In the water

The boys followed her with their goggles on.

Not openly as a pack. But in a swimming formation. Levi one lane to the left, Noah behind on the right, close enough that the lenses sliced through the blue and Victoria Chapell grew larger within them, more naked, slower than she really was. Every kick offered a glimpse into her inner self. Her legs spread apart during the breaststroke kick; the smoothly shaved cleft gaped open for a heartbeat, pink, irritated by the chlorine, still sensitive from the dive. Water pressed in and out again. Behind the tinted lenses, you could see it clearly: the inner lips, the brief flash before her thighs closed again. Every stroke revealed her bare ass.

Every backstroke was a dream.

Victoria rolled onto her back because the book called for breaststroke and backstroke, and because she couldn’t spend forever with her face in the water, her pubic area exposed to the rear. On her back, it was worse. Her breasts didn’t flatten; they splayed outward, her nipples hard as little stones above the waterline, over and over. Her stomach was bare. Below it, the smooth triangle, exposed to the pool ceiling, to the strips of light from the windows, to anyone standing at the edge who didn’t even need glasses. Her arms swept back. Her body grew longer. Maya counted laps as if she were timing herself.

The crawl wasn’t required, yet it happened anyway during the turns. Hips up. Butt out of the water. The red skin from the day before shimmered under the chlorine like a memory that wouldn’t heal. Her buttocks parted. Between them, a dark line, wet, defenseless. Levi bumped into the lane rope and swore it was the lane. Noah stayed one body length behind her, his goggles tight, his cock in the nose of the lane rope so hard that the fabric formed an indecent nose. He saw the moment when Victoria turned at the wall, pulled her knees up, her pubic area opened, her buttocks meeting the pool like an invitation no one had spoken.

Ten laps for the class.

Twice that for her, and then on until Maya announced the end.

Victoria swam until her arms burned. Until the water between her legs was no longer a hiding place, but a finger that wouldn’t stop. She thought of the bedroom, of her own hand, of the two strokes that had been missing. The pool gave her movement without relief. When she stood at the edge and pulled herself up, trails of chlorine ran over her breasts, across her stomach, into her shaved lips. She didn’t sit down. Sitting down would have pressed her crotch against the wet tiles.

Finally, they were done. The class went ahead. Victoria followed, the towel draped over her shoulders like a joke that didn’t cover her chest, because covering up after the punishment would have looked like bargaining, and she didn’t know if Maya already had the next page ready. The swim cap stayed on. Humiliating. Practical. Both.

There were no more problems getting changed. They walked back together. Right at the corner where she’d bumped into Noah, Maya of all people stopped, as if the floor had told her something. “Someone lost something here. Or threw it away.”

She bent down. Slowly. In full view of everyone. It was the swimsuit. The high-necked one. The wide straps. The modest ’70s-style one that Victoria had bought on purpose. It was dirty at the hem, with a little gravel stuck in the fabric, but otherwise intact. She’d packed it away. During the collision, the bag had tipped over. Noah had helped her. Something had been left behind. Or had been taken out. Or both, depending on how kindly you interpreted the gap.

Maya held it up for everyone to see. The damp wind ruffled the straps. Twenty faces. “Oh, how annoying. Is that yours?”

Victoria looked at the fabric. Looked at Maya. Looked at Noah, whose face was red again—just like in the parking lot—and this time it wasn’t from running.

“Yes,” she said. Just that. Her teeth clenched.

She couldn’t stand Maya anymore. That much was certain. Not just because of the book. Because of that way of picking things up, as if coincidence were a method and politeness a pair of scissors.

Maya gave a wry smile. “Then take it with you. That way, next time you won’t have to swim naked.”

“Politics,” Victoria said hoarsely. “Separation of powers. Who gets to set the punishments. And who just reads them out.”

Maya didn’t wink.

“Smooth transition, Ms. Chapell.”

Victoria walked on, the ’70s suit clutched in her fist, and for the first time that morning, she wasn’t thinking about the contract. Instead, she was thinking about how much longer she’d have to hear Maya call her “Ms. Teacher” without her voice breaking.