Haven Girls Ch 01 Wet And Wild

Amira Delmar, a vision in skin-tight Versace that left little to the imagination, surveyed the teenage chaos erupting on her manicured lawn with a mixture of disgust rivaled only by the throbbing between her thighs, a reminder of how long it'd been since she'd closed a deal in the boardroom... or the bedroom.

Today marked her daughter Skylar's official entry into adulthood -- or at least the legal right to vote, buy lottery tickets, and star in barely-legal porn. All of Palm Haven's elite spawn had descended like a swarm of Gucci-clad locusts, each determined to outshine the others in a dazzling display of privilege and poor decisions that made Amira's clit throb with jealousy.

Everywhere she looked, overprivileged teens were peacocking their #blessed lives and taut, nubile bodies. Instagram wannabes preened by the infinity pool, their silicone-enhanced pouts more inflated than Delmar Industries' stock after a hostile takeover, bodies contorting into poses that would make a Kama Sutra master cum in their pants.

A wave of existential dread -- and a flood of wetness between her thighs -- washed over her as she noticed a young couple locked in a lip-lock so intense, they could single-handedly cause the global warming crisis to skyrocket with their body heat. The boy's hand disappeared under the girl's skirt, eliciting a moan that carried over the thumping bass and made Amira's nipples stiffen painfully against the gossamer-thin silk of her Versace slip dress.

The DJ booth, manned by a scrawny kid who probably moonlighted as a SoundCloud rapper, blasted beats that made Amira's eardrums beg for mercy. It was the auditory equivalent of being trapped in a washing machine with a dubstep playlist on repeat -- though the rhythmic vibrations sent an unexpected tingle through her core, making her wonder if she could discretely grind against the speakers without anyone noticing.

As another tray of suspiciously green 'mocktails' floated by, Amira snatched one, wishing it was spiked with something stronger than kale juice and regret. She knocked it back like she would a shot of tequila before a board meeting, her mind drifting to the flask of top-shelf whiskey hidden in her home office -- right next to her collection of high-end vibrators.

She'd weathered nearly two decades of Skylar's teenage typhoon, but this party might just be the final nail in her sanity's coffin. At least the neighbors would have something to gossip about at the next HOA meeting -- a small consolation for the impending migraine and the ache between her legs that refused to subside.

A fleeting thought crossed her mind: Would anyone notice if she just slipped away and found a quiet corner with something stronger than these kale concoctions? Maybe she could finally put that discreet vibrator in her purse to good use...

As if summoned by the collective power of a hundred filtered selfies, Skylar materialized beside Amira, her face a thundercloud of designer discontent. Her crop top barely contained her surgically enhanced cleavage, a sweet sixteen gift that had cost more than most people's cars.

"Mo-om," Skylar keened, her voice a masterclass in privileged distress, "this party is, like, the Fyre Festival of Birthdays. No, worse--it's the Titanic, but instead of Leo DiCaprio, we get DJ Kale and his EDM tribute to a washing machine's spin cycle. And don't even get me started on the lack of hot guys. I swear, if one more trust fund baby tries to motorboat me, I'll scream."

Amira's eyebrow arched so high it threatened to disappear into her hairline. "Sweetie, this little soirée cost more than your father's midlife crisis corvette and his last three mistresses combined. What exactly is the problem?"

Skylar's lower lip jutted out like a collagen-injected speed bump. "Dakota's dad snagged Post Malone for her bash. Post. Freaking. Malone. Meanwhile, I'm stuck with Soundcloud rejects and mocktails that taste like lawn clippings had a baby with Kombucha." She pouted, unknowingly mimicking the same expression that had gotten Amira out of many a speeding ticket and into more than a few officers' pants.

The Cougar Queen bit back a laugh that threatened to shatter her Botox. "And here I thought hiring Beyoncé to sing 'Happy Birthday' was passé. Silly me." Her eyes couldn't help but wander to a group of shirtless boys by the pool, their tanned muscles glistening in the sun. She felt a familiar warmth spreading through her body, imagining those young, eager hands exploring every inch of her...

Skylar's gaze narrowed to laser-like slits, a look that typically heralded a tantrum of biblical proportions. "You're so last century. My life is over. O-V-E-R. Like, even my emojis are crying! And stop eye-fucking the pool boys, Mom. It's gross."

As Hurricane Skylar stomped off, presumably to drown her sorrows in a gluten-free, dairy-free, joy-free cupcake, Amira muttered, "If only teenage angst came with a mute button... or an off switch. And maybe an instruction manual for these new tits of hers."

