Backstage with Liz

She opened the door barefoot. Barely dressed too. Just a thin robe clinging to damp skin, a bikini underneath that barely earned the name. She looked us over like she was choosing between two desserts. Inside, the pool sat clean and quiet. Not a leaf. Not a clog. Nothing that needed fixing. She smiled like she knew we’d figure it out. My coworker dropped his gear bag. I wiped my hands on my pants, heart already kicking harder than the job called for. She let the robe fall. The bikini followed like an afterthought. She walked straight to the edge, bent over it, and looked back. The invitation didn’t need words. I stepped forward first. She was warm, wet already, and she pushed back like she’d been waiting longer than the job took to drive over. I sank in deep. Her breath caught, then she laughed—low, like she was proud of herself for pulling this off. My coworker moved to her front. She took him in her mouth without hesitation, one hand braced on the tile, the other gripping the back of my thigh to pull me closer. Every thrust rocked her forward onto him. She moaned around his cock like she’d been starving for it. She switched between us without a word. Turned, offered herself again. We took turns, hands on her hips, her tits, her throat. She came hard the second time I was inside her, legs shaking, still trying to keep sucking like she didn’t want to stop for anything. When it was over she stayed bent over the edge a moment longer, catching her breath, cum sliding down her thigh. Then she looked over her shoulder and asked if we needed a tip. We didn’t.