Rediscovery and Recovery
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Rediscovery And Recovery Ch. 04 free porn video
Chapter 4: The Swimming Pool
It had been nigh on eighteen years earlier that I had left the town’s swimming club to concentrate on my school work. Having returned to my hometown from an abandoned life in London, I had been encouraged by my mother, and a visit to the pool of my youth, to return for the adults-only Friday night swim. Not that I’d abandoned swimming completely in the meantime, of course – I doubt anyone who has swam seriously can ever give up the bug completely, as it’s such a relaxing form of exercise. But for a variety of reasons, I’d not returned to my home pool. Tonight was the night, and it proved to be a life-changer.
The adult swim was for the last pool hour of the day – 8.30 to 9.30pm – though this was not necessarily the last working hours of the whole sports complex, since gym and squash courts closed at 10.0pm, and the bar at 11.0pm. (Don’t ask me why anyone would choose to play squash until that late hour, but the world is full of strange people!!). I drove to the pool and arrived bang on 8.30pm – I did not want to be the first adult into the pool, but did not want to lose too much of the hour either. I paid my entry fee and walked around to the unisex changing area. Mum had explained to me that there had been quite a fuss locally to begin with – one of the Churches had condemned the immorality of communal facilities and created a stir. But then there had been a court case at a town on the coast, the prosecution of a man who had been charged with exposure at another pool. In that pool’s male-only open changing room, his lawyer argued that sexual exposure could not be proven, he was wrong, and the man was found guilty. It helped convince the town that individual changing cubicles within a larger area was more secure than the previous arrangement.
I quickly changed into my swimming costume – I’d had to go out and buy new at lunchtime, plain red swim shorts, neither too small in the Speedo-ball-hugging sense, nor too baggy as if for the beach in Bermuda. Having stuffed my clothes into my sports bag and retrieved a coin for the locker, I stepped out into the locker room.
From my right, I heard a voice and my name.
Hello John, long time no see!
I turned my head and there, three paces away (I know, because I counted them) was Emily, or Em as she’d always been known. In a plain black one-piece swimsuit, functional and yet not without allure, she stepped forward and surprised me with a brief hug and a peck of a kiss on my cheek. The hug was so quick that I didn’t have time to respond, I wondered whether it was instinctive or calculated. But it contained a certain warmth, one which found further expression later.
Emily Barrington – Em – my teenage best girlfriend, that is, best friend who happens to be a girl, and as close as friends could be without so much as a snog or an adolescent fumble. Em is a year younger than I am, but we were both school friends and swimming team mates from the age of 10 or 11 to when I dropped out from the club at 17. (Since girls tend to go through puberty and mature a little earlier than boys, the year’s difference had never been noticed, in fact most people had thought Em was older than me). As teenagers, we spent a lot of time together. Three evenings a week in the pool and one early morning session, we shared lifts with parents to the pool, and travelled together in the club mini-bus to competitive meets, falling asleep on each others’ shoulders on long journeys home. We ate lunch together at school once or twice each week, discussing diets and nutrition for swimmers. We were a pair, but never a couple, neither of us had time to establish those other usual youthful relationships and in a way we were too close to realise just how fond we were of each other. When I stopped swimming to concentrate on my school work, it was Em that I missed more than anything but, emotionally immature, I had no way of expressing it, neither in words nor in action. We still met and talked in school of course, but within the year I was off to university and in terms of our being so close, that was just about that.
Hello stranger, do you come here often? I asked, feeling immediately very stupid at my corny line. Often? We lived here as kids. But Em smiled, a really beautiful smile, and answered:
I still try and swim once a week, either with the family or else I come to adult sessions on a Friday. My daughter is 7 and stays with her father every other weekend, so I come here to see if there’s a good looking bloke I can chat up.
Em must have read some query in my facial expression but she just started laughing gently:
Oh, stop your worrying, we’ll chat later and we can tell each other our life stories over a glass or two in the pub. That’ll be something new for us but for now let’s go and swim, just like old times.
I swear that if I’d put my hand out, Em would have taken it, but she led the way. Me? I had only one piece of clothing on, and that was not designed for heat. But in the half a minute since Em had called out my name, warmth had spread through me. And, you’ll be wondering by now, I’m sure: yes, my eyes drifted to the mature and wonderfully curvaceous hips and backside walking with purpose just ahead of me.
