Hazel - Tool my pool

The gate was already hanging open when I pulled up the drive, which told me everything I needed to know about the day ahead. Hazel never left the gate open unless she wanted me to walk straight in without knocking. I walked straight in without knocking.

She was on the lounger at the shallow end, and she'd arranged herself like a magazine spread—face-down on a white towel, chin on her folded arms, one leg bent at the knee and the other stretched long so the whole line of her ran from heel to hip in one uninterrupted curve. Brown hair, dark and thick, pulled back wet from the water and already drying in the sun, darkening to almost black at the roots behind her ear. Olive skin that had gone deep gold from a summer of doing exactly this, oiled to a shine, glistening down her spine and over her shoulder blades like somebody had buffed her.

She was wearing a bikini the size of two postage stamps and nothing else. And it was having a hard time keeping those full breasts inside the little fabric. The slightest move and they would spill out. Her tits pressed sideways, inviting me to free them.

The little black bottom that had ridden up into the crease of her ass so you could see the whole heavy shape of it, her waist went in sharp, and her hips flared back out, and the tan line situation was a national scandal—two clean white straps across the golden brown of her back and two more across the swell of her ass, the only pale skin on a body that was otherwise all oil and sun.

A bottle of oil sat on the flagstone beside her, half empty. She had one arm stretched back over her shoulder, trying to reach her own spine and failing at it.

"You're late," she said into her shoulder.

"Traffic."

"Traffic. In a town with four streets."

"Slow traffic."

"Good, I like it slow," she said, and rolled her head to the side to look at me. Big brown eyes, a mouth already smiling, and lashes that had little beads of pool water still caught in them. "Do my back, honey. Before you start working on me."

I got the oil. She willingly untied the string behind her neck so the top lay flat under her, and I put both hands on her shoulder blades and got to work. She had that long swimmers' back on her, broad across the shoulders and narrowing into the dip at the base of her spine, and her skin was hot from the sun, hot and slick, and my hands slid over it like it wasn't even there. It took her exactly nine seconds to start purring.

Then the phone rang.

She reached over her head for it, flipped it open, and put it against her cheek like nothing was happening. Like there wasn't a twenty-year-old with two oiled hands flat on her back, massaging that smooth skin.

"Hello, honey," she said.

Peter. Of course. Her husband always called at the exact worst time, and by "worst" I mean "best."

"Nothing, I'm just lying by the pool. The boy just got here. Yes, the pool boy, Peter, we've been through this; he comes every Tuesday. You know he comes every Tuesday."

I poured more oil into the small of her back and spread it down, over the round swell of her ass, right down onto the tops of her thighs, and she made a small moaning noise straight into the receiver.

"What? No. That was me. The oil is cold. Yes, cold. Because it's oil, Peter. Oil is cold when it comes out of the shed."

She turned her head and whispered, "Keep going," so I kept going. I worked the oil down over her hips, up the sides, and into the crease at the small of her back, and her legs drifted apart by about three inches, all on their own. Inviting me.

"Peter, listen. Listen to me. The filter is clogged again. Yes. The filter. It's been running high pressure for a week; the gauge is in the red. He's going to have to open it up and clean it out."

Her hips lifted slightly off the towel when I ran my knuckles up the inside of her thigh, welcoming me. Her hips were telling me what she wanted. They'd been telling me for three weeks now, every Tuesday, in a language with no words in it at all.

"What? No, he's not using a net. He goes in bare-handed."

"...Peter, why are you laughing?"

She listened for a second. Whatever he said, she decided it wasn't worth arguing about.

"So anyway, he's got big hands. Huge hands. You'd notice if you ever paid attention to anybody but your own reflection. He can't do delicate work, you know; his hands are all rough from the gym, so he's not going to be doing your little jobs. But once he's got a grip on something, he doesn't let go. That's just how he is. That's how I like it."

"Mm. Mm-hmm. No—no, nothing's wrong. He's just got his thumbs in my glutes." A pause. "Yes, glutes, Peter. The muscles. Behind. To prevent sunburn."

