She arrived just after dusk—sweating already in the heat of the eternal pool. The water shimmered, endless and warm, glowing like liquid honey under the stars.
wearing a red micro-bikini so small it barely qualified as swimwear, the fabric sheer when wet, clinging like a second skin. already soaked—sweat glistening at the curve of her hips, beading between her breasts, dripping down her thighs. Just from anticipation.
This wasn’t just a swim.
This was a ritual.
Scuba tanks leaned by the pool wall, regulators coiled like serpents. Dozens of pool floaties bobbed nearby—shiny unicorns, translucent donuts, oversized glossy lips. She licked her own with a slow breath, already flushed from the heat and the eyes she felt watching her.
stepped into the water. It wrapped around her like silk—warm, heavy, inviting. She moaned softly. Her bikini top tightened as she arched backward, the waterline rising just above her navel.
Her nipples pressed against the soaked red triangles. She swam to the center of the pool where a massive clear float awaited her—half recliner, half bondage chair, inflated just for her.
And she knew what would happen next.
Hands—gloved in latex, or neoprene maybe—helped her up onto it. The float creaked and bounced as she climbed on, skin wet and glistening. She lay back, letting the clear vinyl embrace her. Her arms slid into soft restraints at the side, not tied but tight, as if the float itself wanted her still.
The air was thick with chlorine and lust.