Billie-Jean & Sammie-Rae III
Wednesday morning carries humid air, the kind that clings to skin and makes the chlorine of Sunhaven Pool sharper, almost chemical.
The chemistry in my mind, though, floats to Sammie's lips before reality interrupts.
I'm barely at the station for five minutes before Peter Arnold appears, clipboard in hand, his polo shirt pulling tight across the swell of his stomach.
He hovers close, his usual too close, the scent of his sweat mixing with the overpowering cheap cologne he always wears.
He's like a dog seeking that unattainable bone, sniffing around.
Until his eyes dart from the pump gauges to the rescue tubes.
"Billie," he barks, though he tries to keep it polite.
"The inflatables. Full inspection. Safety protocols. Sammie can watch from the tower, now that she's here."
I nod, grab the checklist, and follow him toward the storage shed. No time to look up at Sammie.
Arnold walks with a heavy tread, bald head gleaming under the sun. He's old enough to be my father, divorced, paunchy—everything about him screams middle-aged dissatisfaction.
We spend the next hour checking the seams of the giant rubber unicorns and turtles, squeezing the vinyl, looking for leaks. He mumbles something about the mayor's kid having a party here on Saturday.
I kneel on the hot concrete, checking the valve stems, while he stands over me, lecturing about liability and insurance. It's stifling.
Across the pool, I can see the water aerobics class in session. The water is churning with foam noodles and bobbing heads.
Sammie is in the centre, leading a group of grandmothers through what looks like a synchronised kick. She's laughing, her head thrown back, water droplets flying from her dark hair.
She looks free.
I look down at the yellow Pokka Dot vinyl beneath my fingers and press the valve stem hard.
There is no time to catch her eye, no moment to slip away and ask about Tuesday night at The Rainbow Room.
Every time I try to manoeuvre a break, Peter finds me.
"Check the filter logs," he says. "Organise the lane ropes."
The morning drags, a slow torture of proximity to Sammie without actual contact.
I watch her from the corner of my eye, the way her red one-piece hugs her curves, the way she commands the water.
My fingers twitch, remembering her cheeks, her lips, the heat of her skin on the dance floor.
But here, under Peter's surveillance, we must remain simply coworkers.
By the time two o'clock rolls around, the shift is finally done.
Peter retreats to the office, feet up, hands over his belly, napping.
Kevin and Kyle, start their duty, talking about water polo.
Sammie and I sign out in silence, careful not to wake a snoring Arnold. We tiptoe out of the office.
In the women's staff changerooms, the sound of our wet flip-flops slapping against water-splattered tiles echoes in the tight space.
Two cubicles.
My body wishes for one.
My mind's shyness closes the thought.
Stripping down in the harsh fluorescent lighting always makes me hesitate, conscious of the sunscreen-protected skin, the slight awkwardness I feel in my own limbs.
I want to see her—I've been thinking about her body all day—but I'm not ready to just bare myself without a buffer.
I grab my towel and shampoo, ducking quickly into the first available cubicle. I pull the plastic curtain shut, turning the water to hot, letting the steam build up like a fog to hide behind.
The water hisses against the tiles, drowning out the noise of the pool outside. I'm just lathering my hair, eyes squeezed shut to keep the soap out, when the curtain rings slide. The plastic rustles, and suddenly the space isn't mine alone.
I gasp, rinsing the suds from my eyes fast.
Sammie!
She is completely naked.
Water beads on her olive skin, running in rivulets over her shoulders, down the slope of her breasts, dripping at her V.
She steps in, closing the curtain behind her, sealing us in this small, wet world.
"Scoot over," she murmurs, her voice low and playful, "Wednesday girl is all nouveau."
I press my back against the cool tiles, heart hammering against my ribs.
I'm like a puppet on a string. A wet pliable one.
Sammie takes the soap from my hand, lathering her palms, and then her hands are on me.
She starts at my neck.
Her fingers are slick and warm, tracing the line of my jaw, moving behind my ears.
Gliding, caressing, alternating between kneading and feather touches.
The shower water steams and streams.
She massages me with a deliberate slowness, her palms gliding over my collarbones, down my arms, lifting each hand to brush my fingers.
Her worship or claiming.
"Turn around," she whispers.
I face the wall, bracing my open palms against the blue tiles.
Her hands slide down my back, soap-slicked friction against my skin. She kneads my shoulders, then moves lower, her fingers digging into the flesh of my butt cheeks, squeezing, hugging, cupping.
Her nails scrape my blades, then trace down my spine, tingling all the way.
I bite my lip to keep from crying out.
She's everywhere. I want her everywhere.
Her hands slide around my hips, soaping my stomach, and then she reaches around, her palms cupping my breasts.
The soap makes everything slippery, her thumbs grazing my nipples, sending brief shards of delight straight to my mound.
I'm panting, the steam thickens around two.
"Aahh! Ahh!" I coo.
She presses her front against my back, and I can feel the softness of her breasts, the heat of her mound against my ass.
But her hands don't go there.
They tease the crease where my thigh meets my torso, her fingers dancing on the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, so close, yet maddeningly far from where I ache the most.
It's a divine torture of the highest order.
Her index finger laces in repeated figure eight motions inside my thigh while she kisses my shoulder.
She halts millimetres from my groin.
My pussy tingles, throbbing with a need that has nowhere to go, a phantom pressure building behind and below my navel. Then centring on my private bead.
Her palms, just her palms, knead my ass cheeks. Flesh dough.
I turn around, needing to see her, needing to touch her.
She looks at me, her dark eyes heavy with desire, water running down her face.
I take the soap, my hands trembling, and return the gesture.
I run my hands over her shoulders, down the generous curve of her waist. I touch her everywhere I can reach—her arms, her back, the heavy softness of her breasts.
She leans into me, a soft coo escaping her lips.
We are in the cadence of touch.
Through the portal of girl on girl to the breathy intimacy of conjoined moans.
Pressed together, skin sliding against skin, the water raining down on us.
I look at her, and she looks at me.
We kiss.
It's not like the club; it's wetter, messier, sexier.
Our tongues invade each other's mouths, tangling, tasting the chlorine and the soap and each other.
I'm moaning into her mouth, a low, guttural sound I didn't know I could make.
We are two women in bliss, suspended in this steam and heat, our bodies moving in a slow, unconscious rhythm. My pussy tingling without direct touch, the friction of our hips is enough to drive me to the edge.
Then, just as suddenly as she entered, she pulls away.
The loss of her body heat is immediate and physical
She rinses the soap off quickly, shaking her wet hair like drying a Polaroid snap.
It's how I want to capture the moment.
She opens the curtain, stepping out into the cooler air of the changeroom.
She pauses, looking back at me over her shoulder, just the once, water dripping from her chin.
"Thursday's child has far to go," she says.
Then she's gone.
The curtain swishes shut, leaving me alone under the spray.
I stand there for a long time, the water drumming on my shoulders, pooling around my toes, my breath reduced to ragged gasps.
My body is still humming, the skin where she touched me feeling hypersensitive. I trace with my own fingers those special shared spots.
I lean my forehead against the tile, one hand drifting down between my legs, touching myself, trying to imagine its Sammie fingers.
The thought won't hold. I need Sammie's touch, her private touch on my privates.
Thursday's child. What does she mean?
My mind races, trying to parse the riddle through the fog of my arousal, but nothing makes sense, as everything makes sense.