Pool Party

May 29, 2007 Danae Klimt
Tags: arthur, sophie

They were all watching her.

He had convinced himself, for the first hour, that it was just a jealous old man’s delusion. But he could delude himself only so long. He’d spent too long watching from the sidelines as the party went on without him to miss what was happening now: They were all watching his wife. All the boys at this bloody party, and the father of the family that was hosting it, who was uncomfortably close in age to Arthur himself.

It had been a mistake to come, of course. But Sophie had begged him to come with her when he had urged her to go alone. She had convinced him to wear these old cut-off jeans fit for nothing but working in the garden and a shirt she could unbutton, showing off his pallid chest and belly. And then she had changed out of the gay flowered sundress in which she’d left the house and come strolling out into the huge backyard in a blue-green two-piece bathing suit, her skin gleaming in the afternoon sun.

It wasn’t so bad when she was actually in the pool. She was a good swimmer; her curly head split the water in a good straight line as she did laps. Then she emerged, the scanty swimsuit clinging to her even more than before, water droplets glistening in the hollow between her breasts and in the cup of her navel. He wanted to throw himself on her and hide her from the greedy eyes that ate up all that white skin. He wanted to throw himself on her and eat up all that white skin himself, with his hands and his mouth.

He wasn’t going to do that, of course. He wasn’t going to pounce on her and, and *take* her, in front of all these people, who probably already thought he was a randy old fool with no sense for marrying a young and nubile student. So he merely watched, quietly, as his young wife laughed and joked with her friends and ate hot dogs and pasta salad with black olives and watermelon and chocolate cake. And every so often she would come back and check in with him, sit down on the foot of the folding lounge chair where he had parked himself and talk with him, smiling, her hair burning like a second sun.

That was her shadow falling over him now, as he tried to pretend he wasn’t watching her. He put down the book he’d been staring at and looked up at her courteously.

“Could you put some more sunscreen on me, A.A.? I’m starting to feel a burn.”

She brushed her hand over her shoulders as if she could brush away the discomfort. He hoped devoutly that she had *not* got burnt; it would be a shame to mar that exquisite skin and its miniscule freckles.

“Certainly, my dear.”

She handed him the pink bottle and turned around to sit down in front of him. There were, in fact, two slightly reddened patches on her back, just at the top of the shoulders where they joined the neck. He squirted the unpleasantly thick white lotion into his hand and started there, where the damage had already begun.

After about two hours, she had really had enough of all the men at the party ogling her. All but her husband, of course, who sat in the shade and kept his nose in his book until she went over and stuck her tits in his face. It was really creeping her out. Even Josey’s *dad* had been watching her with his tongue practically hanging out, and he was old enough to be her father. He was–well, no older than Arthur, come to think of it. Who was still politely *not* watching her, except when he thought she wasn’t looking.

He had no idea how cute he looked, sitting there pretending to read in his cut-off jeans and open shirt. He had nice legs, really. And she liked the hair on his chest and the thin red-blond line of it that divided his lower belly and then thickened into his pubic hair. You couldn’t see that, at the moment, but she could think about it, seeing his chest.

It was about time to remind people who she’d come to the party with. And her shoulders were starting to feel a little hot.

He looked up at her over his glasses as if he hadn’t been looking at her when her back was turned, as if his whole attention had been on that Anthony Trollope novel. Or was it Barbara Pym today?

“Could you put some more sunscreen on me, A.A.? I’m starting to feel a burn.”

“Certainly, my dear.”

It wasn’t possible, unfortunately, to sit between his legs, not without breaking the lounge chair. She would have liked that–it would have made a point. So she sat down next to him instead, close enough for him to reach her.

The sunscreen melted like butter between his hand and her back. Her eyes sank closed before she was even aware of it. His hand spread the stuff onto her shoulder, close to her neck, around the nape of her neck to the other shoulder, and then down her back, gliding from side to side. His spread-out fingers touched her shoulderblades when his palm was centered over her spine. He had such big hands, gentle hands, and she had tried repeatedly to draw them without satisfying herself. He was hard to draw, hard to capture–how to convey the intelligence, the sweetness, that animated his irregular, even mismatched features?

She had to bite back a whimper of disapointment when he took his hands away. The squelch of the bottle being squeezed reassured her, and those lovely hands came back, rubbing in more lotion–more than she needed, really, but who’s complaining? It would be even lovelier if his hands would slip around to the front, peel down her top, and start massaging her breasts…. Oh, dear. She was going to have to squirm a little.

