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The Pool

The wet slap of the water hitting concrete echoes through the space. Anna's been sitting here for God knows how long in the bleachers around the 50 metre pool, semi-hidden behind a cement column. Her oil pastels are scattered, any pretense of working on her art folio abandoned. She can't stop watching him. Watching Rhys.

She started coming here in winter, when the school swimming season was well and truly over. She'd bring an A3 sketchbook and work from memory, drawing birds,friends, still lifes. It was quiet, and the occasional beam of sunlight would finger through a window and reflect off the lapping salted water.

Then, one day, a thunderous splash distracted her. She looked up, startled, to see a slender, muscular body coursing its way through the water, a head occasionally rising above the surface, sucking in air. Every 20 lengths, he paused at the end of the pool, gasping, inaudible over the crashing of the water, but his guttural movements convinced her of his desperation. Eventually he emerged, shaking off droplets, wrapping his lithe, tall form in a towel. He walked right past her, his deep grey eyes fixed firmly on the changerooms.

His name was Rhys Northwood, and he was in Anna King's English class. Like her, he was quiet in class. He hung around with the boys' swim team, but never seemed to contribute much to their rowdy conversations and boasting about times beaten, weights lifted, girls screwed over. Sitting at the back of the room, analysing Hamlet's inner struggles, Anna slowly became acutely aware of the physical distance between her and Rhys. The measurements seemed to pulse and glow, and the conflicts of the Prince of Denmark seemed singularly irrelevant.

And every day from 3 to 5, Rhys would plunge into the lap lane, and Anna would pretend she wasn't watching. But her sketchbook slowly began to fill up with muscular shoulders, a torso covered in droplets of water, a face with dark eyes staring straight ahead.

Anna took to shopping for lingerie - not like she needed anything other than the plain Target bras her mother bought for her; her mother, who would scoff if she knew her 17-year-old wallflower daughter was spending her hard-earned part-timer money on lacy ribboned things. Anna herself didn't know why she was buying them really. But occasionally, in front of her mirror at home, she would cup her big breasts in yet another new bra, slip another pair of French knickers on, flip her red-gold hair and critically eye her curvy figure, and wonder if the boy she couldn't stop thinking of ever thought of her?

And months went by. Now spring had arrived.
Today, it's unseasonably warm, but stormy. Rain trickles down the window panes, and the muggy heat in the pool area is almost stifling. But Anna keeps her sweater on for fear of exposing her nipples, which can't possibly be so hard from the cold. She shifts uncomfortably, the wetness in her panties moistening the metal bench below her, a patch of steamy warmth. Then suddenly - she stands up, smoothing her denim skirt. She slowly makes her way down the condensation-covered concrete steps.

In the pool, Rhys is flagging. He reaches the end of the pool, slaps his hand against the wall, and lifts himself up against the diving block, hanging over the edge. A movement catches his eye. He turns.

Three lanes away, Anna is standing at the edge of the pool. Her firey hair swishes around her face. Her short denim skirt hugs her big hips. She bites her lip in concentration as she dips a toe into the pool. Their eyes meet. She reddens.

''It's - it's really warm today,'' she stammers, by way of explanation. Rhys keeps staring. She slides her foot in, a little further.

It happens so fast. Rhys dives under the lane boundaries, swimming over to her, pulling himself out of the pool. He clutches Anna close, lifting her plump little morsel of a body off the ground with ease. She instinctively wraps her legs around his hips as their mouths meld together hungrily. She has never kissed anyone like this before. It doesn't disappoint.

Her hands entwine themselves in his dark wet hair as their tongues lash against each other. His wet body is soaking her chest. She wonders, dizzily, if he can feel her hot, wet cunt against his stomach through her panties. She unlocks her legs, sliding down off him.

Anna winds up on her knees. Looking up, she meets Rhys' eyes. He's breathing hard and fast, patches of red glowing below his glinting steel eyes. He tugs at her jumper, then at her T-shirt once they've pulled off the sweater. Anna undoes the button and fly on her denim skirt. She's kneeling in front of Rhys in nothing but a lacy white bra, which stretches to hold her E-cup tits, and matching panties. They are both fumbling at the waistband of his swim trunks.

She folds down the material and his cock rises out. For a skinny guy, he's impressive. His cock is about two thirds the length of her forearm, and probably the diameter of a fire hose, she thinks woozily. The mushroomy maroon head hovers in front of her face. She's scared, but excited, and so, so wet.