Despite this, a rogue wave of melancholy washed over her as she watched Skylar vanish into the sea of overpriced outfits. Soon, her little drama queen would exit stage left, leaving this gilded cage empty, with Amira as the sole, fabulous inmate. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, pooling heat in her lower belly. She'd be alone, with nothing but her toys and memories to keep her warm at night...

But before the sultry matriarch could dive deeper into her existential crisis, fate intervened in the form of a neon pink volleyball, launched by some muscle-bound surfer bro, hurtled towards her silicon-enhanced assets. Thanks to reflexes honed dodging flying objects during her toxic marriage, Amira pirouetted out of harm's way, her fake tits barely jiggling but her thong riding up in a way that made her gasp.

She executed a hair flip so sultry it could make a nun question her vows, followed by a "tsk" dripping with more judgment than a Conservative politician at a drag show. That's when she locked eyes with the Gen Z embodiment of calculated defiance emerging from behind a nearby palm tree. Suddenly Amira's libido went from zero to "call my lawyer" in 0.5 seconds, her panties dampening at the mere sight.

This girl was Palm Haven's version of edgy -- about as hardcore as a pumpkin spice latte with an extra pump of vanilla, but to Amira's touch-starved body, she might as well have been a sex goddess incarnate. She sauntered over, her vintage band tee, chopped and knotted to bare a tantalizing slice of midriff, whispered "I'm edgy" while her designer jeans screamed "Daddy's credit card."

A constellation of piercings adorned her features like a roadmap of rebellion, making Amira wonder just how many more piercings might be hidden under those clothes. As the girl drew closer, Amira's mind raced with possibilities - maybe those piercings weren't just a map of daddy issues, but an invitation to explore some deeply buried mommy issues. Either way, Amira was suddenly ready to play therapist... among other things that would make her ex-husband's jaw drop.

"Stellar save, Mrs. Delmar," Camila purred, her voice a cocktail of jailbait and trouble. "Those obscenely overpriced Pilates sessions are clearly working overtime. Your ass looks like it could crack walnuts."

Amira's million-dollar smile could've melted panties at fifty paces. "It's Miss Delmar these days, hon," she cooed, subtly angling her divorce-settlement diamond - a rock so massive it had its own gravitational pull. "And trust me, these Pilates sessions are good for much more than just cracking nuts. And you are...?"

Camila's eyes raked over Amira's curves, drinking in the MILF-tastic feast before her. "Camila," she shot back, "But you can call me 'your midlife crisis made flesh.'"

This was Camila? Amira's jaw nearly hit the floor as recognition dawned. Gone was the awkward, gangly teen who used to trail after Skylar. When did this tag-along blossom into a walking wet dream?

"Well, Camila," Amira husked, her gaze devouring those pouty lips like a starving cougar eyeing a juicy gazelle, "I hope my daughter's little soirée isn't boring that tight ass of yours to tears."

"Oh, it's riveting," Camila drawled, scanning the crowd with the clinical detachment of a coroner at an orgy. "'Mean Girls' meets 'Gossip Girl,' minus the wit, plus enough daddy's credit cards to make a stripper weep."

"Quite the observer," Amira's eyebrow arched higher than her libido. "And here I pegged you for another Instagram clone with more filters than brain cells."

Camila's smirk widened, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "Careful, Miss Delmar. Your millennial is showing like a granny's panty line. Instagram's prehistoric for us." She tapped her phone, flashing an app that made Amira feel as outdated as a flip phone at an Apple keynote.

"Ouch. Next you'll say TikTok isn't just the sound of my biological clock screaming in terror."

"I'd explain," Camila retorted, "but your iPhone eleven might combust from shame... much like your panties seem to be doing right now."

Their banter crackled with sexual electricity, more exhilarating than Amira's usual Botox-and-Birkin small talk or her vibrator's highest setting.

"So, Camila," Amira growled, her hand ghosting over the younger woman's lower back, "what profound insights have you gleaned from your field study of Palm Haven's elite jailbait this afternoon?"

Camila's gaze sharpened, a scholar of debauchery in the making. "Three future influencers destined for OnlyFans stardom, two trust fund babies 'finding themselves' in Bali's seediest opium dens, and one aspiring girlboss whose 'empowerment' will lead straight to an MLM empire built on overpriced leggings and crushed dreams."

Amira's eyes traced Camila's lips as she talked, imagining them wrapped around something far more exciting than witty comebacks. The breeze carried notes of jasmine, chlorine, and Camila's sweet vanilla perfume -- a scent that screamed 'danger' but whispered 'worth every risqué second' in Amira's lust-addled brain.

