Pool Girl Surrenders To Silver Fox Neighbor

I was eighteen, freshly graduated, and desperate for cash before college swallowed me whole. Cleaning pools in our gated neighborhood paid surprisingly well, especially when the clients tipped in twenties just to watch me bend over in my tiny string bikini. My newest client was David.

Fifty-two, silver-haired, divorced, and filthy rich. He had the kind of presence that made the air feel heavier when he stepped outside. Broad shoulders, tailored linen shirts that clung to his still-muscular chest, and those piercing blue eyes that never pretended not to stare. Every Tuesday and Friday I showed up at two o’clock, and every time he was already waiting on the shaded lounge chair with a glass of whiskey in his hand.

He never hid his appreciation.

“Jesus, Riley,” he’d say in that deep, cultured voice, eyes dragging slowly down my body as I skimmed the water. “That perfect young body of yours is going to get you in trouble one day.”

I’d blush, laugh it off, and keep working, but my nipples would tighten against the thin triangles of my bikini top and my pussy would throb with every slow lap of the skimmer. The tension had been building for three weeks. Thick. Electric. Unbearable.

That Friday it finally snapped.

The temperature had climbed into the nineties, and I was sweating before I even started. David was in his usual spot, whiskey sweating in his glass, watching me like a hawk. I was on my knees at the edge of the deep end, reaching for a floating leaf, when I lost my balance. I pitched forward, arms flailing, and landed in the water with a splash that soaked me completely.

When I surfaced, coughing and laughing, my white bikini top had gone nearly transparent. My pink nipples were clearly visible, hard as diamonds from the cold water and the heat between my legs.

David stood up slowly. The look on his face made my stomach flip.

“Inside,” he said. Not a suggestion. A command. “You’re going to catch a chill in that wet scrap of fabric. I’ll get you some lemonade and a towel.”

I should have said no. I should have wrung out my top and kept working. Instead I climbed out, water streaming down my thighs, and followed him through the sliding glass doors into his enormous, air-conditioned kitchen.

The cold hit my wet skin like a slap. My nipples ached. David didn’t even pretend to look away as he poured lemonade into a crystal glass. He handed it to me, then leaned back against the marble island, arms crossed, studying me like I was something he’d already decided to own.

“You’ve been teasing me for weeks, little girl,” he said quietly. “Parading that tight ass and those perky tits around my pool in that excuse for a bikini. Did you think I wouldn’t notice how wet you get when I tell you how perfect you are?”