Commando #2
By
Randolph O. Mann Brandish She knew exactly what she was doing and very inappropriately so did all her classmates AND the parents sitting in the bleachers. Once the referee blew the whistle signaling this extremely one-sided water polo contest had mercifully been stopped both teams locked-stoke for the traditional demonstration of good sportsmanship as the squads linearly assembled at mid-pool to offer soggy obligatory high-fives before swimming to their respective sides of the pool where her Coach then took every second of seventeen excruciatingly long minutes to deliver her post game evaluation, rationalizing how a twenty-one to three drubbing may look bad on paper but “you girls can hold your heads up, because I expect some good things to come out of this pool today.” Then everyone and I do mean everyone, just sat back, shut up and let this little escapade play its self out. She untied and pulled her number 13 cap off while she was still treading water in the pool. Once it was her turn, she dunked her head straight back into the water while holding onto the hand railing of the pool side step-ladder, to let the effects of the water runoff curry her waist length blond hair as gradually rung by dripping rung the shapely swimmer emerged from the swimming pool water. She leisurely scaled those aluminum steps all the while clutching her headgear as she climbed out of that water polo arena and into the fantasies of her admiring fans. Her hair was chlorine bleached that flaxen color that only dedicated water polo players can achieve from their long hours spent in the pool and those pale locks flowed almost all the way down her back ending in perfectly trimmed ends courtesy of well a managed diet and daily use of conditioner. Additionally, this fair-haired mermaid was sporting a golden suntan seldom accomplished this early into the season and with pool water beading upon her gooseflesh arms and thighs this little water minx was forced to scamper into the warming sunshine joining her green-eyed teammates on the Visiting Team’s Bench. The anesthetized camaraderie exhibited by her female teammates made her imminent venture appear quite commonplace as this potential First Team All-Conference Hole Check-turned-seductress went about her spectacular performance by slipping off the shoulder straps of her red one piece Speedo swimsuit. Her Lycra harnessing was permitted to carelessly free fall, collapsing at the sides of her athletic biceps allowing the taunt red swim wear fabric to relax, while having the direct opposite effect upon the fascinated spectators. Clumsily funneling each of her elbows through the tangled ribbons of the yoke comprising the swimmer’s uniform helped to focus all the interested imaginations in attendance toward the dynamic struggle between the ever vigilant forces of earth’s Gravitational Pull at work upon this athlete’s personal modesty. Currently at liberty, the red strapping of her swimming suit bodice dropped, pell-mell beneath her scythed armpits, dangling next to her heaving ribcage while she briskly dries the beading pool water from her long trim legs. With such vagarious arm actions, all of the present voyeurs were forced to question their contemporary understanding of ‘dynamic tension,’ as common sense would predict that with such verve one might have expected something to escape. Once all of the surplus dampness saturating her lower appendages had been absorbed the naughty towel was draped across the saggy bathing suit covering her ample chests in such a way as to obscure them from the intense scrutiny of her adoring fans. Then by shrewdly pinching the terry cloth fabric between her pixie chin and her suntanned collar bone this curvy aquanaut was then allowed sufficient autonomy to employ both of her hands when lowering the bodice of her swimming suit to a level somewhere between the belly button and her bikini line. Perfectly synchronized, both of those mischievous hands seductively recoiled up along the opposite edges of the terry cloth grabbing the beach-duster at her armpits, just before her chin and both biceps relaxed their hold. Everyone acquainted with this little vixen appreciated how this self induced scrutiny was morphing into grand theater owning to how her precarious modesty was working without the benefit of drapery safety netting and that just one inadvertent finger slip is all it would take to send that bath sheet facade plummeting downward thrusting her precipitous torso into the full light of day. And it was based upon such conjecture of how such a corporeal possibility could achieve substance that this demonic water-sprite was inspired to execute a girlish half pirouette away from the fascinated voyeurs exposing her bare flip side shoulder-blades to their collective viewing. A perceptible groan sounded as the terry cloth blotter was removed and employed to pat dry her judiciously secreted breasts before venturing upward to sponging-up the droplets encircling her sun-baked neck. A defining silence descended as she employed a practiced behind-the-back towel-flick to transfer custody of the loose end of that ‘swimmer’s shammy’ over to her left hand in order to utilize a very sensual tug-o-war maneuver in order to clear her bronzed stern, drip by sexy drip, of excess water. She set her cherry-colored bottom into motion rocking side to side in a perverted version of the Pasodoble as she ever so slowly managed to dry her dorsal surface. Once all was dry this water pixy completed the second half of her modesty turn but only after pinching the corner of the towel between thumb and index finger and unfurling the towel to cover first her left then her right breast as she trapped the terry cloth fabric with the underside of her upper left arm before drawing the cloth taught.