The Pool Boy 7

It was one of those days when there's nothing to do but sit by the pool and ruminate on what could have happened if she hadn't married Ted. She'd have none of the things she had, she assumed - the grand house in Greenwich, the two BMWs, the kids away in boarding schools, the help, the money, the vacations, the clothes. Yes, she worked too, marginally, helping out at the Japanese/American exchange 10 hours a week, but that was hardly anything compared to Ted's ironman week of rising at 4 every morning to run, then the train into the city, and rarely back before 8 PM, not to mention the travel, the meetings in London, Berlin, Reykjavik, Tokyo, San Francisco, nearly weekly! She was alone a lot and it didn't matter, she thought. She had her quiet work, her book group, Al Anon, hot power yoga, and the dog.

September was being hot and humid, and she was in her orange bikini on a chaise lounge by the pool at 1 in the afternoon, drinking a bottle of Pellegrino next to a glass of Chardonnay with ice in it. She had her long black hair bunched high up on her head and skewered with chopsticks to let the back of her neck get some air. She fanned herself with her Marie Claire magazine for a second before letting it drop with a flap by the chair. Absently, she reached behind her neck and undid the knot holding the top of her bikini in place and let the straps fall in front of her. It felt good to have that small release, to feel the hot sun around her neck, to feel the trickles of sweat running down into the hollow of her neck and between her breasts. What the hell, she thought, and she released her bra and let the sun onto her naked chest, dropping her top on the ground. Yes, she thought, that's good, and she picked up her glass of wine and took a long draught from it. She closed her eyes and the sun made the back of her eyelids warm and she saw auburn images against them.

She must have fallen asleep, she thought, because the next thing she heard was raking from behind the hedge and fence that surrounded the pool. It was a Wednesday, the day the local kid, Carlos, came and did whatever yard work Ted thought needed to be done. Carlos was in his low 20's, she mused; he lived on the other side of Greenwich in the more working class area, and, she thought, maybe he's in community college. She wasn't sure, exactly; she hadn't seen much of him this summer, and barely remembered what he looked like. He must be raking the mulch around the new trees, she thought, and relaxed back into her chair again. Next he'll be weeding around the driveway, and then perhaps he'll have to vacuum the pool.

So sleepy, she thought, closing her eyes again, imagining what the weather must be like in Iceland, where Ted was for the next few days. Did it snow in September up there? Was Ted in one of the famous hot springs? Should she maybe smoke a joint or take a klonopin? She reached into her beach bag by the lounge chair and found her little pill container, and took one, swallowing it with another sip of her wine. Should eat something, she thought, with the near simultaneous thought, what the hell. The joint. She had one half-smoked in her bag; she rummaged around, found it and her lighter, and settled back. She lit up, took a deep inhale, held it, and then let the smoke float out of her nose. She rubbed her belly, firm and tanned, slick with suntan oil and a tidy pool of sweat in her attractively "inn-ie" belly button. That was enough. She felt rich and warm and her body was taking in the day's heat and starting to radiate its own.

She was looking at the photos in Marie Claire when she heard the latch of the gate open and Carlos appeared at the far end of the pool, a long-handled pool sieve in his hand. He didn't appear to notice her as he turned and closed the gate and then moved to the edge of the pool. He was wearing khaki shorts and no shirt, just a black Yankees flat-brimmed ball cap, and she could see his hairless chest glistening with sweat. She watched him work, and then, to let him know she was there, she moved her chair slightly and waved.

He startled, looking around before he saw her, and said, "Oh, Missus, I'm sorry, I didn't realize..." and averted his eyes from her to study the hedge. She waved a hand dismissively.

"Don't mind me, just do what you have to do," she said. "We're all friends here."

"I can come back," he said, slowly letting his gaze wander from the hedge to the listless pool surface and to her side of the pool, where she had let her magazine fall again and held her wine glass in one hand while with the other she reached up to disengage her chopsticks and let her hair fall naturally to her shoulders.

"Just do what Ted told you," she said. Then, thinking for a moment: "And for God's sake take a a swim if you like, it's so beastly hot today."

She watched him walk slowly along the edge of the pool, skimming its surface for errant leaves and bugs, and occasionally dipping the net down deep to the bottom of the pool to get the leaves and whatever crap had accumulated there. Not much. It had been a windless day, the trees were still, and there were no mosquitoes or gnats. She watched him dip the sieve, in and out, it's long aluminum shaft bright in the sun and wet with the water. God, did she love the taste of chlorine; it was almost as good as the taste of salt on her skin from swimming in the ocean. She liked to lick her forearm and her lips to taste it all.

Carlos was leaner than she had remembered; there was not an ounce of fat on him, she reflected. She had pulled on her sunglasses and let her gaze wander freely from behind the dark lenses while pretending to read her magazine. He didn't even have love-handles, she noticed - his shorts barely hooked on the hard outlines of his hip bones, held up by a green web belt. His chest was hairless save for a small tuft at his sternum, and right above his navel a thin line of black hair extended up, and down to the belt of his pants. She knew he was college-aged, but he looked barely 16 - younger than her two boys, 17 and 18, away at school in New Hampshire. It didn't look like he shaved; and his close-cut hair was styled like a boy's. Still, his arms. His calves. His hands. His back. Taut with muscle. His butt, filling his shorts in a way she could only think of as "Nice." His skin dark as can be, darker than her own tanned olive Asian skin. She thought, Brazilian, that's right - that's where his family is from.