"So, Miss Delmar," Camila purred, her voice a honeyed trap that Amira longed to fall into, "what's a smoking hot MILF like you doing in our kiddie pool? Shouldn't you be sipping martinis with the country club cougars or something?" Her eyes devoured Amira's curves, wrapped in a designer dress that suddenly felt two sizes too small.

Amira's cheeks flushed, mirroring the heat blooming between her thighs. Her La Perla panties were already embarrassingly damp. For the first time since her pre-Botox days, Amira felt truly seen -- and ravenously hungry.

"Darling," Amira husked, her eyes drinking in Camila's lithe form, "sometimes the most fascinating discoveries are found in the most unexpected places." Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, a promise of more intimate explorations. "Tell me, little anthropologist, have you ever studied the mating rituals of the sexually frustrated cougar?"

A fleeting pang of guilt hit Amira at the sound of her own question. She's barely legal, you cougar! But a wilder part of her -- the part that remembered sneaking wine coolers into prom and giving sloppy handjobs in her parents' Volvo -- thrilled at the forbidden fruit before her.

Something flickered in Camila's eyes -- vulnerability? intrigue? raw, animalistic hunger? -- before the cool mask slipped back into place. "Maybe I enjoy studying mid-life crises up close and personal from time to time," she purred, lips curving into a knowing smirk that promised to teach Amira how the girls at Sunny High Prep do it nowadays.

Amira's retort -- along with her last shred of inhibition -- was cut short by a shrill voice that could shatter champagne flutes and extinguish libidos at fifty paces.

"Amirraaaa, dahling!" Brenda Hawthorne's voice, honed by years of gossip and overpriced yoga, sliced through the air like the severance packages Amira dished out to underperforming execs. Her bedazzled lorgnette glinted like a weapon of mass eavesdropping, threatening to expose not just Amira's deviant desires, but also the hostile takeover she was planning for Brenda's husband's company. "We simply must catch up. I heard the most delicious tidbit about your ex..."

Amira's smile tightened to breaking point as if to suggest: Fuck off, you botoxed vulture. Can't you see I'm about to close the deal on this barely legal merger?!?

Instead, she managed to purr out "Brenda, how... unexpected!" Her hand sliding possessively to Camila's lower back, fingers dipping just below the waistband of her jeans. "We're in the middle of a fascinating... exploration. What was it again, Cammy?"

Without missing a beat, Camila deadpanned, her voice dripping with sarcasm thick enough to choke on, "The socioeconomic implications of designer handbags as status symbols in gated communities. And how they compensate for dried-up pussies and loveless marriages." Her eyes flickered to Brenda's rock of a wedding ring. "For my AP Sociology project, of course."

Brenda blinked, her frozen forehead attempting to furrow. "How... quaint." The word dripped from her collagen-pumped lips like venom.

"Isn't it?" Amira beamed with faux enthusiasm, resisting the urge to high-five Camila. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have some... in-depth research to conduct."

As Brenda tottered off, deflated like her husband's erectile dysfunction, Amira turned back to Camila. Her eyes smoldered with the intensity usually reserved for sealing multi-million dollar deals or selecting her next boy toy from the intern pool. "You wicked little thing."

Camila's lips quirked, hunger dancing in her eyes. "I'll add it to your tab, Miss Delmar," she purred, hand cupping Amira's ass through Versace-clad curves.

With that, the snarky teenager melted back into the crowd, leaving Amira dazed, vanilla perfume lingering like an aphrodisiac. Amira's gaze drifted to her daughter Skylar, youth personified, her laughter with friends tinkling before the storm. A bittersweet ache bloomed in Amira's chest, longing for endless possibilities, untainted by time and gravity's cruel descent.

In mere months, Skylar would flee to Brown, leaving Amira alone in a mausoleum of status. Enter Camila - all Gen-Z audacity and smoldering gazes, awakening the ruthless CEO's hunger for a life painted in fifty shades of power and pleasure.

That's when the sky growled and champagne flutes trembled. Heaven's floodgates opened, turning manicured lawns into Slip 'N Slides for Balenciaga sneakers. Coiffed dos wilted faster than middle-aged cocks at an orgy.

"My fucking hair!" Brenda wailed, her updo a soggy tribute to drowned rats. Even Botox couldn't withstand Mother Nature's bitchy mood swing.

Skylar's voice, shrill and entitled, cut through the downpour. "Mom! The Chanel! It's getting soaked!"