I slid my thumbs under the edge of her bottoms and pulled them down over the curve of her ass, all the way off, and tossed them on the flagstone. Two little straps, still warm.

"Oh, Peter, he just got rid of a little barrier; now nothing is in his way anymore."

"...No, the barrier. There was a barrier. It's gone. Anyway."

Hazel shifted her knees apart a little wider and settled her face down on her folded arms.

"So, how's your day?" she said, as if she were wearing anything at all, lifting her ass upwards for me.

I knelt behind her on the flagstone and looked at what was in front of me. Hazel's cunt was already slick, and it wasn't from the oil—a long, thin shine running down the inside of one thigh—and the lips of her were already parted and pink and wet, opening and closing a little as she breathed, like a mouth trying to say something. I put two fingers flat against her and slid them up the whole length of her slit, and she went quiet mid-sentence.

"...Yes, Peter. Sorry. Yes. So, I did say to her, I said if she wants to come over on Friday, she should bring the — oh. Oh! She should bring the good one."

Two fingers in. Slow. All the way to the last knuckle. Hazel's forehead went down onto her arms, and her voice stayed perfectly steady, which was frankly impressive.

"Peter, don't ask me questions right now."

"What? No. Nothing's wrong. I'm just enjoying the moment."

I curled my fingers up inside her and stroked, slow and steady, the way you prime a woman so that when you finally put your cock in her, she comes within thirty seconds and thinks you're a genius. Hazel was wet enough that my hand was already soaked to the wrist. I could have gone straight in. But a man has to be patient. Patience is the difference between a fuck and an event.

"...Yes. Yes, he's got the hose out."

Peter said something.

"No, Peter, the hose. The pool hose. For the vacuum head. What did you think I said?"

Another pause. She snorted.

"You are going deaf. I've told you. You need to get your ears checked. Last week you thought I said fucking when I said chucking, and then you spent ten minutes talking about the cord for the lathe like a lunatic."

I pulled my fingers out, wiped them on the inside of her thigh, and got my shorts off. She heard the zipper, and her hips tilted up an inch, offering her wet slit up into the air like a plate being passed across a table.

"Peter, hold on one second."

"...Mmmhhh?"

And I put the head of my cock against her and pushed in, one long slow stroke, all the way, until my hips were flat against her ass and my balls were resting on her clit.

"Oooohhh. Yes. There we go. Ah."

"Peter," I said, "there we go." No, nothing. He's just got the lid off the pump basket. It is clogged. It's dirty. And I want him to really open it up so he can use that opening."

"Peter, what are you—no. The opening. Yes. The opening. Peter, you're being weird."

I stayed still inside her for a moment and let her feel the size of it, and she flexed her cunt around me twice, quick, greedy, like a hand squeezing.

"Mm. Mmmm. Honey, the pressure is rising again," she said.

"What? The filter pressure, Peter. Keep up. Yes, that's normal when it's clogged. Yes. That's why he's here. Oh."

Then I started to move, and Hazel put her hand over the mouthpiece for one second and breathed out, long and shaky, and then took it off again and went right back to sounding like a woman doing paperwork.

"Ah — ah — so anyway, the doctor said it's better for me to be off the pill."

Pause.

"Yes, that's why. Since we never do it anymore, I stopped taking it, like, six months ago."

I drove in deep on that word, never, and she grunted and covered it with a cough.

"Well, yes, it's a bit irregular now. I never know when I'm ovulating. It could be any day this week. Right now, probably. That's why I'm so hyperactive lately. Wanting so much to be done here. That's why I need to be worked on. That's why the handyman has to come twice a week now and not once."

She didn't say it as a joke. Peter took it as one anyway.

"...Peter, I'm not going to explain it. Just accept it."

I was building a rhythm now, long and hard and slow enough that the lounger frame creaked. Hazel reached back with her free hand, grabbed my forearm, and dug her nails in.

"Honey, mmmmh... he's going to have to backwash it."

