by Sandy Lowe
She stepped out of her panties and I raised my leg again, holding it up at the perfect angle by pressing my foot against the stall wall.
“Is this the spot?” she murmured, her breath hot in my ear as she stroked my G-spot again.
I couldn’t answer. I just cried out, the sound echoing against the tiles.
She looked proud of herself, but her pride turned to desperation as I parted her bush and ran my fingers over her swollen labia. She shivered and spread her legs, moving closer. “Need you everywhere,” she said. She led my hand around to her voluptuous backside, down the narrow furrow of her crack. When I touched her asshole, her body jolted. “Yeah, right there,” she said. “You have me so close.” She straddled my thigh, spreading her lips against my skin and drenching me in her arousal. She was so wet and silky against my leg, and I swore I felt her clit swell more with each roll of her hips. She rocked back and forth, working my finger into her hot, tight hole.
“I want to taste you,” I moaned into her mouth. “I want to lick your cunt and your ass the way you licked my belly.”
She lost it then, grinding into me and gushing onto my thigh, warm and slick with the faintest smell of honey. She fucked against me and kept coming, jerking her fingers deep into me with each shuddering wave that rolled through her body. I bit her shoulder to keep from shouting again as I came. Against my closed eyelids I saw shocks of bright white light.
We collapsed against the wall, our chests heaving. Slowly, I became aware of our surroundings: the clinical tile walls, the shush-shush of running water in the shower stall next to us. She wrapped her arms around me and held me close. She kissed up and down my neck.
“Sleep over with me tonight?” she said. “My roommate’s gone for the weekend.”
“As long as you’re not hell-bent on actually sleeping.”
She laughed. “Not at all.”
It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
Swim Girl
Rion Woolf
When people ask how it all started, I tell them about that aqua-blue Olympic-sized pool where the cusps of moving waves glinted in the overhead light like diamonds. I tell them the water was my whole world, the only place I felt safe and where I found a strong sense of inner peace.
Until the professor began training in the lane next to me.
I started my day at five a.m. in the university pool. I saw her a few times in the weeks before classes started. She strolled out of the locker room and into the pool area like a woman who owned the sport of swimming. Her broad, well-muscled shoulders and slim waist tapered down into the sexy V of her crotch that made my breath hitch. Then there was the bare expanse of her powerful thighs. Lord, just the sight of this woman thrilled my flesh in the way tender folds of skin shiver when they get too close to an open flame.
The two of us shared this Olympic-sized body of water—her in the fast lane, me in the steady lane. Sometimes I’d stop at the end of the pool and watch her long, lean body propel through the water. She made it look so easy, as if the water was helping her along rather than holding her back. She was older than me, possibly early thirties, and had a body chiseled by the hand of a goddess. She had a way of shaking out the water from her short, dark hair that knocked the breath right out of me. Add in a defined chin and strong cheekbones—God! This woman made me physically want in a way I ached for Ruby Rose on Orange is the New Black: physical, steamy, flesh-grinding, put-your-mouth-all-over-me sex.
We met in the women’s locker room a few days before the fall semester started. She smiled and looked out at me with dark, smoldering eyes through a tangle of wet bangs. “I’ve been wondering who my competition is,” she said, tossing her towel on the bench between us. “I’m usually the only one here this early in the morning besides the maintenance woman. I’m Ellen.”
Her warm, strong handshake left me wanting more of her touch.
“Are you in training, Kinsey?”
“A triathlon in November.”
Ellen rolled the dial and opened her locker. “I haven’t seen you around campus.”
I couldn’t look her in the eye as I spoke. The words tumbled out of my mouth like a rambling train, but I couldn’t slow them down: I’d transferred to the university, a senior, for the world-class facilities (did I really say that?) and to be closer to family.
She nodded in a way that gracefully ignored my nervousness. “Your major?”
“Psychology.”
“Interesting.” She flipped open her locker and I caught the edge of a tattoo on the swell of her bicep, rainbow-colored. “I teach history on campus. I can give you a few pointers on the Civil War and your stroke if you like.” She gave me a perfect smile that must have taken a few years in braces to achieve. “I’m on the Masters team. I’ve been swimming competitively since I could walk.” Ellen pulled a mesh bag out of her locker with a large, colorful, circular emblem of a stick-figured swimmer that read Swim Girl.
I accepted her offer while my eyes trailed over every centimeter of Ellen’s racing suit, so tight that had it not been colored black, it would have been hard to recognize where her skin began and ended. Stop staring, I cautioned myself, but I couldn’t drag my eyes away from the half-naked woman before me with taut muscles still golden brown from the summer sun.
“I’ll see you around?” she asked.
I nodded and watched Ellen walk to the showers, my heartbeat nearly rocketing out of my chest. She tossed the towel over the wall hook. Then with her back to me, she slipped the straps of her suit slowly down one shoulder and then the other. I stopped breathing when she rolled the racing swimsuit down over her breasts, over her belly, then over the round of her perfect ass. Once she stepped out of her suit, she stood there a moment, completely and gloriously nude. Her sculpted back shone in the overhead lights and my body called for hers—I felt this undeniable pull. Everything inside me wanted to go to Ellen. Just when I thought I couldn’t stand another second, she stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain closed behind her.
