Chapter 4: Poolside Mishap
The school bell felt like a prison release. Reese stumbled out the main doors, the phantom sensations of Tiffany’s grip and Morbidia’s knowing smirk haunting him. He needed a distraction. He needed a job. Something normal.
The ad was taped to a lamppost in the richer part of town, the paper already curling in the afternoon sun. Pool Boy Wanted. Good pay. Discretion appreciated. An address on Crestview Heights. It sounded blessedly mundane.
The house wasn’t a house. It was a spaceship of glass and blinding white stucco. The pool was a cerulean tear dropped into the cliffside, overlooking the entire city. Reese, clutching his janitorial caddy of basic cleaners he’d bought, felt like a tiny, shabby insect.
He found the intercom. Before he could press it, a voice, syrup-thick and airy, floated from a balcony above.
“You the pool kid? Gate’s open, sugar. Just follow the… drips.”
The gate buzzed. He walked through, past manicured topiaries, the air smelling of chlorine and jasmine. And then he saw the drips.
They led from the pool deck, across the hot concrete. They were oily, iridescent. He followed them past a row of loungers, his shoes sticking slightly.
She was a sculpture poured from honey and silicone, arranged on a padded chaise. Bambi Billingsworth. She wore a bikini so minimal it was basically three neon-pink postage stamps and some string. Her skin glistened under a sheen of oil that caught the sun like a second skin. Her lips were two swollen, over-injected pillows, glistening with clear gloss. She held a bottle of tanning oil in one hand, and with a theatrical slowness, she was squeezing a long, thick stream directly between her breasts.
They were not breasts. They were geological formations. Two perfectly spherical, vein-traced globes, so large and firm they cast a shadow on her navel. They didn’t move. They just… were. The oil rivered down the deep, artificial canyon between them, soaking the bikini top, which was doing absolutely nothing.
Reese froze. His brain tried to compute the physics, the scale.
“You just gonna stare, or you gonna clean?” she drawled, not looking at him. She shifted, rolling onto her stomach. The bikini bottom vanished between the hemispheres of her ass, which rose from her back like two overstuffed, oiled beanbag chairs. She poured more oil onto the small of her back, letting it cascade down the dramatic, shelf-like curve.
“The… the pool,” Reese stammered, his voice cracking. He fumbled for the net pole, his eyes locked on the mesmerizing, slick sheen of her. He stepped toward the pool’s edge, his mind full of fake tan and chemical coconut.
His foot caught on the oily patch she’d dripped earlier. It happened in slow motion: a cartoonish windmill of arms, the net pole flying, a startled yelp that was definitely his. The water swallowed him with a huge, embarrassing splash.
He came up sputtering, his glasses askew. He pushed them back, blurry vision clearing just in time to see Bambi standing at the edge, looking down at him. And then at the front of his soaked, cheap chinos.
The fabric, plastered to him, left nothing to the imagination. The sheer, ridiculous outline was unmistakable, even underwater.
Bambi’s giant, glossy lips curved into a smile. “Well, hello there, secret weapon.” She knelt, the movement causing her titanic chest to sway with a strange, hydraulic stability. She reached a manicured hand into the water. “C’mon out, sugar. Let’s get you… dried off.”
He took her hand. She hauled him out with surprising strength. He stood there, dripping, the cool air hitting him, making everything more… apparent.
“Discretion, right?” she purred, her eyes not leaving his groin. “Let’s be discreet.”
She turned and walked, her shelf-ass shifting side to side with a purposeful, oiled clench. He followed, dumbly, into a cabana that smelled of mildew and expensive perfume. She closed the bamboo door.
“Those wet clothes are a tragedy,” she said, and before he could protest, her hands were at his waist, unbuttoning, yanking. The soaked fabric fell away. Her inflated lips formed a perfect ‘O’. “Mother of god. It’s a goddamn campus monument.”
She pushed him onto a wicker loveseat. She didn’t bother removing her top. She just shoved her hands between her chest and hoisted, the motion robotic and practiced. She enveloped him in a valley of slick, warm, unforgiving silicone.
The sensation was bizarre. Immense pressure, a frictionless, plastic heat. She began to piston her upper body back and forth, the globes locking him in a perfect, unyielding tunnel. Her head fell back. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s the stuff. Fuck my tits, you beautiful freak.”
It was over quickly, a combination of the surreal pressure and the week’s built-up tension. He grunted, a release that shot up, streaking her collarbone and chin.
She laughed, a hollow, delighted sound. She scooped a finger through the mess on her chin and sucked it clean. “Yummy. Now, my turn.”
She climbed onto him, reverse, lowering her oiled, engineered ass towards his face. The view was a magnified, shimmering panorama of augmented flesh. She sat fully, smothering him. “Earn your keep, pool boy.”
He fought for air, his tongue working instinctively. She tasted of chemical coconut and salt. She ground against him, moaning, her movements growing jerky. With a shriek, she came, a surprisingly generous gush of warmth soaking his chin and neck.
She didn’t let him recover. She spun, straddled his waist, and impaled herself in one fluid, oil-assisted drop. Her internal muscles clenched around him with a vise-like, rhythmic pulse.
“The oil,” she panted. “Hand it.”
He fumbled for the bottle on the floor. She snatched it, squirting it over her shoulders, down her chest, between them. The scent was overpowering. Everything became a slippery, slapping, chaotic mess. The wet sound of their meeting flesh echoed in the small cabana, mixing with her loud, performance-style moans.
“Cum on them,” she demanded, pulling off him and kneeling quickly, presenting her chest. “Do it. Mark ‘em.”
He did, the streaks adding to the glossy, oiled chaos of her front.
She admired herself in a mirrored panel, smearing the combination of fluids across her rigid breasts. “Art,” she breathed. Then her eyes lit up. “No, wait. Harold’s room. He has better lighting. And a California King.”
She dragged him, still slick and naked, into the main house, through a sterile marble foyer, up a floating staircase. The master bedroom was all white leather and chrome. She pushed him onto the sprawling, unmade bed.
“This is where the magic happens,” she giggled, mounting him again. “Well, where I happen. Harold just sleeps here.”
The sex lost all pretense of rhythm. It was a gymnastic, oil-sloppy exploitation of every position she’d seen in bad mainstream porn. She squirted twice more, drenching the white duvet in clear, sticky fluid, screaming “YES, HYDRATE ME!” each time. Reese became a living tool, his mind blank, operating on autopilot, until he was utterly spent, collapsing onto the ruined, soaked bedding.
Bambi lay beside him, tracing a finger through the various fluids on his chest. “You’re hired permanently,” she sighed, content. “I’ll text you the schedule. Discretion, remember?”
From downstairs, a door slammed. A gruff, older male voice called out. “Honey? You home? The pool deck is a fucking biohazard.”
Bambi’s eyes, for the first time, showed a flicker of something other than lust. It looked like excitement. She put a heavy, oily finger to her swollen lips.
“Shh. That’s Harold. Be a doll and hide in the walk-in closet for a sec, would you?”