"What? Yes. Backwash. You run it in reverse for two minutes to flush the lines. It's on the sticker. You'd know if you ever looked at anything in this house besides your phone."

I leaned over her back and got a fistful of her hair, and her voice jumped an octave.

"Oh! Yes, he does it rough, Peter. He charges in like a bull. He's very young. You were young once, I think. I've seen photos."

She listened.

"Apology accepted. But in the future, don't ask."

I pulled almost all the way out and then rammed home, and she dropped her head and let out a long low ohhhhh into the towel, then snapped back upright and carried on like nothing had happened.

"So, what time do you get home?”

"...Right. Right. So, you'll miss him. Yes. You always miss him."

"Peter, one second, I have to open up for him."

I was already in her. She said it anyway, because she thought it was funny, and because she wanted to see if Peter would ask, and he did.

"What do you mean, open up for him? He's already in there."

"I mean the skimmer box, Peter. I have to open the skimmer box and get the basket out. Yes. It's stuck. Yes, it's always stuck. Hold on."

She took the phone away from her ear, looked back over her shoulder at me with her mouth open, and mouthed, "Fuck me." Then she put it back and started talking again while I fucked her.

"He's in the deep end now."

"Peter, yes, the deep end of the pool. Where do you think the drain is?"

"...No, the drain. The drain at the bottom. He's got to dive deep down and clear it. Yes. With his big stick."

"Peter, the pole. Yes, the pole. With his big pole, Peter, I don't know what you want from me."

Now she stopped pretending. Her ass came up to meet every stroke, and her tits were swinging underneath her, and I could hear them slapping softly against the towel, and every time I bottomed out, a little "hnn" came out of her that she didn't even try to hide anymore. The phone was bouncing against her cheek with each thrust, and Peter, four miles away in an office with a coffee going cold on his desk, was listening to the rhythm of it and not understanding a single thing.

"Mm—mm—mm—so—so how's your—how's your day going—"

Pause. Peter said something about a meeting.

"That's nice. That's — oh — that's sooo ah! Nice, honey."

I reached around and got a handful of her tits, and it was heavy and hot and full, way more than a handful, the nipple hard against my palm, and I squeezed and pulled her up off the towel, and she went "AH—" and then covered it.

"...Yes. Yes, he's got the hose out. No—no, the other hose. The one for the—ohh—the pressure line."

Her voice was cracking now, one word at a time, and Peter finally noticed.

"Are you okay? You sound out of breath."

"I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm just—I'm just handling something. He's making me do it. Ah."

I was pounding her now, hard and steady, and the sound of it was obscene in the quiet yard, wet and slapping, my hips against her oiled ass, and I knew there was no way Peter couldn't hear it through the little speaker. Hazel knew it too. She turned her head the other way and pushed the phone down flat on the towel between her arms so he'd get the full stereo, and then she stopped hiding entirely.

"OH. Oh. Ohhh. Peter. Peter."

"What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Nothing's wrong; it's—it's—ohhhh—it's just the—it's the filter. He's got the whole thing open. Oh."

I reached under her and got two fingers on her clit and worked it in circles, and Hazel's whole body went stiff.

"Honey, I have to cum soon; I have to hang up."

"...What?"

"Peter, come or go, it's all the same to me. Bye."

She didn't hang up. She almost hung up, and then at the last second, she changed her mind, and she just left the phone on her cheek with the line open so her husband could hear everything, which was the best decision she made all day.

"OH, FUCK ME," she said, loud, and shoved her ass back against me, trying to get me deeper, and I did the opposite and pulled almost all the way out until only the head was in.

"Oooohhh." That was the sound of a woman being robbed. "Oh, please fill me. Oooohhh, pleeease. Put the baby butter in me, honey."

Honey. She said it to me. She also said it to Peter. She said it to whoever was closest to her cunt at the time.

Peter, on the line, heard it and said something.

"What? No, Peter, I was talking to you. Yes. You. Of course you do."

Then I slammed back in and started hammering, hard and fast, and she gave up on words entirely.

