We sat near the front of the pool
this time, where the bubbles emitted from an underwater jet massage your back
and drown out anything you are saying simultaneously. Bathers were seated
shoulder to shoulder, and the waiting list was 19 people long. I had opted for a long, high ponytail rather
than the usual bun-and my ends of my hair continuously dipped into the salty
water each time I threw my head back in laughter.
I was cradled in his
arms, like a bride being ushered into the honeymoon suite, and the embrace, in
full view of the other soakers, made me self-conscious. Not because of the attention it drew to us, attention
I welcome, enjoy even. Because of the
submissiveness of the position, the image of passive femininity it
displayed. I swung my legs slowly
through the water until I was seated in his lap. His arms enveloped my body, pulled me into
him, and pressed my bare back against his exposed stomach. We sat there for a few moments, silent,
enjoying the pressure and bubbles desperately trying to burst in between
us.
A girl, not much
older than I and seemingly dressed, pushed through the changing room door and
into the steamy mist that surrounded the pool.
She moved to the rack of towels and stood facing it, her back to us and
the pool. She slowly began to pull her
sweatshirt off-I was entranced. Her back was smooth and nutty brown, the pale
pink of her swimsuit strap complementing her natural coloring. Her figure was thin, but favorably so-she had
a waist and a mild curve at the base of her back. Her sweatshirt was pulling over her head,
releasing her dark brown, wavy hair a few strands at a time down her back, stopping
just above her swimsuit strap. She
gently tossed the sweatshirt to the ground, and the moment was gone. I looked away.
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