"Carlos," she called. "Come put some lotion on my back." She rolled over and adjusted the lounge chair flat and gestured with her bottle of oil for him to come over. She lay there propped on her elbows, her breasts just resting on her towel but pendulous, her nipples hard, and looked over her shoulder at his hesitating step toward her. "Put the pool thing down," she said.

He came up beside her and she could hear his breathing as she handed him the bottle and lay flat, her head turned to one side to watch him. He knelt on the ground beside the chair and she impatiently patted the edge of it next to her for him to sit beside her. "OK," he said. "Like this?"

She felt his knee gently graze her thigh and then pull away; she felt his weight on the lounge chair and the nearness of his body.

He poured some of the lotion on her back and used a finger to rub it over her shoulder blades. Then, he used the palm of his hand to rub the lotion over her shoulders and the back of her neck - she reached up to move her hair away - and then he put the bottle down on the ground and used both hands to massage the lotion into her neck, her shoulders, the tight muscles along her spine, and then around her lower back, using his knuckles to knead her kidneys. His hands were inches from the edge of her bikini. He let his fingers trail along her lower back, and she let her legs part a little, just barely, a reflex action really - at least, she thought, she didn't raise her ass up at that moment. He let his hands rub lotion along her sides, her ribs, and over the tops of her arms.

Then, with a sudden intake of breath, he stood up. "Oh," he said. And turned away from her, took a few quick steps, and dove into the deep end of the pool with his hat still on. It floated for a second where he had been, then slowly sank.

She rose up to her elbows again and watched him swim underwater to the far end of the pool, where he emerged for a breath, and then dove back under to swim back to her. His head popped up like a sea lion's right before her, and he pulled himself up and out of the pool to stand wet in front of her. His shorts clung to him like a second skin and she could see that the cool water and exercise had done little to shrink the substantial bulge in his pants that was now outlined a mere three feet away from her.

They gazed at each other then, her chin propped on her hands, his hands on his hips, his chest heaving from having held his breath the length of the pool. Now what, she thought.

But she knew how it could play out. She could sit up and face him, straddling the chaise, her hair loose, sweat streaming between her - she knew - gorgeous breasts with the pert nipples and dark brown areoles, her yoga-toned legs spread wide, the hint of belly fat attractive, her feet flat on the ground, her gaze frank, an open smile on her face. He'd look nervous, strained, his slightly Asiatic eyes squinting, his arms loose at his sides, his fists clenching and unclenching. The water trickling down his chest, into his pants, down the insides of his thighs, off his earlobes. His black hair slicked back. Come here, she could say, and he would step forward.

She would rest her hands on his hips and slide them up his sides, feeling the muscles of his abs, slipping her fingers along the edge of his shorts. He would stand there, looking curiously down at her. She would be conscious of her breasts so close to his skin, of her legs wide, of feeling so hot in the sun and slick all over her body. She could lean forward and lick the water off his belly, if she wanted. She could. She would. She should, dammit. She would unpluck the button of his pants, and slowly, slowly, unzip his fly. He would be wearing no underwear. Slowly she would reveal the naked skin below his navel, the back of the stem of his cock rising like a dolphin urgent in the ocean, until his entire cock popped out, and stood tall and thick before her, round and brown at the tip, and she would slide his pants down to his ankles and he would be pulsing before her, impossibly long, bulky, abundant. Shit, she would think, suppressing a gasp because that was just too cliché, but allowing herself to inhale and then exhale the way she did in yoga, the ujjayi breath of fire. She would look up and his eyes would be closed. She would look down and his cock would be twitching, his naked balls tight and undulating like some kind of sea creature.

The possibilities, she thought. The wine, the pot, the klonopin. The oppressive, humid heat of the day. She would slide herself to the edge of the chaise, her legs wide apart and her inner thighs so close to his knees know, and her face, well, right there. With one hand she would cup his perfect balls, and with the other, she would hold his cock at its base and direct it upward at a nice angle. She would tongue him from his stem to his throbbing tip, tasting his skin's yeasty-chlorine, and with her fist now gently squeezing the helmet-head of his cock wider so she could lick him there too and imagine the saltiness of his cum. She would take him fully in her mouth - so wide, so thick, her tongue curling around the crown of his penis, the skin around the place he had been circumcised soft and ridged, the skin on the shaft of his penis soft and firm. She could suck him then, without taking his length into her mouth and throat, she didn't enjoy the sensation of choking, but she loved the full roundness of him between her teeth, her tongue probing its tip. Being so young, would he cum quickly? She would glance upward, her mouth busy, and he would still be there, taking it in, his eyes closed, but now gently rocking back and forth in her mouth. He better do something to me too, she thought.