"Oh. Oh! OH. Right there. Don't you dare stop. Don't you—ohhh."

"Mm—Peter—Peter, can you hear me—oh—yes—no—okay—ohhhh."

I grabbed her waist with both hands, hard enough to leave prints, and she banged her ass back against me in perfect sync, matching me shove for shove, and the longer legs scraped an inch across the flagstone. Her big tits swung under her, and her oiled back slid against my chest, and the phone bounced against her cheek with every thrust.

"Honey," she managed, "I think he's going to have to shock the pool."

Peter said something.

"No. No, it doesn't hurt him. He does it all the time. He's done it at four houses this week."

"...Peter, yes. Yes, he's the best in town. All the wives say so."

I was close. My balls were drawn up tight and aching, and the sight of her, oiled and open and married, with her husband's voice still chirping out of the little speaker, had me harder than I'd been in a month. What if she really was fertile? What if the whole week was a green light? What if she was down here, every Tuesday, letting a twenty-year-old empty himself into her while her husband asked about filter pressure?

I leaned down over her back and put my mouth by her ear, right where the phone was, and said it low so Peter would hear it too.

"Two more, babe. Get ready."

She nodded into the towel, unable to speak.

"Two."

"One."

And I came. It went off like a gun, the first shot so hard it made her whole body jolt, and then load after load pumping into her, deep, right up against her Latina cervix—thick and white and hot, filling her out, spreading up inside her where nothing had ever been allowed to stay before. Hazel let out a low animal groan and pushed back onto it, taking it as deep as she could get it, and her cunt clamped down and milked me, squeeze and release, squeeze and release, drawing it out of me stroke by stroke, taking every drop like she was being paid for it.

And every time I thought I was done, another one came, and she felt it; she felt each separate pulse go off against her walls, and she made a small broken sound in the back of her throat each time.

"AAAARGHHH," she said, or something like it, and then just a long, shaky mmmmhhh as the last of it went in.

The phone was still on her cheek. Peter was still talking. She had no idea what he was saying, and neither did he.

"...Yes," she said finally, hoarse. "Yes. Yes, he's putting the cover back on now."

Peter asked if that meant he was leaving.

"No. No, he's just covering the pool. He'll be here a while. There's still the whole filter to do."

I slid out of her, slowly, and watched it—the thick white of it welling up in her open cunt, one slow rope of it sliding down over her swollen lips and onto the towel, and Hazel felt the empty and the leak both at once and made a noise like she'd been robbed twice.

She turned over onto her back, knees up, feet flat on the mattress of the lounger, and stayed exactly like that, holding everything in. Her tits went flat and heavy on her chest, and the nipples were dark and hard and pointing at the sky, and her whole body was flushed pink under the tan from her throat down to her tits. She grabbed the rolled towel and shoved it under her ass to tilt her hips up, because she was not going to lose a single drop of it, not one, and she reached down and pressed her palm flat against her own belly like she could feel it settling.

"You know what," she said into the phone, "you should get a checkup, Peter."

"...No reason. You're just at that age."

She listened for a while. Her free hand stayed on her stomach. Her face was flushed and wet, and her hair was stuck to her forehead, and she had that glow on her, the one that women get, when they've just been properly finished, and she was already thinking about what came next.

Blond hair, she was thinking. She hoped it would have blond hair. Mine was blond. Peter's was brown and thinning at the crown, and honestly, so was their marriage.

"Peter, I have to go. Yes. Yes, he needs the gate code."

"...No, he doesn't; he's already inside. Peter, just—yes. Yes. Bye. Love you. Bye."

She closed the phone and dropped it on the flagstone, and for a while she just lay there in the sun with her hand on her belly and her knees up and her cunt full, breathing.

"Same time Thursday?" I said, pulling my shorts on.

"Same time Thursday," she said. "And bring the shock. Peter wants the pool shocked."

"...Hazel, the pool doesn't need to be shocked."

"I know, honey," she said, and closed her eyes. "But my husband does."

To be continued.