She was breathing heavy now, every inhale a hiss of tanked air. She couldn’t even scream. Just moans. Just vibrations.
“Cum for us, float girl,” the domme whispered again. “Or we drown you in lube and ride you ‘til morning.”
That was all it took.
Her body convulsed, pleasure exploding like a firecracker in water. She writhed beneath the floaty weight, impaled, leaking, dizzy. Her orgasm broke through her like a rip tide, leaving her limp, panting, ruined.
The jellyfish float was lifted off.
The strap-on was pulled out slowly, trailing slickness. And she lay there—barely clothed, soaked, glowing with heat and surrender—arms limp in
pink cuffs, bikini soaked and bunched, lips parted beneath the mouthpiece. They wiped her down with a clear towel, then lifted her gently back onto the floaty throne.
One of the handlers whispered against her neck:
“Good toy. Same time tomorrow.”
The beach was packed—families splashing in the surf, couples sunbathing, groups laughing over coolers and towels. No one paid her any mind at first. She was just another girl in a bikini.
But her bikini was smaller. Shinier. Cut so obscenely that her top barely covered her nipples, and her bottoms rode up like dental floss between her cheeks. Hot pink. Glossy. And soaked through already with sweat and lube.
She walked barefoot along the shoreline, hips swaying, floaty in hand—a clear inflatable swan, oversized and glistening in the sun. Her skin shimmered with tanning oil. Her inner thighs were slick. And every movement made her bikini shift in ways it wasn’t meant to survive.
She wanted them to stare.
And they did.