Pool Boy

"'P.H.?' Do the kids these days still say 'Phat with a ph'?"

Brandon failed to suppress a wince at the tantalizing homophone of "fat" being spoken allowed between them. He gulped in hesitation before answering and—she could swear to God his voice was about to crack—said, "I don't think, so Ms. Parker."

"Ah. Sorry. I interrupted. You were saying you had to look at the, uh, T and A?" A high pitched squeak, like a dog's whimper, escaped audibly from somewhere in his nasal cavity and he began coughing as he aspirated lemonade into his trachea. "Oh my God, are you okay?" she exclaimed. He tried to nod and wave her off dismissively, but the gesture was premature. The coughs were running away from him now; his eyes were pinched closed and his face rapidly reddening.

She quickly took the glass of lemonade from his hand and set it on the patio table before stepping behind him, grabbing him round the middle, and executing a quick, deliberate Heimlich. With one contraction his cough was audibly improved, as he produced a great burst of lemonade and immediately refilled his lungs with a fresh, urgent inhalation. She remained in big spoon position, enjoying the heave of his lats, the press of his gluts into her squishy-fat middle, the way his warm wiry body felt encircled in her meaty arms.

Gradually his breathing began to normalize and she released her wrist from Heimlich posture and turned her palms inward, feeling his strong abs through his polo. When he didn't say anything—just stood there, as though in patient anticipation—she grew bolder, lifting up his polo and placing her palms against the bare, warm, sun-baked skin of his belly. "Oh, Ms. Parker!" he breathed in aroused surprise.

She began hastily unfastening his belt, but kept his shorts from falling off with the continued application of pressure by her bulging belly against his tight butt. She reached down into his underwear—an unfamiliar cross between boxers and briefs—and quickly found the more tactilely familiar feeling of a thick, veiny young cock. Already hardening, he sprang eagerly to life in her skilled hands. She shifted it so that it was still mostly concealed by the front of his underpants, but allowed the pointed, circumcised head to pop out the top of the elastic band.

"Jesus, Ms. Parker, shouldn't we go inside?!"

"No," she heard herself saying, "pool," though the thought hadn't occurred to her until this very minute. She took a step back from him and pantsed him, causing him to squeak in embarrassed alarm. He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his shirt and jumped headlong into the pool in great haste to have his nakedness concealed beneath the water's surface. She followed at a more leisurely pace, steadying herself on the metal bar as she descended the steps into the pool.

He swam over to meet her at medium depth and they kissed in the sun-spangled, chloriney environment. He crashed his face and tongue into hers as he began manhandling her breasts with adolescent eagerness.

"Here," she said, securing his wrists and taking charge of the situation. "Back up." She guided him into a position against the wall with his arms outstretched to full wingspan, securing him in a 'T' shape against the side wall of the pool. She reached down and hooked her thumbs into her bottoms, sliding them down over her gargantuan ass. She then paddled up to him and, in her weightlessness, floated up to the level of his teenage-hard member. With one hand she grasped the rim and with the other she guided his meaty member to her crotch and—Oh!—crashed against him more quickly than she'd intended, due to the difficulty of controlling her position in the water, and felt his whole seven inches puncture her with an almost unwelcome suddenness.

But she quickly acclimated and began taking full advantage of the weightlessness of the water to heave up and down, up and down, up and down on the stiff, throbbing cock, her knees grazing the coarse, painted concrete sidewall as she straddled him, pinned him against the wall (she would later learn that she had scraped her knees badly enough to need Band-Aids).

He clearly wanted to hug her big body, but could not disengage from the wall without losing his anchor. Once or twice he tentatively freed a single arm, in the hope of fondling buttock or breast, but as rotational inertia would begin to draw them out into the pool he would each time reach frantically back to grasp the wall again.

Now resigned to his static position, Brandon remained fixed and Brenda continued her deliberate stroke, feeling felt him grow larger, harder, in the telltale sign of approaching orgasm. There was no way she was going to come again but even so his cock felt so good inside her. "Oh, Ms. Parker," he moaned, "I don't think you're fat at all!"

"Shut up, Brandon," she said.

"Okay but—oh shit! Ms. Parker I'm gonna come!"

She pushed off from the wall and watched as stretching white strands of semen began lazily expanding in the blue-green water below, making her smile. She reached down under the water and gave his left butt cheek an affectionate squeeze before diving down do retrieve her bikini bottom and wriggling back into them under the water. She then stepped out of the pool and got her bathrobe, which she held up as a curtain for Brandon to use as he emerged from the water.

She ushered him inside, then went about the yard and patio retrieving the articles of his clothing from where they'd been deposited and then piled them all into his arms and packed him off into the bathroom to dress. She went outside and collected his chemical kit so that there would be nothing more keeping him when he emerged, and then retrieved the lemonade pitcher, poured a class, and spiked it with some citrus-infused vodka from her bar before gulping it down.

When he emerged from the bathroom she could see right away he was cuter than before in his happy, relieved afterglow. "Wow, Ms. Parker—" he began, but she took charge, taking him in a light hug and planting a peck on his lips.

"You'd better get going. You don't want to get backed up on your route."

When he was gone she poured a second cocktail and lit a cigarette (a rare indulgence for her—she could make a pack last two months) and phoned Shelby's cell.

"Hey, Brenda."

"Hey, Shell. How was nails?"

"Good good. To what do I owe the pleasure? Oh! How was pool boy? Were you good?"

"Well... he certainly thought so."

"Oh my god! Really?!"

"I told you it was hard to ignore."

"Well... okay. I mean, as long as you're happy. Am I gonna get... tee-hee-hee... details?"

"Tomorrow over drinks if you want."

"Totally."

"I've got fuckall to do between now and then—except cancel my pool service."