Her skin was so supple under his hands. It drank up the abominable-looking lotion as sand drinks up water, and he could practically feel her humming with pleasure. He could picture the look on her face, the way her eyes would close, her lips part, the way the corners of her mouth would lift, a look of quiet relaxed pleasure just as she got when he made love to her….

He was forcibly reminded, all of a sudden, that he was only wearing shorts and an open shirt. He’d better try not think about how he wanted to slide his hands under her arms and capture her breasts, massage them with just this same firm, gentle touch until her nipples begged him to be rougher–no, he wasn’t going to think about that. Or about pulling her back against his chest and nibbling on that spot by her ear, the one that always made her squirm so delightfully.

She pulled away–perhaps just in time–and turned to give him a mischievous smile. “Thanks, A.A. Oh, make sure you get some of the chocolate cake, it’s great!” Her quick peck on his lips caught him by surprise. It didn’t make his prick settle down.

It was a relief to finally get home. She’d enjoyed the party; it had been too long since she’d had a good swim, but the sun did tend to tire her out. Redheads were more sensitive that way. She’d also eaten way too much chocolate cake.

She felt sleepy and vaguely pleased, and all she could think about was getting into the bathroom to dump her wet things in the hamper and have a quick shower before her nap. She didn’t see the look on Arthur’s face as he followed her through the door.

“I’m gonna go have a quick shower and take a nap, okay, A.A.?”

“No.”

She turned around, puzzled–she had never heard him say “no,” or anything, in that hard, flat tone of voice before–and he pounced.

He was going to regret this, but there was no stopping it. Not after holding back for so long. He’d been teased for hours by the sight of her in that scanty swimsuit, her lush curves on display, her sweet smile offered to all and sundry. He needed to remind her–and himself–who she belonged with.

“No.”

She turned toward him, a sleepily puzzled expression on her face, and he gave himself no time for sympathy: He pounced.

“You’re not going to have a shower.” He stepped forward and curled one hand around the back of her neck. “Not till you’ve had me.”

If she had resisted the kiss, he would have let her go, would have apologized for coming on too strong. But there was no resistance, only a half-breath’s confusion, and then she melted, her mouth opening to his like a flower to the sunlight. He drank the taste of sunburn and chocolate cake and sleepiness and desire, and wanted more. Getting his other hand on her waist, he pulled her close, feeling the dampness of her skin under the sundress, the pliancy of her body as her arms twined round his neck.

She was no lightweight, but it seemed absolutely necessary to pick her up and carry her–somewhere. He made it as far as the couch, where he dumped her a little more heavily than he would have liked, dropped to his knees, and pushed up her dress.

“You little slut.” The word came out before he could censor it: She had not put her panties back on after changing out of the swimsuit. Through the smell of chlorine came the unmistakable smell of *her*, and when he put out his hand to test her, two fingers slid right into hot slippery needy quim.

“You naughty girl. All slicked up after flirting with all those boys? Well, they don’t get to taste you. I do.”

Oh, dear God! He went right for her clit, the way a bulldog goes for the throat of its prey, and her muscles clamped down on the fingers still inside her so fiercely that she screamed. She couldn’t get her breath to cry out again–she couldn’t even get enough breath to speak, and she had to tell him, to tell him, but his fingers were–oh! oh, oh….

“Not them–“ She gulped for air. “You. So handsome–and you put sunscreen on me–“

Him. Just him. His hands, his mouth. His *tongue*, oh, God, his tongue. There were plenty of silver hairs mixed in with the reddish-gold at the crown of his head. She didn’t care. All she cared about was what his mouth was doing to her, and that they not throw out both of their backs fucking on this couch.

“Felt so good,” and it came out a moan. She arched and squirmed and bucked, and he grabbed her hips and held her still, forcing her to feel everything, everything that he was doing to her. “Wanted your hands on my breasts, *right then*, could we please go to bed now?”

He raised his head and met her eyes. “No.”

He wanted her to scream for him. Not just cry out, or moan, or gasp, or make any of the lovely noises she often made. He wanted her to scream, really truly scream, scream so loud that the neighbors would hear her and think he was tearing out her hair.

She was getting close to it, he thought–after her desperate-sounding question and his refusal, she hadn’t said anything else, anything that counted as *words*. He had two fingers up her quim and her clit in his mouth, and her noises were getting higher in pitch, her mouth opening wider with each cry just as her cunt opened up round his fingers, and perhaps if he could get three fingers in there she would open up, open up—

A tiny part of his mind, shoved aside and ignored at the moment, was screaming frantically not to do this, not to force her, not to ask more than she wanted to give. He wasn’t listening. Something in his gut was telling him to take her, to run in and trample the wildflowers and tear down the boughs laden with fruit and gorge himself on the sweetness till the juice ran down his chin and he lay sated in the grass because that’s what ripe full orchards were *for*, and she was his, all his to enjoy.

