Buoy Room
By Twitch



"BUOY ROOM!" I yelled as we approached the mark. 
Carol and I had borrowed the "Starved Cat" from my
boss and had decided to go ahead and race even though
he wasn't up at the lake that weekend.  We were in a
heated sprint to the mark at the west end of Lake
Arrowhead and "Dos Gatos" was pointing just a tad
better than we were.  I had been hoping to steal his
wind because he was coming up on my portside stern and
trying to bluff me into missing the mark we were
trying to round to starboard.
"HEY, WATCH WHAT YOU'RE DOING" I screamed as "Dos
Gatos" banged into me, tearing loose a piece of
stainless trim.  He rattled me so much that I missed
the mark and ended up having to tack around and run it
again, by this time allowing three more boats to round
the mark ahead of me, my second place falling to
sixth, a "why bother" race.  But these races are
always pretty competitive, and my boss would have
taken it badly if he learned that I had not gone down
swinging, especially after getting his boat banged up.
 So I looked in the drawer under the deck for the red
protest flag.
"Crap, I can't find the flag.  Carol, could you come
back here and root around for the flag?  I've got to
concentrate on sailing this thing or we're going to
jibe."

Now I've got to tell you about Carol.  I met her at
the pool, right after graduating from high school,
spending one last carefree summer before heading off
to college.  I was working my job as a lifeguard at
the country club where my family are members.  One of
the guys on my water polo team was the head guard and
he was looking for someone to fill in after he canned
another guy two weeks into the season.  Members' kids
always seem to get the nod when the club is looking to
staff the pool, and there I was, camped beside the
pool with nothing to do but teach a couple private
tennis lessons now and then.  

Guarding at a county club pool is wonderful.  All the
kids are on the summer swim team, so the only work is
when someone bonks his head on the side of the pool
while doing laps.  The teen-aged girls in their tiny
bikinis are death to watch, and some of the moms
aren't bad either.  It makes me glad that the red
trunks we wore over our speedos concealed our rather
obvious pleasure, especially when the girls put on a
show just to tease the guy (like me) sitting up in the
guard chair trying desperately to look serious.

So it was about 2 in the afternoon on a summer day
when the head guard's younger sister came waltzing out
of the dressing room.  Kathy was an absolute knockout
in her little blue bikini, and was fully aware of the
fact that she was distracting me from my "job".  She
had been a junior the previous year and I, being the
magnanimous senior, had taken her snow skiing at Big
Bear a couple times that year.  That particular
afternoon, Kathy had brought a guest to the pool,
Carol.  I had known Carol only slightly from the swim
team.  I was usually up on the high school tennis
courts when the girls' swim team was in the water, but
I knew they were there.  They were forced to wear the
most god-awful black tank suits that didn't fit quite
right.  Quakers founded the town in which we lived and
I suspect there were a bunch still in the
neighborhood, which would explain a lot.  Carol came
out of the dressing room wearing a one-piece white
racing suit she had borrowed from Kathy.  She had the
darkest tan I had ever seen, and contrasting with the
white suit, I was stunned.  Not only that, but even
though the suit was probably two sizes too small for
her, because she had almost no fat on her body other
than two incredible mounds above her unbelievably flat
stomach, the suit fit like it was painted on.  I could
just barely see the ripples of her well-defined abs
telegraphed through the whisper-thin nylon of her
suit.  I confess that I remember very little of the
rest of that afternoon, but the remainder of that
summer was spent escorting Carol to different clubs in
North Hollywood and the beaches in my little green
sports car.

Following a rather uneventful freshman year at
college, I had returned to La-la Land for a summer job
downtown.  The commute was hell, but living at my
parent's house more than made up for the hassle.  Not
to mention that Carol was now a graduated senior.  Her
senior year of swim team, diving, and gymnastics wore
very well on her.  She had taken up weight lifting in
order to stay competitive and had become rather
inspired by the result.  Thank god I had maintained my
training at college or I could never have kept up with
her.  The first time I saw her this summer I was blown
away!  She was wearing very short cut-offs and a
cropped T-shirt that covered her tits, but that was
about all.  She was not wearing a bra (she really
doesn't need one) so I could just see the bottom swell
of her full breasts peering out from under the ragged
edge of the T-shirt.  She's about 5'-5" and I would
guess her chest to be about 36 inches, a good deal of
that composed of her lats, and absolutely no sag to
her beautifully rounded breasts.  Her deeply tanned,
broad shoulders accentuated the taper of her 32-inch
hips (I know because she looks much better in my blue
jeans than I do).  I'm 5'-10" and my arms, flexed, are
a little more than 17 inches cold.  So I judged hers
at about 15 inches, flexed.  Her biceps have this
really cool vein that traces diagonally over the
incredible peaks when she works hard and her triceps
have better definition than mine do.  She has sleek
swimmer's legs with nicely defined calf muscles from
doing the balance beam and her little ass is as hard
as a 2x4.  But it's her stomach that's the killer. 
Relaxed, I swear you could bounce a quarter off her
unbelievably flat and deeply tanned abs.  Standing
there, the slightly drooping waistline of her cut-offs
bridged from hip to hip without touching her belly. 
As I walked up to her, she let out a little laugh,
unconsciously tightening the muscles of her abs.  This
casual little flex almost made me blow my wad on the
spot.  In sharp relief, a defined four-pack popped
into view.

