– Horny Scene II: Poolside –

Usually he wears flip flops. That’s already hot enough. A barefoot guy doesn’t usually do much for me, but the smooth, tanned tops of his feet and the way his strong legs taper and curve at the ankles are enough to convert me. Today—for some reason—he jammed his gorgeous feet into a pair of untied gray New Balance 574s when his shift at the lifeguard chair ended, and I find it hard to keep the front of my red standard issue guard trunks flat.

I’m stacking the plastic concession area chairs when a jarring cold spray of water stings me between the shoulder blades. I turn to see him standing on the pool deck, hose in his hand, watching me with lopsided grin. The laces of his sneakers drag on the puddled concrete, saturated. I chuckle and I step toward him, accepting his challenge, holding a chair up as a shield. He steps back defensively, and I see pale gray padding of the NBs pucker around his golden ankles as he does.

As the water jet breaks loudly against my makeshift bulwark, I feel myself begin to lose my grip on the situation, and the thin polyester boundary between my cock and the rest of the world isn’t going to conceal it. Pointing the chair legs at him like four gun barrels, I charge. He lets out another brief volley of icy drops before attempting to retreat, but his foot catches on the twisted coils of hose. There is a brief squeal of his shoe sliding on rubber, and he falls hard on the grass beside the deck, laughing.

I stand over him, panting as he points the sprayer at my face and threatened to squeeze. The damp ridges of the tread of his shoe brush against my own flip-flopped foot. Whether overwhelmed by desire or sheer stupidity, I impulsively toss the chair aside and reveal to him my truth. His eyes widen. But he does not stop laughing.

He gets to his feet, and I further harden with the sound of his damp foot as it creaks against the lining of his loose sneaker. He stares at me wordlessly for a moment as he sizes me up. He aims the hose nozzle at my shorts, his eyes never leaving mine, and stands poised. I looked down at it, at the twist of hemp around his perfect wrist, and then slowly sink to the pool deck. I lay back, propping on my elbows on the rough concrete, and spread my legs, raising my flag to full mast before me so there can be no mistake in my invitation.

He chuckles again, squeezes the handle on the sprayer. The water pounds its icy fingers between my crotch. I break my gaze with him and look straight ahead, as though in a trance. But really, as the cold water numbs me and its whiplike blast dulls into dozens of fingers fluttering against me, it is his gray New Balance sneakers—growing damp against his bare feet in the overspray—that I have locked onto as he brings me to climax.