"Whirlpool Whoopee"
My nipples stiffen in the cold morning air. I dart down snowy steps leading from my condo to the complex's communal pool. The threadbare towel I clutch around my curves does little to abate piercing wind. With frozen fingers I unlock the gate, shed the cover-up, and submerge my body in the hot tub with a satiated sigh.
"Nothing quite like it," a deep voice says from the steam. I yelp, not only from the hot shock to my system, but also at the shattered illusion of solitude. In my haste to enter the water, I hadn't seen my neighbor soaking silently in the corner. I'd assumed that, at 5 a.m., I would have the tub to myself, allowing me the privacy of pleasuring myself.
Not to fulfill an exhibitionist fetish, but rather to scratch an itch that's been nagging all night. Or rather, all month. My boyfriend is into hardcore gaming. "Come to bed," is my mantra that goes unheard through noise canceling headphones as he slashes alien zombies on an oversized monitor. The initial thrill of living with Tony has curdled after a year, and so I spend Saturday nights paging through tabloids and sipping cheap wine while his eyes remain transfixed by the computer's blinding lights.
But last night, I took a proactive approach. I slid black stockings up my long, trim legs, fastened them with a garter belt over a lace thong, bound my B-cup breasts with a strappy contraption, and finished the look with patent leather stilettos. Emerging from the bedroom like Gisele Bundchen on a runway, I strode to his command center and swiveled the chair. His headphones ripped from the jack and he protested, "What the hell!" When he observed my ensemble, however, his pale, round face lit with desire.
"Fuck, babe, you look amazing!" he groaned, a thick pulse rising in his mesh shorts. Electric blue guts continued to spew from avatars behind him, along with sporadic commentary from other gamers. Despite the off-putting soundtrack, I was positively wet with need. We hadn't had sex in nearly a month, so I straddled his slumped posture, pressing against layers of fabric upon his hardening shaft. When he tugged my auburn curls to expose my neck for his tasting, I shuddered. I nearly came then, but peeled myself off, grabbed his hand and said, "Come to bed."
Tony, however, turned his oily black head at the computer and grimaced, "Babe, I promise I will after this round. I already paid to join." Had I been holding an object, I would have hurled it at his precious screen, consequences damned. I stormed into the bedroom with a slammed door instead, a dramatic gesture that was not perceived as he'd already resumed his virtual rampage under a headset.
With the computer occupied, I couldn't even watch porn to pleasure myself.
Patience
, I scolded, and passed an agonizing hour fantasizing about his deft, tech fingers clicking upon my body instead of the Frito Lay greased keyboard. At some point, I dozed off, tangled in lingerie and linens. When Tony finally re-entered the bedroom near daybreak, and immediately flopped into a snoring slumber, I slunk from bed, shed the stockings and garter belt, and grabbed the pool keys, hell bent on climbing to climax atop one of the hot tub's full throttle jets.
My neighbor, however, serves as an impediment to my private pleasure plans. In response to his comment, I mumble, "Yeah," not keen on pre-dawn conversation, and settle myself into the opposite corner. We simmer in silence.
Just wait him out
, I coach.
He won't last much longer.
He's old
—though every adult seems old when you're 25. Mid-40's, I'd conjectured from his greying temples and crinkled eyes, barely visible in the dim, decorative lanterns. He's old enough to have a bratty skateboarding son that never cleans up after his Pekingese; yet young enough to have a healthy sex life, as evidenced by the well-heeled girlfriend that visits every other weekend while the son stays with his mother. Why is it that, when you're not getting laid, it seems that everyone and their mother
is
?
He rises out of the water.
Surprisingly well-defined
, I note, though we've encountered one another in the fitness center several times, nodding greetings under earbuds. My hands are too busy to wave goodbye, already snaking along my inner thighs as the prospect of his departure. Instead of reaching for his towel, however, he steps out of the water and asks, "Mind if I crank the jets?"
My heart plummets as bubbles begin rising before I can answer. He immerses to his corner, resting buff shoulders on the concrete ledge. Warm water surges between my legs. The pleasure of the pressure elicits a moan, which I cover with a subsequent cough and introduction. "I'm Shay, by the way."
He smiles and says, "Dustin. Pleased to meet you." I shift away from the jet pulsing at my pussy, towards a less stimulating stream between my shoulder blades. Still, the sensation is nearly unbearable and after a few minutes, I decided to surrender, return inside, and rouse Tony from his slumber with the whining of my vibrator. I realize, however, that my neighbor will see my exposed ass, still strapped in unused lingerie. Not only are my bathing suits stored in bins with summer clothing, but I'd also assumed I'd have solitude at the early hour.
It's a shame I'm willing to suffer
, I decide, and as I rise from the water, my bare chest is shocked in cold.
In the coursing, numbing water, I hadn't noticed the jet's unlacing my bra. Instinctively I reach to cover them and squint through steam for the rogue garment. Dustin's outstretched hand clutches it, a sloppy smile splayed across his stubbled cheeks. "Here," he chuckles, dark eyes glued upward at the stars as I take the bra. I don't bother refastening the complex clips over my heaving bosom.
Instead, I wade towards him and ask, "Can you help me retie this?" I face away, though sense his shock as I brush my weightless rear against his crotch.
Dustin grasps each strap and assesses, "Erm, it looks complicated." He fiddles with honest effort and I stick my ass into him again. Although upper half freezes, his stem unfurls through the swim trunks. The hardness at my sacrum unleashes curiosity as my hands swim towards his arousal, exploring its notable length and girth.
"Whoa," he finally halts, "what are you doing?" I turn towards his visage revealing equal parts lust and alarm. Knowing his thick dick is just inches from my hungry honeypot unleashes a wild desire. I toss the bra to the pavement, landing with a wet smack. My tits float freely, and this time his dark gaze soaks them in rather than race skyward. Something must have switched in him too because he cups them with calloused hands.
"Mmm," I offer, closing my eyes. His trepidation drifts away like the steam concealing us. Despite the tepid temperature, my nipples stiffen between his pinch. When he tugs downward, I gasp at the unexpected boldness.
"I never would have guessed
this