She was somewhere else with his salty cock in her mouth, one hand cupped around his ass, the other caressing his balls. She was in Greece in the time of the gods, and she was Aphrodite and Athena combined in one. She closed her eyes and saw cerulean blue sky and whitewashed churches. She tasted ouzo and smelled woodsmoke. She felt his haunches grow hairy, imagined his feet transform into hooves.

She let go of his ass and her hand slid along his hip, down his leg - quivering, taut, perhaps he was trying to hold himself back - and to her own thigh, to her crotch, where she slipped her fingers under the hem of her bikini and touched herself, wet - drenched! - slippery. She felt torrential, like her life was coming to a logical end.

He would place his hands on her head, running his fingers through her hair, and pull her to him, choking her slightly, holding the back of her head and allowing himself to be swallowed, pushing himself to the back of her throat until she, with her hand, held him away and caught her breath. He would hold her head, tilting it back, look down at her now with shadowed eyes and she would see his chest rising, his belly sucking in, his balls pulsing, and a tiny white pearl at the tip of his cock which she would lick quickly off and feel him arch his back and press the full length of his cock against her face, his balls at her mouth, tempting her with their apricot fullness. It would hurt, she thought, If I sucked them too hard.

He would waken, then, she thought. He would push her back to lie on the chaise, and kneeling before her, slip her bikini off in one quick motion. Now, her eyes staring wide and glassy at him, she would watch him take hold of her ankles and lift her legs. She would be pulling at her nipples, it's always my nipples, she would be thinking, and she would involuntarily arch her lower back up away from the cushion of the chaise. Was the chaise high enough off the ground for him to take her from a standing position? How would he do it? He would kneel then, somewhat awkwardly, his long cock swaying from side to side as he found the right balance on the chaise, his knees under hers now, her legs spread wide apart, as wide as she held them in upavistha konasana in yoga, that wide-legged seated forward bend in which her damp pussy was right on the floor and the backs of her hamstrings lay flush with the mat and she could lean so far forward she could place her forehead on the floor in front of her without rounding her back.

He would be holding her ankles high and wide, and she would reach down and grasp his cock then, it would need guidance, and she would tickle its head against the neatly trimmed, barely-there soft hairs of her pussy, their eyes locked together now, breath short, and he would push against her hand, full of wanting, stabbing at the air.

His cock's head as round and dark as a plum. She would take him with two hands then and guide him to her, to her soft and wide and wet entrance, and hold him there, feeling the intense heat of him against her eager lips, hot as a burning coal, and then, finally, finally, let him go and feel him wildly slide into her, his cock riotous and huge, slipping all the way in until she could feel him nudge her deepest insides, and she would arch up against him then, inciting him to come farther, to dive deeper, and he would pause for a second, his balls burning tight against her ass, his shaft sweet and hot inside her, oddly comforting, even as she clenched herself around it to hold him there if she could, and then his slide away and nearly out - No, she wanted to say, Stay there! - and then the hard frantic thrust back in, staying in now, sliding in her and staying there, her legs so wide apart she thought she would faint, him holding her wide apart and she wanting to wrap her legs around him and lock him to her, his thick cock pulling her clit into her, rubbing it in rhythm with his thrusts, his balls looser now, slapping against her ass, she knew she would come so easily, she wondered if she could hold back and wait for him, would he come inside her? Would he pull out and let his come spurt boiling out onto her belly?

He might tease her, then, pulling out and sliding in, just the head of his glorious cock, just an inch or so, taking a dip, showing he knew more than she thought he did. She would have her hands on her head now, no where to place them, tangled in her hair, her head arched back and her eyes open and then closed, turning her head from side to side. She would pinch her nipples; she would stare at his bare chest. On one of his deeper thrusts she would contract around him, trying to hold him, and he would slide in deeper, making her gasp.

She could tell he was holding back. He slid in deep and paused; she could feel him shuddering, she could feel him tightening his ass. She would tease him back, rotating her hips side to side and up and down against him; she would reach down and play with herself while she looked in his eyes. He would have his eyes closed, though, with the strain of holding back. She could feel herself so close, so damn close, it was like feeling the air sucked out of a room by a sudden wind, it was like the coming of a whirlwind and she would be swept away. She would begin bucking, pressing her ankles hard into his hands, gripping the edge of the chaise, pulling herself onto him and finally he would move fast and hard into her again and she would just give in to it, the glorious hot wave of coming on his burning cock, wave after wave, her belly sucking in and out, feeling him so long and hot and hard inside her, God, she would go rigid as she came and came and then he would follow, she would feel the heat of him spending himself inside her, the vast shuddering of his orgasm inside her, and she would push herself up, like doing a Pilates exercise, his cock juddering and buried inside her, bring herself face to face with him and take his head in her hands and kiss him, tongue slipping wildly in to writhe with his, and he would let go of her ankles finally and hold her ass in his hands to keep her up and she would relax against him and come again and again.

That's how it would all go down, she thought, watching him as he stood before her after his swim. She was wet; he was soaking. She wanted him. She wanted it. There was so much she wanted and she knew she deserved it.