for her to notice and I made sure I stayed in place until I was empty and she was sucking on my softening prick.
After that I thought she'd run off, in fact I was a bit ashamed at the indulgence, but as it happened she was all over me.
On the Friday I fucked her in the arse. I suppose we'd been leading up to this since I first put a finger inside her the first time in the pool. Her reaction then – very much sexual excitement rather than panicked revulsion – made it obvious that her arsehole shouldn't be ignored. But set against that, my prick, with its over-large head, was not best suited for such tight surroundings.
This wasn't done on a whim. I found myself fingering her hole while I was sucking her pussy, getting ever more indulgent as she was getting closer to orgasm, when she suddenly brought herself round enough to ask whether I was going to put it in there. Considering what we'd been doing the past few days, she was always surprisingly reticent about using more flagrant expressions.
Anyway, I had the sense to explain the difficulties, but she assured me that she'd like to have a go. So I then told her that it'd be easier, believe it or not, to get my prick as hard as possible and her arse and loose as possible and that the best option was to engage in a sixty nine position. I actually had to explain what this was about, and though she was a bit unsure, when I told her that she could go on top, she accepted it.
To be honest, the sixty nine was better than the anal sex; I just loved the sensation of her lips about my prick. That said, once I'd managed to get two fingers into her arse in a gentle finger fucking motion, I couldn't resist having a go at it with my prick. It wasn't great fucking. Yes it was nice to have such a tight harbour for my prick, but it took a lot of effort to get it in, some amount of pain on her part, and to follow it, we restricted ourselves to a comfortable spoon position and a more of a loving, gentle fuck than an all out rampage.
Later that night, I built up my dominant streak again and manoeuvred her into a sixty nine with me on top. And we didn't just try it. I had full control of her legs, easing them back and apart so I could get my tongue deep inside her, all the while having her face pinned below my hips, my prick easing into her mouth.
I brought her off a couple of times, then climbed off the bed, eased her back until her head was over the edge and really fucked her mouth while molesting her tits. And she loved it. Her hands were all over my arse, pulling me on and when I finally came she sucked it all down and carried on until my prick was getting hard again. I pulled out, dropped my balls on her mouth and she sucked them too.
****
I tell you, the woman was dirty. I can't think what we'd have got up to if the week continued. Well, that's not true actually. I can imagine it, but I think it would have been good to have had a friend there was well, just so we could have satisfied her properly. She was up for it certainly, though whether she actually knew that she was ... well that's a different matter.
The next morning, we woke up together in a tangle of bedsheets in the wrong bed, and the whole farmstead in a mess. Together and apart we rushed around the place getting it back in order for lunchtime for Auntie Marnie's return. When the phone rang to say that she'd been delayed and would arrive that evening, we ran to the indoor pool and dived in fully dressed just so we could strip each other bare.
It was a great week, and we parted with good heart, on good terms and a cheeky promise to do it again sometime.
****
“And then he hooked his hands in my straps and slowly pulled my costume down.”
“Nooo! Oh how hot is that!?”
“Oh you wouldn't believe how hot it felt. I thought he didn't know. I'd given him enough signals, I even had to drop poor Yorkie between the bales, but you know what men are like. Then he just does that. And he was standing up in the shallow end, his gorgeous body out of the water dripping wet while he touched my puppies.”
“Oh god! Why does that never happen to me. What then?”
“We did it.”
“What in the pool?”
“Absolutely. I thought he was going to finish me. I tell you, Raphe never even came close to what this boy did. I just hung on to the side while he banged it into me. God it was good.”
“I'm going to try that. I'll drag Howard down to the pool next time he's down. What then or was that it?”
“That it! That was just the start. Oh he was so naughty. The things he got me doing. The things he did to me. Honestly, I never even imagined and it made me so hot I really thought I'd just die.”
“Like what? Oh you have to tell.”
“No I couldn't possibly. It's my secret.”
“Oh go on. I promise not to ...”
“Ha! I've heard that before. No!”
“What about him then? He had a great bod, you said.”
“Awesome. Just to rub your hands over him. A couple of time we were in the shower together.”
“Oh God!”
“And the sauna.”
“No!”
“That was really steamy.”
“I bet.”
“I will tell you one secret ...”
“Yes ...”
“It's not as though you'd ever meet him.”
“I wish.”
“You see he had this unusual ... piston …”
“Piston?”
“Yes, you know.”
“Oh sometimes your just so chaste. Go on then, tell me about his cock.”