Swimsuit shrine

July 25, 2021

Dear Diary,

Woke up this morning tangled in Maria’s arms, her bed still damp from last night—our juices, our sweat, a sticky mess I didn’t want to leave. Golden sunlight streamed through the window, kissing her skin, turning her blonde hair into a halo. She was still fast asleep, chest rising slow, that light blue swimsuit clinging to her curves, a little twisted from our scissoring. God, she looked like a dream—soft, warm, perfect. I couldn’t help it—my hand slipped between my legs, still in the double swimsuits, the Arena and Speedo tight and crusty against me. Edged myself right there, watching her, fingers slow over the spandex, clit throbbing, breath hitching. Kept it quiet, kept it light, just enough to feel that ache bloom again—didn’t let myself cum. Couldn’t. Not yet.

Needed the bathroom, so I slipped out, careful not to wake her. Padded onto the landing, opened a door, and—oh my God, Diary, I froze. Stepped into what I can only call Maria’s swimsuit fetish sanctuary, and it hit me like a wave. The room was a shrine—clothing racks lining the walls, each one heavy with one-piece swimsuits, every color, every cut, shimmering under soft lights. More hung on the walls, displayed like art—sleek black Speedos, shiny red ASICS, striped Arenas, some sheer, some sporty, all stretched taut. Next to them, framed photos—gorgeous women in swimsuits, posing, grinding, dripping wet, their eyes locked on the camera, raw with lust. My heart slammed against my ribs, a mix of awe and hunger twisting in my chest. This wasn’t just a collection—it was a temple, a testament to the fetish I’d only just started to claim. I felt small, reverent, like I’d stumbled into something sacred, something bigger than me.

My body reacted before my mind caught up—nipples hardening, a fresh gush soaking the swimsuits I was wearing, thighs trembling as I stepped deeper in. The air smelled like spandex and sex—chlorine, sweat, a faint musk that made my head spin. In the center of the room, a circular bed, piled high with more swimsuits—hundreds, maybe, a mountain of silky spandex, gleaming in the light. Next to it, a sprawling collection of sex toys—vibrators, dildos, plugs, some I didn’t even recognize, all laid out like offerings. Huge monitors circled the bed, dark now but clearly meant for porn—multiple streams, endless loops of fetish fuel. My knees went weak, a primal pull dragging me forward. That pile—it looked alive, calling me, promising something I didn’t even know I needed.

I couldn’t resist. Climbed onto the bed, sank into the pile, and—oh God, Diary, it was sensational. Rolled in it, buried myself, swimsuits sliding over my skin, cool and smooth, whispering against me. The spandex caressed every inch—my arms, my thighs, my face—silky, slick, endless. I grabbed handfuls, pressed them to my nose, inhaled deep—sharp, musky, some clean, some worn, all intoxicating. My body buzzed, electric, cunt throbbing so hard it hurt, leaking through the layers I wore, adding my scent to the pile. I writhed, hips bucking against nothing, the fabric rubbing me everywhere, teasing my clit, my nipples, my soul. It was too much, too good—every nerve on fire, every touch a spark.

The past few days—edging, gooning, that burning frustration—it all crashed into this moment. Lying there, surrounded, drowning in spandex, something shifted. A deep, primal yearning clawed its way up, raw and consuming. I didn’t want release—not yet, not like last night. I wanted more—that peak, that edge, the highest level of endless arousal goonettes chase. The moment just before satisfaction, where your whole body, your whole soul, screams for it, aches for it, but you don’t know if you’ll get it. My chest tightened, breath shallow, a **** whine slipping out as I ground into the pile, swimsuits slipping between my legs, against my lips, my cheeks. I was trembling, sweating, so close but holding back—didn’t touch myself, didn’t need to. The spandex did it all, pushing me to that brink, that delicious, torturous void.

I don’t know how long I stayed there—minutes, hours—lost in it, a mess of want and wonder. Finally dragged myself out, shaky, dripping, the double swimsuits clinging to me like a second skin. Maria was still asleep when I slipped back into her room, but I couldn’t join her—not yet. Needed to write this, needed to capture it. This room, this feeling—it’s changed me, Diary. I’m a goonette, through and through, and I’ll never be the same. Later.