Trish

He was in the kitchen when he peeked again, closer this time than when he'd peered down from his bedroom. One hand clutched a glass, the other the faucet handle; he might need an excuse for hovering by the window. Besides, it helped steady him.

This wasn't the same hyper little squirt he remembered. Until a moment ago he still pictured her with Kool Aid-stained lips, splashing awkwardly about his pool. His most vivid memory of her was when he caught her pulling the fabric of her bathing suit into simulated breasts, all the while shrieking "I'm Madonna, I'm Madonna!" to the hysteria of her playmates.

Trish had called about a month ago to reintroduce herself. She'd grown up down the street but moved away several years ago when her parents separated. The 'rents had recently patched things up, and she was staying with them over summer vacation. She was working nights and wondered if she might use his pool now and then while he was at work. Since then she'd spent most weekdays working on her tan. This was the first day he hadn't gone to the office, so their paths had not crossed before today. She wouldn't have known that he was home.

Can you call tits "profound"? Somehow that word popped into his mind. The way they spilled out of her top and practically levitated: profound. Her stomach, with it's little "innie" bellybutton cupping a small puddle of oil, was flat but still fleshy enough for him to imagine its give under his touch. The legs were long and graceful, yet athletic and powerful, like a dancer's. The severity of her bangs (not so much Bettie Page as Veronica from the Archie comic strip) was in sharp contrast to her still girlish face. It was as though she was trying to force her features to catch up to her body's maturity.

She reached for the thermos resting by her towel, tipped it back, then tossed the container to the ground. Trish rose to her feet, teetering just enough for Mr. Adler to realize it wasn't water she'd just guzzled. She stepped gingerly to his privacy wall (add her ass to the "profound" category), squatted, and hooked a thumb under her bikini fabric to pull it aside. He told himself it was indignation that urged him outside.

"AHEM!" Could he have uttered anything more hackneyed? Still, she jerked her head upward, wobbled, and fell back onto her profound ass. She tried to break her fall with both hands, which caused her bikini to snap back into place. A spurt of pee soiled the material before her instincts kicked in to stop the discharge. She sat frozen on the lawn, looking for a moment like the gangly kid he recalled. Her apologies tripped over one another: she thought he was at work...she couldn't wait to walk home...if she'd known he was home she would have knocked...

"Is that any excuse for pissing all over my property like a stray dog?!" She sat in mortified silence. But then maybe she detected him trembling ever so slightly, or she discerned some activity in his trousers, or merely made the type of educated guess a gorgeous woman can make about a man's motives. When he bitingly asked, "are you quite done?" she smirked a little, and said that she wasn't.

The fluid hissed out of her bald cunt and slithered through the tightly cropped blades of grass, forming a puddle between his feet. He didn't flinch when it backed up against his shoes like water against a dam. Sick old pervert. "Ooh, I'm a mess Mr. Adler. Can I clean up inside?" She didn't wait for an answer and sauntered through the door, thinking how it was going to be fun to toy with this seedy bastard.

"How about fixing a drink, something ice cold?" He heard the shower running as he obediently headed to the kitchen. He had just finished making gin and tonics when she padded in, wrapped in a small towel, dripping all over his pristine floor. He fancied that he appeared calm and composed. He looked to her like a petrified little boy. The tables had definitely turned in her favor.

They drank silently, the AC blasting. Its chill hardened her nipples beneath the terry cloth, and raised goose bumps across his flesh. She saucily let the towel fall to the floor and perched on a tall stool. Her foot, resolutely placed on his chest, stopped his advance. She giggled, spun her back to him and stretched lazily. He shook as he told her she had the most perfect ass he'd ever seen.

"I know. Why don't you kiss it?" As he worshipped her young, perfect, profound ass, she confronted him. "You liked watching me pee. Why is that?" He launched into a long-winded, overly rationalized explanation that made him sound like a Dr. Ruth wannabe. It bored her. It was enough to know for certain that he liked it.

"Well I have to go again," she interrupted. He began to remind her where the bathroom was when the first drops began to trickle down one leg, tickling her thigh. He watched in fascination as the trail wound its way to her manicured red toenails. Just then the first full blast jetted out, falling short of its mark, and splashing on his sterile tile floor. The next burst reached the target, drenching his neck and chest, finally hitting him flush in the face. Again that bratty giggle: "I'm just so clumsy! Look what I've done now!"

She clamped tight to interrupt the flow. "Open wide," she commanded. In contrast to the cool tile on his knees and the icy temperature of the house, her piss burned his tongue. It seared his throat like whiskey. He risked stinging his eyes as he watched the whole intense scene. Her hands were placed arrogantly on her hips as she gazed down at him with a mixture of amazement and condescension. "This is just too easy," she thought. She loved this feeling of absolute power; it was so addictive, so easy to abuse. Anyone who'd fall to his knees and drink her hot piss was hers for the taking. She forbade him to wipe his face, and commanded him to strip.

The scene drove her mad with arousal, but of course she couldn't let him touch her lovely little clit. She fingered herself as he licked her leg clean. She came powerfully at the sight of him drinking her now cool piss off of the floor. Then without a word she stepped over him, fetched her things, and dressed. She gave him one last bratty looked and traipsed out the door.

The next morning he called in sick and waited by the kitchen window.