Just an idle fantasy......
Stroke For Stroke
Swimming is my way of relaxing. Once or twice a week I'm at the pool for the evening session, after the hordes of screaming children have gone and I can get in some lengths, cruising up and down in a rhythmic breast stroke, the continuous enfolding of water over me cutting me off from the rest of the world.
If there are a lot of swimmers about, the pool is roped off into six broad lanes to separate the slow, medium and fast swimmers but on less crowded days it is left open and a degree of natural separation occurs. On that day I had taken up my accustomed position about a third of the way out from the side, carving out my own personal channel, when I was overtaken by a woman in a lilac swimsuit. Now being overtaken is a commonplace experience for me as crawl swimmers come streaking past, but it's not often I'm overtaken by another breaststroke, especially a woman.
There was no denying though that she had a powerful, sinuous stroke. And, I observed, as she scissor-kicked in front of me, a very pert bottom.
She was alternating strokes each length and as she came past me the other way in a powerful crawl I admired her sleek lines and controlled style.
After a couple more lengths her breaststroke length coincided with mine again and she glided smoothly past me. I looked over as at her as she passed by but saw only the tight smooth covering of her colour co-ordinated swim cap and the dark impenetrable goggles: a combination, however, I find irresistible in the right woman: mysterious and faintly robotic.
I moved over to fall in directly behind her and confirm my earlier observations as the quality of her bottom. It was undoubtedly a very fine specimen and I picked up my pace to keep station behind her and admire the tight controlled spread and kick of her finely muscled legs. The prevailing wisdom is that exercise makes you feel good, and it certainly seemed to be working for me.
As we approached the end of the pool I eased back to widen the gap between us, but even so she shot me a look as she made a rapid racing turn at the end and had to shear off to avoid colliding with me as she surged back down towards the deep end. As our paths crossed again a minute later I was pretty sure she held her glide to look at me and I preened internally and concentrated on rippling my shoulder muscles in a 'Hey, I'm slow but powerful' sort of way.
Several more lengths and we were once again both breast- stroking towards the shallow end and she came by me close enough so our feet touched momentarily. I felt a little thrill, like a Victorian gent catching a glimpse of uncovered ankle. The next few moments were a repeat of the earlier delightful views, when she started accelerating - not in a sudden surge, but a smooth stepping up of the pace. My caveman bit said "Woman go fast. Going fast Man's job. Woman stay back in cave and prepare tasty berry stew in case in case Man not bring home antelope due to capricious whim of gods entirely beyond his control.' Or something. Anyway, I wasn't about to be deprived of my bottom-fest and I racked up my stroke rate to stay in her increasingly turbulent wake. In fact I had to concentrate so hard on keeping up that I fail to notice we were running out of pool until she suddenly put her feet down and turned around to face me. I back paddled furiously to avoid an embarrassing head-on collision with her midriff, swallowed a mouthful of water and came up spluttering.
"That was a bit pervy, wasn't it?" she said conversationally.
"Err...come again?" I said, settling on an expression of innocent non-comprehension - 'sexily nonchalant' being an unavailable option owing to the little bursts of pool water shooting out of my nose.
"You know perfectly well what I mean: swimming with your nose practically up my butt."
I blushed guiltily, but it was probably hidden by the fact that I was purple from my attempted inhaling of the pool. She was still expressionless, her eyes hidden behind the dark lenses of her goggles, but her tone was dry rather than aggressive so I risked observing that it was undoubtedly a very nice butt.
She leaned back on the pool rail and looked intently at me: I felt inexplicably as if I was back at primary school and had to fight hard to resist the urge to shuffle my feet and wipe my nose on the back of my hand. Instead I attempted my best devil-may-care grin and ignored the leaky tap drip from my nose.
"I think we'd better have a little chat," she said.
If I'd had a moustache I think I'd have twirled it like a silent movie cad gloating over his conquest. I moved closer.
She moved aside and pointed to the far end of the pool and the entrances to the female and 'parent and child' changing rooms. "There. Follow me."
