Swimming in My Goddaughter's Stockings novel · Chapter 1 of 12
Chapter 1: The Stance
"Padrino, is this the right stance?"
Zaira was facing away from me, at the edge of the one-meter springboard, arms stretched above her head.
I was behind her, hands ready to correct her elbows.
It was Saturday morning at the Los Pinos Sports Club, and the sun was beating down hard on the Olympic pool.
I'd been back in Guadalajara for six months.
Twenty years on oil platforms had left me with a broad back, weathered skin, and the habit of expecting nothing from anyone.
I trained club members in diving, and that morning my student was my goddaughter.
Twenty-three years ago, I'd held her over the baptismal font, when I was eighteen and she was screaming her lungs out.
Then I left, and I saw her twice, at two funerals.
Now she was twenty-three, about to finish her architecture degree, and had a body I forbade myself from looking at.
"Knees straight," I said.
"They are straight."
"Feet together."
"They're together."
"Suck in your stomach."
"Padrino, I don't have a stomach."
She was right.
She was wearing a black bikini with thin straps, a bow at the neck and another at the small of her back.
Honey-colored skin, a small mole high on her left thigh, and wide hips that swayed with every breath.
On the other side of the pool, in a canvas chair, sat her father.
Fidencio Quiroz was reading the Saturday paper, glasses perched on the tip of his nose.
He'd been my best friend since I was fifteen, delivering tortillas on his tricycle.
He'd asked me to teach his daughter how to dive headfirst, and I said yes without thinking.
"Now lean forward slowly," I instructed. "Hands out front, head between your arms."
"Like this."
She leaned.
And as she leaned, she pushed her hips back, and her firm, round ass planted itself directly against my crotch.
It was a brush that lasted a second.
But I felt the wet fabric of her bikini, the heat of her flesh, and the slight, almost imperceptible movement of her hips as she settled.
An electric current shot through me from the back of my neck to my heels.
"Sorry," she said, without turning around. "I slipped."
"You didn't slip."
"No?"
"Stand up straight."
She straightened up slowly.
I caught a glimpse of her shoulders and noticed they were trembling with suppressed laughter.
"Jump," I ordered, my voice hoarse. "Now."
Zaira stepped to the edge, bent her knees, and jumped.
It was a horrible jump.
She landed flat on her belly, sending up a wave, and sank.
I waited three seconds.
Four.
When she surfaced, she was flailing like a cat in a sack.
She was swallowing water, coughing, and sinking again.
"Zaira!"
She was a bad swimmer—I'd known that since the first class—and that desperation turned my blood to ice.
I tore off my shirt and dove in headfirst.
I reached her in two strokes.
I grabbed her around the waist, and she wrapped herself around me with arms and legs, like a scared octopus.
"Don't let go," she gasped, spitting out water. "Don't let go, padrino."
"I won't let go."
I dragged her to the shallow end, where she could touch bottom.
She was still clinging to me, thighs pressed tight against my hips, tits flattened against my chest.
With every movement, our bodies brushed against each other, and I felt everything.
I felt the curve of her ass in my hands, the pressure of her pubis against mine, the brush of her hard nipples through the wet fabric.
And then I suddenly felt that the bow at her back had come loose.
I looked down.
Both bikini strings were floating loose in the water, and the top had slipped down to her waist.
Her breasts were pressed against me, bare, warm, round, with dark nipples digging into my skin.
"My string came undone," Zaira said, looking me in the eyes.
She didn't look scared.
She looked very attentive.
"I can see that."
"Cover me."
I ran my hands up her back, searching for the strings, and my palms slid over her wet skin.
I took longer than necessary to find them.
She was breathing fast, lips parted, chest rising and falling against mine.
Her thigh moved slowly between mine, brushing against my already hard cock beneath my swim trunks.
She noticed.
I knew because her pupils dilated.
"Padrino," she whispered.
"Shut up."
I tied the bow with clumsy fingers, twice.
The water came up to our chests.
Twenty meters away, a fifty-six-year-old man was turning the page of his newspaper with one hand.
"Everything okay, kids?" Fidencio shouted, without looking up.
"All good," I answered. "Just a scare."
"What a bad swimmer you are, daughter. You need to listen to your padrino."
"I am listening, Dad," Zaira said, her face pressed against my neck.
Her breath burned my skin.
Fidencio went back to his paper.
Zaira took advantage of the fact that her mouth was an inch from my ear.
"You didn't let go," she murmured.
"You were drowning."
"I can swim better than that, Marcos."
It was the first time she'd called me by my name.
"I wasn't drowning," she whispered. "And you know it."
"Zaira..."
"You already untied my string."
"That was you."
She pulled back just a little, with a slow, catlike smile.
"It was me," she admitted.
She swam away on her back, breasts barely covered, eyes locked on mine.
I stood there in the water, my cock hard as a rock, trying to make sure my best friend didn't notice a thing.
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