swimming 01
“Hint.”
We’re driving somewhere. I packed you a little bag.
“Hmm. Okay. Pisces.”
You go quiet, mulling over the riddle.
“Water sign. So… swimming?” I nod, smiling. “And you’ve taken me swimming before, but you look smug, so it’s probably somewhere nicer this time. The Turkish baths?”
I glance up from the road with a raised eyebrow, impressed. “I’m not smug.”
“I’m right!” You giggle to yourself and shift your hips, snuggling down into the passenger seat. Your magnificent backside gives you a soft ride wherever you go, but you’d still appreciate a little more space, ideally.
“That’s not everything…” I say, apparently desperate to retain some mystique.
You watch the aluminium streetlights be replaced by old-fashioned blacked iron versions. We’re not too far away.
“Pisces,” you murmer. “You could have picked any water sign. Why Pisces?”
I’m looking smug again. “Would you like a cl—”
“Two of them. You’re feeding me two people? But that didn’t wipe the whole smile off your face so there’s more. … Twins?”
My mouth falls open. “How?!”
“I’m a genius,” you explain, and slap my thigh. “Try to keep up, pet.”
The Turkish baths after hours are deserted but the water is still warmed by the subterranean hot spring. Actual gas lights ignite after I figure out the controls. We have the main pool to ourselves. It’s blissfully warm after the cold night air, even without entering the pool.
“You’re a vision,” I murmur when you emerge from the changing rooms.
You acknowledge the compliment by spreading your arms and performing a slow turn. A simple black two piece hugs your hips and cups your breasts, criss-cross black shoulder straps reminiscent of Shibari the only adornment. Your figure speaks for itself, though. Strong arms and legs are yet softened by the fat that finds its true home within the belly that swells between black and black, and in your backside and thighs. I make a jokey fanning-myself gesture, but the redness in my cheeks can’t be faked. You’re drop-dead gorgeous.
Smirking, you take your time in entering the pool. Perfectly still water has the most incredible luck in surging around your feet, your calves, your thighs as you walk down the tiled ramp. At some point the floor drops away and you launch yourself gracefully into the laziest front crawl. Water sparkles in the lamplight. Your wave front shatters the calm of the whole pool, set in motion by your penetration.
The water feels like an embrace. You get a couple of laps in, enjoying the freedom of motion and luxuriating in the effortless buoyancy of your body. Fat floats.
After two laps I finally tear my eyes off you. A sound from the ladies’ changing room.
“Harriet and Chloë?” I ask, acting uncertain. “Carl sends his apologies. He’s running late but won’t be long. Said to warm up with a few laps, if that’s alright?”
They’re slender. You can see why I might have thought you would need two. Tall, toned, almost as pale as you, and wearing caps that bulge with protected blonde hair. They wear different swimsuits: Harriet wears block blue, but Chloë sports multicoloured flowers on a bubblegum pink base.
“Oh, thanks,” says Harriet. “Are you two on a private session too?”
“Absolutely.”
“Swimming is so good for losing weight,” opines Chloë, flashing you a friendly smile and marking herself first for consumption.
“Actually, I’m training for speed.” I don’t think your smile is as friendly as you think it is, but I might just be projecting my own annoyance at her presumption. “Andrew is a Team GB coach.”
“Really?” they say, in synchronisation.
“Yes!” I lie, smoothly. “Raven’s warmed up. We’re drilling diving starts. Would you like to join us till Carl gets here?”
They both nod enthusiastically. I give you a significant glance and then distract them with a question about their goals.
You take the opportunity to sink low in the water. Your black hair trails behind you like an oil slick. When you sense the conversation drawing to a close you take a deep breath and slip beneath the surface entirely.
Your eyes are quite good underwater. It’s somewhat like being suspended in space, except you have to keep actively swimming down to fight your own buoyancy.
A few moments go by. Then, block blue and flowery pink shapes appear at the pool edge, fractured and shifting with the lapping water.
Motion. And then, an explosion of bubbles. Two reasonably well-executed dives propel two bucking women’s bodies into clean water, both with hands overlapping in front of them, like knives.
Your body is powerful. It only takes two kicks and two strokes of your arms to carry you into the path of bubblegum Chloë. She looks up behind her googles at the last minute but it is to late.
You ignore the leading hands and go straight for the head. What must it be like for her, seeing your form emerge from the ambient blue, feeling hands on her shoulder and clawed on her flank? To have the light be eclipsed in one smooth motion and the gloink, gloink sound of being underwater replaced by rushing water and a thunderous, deep swallow.
Not your problem. You only need to think about the nymph swelling your slavering jaws. Slick as she is you barely have to work, claiming her foot-by-foot with great, sucking swallows and greedy grabs of her body.
She kicks, hard, but any blow she might land on you is glancing, its power stolen by the water. Down she goes, inevitable as the tide. You feel that golden stretch underneath your ribs and breach the pool surface to finish the meal.
You burst from the water with two calves clamped solidly between your teeth. The feet wriggle desperately but the calves themselves are held fast. You comb back your hair with your fingers and send her to her wet grave with three final gulps.
Fuck, she can kick! You know it when those legs join the rest of her in fleshy, chemical darkness. Your guts are tough, though, having seen the last moments of many poor unfortunate souls. Layers of fat absorb her struggles into insignificance and your muscular stomach walls crush in on her. A scream is translated by your throat to a graceless, echoing belch: ~bwooaAAouUUrp~
Right that moment her sister surfaces, a scant few metres from the far end of the pool. You tread water and tingle with bruised pleasure as your body smothers its unwilling guest into submission.
“Hah! I got here first! Take that, Chloë! Chloë?”
You hear me murmur, “so much for twin intuition,” as I briskly walk to cover the exits on that side of the pool. You decide you have time, and so allow yourself up float up into backstroke position. A squirming pale iceberg, the struggles of your prey cause strange waves to ripple out from your belly. Lazy paddling draws you closer to the sister.
“Can you see Chloë?” Harriet asks of me. “I can’t see her. Where is she?”
“Can’t see her either.” Technically true: your gut is in the way. “Get under the water! Look for her!”
I make a terrible life guard. Harriet dips below the surface. The person she’s looking for floats above the waterline, still drowning. Scrabbling hands frantically explore the stretched folds of your stomach, filling you with lust as surely as the hands of a lover. Another belch hints at another scream. It’s the only sign that escapes your devouring fat.
Harriet breaches the water and then freezes. Something in her subconscious sees the look in your eye, the roundness of your belly. Floating towards her like that, there is something of the crocodile about you.
Sensing that your prey has become alert, you switch to breaststroke. Knives flash in your grin. Inside your stomach, her twin is just beginning to lose hope and strength. Frenzy rises, hot and lively in your chest.
“Let’s play a game. You be the fish. I’ll be the shark.”