Yes—spills to Tara.

July 17, 2021

Dear Diary,

Today with Tara was… intense. Like, I’m still shaky writing this. Started innocent enough—coffee at our spot, spilling my guts about the pool, Nick, that damn swimsuit I can’t stop touching. Tara ate it up, grinning, then told me about her nylon tights thing—how she loves the sheen, the way they slide over her skin. We were laughing, trading secrets, and it felt so good to just say it all. Then she got that glint in her eye, grabbed me, and said, “We’re getting you a proper swimsuit. Now.” Off we went to the department store, and that’s when it got wild.

Swimwear section was packed with options, but Tara wasn’t messing around—she flagged down a saleswoman. This woman—tall, smirky, with sharp cheekbones and a vibe like she knew too much—dove right in. “Sporty, tight, spandex,” Tara told her, “something that’ll squeeze her just right.” The saleswoman smirked, eyeing me up, and started pulling one-pieces off the racks. She handed me a black one—sleek, stretchy, way too small-looking—and shoved me toward the fitting room. Tara grabbed a blue Pengu one-piece for herself, sporty with a racerback, and some black nylon tights to layer under it. “For the full effect,” she said, winking.

Stripping down to try it on felt weird with Tara so close—revealing myself to her in something this tight, this personal. I tugged the black swimsuit on, and holy hell, Diary—it was snug. Hugged my ass, dug into my hips, pressed my chest flat until my nipples poked through. I ran my hands over it, smoothing it, and that familiar heat started building. Stepped out to show Tara, awkward as hell, but then she walked out of her cubicle, and—oh God. That blue Pengu suit clung to her like paint, every curve popping, and those shiny black tights underneath? The way they gleamed, stretching over her thighs, sliding against the spandex—it hit me like a truck. I got so horny, so fast, I couldn’t hide it. Felt a rush, and next thing I knew, a big wet spot bloomed right on the crotch of my swimsuit. Obvious, dark, dripping.

The saleswoman clocked it instantly. “Well,” she said, voice low and teasing, “you’re gonna have to buy that now—I can’t put it back on the rack like that.” Then she winked, slow and deliberate, and my face burned. Before I could stammer anything, she stepped into my cubicle—right in, closing the curtain behind her. “Let’s see how it fits,” she purred, and her hands were on me. Ran them up my sides, over the spandex, brushing my ribs, then higher—grazing my chest, thumbs circling where my nipples strained. Slid down to my hips, tugging the fabric tighter, her fingers lingering way too long between my legs. “Perfect,” she whispered, smirking like she owned me. I was a mess—flustered, panting, yearning so bad I could barely stand it. She left me there, trembling, and sauntered out like it was nothing.

Tara saw me stumble out, red-faced, and laughed. “What the hell happened in there?” she teased. I played it off, joking, “She’s handsy, huh? Guess I’m buying this one.” We paid—me with my soaked black suit, her with her blue Pengu and tights—and walked out giggling, but inside? I’m still spinning. That woman’s touch, her voice, the way she knew—it’s stuck in me. Joked about it with Tara all the way home, but deep down, I’m itching to go back. To see her again. Maybe alone next time.

Got home, slipped into my new swimsuit again—just to feel it, to relive it. It’s still damp from me, and I didn’t wash it. Didn’t want to. Lay on my bed, running my hands over it, thinking about her fingers, Tara’s tights, that wet spot she called me out for. Fell asleep with it on, legs tangled in the sheets, dreaming of her smirk. I’m in deep, Diary, and I don’t even care. Night.