Sophie didn’t know how much more of this she could take. He’d never *pushed* her like this, driven her to the point that she wanted to beg him to stop but couldn’t, because it felt so good. It was so good she wanted to scream, to tear out her hair, to arch up off the sofa as if a live wire were plugged into her cunt and the current were running all through her. Jesus! she’d never known he could be like this, never known he could *take*–and she liked it. God, she liked it–she just didn’t have the breath to say so.

She bit her lip as he pulled his hand back and then pushed three fingers into her. It hurt but it hurt good, and her hips moved in response without her brain saying yes or no, grinding her cunt against his hand. Seeking more. That was when he raised his head and said, “Scream for me. Scream. I want to hear it, that’s what I want to hear.” His fingers slid deeper, impossibly. “Scream, Sophie. Scream.”

And she did. Head thrown back, mouth open, feeling like there was an open core to her body that ran from cunt to throat, open like the body of a guitar or a violin, and the fingers that throbbed within her, merciless, precise, made her whole body resonate until it roared out from behind her teeth: a gut-deep groan that scaled up in pitch like the rising of a siren and rose and rose until it cut her throat like a knife. She came, and she screamed.

Arthur was beyond thinking now. He didn’t think about what to do next; when Sophie went limp, he simply picked her up, got her turned round and kneeling on the couch, draped over the back of it. Easy enough to pull her back against him once he finally had his prick out of his pants–so hard it *hurt*–and fill her up again.

“Oh, God. . . .”

She hung limp in his grasp, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against his chest, his thighs. Her breasts filled his hands completely, and her throat was so lush, he had to feed on it. Her hair got into his eyes and nose and he didn’t care. He rocked inside her, slowly, touching and tasting all those bits of her that he’d neglected, until he couldn’t stand it any more; he grabbed her hips and fucked her, hard, that’s what it was, just pure fucking, and Sophie wailed and clutched the sofa and shook and his balls didn’t care whether or not she came.

He must have managed, somehow, to get them both upstairs and into bed. When she woke, wrapped up in the quilt and Arthur, Sophie did not quite remember. The bedroom was cool and dim, and the hum of the air conditioner lulled her, making it difficult to really awaken. She wondered if he’d carried her up the steps, smiled, and shook her head.

Her efforts to untangle herself so she could go pee woke Arthur. He was reluctant to let her go, and gave her such a forlorn look as she slid out of the bed that she blew him a kiss. “Just going to the bathroom,” she said, and hurried across the cool wood floor. It was warmer in the bathroom, and sitting down on the toilet seat seemed like a relief. Her pussy remained interestingly sore.

She spent a few minutes combing out her hair and cursing it–she’d crashed into bed with the mane still damp, and it was knotted up like a rat’s nest as a result–then sauntered back into the bedroom, retrieving a t-shirt along the way. Arthur was still buried under the covers, and she had to practically dig her way in to rejoin him.

He seemed awfully stiff as she snuggled up against him, and not in a good way. “Did you have a good nap?” she asked, stroking his chest.

He made a muffled noise, his head turned away. After a moment she sat up, concerned. “A.A., are you all right?”

He looked at her, obviously anguished. Anguished? “I’m sorry about earlier,” he said hoarsely.

“*Sorry*? For what? For fucking my brains out?” She laughed. “It was fabulous. In case you didn’t notice, I was coming like crazy.”

He sat up, too, looking baffled. “I wasn’t. . . forcing you?”

She had to laugh again, even if it only seemed to make him more baffled. “*Forcing* me? Forcing? –no, wait, you really mean this. You do. You’re afraid you came on too strong.”

He nodded. “I didn’t ask. I just–reached out and took.”

She plopped down on her side again, one hand supporting her head and the other reaching out to her husband. “Would you have reached out and took if you hadn’t thought I wanted to be taken?”

He shook his head and looked away. “I wasn’t thinking at all.”

She reached up and laid her hand on his cheek, drawing him to look at her again. “So you went on your gut instincts. And you were right. You reached out and took, and I *wanted* to be taken. I wanted it. I wanted you–that’s why we were flirting all afternoon.”

“Flirting?”

She slapped his shoulder lightly. “Yes, silly man–flirting. That’s what that was when I asked you to put some more suntan lotion on me. Flirting. I thought even uptight academics knew what flirting is.”

Her teasing earned her a rare sunny smile. “Sometimes we forget.”

Rolling onto her back, Sophie pulled Arthur down against her. “That’s why you have me to remind you.”

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