I Live In My Scuba Gear
Chapter Two
Scott took her hand and led her down the hall to his bedroom. As they wended their way, Belinda Lyle reflected on the past hour.
Swimming Night Sport
Belinda had walked behind him from the cab to his building, while admiring both his grace and his form. She couldn’t imagine Scott Wagner having to resort to this night ruse, just to get laid. His fame, coupled with his handsomely chiseled features and exceptionally fine physique would have the females in any nightclub fighting for the opportunity of squirming wantonly in his muscular arms.
‘Why me?’ As Wagner had keyed the outer knob, she had asked. His answer had been, ‘that is the last question you should ask.’ His inflection had left her unsure of whether he meant it was an answer she might regret hearing or if the answer to it would terminate their deal.
To his credit, Scott hadn’t simply ushered her to a bed and ordered her to strip as a common night strumpet might’ve been. Instead, he lit candles in the living room and put on some mellow music. They had sat on the sofa necking and engaging in foreplay. Their bodies were now both piqued for the consummating event and as they moved to the bedroom, they were already in a state of partial undress.
The sport reporter stopped on entry and looked around the bedroom. The paraphernalia and sport photos one should expect to find in a world class athlete’s home were as absent here as they had been missing from the rest of the suite. The only signs of his swimming career were his four Olympic gold medals hanging haphazardly on his bedpost—as if he had just tossed them there like an unlaundered t-shirt. Framed pictures on the walls were of tropical reef scenes and a full set of scuba gear was hung reverently in the half-open closet. Belinda was so engrossed in viewing his private domain that she barely felt him tenderly removing the rest of her clothing, or noticed his stripping off his own.
“Do you have protection?” She asked as he lowered her nude body onto the sheets.
“I only wear a wet suit when swimming in cold water.”
“What about at night in an unfamiliar ocean?”
“Immersion in water gives me a sense of security, regardless of where it’s pooled. And where might a man feel more at home at night, than in his own comfortable bed?”
The sport reporter balked only briefly and then relented. If the swimmer’s night past had been hedonistic, it would’ve already been splashed in newspapers. If anything, the swimmer’s night lifestyle was devoid of any reported sex partners. His failure to stock prophylactics actually lent the sport reporter a convoluted impression of safety. It implied that the swimmer wasn’t a weirdo with a scripted night scenario that was complete with all the night props in place. At least she allowed her mind to trust in that because the only other option was calling for an immediate cease and desist. In ordering a halt, the sport reporter would be tossing away a possession she’d already purchased this night by agreeing to mortgage her genitals to finance her ambitions.
Swimming Night Sport
“Just be prepared to pull out,” Belinda spread her thighs apart as an open threshold for his hips, “because I’m not on any birth control.”
Scott’s gender sought her pubic triangle like it was a welcome mat. He found the moisture in the folds then entered her as smoothly and powerfully as if diving into a tepid pool. He plumbed to the extreme range of his depth finding equipment and on finding the wet sleeve was a pleasurable locale, he energetically frolicked in it.
The sport reporter’s hands caressed the swimmer’s shoulders and she felt that her fingertips could almost read the tattoo emblazoned there as if it were brail bumps on his flesh. ‘I live in my scuba gear’. The motion in his legs was fluidic as he pumped and the sport reporter locked her heels around his thighs to better appreciate the sensational friction. She felt as if riding a merman or a dolphin as in the act of sex, the swimmer employed the unique kick that made his butterfly stroke so amazingly fast. ‘I could use a description of this sex experience as a comparative article on his swimming style,’ Belinda thought, ‘if I could find a magazine that would publish sports erotica.’
Previously, she had only ever achieved an orgasm during masturbation. This time, the reporter climaxed twice as the tempo of their lovemaking crested towards a grand finale and had an even stronger one when she felt his legs quiver and the searing gushes of his finishing spasms inside her.
“You were supposed to pull out!” In mock frustration, she slapped both his biceps. Retrospectively, neither one of them could’ve interrupted the inevitable end of such an intensely passionate night session.
“I can slip out now.”
“It’s too late so don’t bother.” In the night afterglow of her orgasms, even this didn’t seem crucial enough to panic her. There was not much she could do about it now either. “If your sperms swim anywhere near as fast as you do, they’ve already mapped out and conquered the most remote regions of my egg realm.”
“That reminds me of a life defining element of my childhood,” the swimmer pushed up from between her legs and rolled to a position beside her, “and you’ve now definitely earned the right to hear it.”