As we hugged for the first time this summer, I could
feel her hard muscles bunching up on her back.  She
hugged me tightly, her arms around my waist, pressing
up against the rather large bulge in my pants that
sort of gave away how I was feeling at the moment.

So here we were, sailing uplake on a beam reach with
the wind trying to jibe the sail, with Carol rooting
around in the drawer looking for the red protest flag.
 She was wearing a tiny yellow bikini that was nothing
more than a few small triangles of thin stretchy nylon
strung together with thick string.  With her knees on
the bilgeboards and kneeling over to peer into the
back of the tool drawer, the bottom of her bikini was
riding down, exposing the phenomenal contrast of her
dark tan and the unblemished white of her amazingly
hard ass.

"You know, the flag just isn't in here.  Why don't you
pull off your trunks and use them for the flag," she
asked, giving my old guard trunks a sharp tug.  "I
know you've got your Speedo on underneath!"

I started to protest, claiming at least a modicum of
modesty when, still on her knees, she reached up and
swiftly jerked my trunks down around my ankles.  I
gave out a yelp of surprise as she gave me a little
push, unbalancing me so I smartly sat down on the deck
combing.  Before I could react, she had my trunks in
her hands and was climbing up on the foredeck,
reaching as high as she could to tie them onto the
lower jackstay spreader.  As she stretched high, the
tiny triangles of her bikini top crept upward,
allowing the delicate little aereolae of her nipples
to peek out from under the thin cloth.  As the ripples
of her stomach tightened, a few light brown hairs
poked over the top of her bikini bottom.  After tying
off my trunks, she pulled her top back in place, but
not as low as it was before she began her little show.
 She knows that allowing her "C" cup breasts to swell
out from under her top just drives me nuts.  Scuttling
over, she sat down next to me, tucking her feet under
the port side hiking strap.  She put her right hand on
my leg, about an inch down from my Speedo, and said,
"Now we're on more even terms."  I was about to ask
what she meant, when she then traced the nail of her
index finger down the length of my now raging hard on.

Well that did it.  I was so distracted that the wind
shifted in behind the sail, swinging the boom hard
over to port and spilling us into the cold mountain
lake.  Recovering, I uncleted the mainsheet and the
portside backstay, reached over and pulled home the
starboard backstay and gathered in the main while
Carol dropped the portside bargeboard and raised the
starboard board into the hull.  Sitting on the
starboard rail, we tucked our feet under the hiking
strap and leaned back over the side of the boat, our
combined weight stabilizing the angle.

We were both sopping wet, the cold water running off
our suntan oiled skin, the summer sun beating down
through the clear deep blue mountain sky.  The breeze
caused the deeply tanned skin of the goddess brushing
against me to rise into little goose bumps, her
nipples straining the now semi-transparent yellow
material of her bikini.  The little triangles of her
top had gathered during the commotion, so that they
now formed two vertical lines, just barely concealing
her swelling nipples, the pure white of her ballooning
breasts now showing boldly.  The water flowing down
between these two mounds puddled in the valleys
created by her rippling abs.  The biceps of her arms
were swelling hugely as she gripped the monkey bars,
the puffy veins blowing up to high definition.

The cold mountain water could do nothing to discourage
my hard on that was now sticking straight up and
popping an inch or two out of the top of my Speedo. 
Carol looked over, and with a sly little smile gently
grabbed my swelling dick and started moving her hand
up and down, oh so slowly!  Oh man, the boat race was
history, but another race was on!  Still having to
control the boat, I eased off the mainsheet and pulled
the tiller toward me a bit.  We fell out of the track
and, with the wind not heeling us over quite so much,
we gently peeled off to port.  A quick glance at the
boat that was just coming up behind us, and an
interesting, quizzical, then knowing look from the
skipper, and Carol and I headed off downwind to see
what other challenges we could discover...