Anna King wraps her hands around Rhys Northwood's cock and slides her lips over his head. He groans, a guttural sound, as her thick pink lips slide down his shaft, up and down. Her tongue, the tongue he'd just touched with his, was flicking over his head. She slides her lips down to the base of his shaft, her bottom lip resting against his balls, but, being a first-timer, she gags a little, tears welling in her eyes. Though the feeling of being sunk to the nuts in shy little Anna King's mouth is almost too much to bear, he gently, tenderly moves her head back up to the end of his hard cock, where she resumes, bobbing her head up and down, licking, spit dripping off the shaft. But she won't quit. She sinks her head down, and down again. Soon she's deep-throating him like she was born to do it, and against his better judgement, Rhys is moaning, rocking his hips in time with her strokes.

''St-stop,'' he gasps. She gives him one last suck, sliding off him with a popping sound, then sinks lower, taking his nuts in her mouth, swirling her tongue over them. But that's good too - too good to take for long. Who is this girl, the one who's sat watching him for weeks? Has she been thinking about this moment as much as he has? He orders her again, firmer this time. She rocks back on her haunches, waiting. But he already knows what he wants. He fumbles at her bra catch, setting her huge pale tits free, red nipples, hot and hard, grazing against his fingers. He pushes her back against the rough cement, pulling at her panties, then ripping them off her. He holds himself above her, angling his hard dick towards her cunt, which - he notes - is mostly bare, save for a few russet curls.

Anna is ready. She's hot, wet and open. Well - she's closed - but she's as open as she'll ever be, as she ever wants to be. She needs Rhys to pierce her, to get inside her. She's slid a finger into herself before, as she rubbed herself feverishly thinking of a moment like this one - but never before has she been stuffed by anything like Rhys' appendage. Sucking it was heaven - she can still taste the muskiness and salt at the back of her throat - but she knows it's just the beginning.

Rhys rubs his cock against Anna's delicate, fleshy petals, deep red, that protrude slightly from her dripping slit. He hears a whimper, and smiles. He's never been great at anything in his 18 years of life without trying - really hard. Even swimming is a challenge to him - that's why he trains for hours every day. But perhaps, just perhaps, pleasing Anna is something he's naturally good at.

He nudges her lips apart, and finds her wet entrance, dripping honey. He's done this before - this is not new to him. What is new, though, is the barrier of flesh that stretches a resistance against his entry. Shit. She's a virgin?

He meets Anna's eyes anxiously. Her answer is to wrap her legs tightly around his waist and, in one fluid motion, pull him deep inside her.

As Rhys' throbbing cock breaks through her hymen, Anna cries out - it hurts. But he's filling her now, stretching her. He holds her close for a moment, letting her bask in their shared warmth, get accustomed to the feeling of being filled up, and then he begins to thrust in and out of her. She begins to drip again, and Rhys' cock is coated with her juices. Neither of them give a thought to their lack of protection - all they think of is pleasure.

Rhys leans back, pulling Anna up with him. He lies back, and guides Anna's hips as she moves up and down on his cock, her tight virgin pussy giving him sensations he'd never thought possible. Her breasts bounce rhythmically off her chest. She grinds herself against his pelvis, feeling waves of pleasure as her clit throbs. She leans over his face and he takes a nipple in his mouth, first licking, then sucking, then biting it. She moans, and screams things she won't remember, things that make Rhys pump her harder, and his groans vibrate her nipples. His hands squish her ass.

She feels herself getting close - and then she feels a finger sliding into her asshole. She nearly wets herself. The feeling is so strange - and yet so right. As Rhys bites her nipple and pumps her holes, she rocks backward onto finger and cock, and screams out as her orgasm thunders through her.
Rhys has a possessed look in his eye as he pushes her back down to the floor. He fucks her hard, pistoning in and out. She claws his back and butt, still coming hard.

''Rhys, Rhys, fuck me, baby. Come in me, lover. I love you. Come for me!'' Where this dirty talk is coming from, he has no idea. But hearing it issue from Anna's sweet lips tips him over the edge.

''Baby girl - I'm coming!'' He stills, groans, shudders, and spurts his hot cum into her until there is nothing left to give.

Rhys drops himself onto Anna, both gasping. His cock is still inside her as his cum starts to drip out. They look into each other's eyes, smile, and kiss. They will think about the consequences of their poolside fuck another day. Rhys slides out of Anna. They disentangle themselves, and stand up.

Hand in hand, naked, they head for the changerooms.

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