Then she climbed on top again—slick rubber against sweaty bikini, mouth sealed by scuba gear, wet bodies locked in place.
They bounced. They writhed. They floated.
She came like a wave breaking, writhing against the restraints as the float creaked and the pool steamed around her. Her orgasm rolled in, wet and wild, moaning through the hiss of her breath. The regulator hissed. Her body trembled. Her bikini clung tighter than ever.
She was soaked in everything—sweat, water, heat, lube, and pleasure.
And then, silence.
The domme stroked her face, gently pulled the regulator away. “Float back down, baby,” she murmured. “We’re just getting started.”
The domme didn’t give her time to recover.
Still strapped to the floatie—sweaty, glistening, bikini barely clinging—she could only pant softly as the scuba domme slid a slick finger down her soaked stomach. The regulator was back in her mouth before she could beg. Just that hiss of breath, steady and deep, as she was submerged again into submission.
“Float girls don’t speak,” the domme whispered, diving her gloved fingers under the edge of her bikini bottoms. “They breathe. They drip. They take.”
She moaned, eyes rolling back as the woman pressed two fingers right where she was soaked and swollen. Vinyl squelched beneath her. Water sloshed around the float’s edges. Her body jerked as pressure built again, fast and brutal.
The domme kissed her stomach…