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Pool Night, Part 3 of 3
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
"I wouldn't worry, David. You're here."
Before I can answer, she's standing up, and she walks to the
edge of the pool. "You keep the pool really clean," she says.
"It's a lot of work, isn't it?"
"I suppose," I say. "I keep it clean in case my daughter
wants to come by and swim."
Her shoes, white docksiders, are already off and lying by
her chair; she dips one foot into the water, swishing it back and
forth, and hugs herself, as if she's cold. She looks back toward
me. "It feels wonderful," she says. She turns around again and
stands for a moment moving her foot back and forth in the water.
"You could come here and use the pool this summer," I say.
"Maybe I'll do that," she says. "If you think it's okay,
that is." She at me again and smiles, then she reaches down and
unbuttons her cutoffs and pushes them down and steps out of them.
She throws them toward me, and they land on the far side of the
chair she's been using. I sit and watch, unable to say anything
as she pulls the blouse over her head and throws it at me. She
sits on the edge of the pool with her legs in the water and pulls
off her blue panties, then she slides off into the water. It's
the shallow end, and the water comes up to just above her navel.
Her breasts are small, and her nipples are erect. "Put these
with my things, please?" she says, and throws the panties. They
land halfway between the pool and my chair. I go and pick them
up and hold them, stand there watching her as she sinks into the
water. Her hair trails off behind in a fluid mass, like a
Portugese man-o'-war. She reaches back and does something to it,
and then her ponytail is gone and the hair spreads out across the
water as she sinks deeper, until the water is at her lower lip.
"I'm going to do some laps," she says. "Wait for me, huh?"
I sit down again and pick up my glass. It's empty, and I
look into it for a moment, contemplating whether I want more.
Monica's body cuts the water in smooth strokes, her hair flying
straight out behind her. She makes three laps, then reaches the
opposite end and stops, resting her arms on the edge. "Would you
like for me to stay here tonight?" she says to the wooden fence
in front of her. Her voice seems larger in the enclosed yard, as
if it were a small room.
"That wouldn't be a very good idea," I say, and I wonder
whether she can hear me. My voice sounds small and tense.
"I like you, David. I wanted you to ask me out months ago."
"And I like you, too, Monica. But it wouldn't be right, you
see. I'm a professor. You might take another of my classes
sometime."
She turns and swims back, then hoists herself up to the
edge. She sits and draws her legs up and puts her arms around
them. "I won't. I don't need any more history." She begins to
wring out her wet hair. "Could you bring me a towel? I'm
getting cold."
I get a large bath towel from the bathroom cabinet and go
back. She's lying back in the lounge chair, watching the cat as
she stands poised at the edge of the pool, looking into the
water. The cat dips a paw into the water, then takes it out and
shakes the water off. She begins to lick at the paw and bathe
her face. Monica is rubbing the rim of her wineglass with a
finger, and the glass gives off a high-pitched sound. She
dampens the finger and tries again, but nothing happens. I hand
her the towel, and she turns, putting her legs over the side of
the chair. She sits up and starts drying her hair, flattening
the hair between layers of the towel and pulling it down to the
end. "Sit down, David," she says. "I'll be dry in a minute.
Then we can go inside."
I sit and watch her; the cat comes over and starts rubbing
on my leg. I reach down to pet her, and she rubs her head
against my hand. She's purring. She enjoys what I'm doing, but
then she seems to get bored and goes off into the house. "This
isn't a good idea at all, Monica," I say.
She stops drying her hair and holds the towel up by a corner
in front of her. "Come dry my back, David?"
I begin to stand, but hesitate. In the light from the pool
her skin is darker, and its dampness shines like polished marble.
"I haven't been near a woman in months, Monica. I think I'm
afraid of you."
"Are you worried that someone will accuse you of sleeping
with a student to change a grade, David? Do you think this is
about a silly grade?"
I don't want to admit my thoughts; Monica should have been
an "A" student, but her attendance was spotty during the last two
months of the semester. "No, of course not," I say. "I'm just
nervous is all. You're a lot younger than I am." She holds the
towel against her chest, patting herself dry, but the warm air
has nearly done the job for her. "I'm just confused, is all," I
say.
She stands and holds out her hand. "Don't be. Let's go
inside." She leads me into the house, and inside the door I stop
long enough to turn off the pool lights.
I'm nervous when we get to the bedroom; Monica turns off the
lights and turns down the sheets I placed so carefully on the
bed, and then I lie down while she undresses me. When she guides
me into her I seem inept, like a frightened teenager, but Monica
knows what to do. Afterwards, when Monica is asleep, I lie awake
listening to her, and to the cat playing with the catnip mouse I
bought after I got her from the shelter. Monica stirs, and I
feel her looking at me in the darkness. "That wasn't so bad, was
it?"
I kiss her forehead in much the same way I would kiss my
daughter. "It was nice," I say.
She puts her arms around me and draws me close. "You're a
nice person, David. I like you a lot." She burrows her head
into my chest and scratches my back lightly with her nails. I
try to remember if they are polished or plain. "And don't worry
about my grade in your class," she says. "If you want to change
it that's okay."
We lie there until she goes to sleep, and in the early
morning I get up and take the cordless phone out to the pool and
sit there watching the rectangular blackness of it. I feel the
cat rubbing against my leg, and then she's gone, and I hear a
soft splash and then the rhythmic churning of her feet as she
swims. When it's light enough to see the buttons on the phone I
dial Mandy's number at her mother's house, the house the three of
us shared until a few months ago. When she comes on the line I
say her name over and over, perhaps a dozen times until she's
awake, and I say, "Mandy, thanks for being concerned about me.
I'll be all right. Everything will be all right." She says
something in return, and her voice sounds worried, though I can't
make out the words exactly. I want to understand what it is
she's saying, as if knowing this is the most important thing in
my life, and I listen, trying to comprehend what is wrong with
me.
=finis=
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