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Cool Water

Jon Brunette

    When I first met her, she looked as lovely as a baby after baptism. Only she had curves that’d cause God to pant and hair as yellow as what drooped off Aphrodite. A lot of men like blondes, but I really like blondes. Or at least, I did before she came to me. She kind of cured my obsession, yet I still look at yellow hair, and still fantasize about yellow hair around my region. I just don’t indulge my fantasies anymore.
    What happened was I beckoned her into the tub. After I closed the health spa that had employed me, she and I sat like Adam and Eve, without anyone else on the planet. We had each other to ourselves. She could’ve had whatever she wanted—I wouldn’t have resisted, and truthfully, I didn’t. What man would resist? She sat in the hot tub eagerly, like a lot of women wouldn’t, I need not tell you. After thirty minutes of talk that I can’t remember, she nuzzled me like a baby to her father. Understand when I tell you that a lot of fathers won’t teach their babies what I taught her, or what she taught me. I didn’t resist—why should I? I fantasize about women like that; I always will.
    Anyhow, her voluptuous breasts bobbed around my chest (I wonder if they liked what they touched), and her hands raked my hair, as messy and wet as it became. Her fiery nails itched my scalp, yet I still didn’t resist. Who would? Finally, she kissed me, and I kissed back, as sensuously as her voluptuous lips touched mine. Minutes passed that seemed like hours; before I knew her name, she pulled off my shorts, below the bubbly liquid, and her blonde hairdo spread evenly over the top. Her yellow hair curled wetly over my middle. I stood erectly, yet my knees would just bend—understand?
    Maybe you won’t believe it yet she still bobbed her head like an animal that couldn’t control itself. My head tossed back, onto the rubber liner like a pillow just for me, and I yelled loudly with pleasure. Subconsciously, I held her head below the bubbly surf. I took her head and forced it to bob quicker, until finally, I yelled too loudly, and her rear, clad in a black bikini, curled. Her back arched like a playful kitten’s. It took a moment before her body went limp. With a lot of adrenaline, I couldn’t control my fluids anymore; I shot prematurely, like I never will again. I didn’t know what to do—what should I have done? Like a jackrabbit, I bounded for the shower and left her alone in the tub. What would you do?
    Early the next day, the janitor found a rubbery torso with four disjointed limbs. How could I attend her funeral, after I read the local paper? I didn’t ask her last name; I found her picture in the Obituary. Sure, I cried—wouldn’t you? I bawled as loudly as I had yelled, with her below the water. I tell you what—I still sit in that tub, like I did the night she joined me; I tell you what—every time I do, I can’t feel the warmth. Somehow, I just can’t. Whatever her body did to me, her soul does the opposite. Whenever I sit in our tub, I feel chilly water throb my groin. Oddly, I enjoy myself, yet somehow, paralysis always hits me. Lying in our tub, my knees before me, I wonder if I truly needed her pleasure—I wonder a lot. How could I argue those painful urges? Any man would sell his soul for a body like hers. Mostly, though, if you want the truth, I wonder if that water will ever feel warm again—to me or to anyone. I wonder about that a lot. Personally, I doubt it will, if you want my opinion.



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