I’d been with a few men—college boys, if you could call them men—and was not impressed. My body, though, longed for the touch of another woman. I’d kissed a lot of girls on drinking binges and tried drunk scissoring with Casey Smith in her dorm room on my twenty-first birthday, both of us laughing so much it hardly worked. There was a moment, though, when we got it right, when our legs weren’t in each other’s way and our pussies locked together, those mouths of ours open and hungry for the other. I felt like I could explode and melt and fall apart all at the same time. What I would have given to feel all those explosions again with Ellen. Every fiber of my being begged to follow her into the shower that morning, my cunt wet and pulsating and not caring one bit whether we were in a public facility or that Ellen was a professor and I was a student. Body to body, that was all that I wanted.
*
A week after classes started, I beat Ellen into the pool for my workout. After a warm-up, I settled into a long and steady three-mile swim. I loved how the water held me, the way it perfectly encased every inch of my body.
I hadn’t been able to forget Ellen. I’d looked into her on campus and found out she indeed specialized in the Civil War—the Battle of Gettysburg, to be exact. I suddenly had a newfound interest in Gettysburg and in all things Civil War. I never knew history could be so sexy.
Somewhere after I’d hit the one-mile marker, I turned my head to take a breath and saw Ellen standing on the side of the pool. She stood with her hands fisted at her hips like a swim coach, watching my stroke.
Ellen met me at the shallow end of the pool and jumped in. “You’re fighting the water,” she said. “Flailing. You need to streamline your stroke.”
The pungent bite of chlorine surrounded us. She turned so I could see the side of her body, and there was the tattoo I’d caught a glimmer of in the locker room. The size of a half dollar, the tattoo filled the space right below where her shoulder met her upper arm and featured the same colorful emblem I�
�d seen on her bag with a stick-figured swimmer: Swim Girl. With her arm straight and her thumb against the outside of her upper thigh, Ellen ran her thumb up to her armpit before reaching out for the stroke. I stood beside her with the water up to my waist when she reached for my hand to show me the stroke. Her touch cloaked in water jolted through me like pure electricity.
“Keep your arm as close to your body as possible,” Ellen said, adjusting my stroke, holding on to my elbow a little longer than she needed to. “Every movement in the water must be intentional.”
My intention at that moment? Not to stare at her breasts.
I utterly failed.
I thanked her later in the locker room while she gathered her items for the shower. “I’m not the best swimmer,” I admitted.
“You’re better than you think.” Ellen smiled. “What you need is confidence.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
She reached for my hand the way she had in the pool, this time winding her fingers through mine, nudging me toward her. I held on to Ellen, this almost-nude goddess before me, and surprised myself when I leaned into her until the tip of my nose and lips brushed against the long slope of her warm, smooth neck. Pure heat blazed between my legs. Both of us froze, barely breathing, wanting so much more.
Bang! The locker room door swung open. “Maintenance!”
Ellen and I jumped away from each other, and I turned back to my locker. A woman with a mop and bucket waved hello to us and went into the section of the locker room with the toilet stalls. Ellen headed to the showers. I stood at the locker, holding on to the cold metal edge to try and catch my breath. She was a professor, for God’s sake! What was I thinking? I’d never been so forward with anyone before, so wanting, so confident.
The curtain to Ellen’s shower wasn’t completely closed, and in that gapped space, I saw her. I nearly dropped my towel and shampoo. I stood motionless, transfixed. The shower water rolled down the solid slope of Ellen’s torso in rivulets, the suds slipping down between the swell of her breasts, over her hips, and down over the backs of her knees. She turned under that river of water with her eyes closed, letting me see every part of her. Her hand reached up for her left breast and she grabbed it hard, beading the nipple between her fingers. She let out a soft, deep groan muffled by the sounds of running water.
I didn’t realize what I was doing while standing there watching her, until I looked down. My hand worked my own nipples into taut pebbles beneath my suit. Red and hardened under my fingers, my breast swelled with an uncontrollable arch of my back. I wanted Ellen to teach me so much more than my stroke.
Then…country music. Twang coming from an old radio. As if the maintenance woman in the locker room wasn’t enough of a pussy blocker, she also played and sang country music as she cleaned. I would have found it all hysterical if everything in me hadn’t been aching for Ellen.
I stepped into the shower stall next to Ellen and let the cool water blast hard against my skin, pouring down over my head and into my face. I watched her feet move beneath the stall’s wall—perfectly trimmed toenails, tall arches of beautiful feet. Water beat against my back. I pressed my open palm against the shower wall the way people do when they visit death row inmates behind the glass barricade. I wanted to push the wall down and fall into Ellen’s arms.
It couldn’t be possible—could it? A woman like Ellen could never be into someone like me. She was a professor! What did I have to offer her? I was twenty-two, with no job prospects after graduation and very few friends. Questions like these swirled in my mind, but my body was crying for something more. With soapy hands I reached between my legs and rubbed the tender folds of skin. Ellen’s fruity shampoo filled the air and I watched the white lather spread between her pretty toes. The water pounded against my swollen breasts as I kneaded my clit between my fingers until my pussy creamed. Pressure. Wanting. Heat. Burning. I came, grabbing the shower wall to hold myself up, biting my arm to quiet my cries.