Amira stood poised, her statuesque frame a monument to power and control. The external deluge mirrored her internal tempest, a flood of desire threatening to breach her carefully constructed dams. Duty whispered faintly, but the CEO in her recognized a prime opportunity when she saw one. Her calculating gaze locked back, fixed on her newest acquisition -- Camila -- lounged beneath the pool house canopy, as if no storm was happening, her very presence a fuck you to nature itself.

Those dark eyes seared into Amira with an intensity that stole her breath and definitely obliterated her last shred of heterosexuality. Camila's soaked top clung like a second skin, a tantalizing glimpse of assets Amira was determined to acquire and dominate. Especially that nipple ring that begged to be tugged and flicked by her eager tongue. Her desperate housewife heart raced like the stock market on a bull run, her La Perla panties drenched in a cocktail of rain and raw desire. Her clit throbbed with each pulse, begging for attention like a neglected pet.

Be the mother Skylar needs, her sensible side pleaded weakly. But a wilder voice, emanating from her dripping pussy, growled with primal hunger: Be the filthy slut you've always wanted to be. Choose pussy over propriety, for once. Devour that Latina goddess until she screams your name loud enough to drown out the storm.

Lightning crackled across the sky like a billion-dollar idea, highlighting the internal hostile takeover in Amira's eyes and the growing liquidity crisis in her Versace dress. The gravitational pull towards Camila, towards a life unchained and a cunt begging to be ravished, was stronger than any social obligation or half-assed attempt at propriety.

"Just wrapping up a call, honey!" she shouted back to Skylar, her corporate-honed ability to bullshit on command coming in handy as her body screamed for a different kind of merger. Her traitorous feet carried her poolside under the rain and not towards saving the Chanel. Each step a middle finger to her carefully curated life, each squelch of her sodden panties a battle cry of repressed desire.

Under the canopy, Amira's breath came in ragged gasps, her entire being pulsing with the storm's primal rhythm. Camila stood dangerously close, nipples jutting through her rain-soaked top like pebbles begging to be sucked, rolled, bitten until Camila screamed. The scent of her desire mingled with the petrichor, creating an intoxicating cocktail that made Amira's head spin.

"Chasing me through a monsoon?" Camila bit her lip, igniting a spark in Amira's core like a sudden surge in quarterly profits. "That's some aggressive acquisition strategy, even for Palm Haven's top CEO."

Amira's composure cracked like cheap veneers. "Not chasing," she managed, voice husky with lust. She inched closer, moth to flame. "More like... conducting due diligence. And you have no concept of how thoroughly... wet I am." Her hand, moving of its own volition, grabbed Camila's wrist, pressing those talented fingers against the soaked fabric between her thighs.

Camila's eyes widened, a predatory grin spreading across her face. "Oh, I think I have some idea," she purred, her fingers curling against Amira's aching pussy, separated only by the thin, drenched fabric. "But what exactly are you hoping to conduct in this soaked teenage wasteland, Ms. Delmar? Surely Palm Haven's most formidable divorcée slash Fortune 500 CEO has... loftier pursuits than eating barely legal pussy."

The Sardonic Seductress, recognized she had Skylar's mom wrapped around her pale, slender finger, and decided to plunge that digit deep into the older woman's psyche. After all, it's not every day that a barely legal bombshell like her gets to corrupt the Wine Mom Gone Wild, tarnishing the town's golden girl with delicious depravity. The power trip was more intoxicating than absinthe, making her own tight, teenage cunt throb with unholy anticipation.

"Maybe you're tired of being everyone's perfect little Stepford wife," she purred, her voice dripping with challenge and dark promise.

Amira's hand slid to Camila's neck, feeling the rapid pulse beneath her fingers. "Maybe I am," she confessed, barely audible over the storm. "Maybe I just want to feel something real again. Like your tongue on my clit."

Camila's snarky smile didn't flinch at that unapologetic statement. She leaned in, lips grazing Amira's ear. "Then stop thinking," she whispered, her breath hot on Amira's skin, sending shivers down her spine. "And just feel. Feel my fingers deep in your dripping pussy, feel my mouth devouring your tits. Let me make you scream louder than this fucking storm."

Their lips crashed together, a violent collision of tongues and teeth that left them gasping. Amira moaned shamelessly, gripping Camila's ass, desperate to grind against her. Camila's hands roamed possessively, fingers digging into the wet fabric of Amira's dress, roughly cupping her breasts and pinching her nipples through the soaked material. The heat between them exploded, burning through the cold rain and incinerating any last shred of Amira's inhibitions.