I assumed she'd left her towel there on the side benches and wanted to snuggle while I talked seductively. My expression moved into the area of inane slavering grin.
"Unless you'd rather have a word with the pool attendants. I'm sure they saw it..."
Now that didn't sound nearly so inviting - but I was fairly sure I saw the ghost of a smile playing her lips. Anyway, the male pool attendants spent all of their time mooning over the female attendants (who all seem to be blonde and ummm.... pneumatic: I suspect that the pool manager is not an avid reader of the local Council's equal employment opportunities policies) and the females seem to spend most of their time looking up at the gallery window of the men's gym. Anyway they never notice anything in the pool. It once took them half an hour to spot that the seat of my washed-once-too-often swimming trunks had given way and that I was cruising up and down with my right buttock on view, didn't it. Didn't it? B******s!
Be that as it may I swam after her retreating figure I was gratified to see her emerge and pick up her towel and drape it over herself. I surreptitiously blew my nose under water to avoid any more image damage, glided to the end of the pool and heaved myself up and out in one slick move which for once went properly and didn't leave me flapping like a beached fish on the slippery tiles.
To my surprise she sauntered off into the entrance to the parent and child changing rooms. I don't know why they are always attached to the female changing rooms: if anyone one needs special rooms to corral children, it's men. Have you ever seen a Saturday father trying to cope with two small soapy children in a communal shower? Based on my experiences taking my nephews swimming I'd have family rooms with four- point arm and leg restraints for the one in diapers and a selection of mini strait jackets chained to the walls for the rest of the little sods. However, I digress.
She went into one of the rooms, holding the heavy door open for me in a gesture that was oddly familiar, and then shut it firmly, standing in front of it, when I was inside. I took off my goggles and rubbed my face, hoping I didn't look too panda- eyed.
"So you like my bottom do you?" she said, her expression still as impenetrable as ever.
"A masterpiece of the bottom-builder's art," I grinned. "A veritable Sistine chapel of a bottom.
"Oh? And how about yours?"
Swimming does have its advantages, physique-wise. I turned and struck a pose. And then yelped as she in turn struck me.
I spun around, my hand grasping my stinging right cheek: thin wet nylon swimming trunks offer precious little protection and I spluttered indignantly.
"Naughty." she said, advancing on me. "Taking little sneeky- peekys in the pool. You are a dirty minded little boy, aren't you?"
I could, of course, have shouted and raved, picked up my towel and stalked out in high dudgeon. I suppose I could have thrown myself at her feet and grovelled - in which case I suspect she would have walked out. Instead I did what came naturally and gibbered incoherently like an idiot: I might as well have stuck a sign on my forehead saying "Plaything. Go on, amuse yourself."
"And what happens to naughty little boys?" she said rhetorically, taking me firmly by the arm and seating herself comfortably.
When I did try to say something she just slapped my leg, told me curtly to be quiet and pulled me downwards. Even that was probably not the absolute point of no return; that came when she pulled down the back of my swimming trunks....
Two painful minutes later she dropped me on the floor, picked up her towel and strolled towards the door. As she exited she turned and smiled felinely. "Naughty boy....."
I staggered to my feet, pulling up my trunks, still in a state of shocked disbelief. I hastily wrapped my towel around me sarong style to cover up the red hand prints I was sure were decorating the tops of my thighs and limped after her, only to find she'd vanished straight into the female changing rooms.
I hurried down to the men's, threw on my clothes - no way was I going into the communal showers in my present state - and dashed down to the cafeteria that straddles the entrance. No woman can get through a changing room in under 15 minutes - and then only if the four minute warning was sounding as she went in - so I settled myself and waited. And waited. After three quarters of an hour when the pool had closed and the last few customers were straggling out I finally admitted defeat: I had absolutely no idea what she look like under the anonymity of her swim cap and goggles and she must have drifted past me like a wraith into the night.
One has to move on and although I have to admit I keep a watch out for a sleek swimmer in lilac, I can't say it's made any difference to me. I still go swimming three or four times a week, regular as clockwork...
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