Eyes followed her as she straddled the floatie and climbed on, legs spread, thighs sliding apart on wet plastic. She settled into the curve of it, chest arched high, her nipples barely held by the stretched pink triangles. The sun roasted her slowly, baking her in heat and attention.
She moaned quietly. Loud enough to tease. Not loud enough to stop the families around her from pretending not to notice.
Then she started to rock.
It wasn’t subtle. Her hips ground against the vinyl, the float creaking gently under her slick movements. Her bikini bottoms shifted—she knew the seam had slipped into her folds. She could feel air and wetness. She didn’t fix it.
A couple nearby gasped. A teen boy turned bright red. A woman stared, frozen, phone half-raised like she couldn’t decide whether to record or call someone.
But no one stopped her.
She was too shameless. Too pretty. Too wet and shiny and floaty to look away from.
She pulled a scuba mouthpiece from her bag and popped it between her lips, sucking air through the regulator. The final kink. The signal. She was no longer a girl on a floatie. She was gear.
A toy.
Her free hand slid down her stomach and pressed against the wet triangle between her legs. Right there, in the open sun. She rubbed, slow and lazy, the plastic creaking beneath her, the float rocking as her thighs trembled. The pleasure was sharp—public, exposed, humiliating.
She loved it.
Her orgasm hit with a soft, strangled moan behind the regulator. Her toes curled. Her hips bucked. The floatie bounced. Her cum slicked the seat beneath her, mixing with sunscreen and sweat and sea salt.
And still—no one stopped her.
She floated there after, eyes closed, mouthpiece hissing softly. Used. Spent. Radiant. A toy on display.