And so we went and we swam. When you’ve been taught properly, technique is something you don’t really forget. You lose strength and some fitness as you get older, of course, and the finer points of competitive swimming are lost perhaps, but the muscles remember, the wiring within the mind stays intact and it comes back pretty quickly.
There were six other people in the pool, and so we were able to choose a lane and share it. I followed Em as we swam cycles of 100 metres, 4 lengths, two of breast stroke followed by two of front crawl. Then we’d stop and have a few minutes’ break, a chat about swimming for the most part, comfortable common ground in a familiar setting. Em’s memory about this or that club competition, of the times we’d won but also the times we’d got beaten, was very good indeed, reminding me of things I’d not thought of in years. And then, mid-sentence almost, it was ‘come on, another hundred’ and off she would go, and I’d follow.
We had completed, I think, 6 sets of 100 when we looked up and realised that the last people other than ourselves were heading for the changing area, though there was still ten minutes left of the hour.
Fancy a race? Em asked
No. thanks! I replied, honestly.
You’re not chicken are you? You’re in good shape, were always miles quicker than me and if you feel out of touch, then it may be no more than making us equal. Winner chooses the post-swim venue, loser buys the first round. Four lengths freestyle. If you say ‘no’ again, I may go straight home for a mug of hot chocolate and leave you regretting having turned down the race and the date.
I looked into Em’s face, perhaps in a way I’d never done before. How does that work? Someone you knew so well a generation earlier, someone you feel you hardly know at all now. But still someone you can look at, communicate with, with a lift of the eyebrow, a smile. I swear it’s as close to telepathy as you can get. I knew that this was an offer to spend quality time with someone, someone I once cared for and who was so much like me. Em was offering not only renewed friendship, but also shared experience, from the past, into the present.
How can I refuse? I can’t imagine I have a chance here, not after swimming a third of a mile already, but I’m game if you are. Four lengths, diving start? Can you still do a tumble turn, because I know I can’t!
Em nodded, I can, but I won’t – I’ll touch turn, same as you.
And with that, Em placed her hands on the side of the pool and for the first time in three-quarters of an hour, hauled herself out of the pool. I watched, transfixed, as her long legs rose no more than a meter in front of my eyes, and for a second or two her gorgeous arse proved
a distraction beyond words. I suspect now that she knew exactly what she was doing, because the next thing she did was to turn round, bend forward, and offer me a hand out myself. Before I could stop myself, and certainly before any attempt to conceal it, my eyes strayed from her face, to her tits and torso. Realising what I’d done though, I lowered my eyes to her feet at the side of the pool, placed my hands firmly alongside and jumped out myself.
We stood there, face to face for the briefest of seconds, trying to read each others’ minds. And again, Em smiled a melting smile, and I felt a leg buckle beneath me. ‘Pull yourself together and race her’ I thought to myself, ‘don’t be such a jerk!’
Ok, are you ready for this race? I asked, she just looked fitter, healthier than me, and if I stood any chance at all, it would be on my extra few inches of reach, and brute strength rather than technical refinement.
You bet! Em replied. Prepare to have your backside kicked by a girl! A raised eyebrow from me and she added: metaphorically, for now!
We moved into the middle of the now still pool, Em taking the lane to my left, which suited me fine, as I was intending to breathe every fourth stroke until the final length, at which point I’d switch to three to keep an eye on her. I had no idea how fast she would try and swim, and whether I’d have any chance of staying with her, but I had no intention of going out in front or of exhausting myself, either could lead to embarrassment. I was astonished by my own competitive spirit, something I’d not seen for many, many years. I now wanted to race!!
Em’s voice got us ready, and her calling the start gave her the advantage, but I wasn’t going to complain. I’ll give just ‘Marks-set-go’ she said, nothing else. And no holding back, a proper race, whatever we’ve got to give. Ready? I nodded.
Marks … Set … Go!
