Someone—maybe a woman, masked in a black dive hood—strapped a breathing regulator between her lips. The hiss of compressed air filled her ears. Her pulse quickened. Her hands curled. The scuba domme leaned over her, pressing a gloved finger between her bikini-covered breasts, slow and possessive.
“Just float,” the woman purred through the hood. “Be still. Let the gear love you.”
She nodded, sucking air through the regulator, helpless and glassy-eyed. The domme smeared oil over her thighs, then down to her calves, making her whole body shimmer. Her bikini bottoms stuck to her now, glued on by water and friction, and she ached.
Then the floaty began to rock.
Gloved hands poured warm water over her chest, making the fabric cling tighter still. Someone rubbed her stomach, slow circles, letting the sweat and oil mix. The floatie beneath her groaned softly with every shift, its plastic grip snug around her thighs. She felt like a living doll. A float-toy being prepped.
The domme climbed onto the float next, straddling her. She wore a full wetsuit—tight, zipped half down to reveal slick skin underneath. Her goggles fogged lightly from heat. Her hands ran down the girl’s bikini-clad body like she was inspecting gear, not a person. Touching her like property.
“You’re dripping,” she whispered, reaching down. “Let’s add more.”
And she did.
Warm water, sweat, body oil, and now lube—all mixed across her belly, her chest, her thighs. Her bikini was soaked. Her hips began to squirm.