Chapter 2: Oh Poolboy
He could feel their eyes on him before he’d even finished sweeping the tile. The sound of water sloshing in the whirlpool did little to mask the soft, appraising sighs and the clink of crystal tumblers holding something far stronger than lemonade.
Veronica and Penelope reclined on adjacent chaise lounges like two rival queens, their silicone kingdoms shimmering under the harsh, greenish glow of the pool lights. Their bikinis were engineering marvels, tiny scraps of neon-bright fabric struggling to contain masses of flesh so large and unnaturally round they cast deep shadows across their own navels.
“Pool boy,” Veronica drawled, not looking up from polishing her gold-plated fingernails. Her voice was smoked honey and disdain. She’d recently undergone a ‘rejuvenation’ that lifted her cheeks into a permanent, imperious sneer.
He flinched, nearly dropping the net he was using to fish out a drowned leaf. “Ma’am?”
“The sun,” she said, finally tilting her sunglasses down to peer at him over the rim. Her lips, collagen-plumped into a perfect cupid’s bow, pursed. “It’s ghastly. I can feel it leaching the moisture from my skin. Be a darling and fetch my lotion. SPF two hundred thousand.”
He scurried to the cart.
“Helona, that’s your third SPF request this hour,” Penelope said from the next lounger, not opening her eyes. Her breasts were slightly larger than Veronica’s, a fact she leveraged at every opportunity, each tit a colossal, water-filled sphere with a tight, dark areola visibly poking against the magenta triangle of her top. “Are you trying to get the poor thing fired for incompetence? You know his tiny brain can only handle one request at a time.”
Veronica’s smile was venomous. “My skin is simply more valuable, Penny. More… acquisition-worthy. Pool boy, now.”
He returned with the bottle, an absurdly small, matte white cylinder that cost more than his monthly rent.
“Well?” Veronica said, arching one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Don’t just stand there like a sentient coat rack. Apply it.”
He squeezed a dollop onto his trembling palm. The air thickened with the scent of coconut and white orchid, undercut by the chlorine and the hot, wet-dog smell of over-chlorinated pool water.
Her skin was warm and startlingly smooth under his calloused hands. He started at her ankle, working the lotion up her calf in clumsy circles.
“Higher,” she commanded, her voice dropping to a purr. She shifted, the motion causing her monstrous chest to sway, a slow, mesmerizing avalanche of flesh that threatened to escape its neon-green confines entirely.
He obeyed, his hand moving past her knee, over the firm pillow of her thigh.
Penelope cracked one eye open, a slash of glittering emerald malice. “Honestly, Veron-icka, watching you is like watching a Valet try to park a spaceship. You need a firmer touch. Pool boy, when you’re done failing there, my shoulders ache. From the… sun.”
He froze, a hand on Veronica’s inner thigh.
Veronica laughed, a sharp, tinkling sound. “Your shoulders ache from the weight of last month’s alimony checks, sweetie. Pool boy, ignore her. My décolletage is next. Do be thorough.”
His hands moved to the staggering valley of her cleavage. The lotion vanished between the slick, hot mountains of her enhanced flesh. He worked it in, his fingers sinking into impossible softness. She exhaled, a theatrical, shuddering sigh, and leaned back, letting her bikini top do even less of its job.
“My turn,” Penelope snapped, sitting up. Her own top slipped, one dark nipple peeking out entirely before she adjusted it with a languid, showy gesture. “You’ve clearly had enough fun for one afternoon.”
Veronica didn’t move. “Don’t be boring, Penny. He’s just gotten to the important bits.”
“Then he can return to your important bits after,” Penelope retorted, her voice saccharine. “My back.Now. And I want the oil. The warming one.”
Trapped, he retreated from Veronica’s smirking gaze and fetched a different bottle, this one slick and golden. Penelope presented her back, a vast, tanned expanse held together by a dizzyingly complex arrangement of strings. He poured, and the oil slid down the dramatic curve of her spine, pooling at the base where her thong strap cut
into the deep crease of her ass. “Stop staring and start rubbing, unless you want me to have the manager flog you,” she muttered, her voice a low grumble of entitlement and agitation.
He pressed his palms flat against her shoulder blades, working the slick oil in firm circles. The heat from the lotion bloomed instantly, and a low hum of satisfaction vibrated from her chest. His hands slid lower, over the complex topography of her ribs, down to the indent of her waist.
“His hands are like sandpaper, Ronnie,” Penelope sighed, rolling her shoulders back. “Charming in a… primitive way.”
“I pay his salary, darling. If his hands were any softer, I’d assume he wasn’t doing his job,” Veronica replied, not moving. She traced a finger along the rim of her own bikini bottom. “Do my feet next, pool boy. The tiles are simply murder.”
He knelt instantly, leaving Penelope oiled and glistening, a display she’d begun explicitly for a rival audience. The transition was jarring, the air swapping Penelope’s heated jasmine scent for Veronica’s cooler, oceanic perfume as he shuffled between loungers on his knees. He grasped Veronica’s ankle, lifting her foot into his lap. Her skin was unnaturally smooth, the arch shockingly high.
“Between the toes,” she commanded, examining her nails.
His fingers worked clumsily. The obscene proximity to the women’s positions, the echoing drip of the pool filter, his own ragged breathing, all combined into a dizzying pressure behind his eyes. He felt his own body responding, a traitorous stiffness in his simple red swim shorts.
Penelope saw it first. A slow, wide smile spread across her face. “Oh, look at that. The equipment is finally awake.” She swung her legs over the side of the lounger, the oiled globes of her chest swinging pendulously.
“So it is,” Veronica cooed, twisting her ankle to free it from his grasp. She curled a single toe, pressing it deliberately against the hard ridge in his shorts. “That’s a mess you’ve made, isn’t it? You’ll need to deal with it.”
“My new toy had an accident,” Penelope laughed, a crude, bark-like sound. She strode over, her heels clicking on the wet tile, and stood behind him.Her shadow swallowed him. She gripped the collar of his white polo shirt and pulled him backwards, off balance, until his shoulders rested against her shins. “Veron-icka got your hands dirty. Let me help clean up.”
He stared up, his world framed by the underside of Penelope’s shelf-like chest. With one hand she ripped the Velcro clasp of her bikini top. It fell away, and the full, impossible weight of her tits slammed down, smothering his face. They were shockingly cool from the air and slick with her sweat and oil. He couldn’t breathe, could only register the overwhelming, salty-sweet smell of her skin and sunscreen, the choking softness, the hard nub of her nipple pressing against his cheekbone.