And with that, from the edge of the pool, we both dived, as close to a full racing dive as was possible. And all of a sudden the pool was both deathly quiet with the concentration of two swimmers battling for bragging rights, and at the same time a cacophony of splashing water, whirling arms and legs, nowhere near as efficient as at our prime, but raw energy and power. I was in trouble almost immediately, Em had swum more often than me, and had technical superiority without question, by the end of the first length, my head was barely level with her toes as she turned a full stroke and more ahead of me. I ploughed on with the same speed down the return 25 meters, breathing to my left, I could only see Em straight ahead, and despite lane dividers, I was starting to feel the wake of her swim. But there was no way I was going to go any faster even with 50 meters to go – I had to rely on Em running out of steam, hoping that she had somehow overdone it. There seemed to be little chance of that as she maintained her lead down the third length, down towards the shallow end of the pool, but as we turned for the final time, I caught the briefest of glimpses of her face, and saw the tiredness. With that, I redoubled my effort, and set off after her, sod the technique, just swim hard and fast, arms and legs full speed.
Had the pool or the race been another 10 or 15 meters, I might have caught Em, but I’d left it too late, or her early pace had been enough, one or the other. But we were both immediately very tired and hung on to the lane dividing floats between us, just like you see at the Olympics and World Championships. I conceded defeat, graciously, and gratefully too: Very well swum Em, that was some race, forgive my language, but I’m fucking knackered now.
Also just like at the Olympics, Em leaned over into my lane and hugged me in thanks. But unlike the Olympics, she whispered in my ear: I sincerely hope you are not fucking knackered, because it’s only 9.30pm and the night is young. Come on, let’s go take a shower…
And then, with utter mischief she added:
… and I’ll climb out first again, so you can have another good look at my arse…
And with that, Em pushed herself up, backside virtually in my face, climbed onto the side of the pool and was on her way. Gathering my thoughts, calming them even, and summoning enough energy, I climbed out too, and headed for the locker rooms. Em had already retrieved some shower gel from her locker, and I had to confess there and then that I’d not bothered to bring any with me. I had intended to just rinse down, get changed and go home for a soak in the bath, but Em just beckoned me to follow her, and said I could share hers, so we could ‘both smell the same in the pub’!
The other people who had been swimming were somewhere in the changing cubicles or else had already left, because there was not a soul in sight. So we had the shower area to ourselves, a large square area with 12 showers on two opposite sides, we stood facing each other under streams of hot water on either side of the room. Em poured gel onto her hands and lathered her short-cut brown hair. Her eyes were closed, but I stood watching, completely transfixed by the water and soap as it cascaded down the curves of her shoulders, breasts and body. No matter at all that she was still enveloped by her swimming costume, if anything, it was accentuating shape and contour. I was mesmerised by Em’s beauty, completely captivated. Her tits were shapely – more so than I ever remembered as a teenager – but it was the overall effect which got to me. Full, a woman and a mother.
And I was getting hard. Again, as if by telepathy, I think Em sensed my watching, she opened her eyes slowly, peering through the water glistening on her face. Quickly, I asked her to throw me the gel, which she did, and to hide my now semi erection, I turned and faced the wall to soap up. No sooner had I quickly washed and rinsed my hair, than I both sensed and heard Em crossing the shower area to my side and so when she touched my back, I half-expected it. The hands were warm, gentle, supple yet confident and, more than all that, they were loving hands, hands which cared. I went to turn and face her, but she stopped me and said ‘I’ll do your back, then you do mine, and then we’re out of here’. She finished rinsing my back and turned hers to me, I took just a small amount of soap and as gently as I dared, worked it into her shoulders and upper back. I’ve never had any training in massage, but I’ve always had a ‘touch’ and an appreciation of that fine balance of pressure which both caresses and invigorates. As I worked from shoulders, slowly down the crease of the spinal cord, Em let out a soft moan and I knew then that, just as her presence and touch was getting to me, so too I was getting to her. I leaned forward and made my first seriously risky move of the whole evening, kissing her gently on the top of her right shoulder. She moaned again, still being soaked by jets of very hot water coming from the shower head.
I whispered in her ear: This is probably neither the time nor the place… Em turned her head and kissed me full on the lips. The First Time Emily Barrington Had Kissed Me Properly Ever. God, we were like our 17 year old selves again, but twice the age, and I dare say twenty times more experienced.
