Swimming in My Goddaughter's Stockings novel · Chapter 2 of 12

Chapter 2: The Sauna

That night they closed the club at nine, and I stayed behind to check the diving boards.

It's a platform habit: I never leave a board untested with my own weight.

At nine ten they turned off the pool lights, and only the green lamp in the machine room stayed on.

I walked into the locker area with my towel around my neck, barefoot, smelling of chlorine.

A wisp of steam was seeping out from under the sauna door.

That was strange.

They'd turned it off at eight.

I pushed open the wooden door.

Inside, in the dim light of a yellow bulb, was Zaira.

Sitting on the top bench, wrapped in a white towel, hair up, legs crossed.

She was wearing sheer, transparent nude stockings that ran from her feet up to mid-thigh, held up by a black garter.

Nothing else.

"The club's closed," I said.

"I have a key."

"What do you mean you have a key?"

"My dad's a founding member, godfather. He has copies of everything."

"Zaira, your father..."

"My father left at eight to go home and watch his soap opera." She uncrossed her legs, slowly. "He's not coming."

I stood still in the doorway, the humid heat sticking my shirt to my skin.

"This is insane."

"I know."

"I'm your godfather."

"You're the man who grabbed me today like he was going to break me, and then got hard against my thigh. Don't play the saint."

"You're my best friend's daughter."

"I'm twenty-three."

"It's the same thing."

"It's not the same thing. Come here."

I said no.

And I walked in, closed the door behind me, and locked it.

I climbed the two steps of the bench, towel in hand.

She opened her knees, just a little, and the white towel fell open on one side, revealing the top of her thigh and the garter.

"Look," she whispered, showing the stocking with two fingers. "I bought these this afternoon. For you."

"You didn't know I was going to..."

"I knew."

She stretched out her leg and rested her foot on my thigh, the soft nylon sliding against my skin.

A shiver ran through me from my groin to my stomach.

"Take off your shirt."

"Zaira."

"Take it off."

I pulled it over my head.

She looked at my chest, my stomach, my old scars, with a hunger that made me feel young.

She slid her foot slowly up my abdomen until it pressed against my chest.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

"It's driving me crazy."

"Tell me."

"I like the stocking. I like the way your thigh looks. I like your foot on me."

She smiled.

She undid the knot of her towel with one pull, and let it fall.

She was naked, except for the stockings and the garter.

Her breasts were heavy and round, dark nipples erect from the heat.

Her belly was soft, her waist defined, and her pubis covered by a thin strip of trimmed hair.

My mouth went dry.

"Touch me," she ordered.

I put my hands on her knees and slid up over the nylon.

I felt the fine, silky texture under my fingertips, the warm skin beneath, and the edge of the garter pressing into her thigh.

"Higher."

I went up.

My fingers reached the junction of her legs, and I found her soaked.

"God," I muttered.

"I've been like this for hours."

"Since the pool."

"Since before."

I stroked her with two fingers, up and down, parting her swollen lips.

She threw her head back and moaned against the wooden wall.

Her clit was hard and slick, and I circled it with my fingertip, slowly, until her hips started moving on their own.

"Just like that, godfather. Just like that."

"Don't call me godfather."

"Godfather."

"Zaira."

"Godfather. Tell me to keep going."

"I'm keeping going."

I slid in one finger, then two, and her pussy closed around them, hot and tight.

She grabbed my hair with both hands.

I lowered my face and kissed the inside of her thigh, over the stocking, where the nylon was damp with sweat and steam.

I bit down slowly.

Her legs trembled.

"I want your mouth," she panted. "There. Please."

I knelt on the wooden step.

I opened her knees with my hands and looked at her: open, glistening, the stockings framing her thighs like a wrapped gift.

I ran my tongue from bottom to top, one single, long stroke.

Zaira let out a strangled cry and covered her mouth with her fist.

She tasted of salt, of sweat, of her.

I kept going.

I licked her clit with my tongue flat, then with the tip, alternating with short kisses and soft sucks.

I slid my fingers back in, curved upward, and found that spot that pulled a long moan out of her.

Her heels dug into my back, the nylon brushing against my skin.

"Don't stop," she begged. "Don't stop, don't stop..."

I didn't stop.

My tongue moved fast, firm, and my fingers kept the same rhythm, sinking in, pulling out, going back in.

Sweat ran down my back.

She arched her back against the wall, opened her mouth without a sound, and her whole body tensed.

She came with a long tremor, shuddering against my face, and I kept licking her until she pushed my head away with both hands.

"Stop, stop, I'm dying."

I stood up, licking my lips, my cock about to burst through my pants.

Zaira opened her eyes, bright and glassy, and looked down at my belt.

"Your turn," she said.

"Not here."

"Here, yes."

"Zaira, this is too much."

"Not yet. Let me."

She got off the bench, knelt in front of me, and unbuttoned my pants with nimble fingers.

She pulled my cock out with one hand, weighed it, looked at it with curiosity.

"So big," she murmured.

"No..."

She took it in her mouth.

My head fell back against the wall, and a groan escaped from my chest.

Her mouth was hot and wet, and her tongue worked the underside with torturous slowness.

She sucked deep, taking in as much as she could, both hands at the base.

My hands grabbed her hair.

"Zaira... I'm going to..."

She didn't pull away.

I came in her mouth with a hoarse groan, and she swallowed, looking up at me.

Then she wiped her lips with the back of her hand and smiled.

I got dressed halfway, still trembling.

Zaira put on her towel and got off the bench, her panties slightly sagging on one leg.

She was about to open the door when the phone rang in the pocket of my pants, on the bench.

I picked it up.

It was a message from Fidencio.

"Marcos, dinner at my house tomorrow. Zaira cooks. Don't miss it."

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