then lower—just above her bikini line. Her dive hood squeaked against the oil-slick skin. She peeled the bottoms aside and blew a hot breath over the girl’s bare, slippery clit. The sensation nearly shattered her. She clenched around nothing, thighs twitching, hips pinned by the floaty.
She couldn’t thrust—just float. Just take.
“You want to pop, don’t you?” the domme said, voice muffled under the hood. “All full of air and cum and chlorine. Little beach toy slut.”
She whimpered behind the regulator.
The domme slipped a warm vibrator between her thighs and secured it there with a pink, squeaky inflatable strap-on harness—tight around her hips, tight against her core, buzzing low. She screamed into the mouthpiece as the vibrations shot up her spine.
“Just relax,” the domme cooed. “Let the pool fill you.”
She tied floaty arm cuffs tighter around the girl’s slick limbs—now totally encased in pool toy gear. Wrists puffed with pink plastic. Ankles sealed in purple donut cuffs. Every time she twitched, the float creaked, the plastic squealed, and she throbbed harder.
The domme climbed back on top, straddling her like a jet ski—vinyl to vinyl, wet crotch grinding on wet bikini. Her gloved hand never stopped stroking the vibrator against the girl’s clit, then slipped lower—two, three fingers plunging into her now, pumping, curling, owning her.
“Good girls leak,” she said. “Floaties squeak. And you—bikini bitch—you just drown in it.”Another orgasm ripped through her—loud, raw, body shaking, arms locked in puffy cuffs.