Backstroke

The sun is shining, reflecting off the water and the white concrete around the pool, so bright it's hard to see. I stand back a little from the window, invisible in the cool darkness of the clubhouse, watching. He doesn't know I'm here. I've come to observe, to enjoy, to be a voyeur.

There are several people already in the water, swimming laps leisurely their strokes making little waves that knock softly against the tiles in a rhythm. I settle back. I am content to wait.

Some minutes later I see him walk out, wearing a little black suit, of course, and I am hypnotized by the careful grace of his stride, confident buy not arrogant, sure of every step. He looks around for an empty lane and chooses one a little to my right. His body is just as I had imagined it, lean and muscular, thick hair on his chest (that I had glimpsed when he wore an open-necked shirt) and his legs, but not on his back, or, curiously, his arms. He turns for a moment and now I can see that his ass is indeed perfect, tight and round under the black shiny fabric. I want him to bend over, but he doesn't; he pauses for only a moment and then dives into the pool.

In the water he moves swiftly, his strokes perfectly timed, cutting through the water with only a few ripples. His back is broad and strong, his muscles moving fluidly under the skin with every stroke, so graceful, so powerful. I shift in my chair, then decide to cross my leg under my skirt so my heel is right on my crotch. I bunch up my sweater in my lap so that no one can see the motion of my foot as I rub it slowly back and forth, focussed on the wet figure on the other side of the glass.

He pauses at the far end of the pool, catching his breath I think, and he looks beautiful with his wet hair swept back off his face, his mouth slightly open, eyes bright with the reflection off the water. Now he starts again, doing a slow backstroke, kicking deliberately; I see the muscles in his thighs contract and relax with each kick, each timed kick, and I move my foot in rhythm, feeling myself getting close and melting into languid pleasure. The wet suit clings to him, showing off his flat stomach and suggesting what is inside that triangle of black lycra. I shiver when I imagine what it must be like to touch him in the pool, his skin cool and slippery, and the antiseptic smell of chlorine all around. He swims back and forth, tirelessly, never slowing down as I feel it sweeping me away, and then abruptly he pulls himself out and stands there, glistening, dripping, looking so sexy, and I close my eyes for a moment as I feel it, a tiny, beautiful, stolen orgasm, in public yet, my internal world at peace, satisfied. When I look out again he's disappearing into the showers, still walking insolently and effortlessly. Then he's gone. I sit for a little while longer, and I wonder if I should send him a thank-you card.

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