When I left the shower, Ellen was already gone. But the maintenance woman wasn’t. She sang about long-lost women and too many beers and eyed me suspiciously while I dressed in record speed. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the maintenance worker knew. It scared me to think that she would be calling her other cleaning pals that evening to tell them about what happened in the women’s locker room.
Professor and student.
Scandalous.
*
When the running phase of my training began, I stopped going to the pool. I told myself it was to give my body a break, but I wasn’t fooling myself. Ellen scared me; or, more specifically, the way she made me feel scared me. How could this woman make me wet with only a smile?
I’d managed to avoid Ellen on my morning runs through campus. My strongest sport had always been running, but since I met Ellen I couldn’t focus. When I should have been thinking about the way my foot struck the pavement and the roll of my heel, I was contemplating how her toes must taste and imagining the grind of her hot, wet pussy against mine. The fact that she was a professor scared and excited me all at the same time. I’d heard the stories of students who’d slept with their professors, most of those tales ending with the professor getting fired and the student transferred. I didn’t want to end Ellen’s career. Besides, I wasn’t even sure what I wanted from Ellen beyond sex. Most days, nothing—sex with no attachments. Then my guilt kicked in. What kind of girl did that make me?
One morning I took a different running course through campus and came upon Ellen crossing the trail. Her aviator sunglasses reflected the morning light back to me. She stopped for me, her Swim Girl bag tossed over her shoulder. Fall had arrived. Ellen wore jeans that hung low on her waist, hugging her hips in just the right places, and a white button-down that I wanted to pull off her with my teeth.
“How is your training going?”
“Good,” I said, trying to slow my breath to speak. “You?”
“We have a big meet next weekend.”
After I wished her luck, I told her I’d be rotating sport training again soon. Then I added, “I miss the pool and watching you swim.”
“You watch me swim?”
My face burned. I hadn’t meant to say that.
Ellen laughed and I noticed a dimple on her right cheek I’d never seen before. I wanted to reach out and touch it.
“That’s good,” she said. “I like that you watch me.”
When she turned to walk away, I stood beside the trail and watched Ellen go until I could no longer see the bounce of her bag or the shift of her hips through the crowd on campus.
*
The Masters swim meet had men and women over the age of thirty from all over the country competing in the campus pool. I slipped into one of the top bleachers and scanned the order of events. My Swim Girl was competing in four.
After the awards were presented and Ellen had four medals around her neck, most of the teams had showered and were leaving the facility. She gathered her towel and looked up. When her eyes met mine, she smiled. Finally, she lifted her hand and made a signal to me: come here. I pushed through the locker room door after Ellen, my flip-flops squeaking against the wet tiled floor.
“Not just a swim girl,” I said, “but a champion swim girl.”
She turned and smiled, that little dimple winking at me. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me? Miss your meet? No way.”
She rummaged through her bag for shampoo and soap. “My Kinsey. Always watching.”
A woman left the last occupied shower stall. Ellen watched her go to a locker and then held my eyes with hers. She mouthed, come with me.
I followed Ellen into a shower stall, and she pulled the curtain closed behind me. Outside, the woman opened her locker. Ellen nudged me against the wall and leaned her weight against me. “I need your help,” she whispered. “Will you help me?”
I nodded, breathless. “Anything.”
Her hands slipped under my T-shirt and I lifted my arms for he
r to pull it off. She hung it over the wall, and her fingers undid the button and zipper of my jeans, letting them fall. Her lips grabbed my ear, suckling the lobe. I stepped out of my jeans. “Anything?” she asked.
I groaned as her tongue circled the outer rim of my ear.
She unhooked my bra. My tits hardened at once. She held my left breast in her hand and kissed me, our lips wet and biting for more.
“Help me out of this racing suit,” she said.
Someone else came into the locker room. Women chatted about the awards. A hair dryer buzzed on.
Ellen turned on the shower. The water sprayed against us, cold at first, then warming up. She let the water run down over her shoulders, the hanger of her collarbone, and the strength of her torso. I’d never seen anything more beautiful or perfect in all my life. I stood still, watching her, taking in every inch of her in that skintight racer suit. Ellen looked out at me, her hazel eyes meeting mine, and for the first time, I saw a bit of hesitation. Just a flash, but it only made me want her more. She looked at me through her dark eyelashes as I stepped forward and wound my fingertips beneath the strap of her suit.
The water rained down on us, and with her back to me, I rolled Ellen’s suit down over her chest, my hands gripping her breasts hard, then down her taut belly. She leaned back, into me, and groaned.
Down.
Down.
Down over the swell of her hips and the pulse of her strong thighs. Down to her beautiful feet where I pulled the suit away from one foot and then the other. She looked at me on my knees, her lips open, her chest pumping with breath.
“This can be nothing more for me,” Ellen whispered into the spray of the shower.
“Nothing more.” I almost laughed with relief—a woman after my own heart.