Come on Em said quietly, let’s go get changed.
Without another word, we both went to our lockers to get our kit bags and other personal effects. For twenty seconds or so, Em went out of view, and I looked down at the enormous bulge that was now full mast in my swim shorts. I was about to disappear into a cubicle, a chance to calm down whilst I changed, when Em reappeared:
No, follow me, she said, I’m not letting you out of my sight. And with that, she proceeded to open the door to one of the small rooms marked ‘Family Changing’. I swallowed hard. Was this happening? I followed Em inside, and again, for the third or fourth time, she read my mind. She nodded to me to close the door behind me, and put the lock across – not massively secure, but an indication that th
e room was occupied. I did as I’d been bidden, and Em took a step towards me again. In the gentlest of whispers, some words which I don’t think I’ll ever, ever forget:
Hush now John, we need to be quiet. The swimmers have all gone but there are still some in the gym and the staff will be in to mop down and clean. We’re perfectly safe, like any couple which comes to the pool and changes here, and no, we’re not going to have sex here, as much as I would love to release your tension and mine. But something happened in the last hour, something which I can’t quite understand, and don’t want to either. John, I’ve no right to be, no particular reason to be, but I am completely and utterly at ease with you this evening. It seems to make no difference that at one moment, it’s like we’ve only just met – do you believe in love at first sight? Don’t answer! That’s the closest I can think of. But then, in another moment, I feel as though I’ve known you all my life, which I know I have, sort of, but I mean, really know you, understand you, even before you speak. And I get that you sense that too. I know already you’ve come home a single man, and I want you to know that the only unquestionable commitment I have is to my daughter. [I saw half a tear creep into her eyes as she continued]. If you want this, I’d happily, very, very happily, be your best friend again, and as long as that dick of yours is connected to your brain, I think we might even be lovers. I can’t expect you to love me straight away, I’ve got a bit of baggage which can be complicated at times, even if not often, but can we share things again? Can we rediscover lost friendship?
I didn’t know what to say, seriously so. no idea. And so I just pulled her towards me and kissed her again, with more passion than the shower kiss, but not roughly or forcefully. I whispered back a very simple Of course. Breaking our embrace, Em went to pick up a towel – not hers, but mine – came back and started to dry my torso, patting me dry as she might her young child, all gentleness and care. Having done so, but without another word, she motioned for me to remove my swim shorts and I complied. As I stood there naked in front of her for the first time, Em murmured appreciation. For the briefest of moments, she held my cock in her hand, but then expertly wrapped the towel around my mid-rift and went to fetch her own.
Turning back towards me, and handing the towel to me, she locked my eyes to hers, and with me concentrating on her face, she lowered the top half of her swimsuit down, exposing her breasts. Without breaking the gaze, she said: Please would you now dry my body John? I wrapped her towel around her top half, and in small rubbing movements, mopped the water from her body, front and back, gently massaging. It was a long time since I’d truly appreciated the softness of a woman’s body, a long time since the touch of the present had more meaning than the promise of what might come. As I dried Em’s top half, she reached down with a hand, and removed her swimsuit completely. My hands (and eyes) now free to wander, I continued the motion needed to dry Em completely, working my way down. Her towel was long enough to extend to the top of her buttocks and keep her pubic mound just out of view.
On one side of the changing room was a bench where we had put our clothes, and I motioned for her to take a seat, towel now wrapped around her naked body. As she sat, I took my own towel from my waist (being now almost completely dry myself) and took it to dry her legs, which were still, as they had always been, long, strong and completely without blemish. Unashamedly naked, I started from the feet and ankles and then worked my way towards the shin and then the knee and then on to the thigh. I had taken Em’s signal that we would not be having sex in the changing room on its merit and as truthful, but kneeling in front of her in this way, I could but wonder how tempted she might be. As my right hand moved to dry the inside of her left thigh, she answered me by parting her legs and giving me full view of her innermost secret: a neatly trimmed strip of pubic hair sitting on top of her mound, clit prominent and forward, and a hint of dampness betraying what I knew to be significant wetness beyond the slight opening of her vagina.
Annalisa
- 02.12.2022
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