Belinda wished that he hadn’t cheapened the wonderful night moment with a reminder of their night pact but she rapt her attention onto the lips she had so recently been kissing.
Belinda Lyle sucked on her lips to keep from responding. She felt far worse than a whore. Prostitution wasn’t an Olympic night sport event because a bed shouldn’t be a spectator venue. But each publically read column she now produced would be a result of her having taken his night sport shaft in barter for the swimmer’s words, and people could view it as so too.
Swimming Night Sport
“Okay.” Scott noted her tight mouth and smiled. “Whether you believe I could do it is moot. News editors aren’t going to purchase an article outlining a reporter’s view. What I suppose to be true comprises the marketable story, regardless of whether my belief is intrinsically sound or not.”
“I do concur with that assessment.”
“Then let’s finish this line of discussion for a Pulitzer caliber capstone on Belinda Lyle’s first piece on the previously evasive, but recently acquired, swimmer Scott Wagner.”
“Let’s do.” Belinda made a deliberate show of taking out her notepad and pencil.
“While Scott Wagner has an unshakable faith in his ability to competitively swim the 4X100 relay all by himself,” he spoke as if reading her prose, “then he can staunchly assert that three lesser swimming teammates would’ve only served to slow down his swimming finish. He can further envision how his excellent individual swimming performance would be harnessed to elevate inferior swimmers to gold medal stature they were incapable of attaining on their own personal swimming merits. To support his position, Scott Wagner has delivered a statement. ‘My would-be teammates may carp about how they might’ve taken first in swimming if I had joined them but without me, they only placed sixth. In baseball, a pitcher is not able to throw a ball, and then run down and catch it too. He needs a teammate and even if the catcher is not as talented as the pitcher, together they are a battery. A relay in any athletic discipline is not a team event. It is just a number of athletes lumped unnaturally together, who really should be prevailing or failing according to their own personal abilities – and drive.’ Period, and end of story.”
Swimming Night Sport
“The decision on where to place the punctuation is mine alone.”
“Granted.”
“And do you realize how conceited that article makes you sound?” In the confines of her mind, Belinda became conscious of a night sport demarcation line she had just stepped over. It was too late for her to change her mind about the night sport deal. She had just accepted his first payment in currency they had agreed was cash and her body now owed him sexual gratification and night sport.
“So be it.” Scott shrugged. “In any adventure requiring a choice between looking good or being loyal to my perception of truth, I will always opt for the latter.”
“Then in our team,” Belinda found herself saying, “my part is pitching the questions and your job is to bat back the answers, with as much spin and relish as you care to put on them. I’ll either field them and play them back to you, or allow them to float from the ballpark—at my discretion.”
I Live in my Scuba Gear
Chapter 1 – Day 4 of Tweets and Posts
The people surrounding him looked at her oddly: then they skittered away.
“I’m not sure if that’s better,” Scott smiled again when commenting on her adjusted look, “or worse for my reputation.”
Sport reporter
Click Here! to get laid every night!
“Are you planning,” Belinda didn’t know him well enough to accurately read his face, so she equated his expression to smugness, “to repeat your amazing performance at the next Olympics?” Internally, she vowed to somehow shove that condescending look right back down his throat: Belinda Lyle would do whatever it took to wrest what she wanted from him.
“No.”
“Why are you so reticent with the media?” The sport reporter had noted that the dishwashers and cooks had been beaming, indicating that the swimming star had been genial.
“Because I only tell the truth, and that’s not what the sports reporters want to hear. It’s also not what sport reporters seem to believe their insipid sport readers are interested in either.”
“And you haven’t memorized your handbook of ‘win one for the Gipper’ platitudes.” The verbal exchange had happened so unexpectedly that Belinda didn’t realize that this was actually something she could use, until it was finished. But then, she was stuck for a way to prolong the full sentence conversation.
“Nor will I.” Scott effectively terminated the verbal thread.
The meal arrived and the talk was confined to bland remarks on the food’s flavor and requests to ‘pass the salt’. Belinda finished several more glasses of wine. The female sport reporter finished the whole beaker by herself because the swimmer hadn’t touched his glass after that one first sip.
“If you’re not going to drink that,” the girl reporter indicated his glass with a glance, “may I have it?” This nearly valueless meal was costing her plenty and she resolved to at least get a glow from it. She was already feeling somewhat tipsy.
Scott Wagner wiped the corners of his mouth while she drank his wine. Then he set his napkin on his plate and watched her savor the final drops.
“Will we,” the swimmer set his both elbows on the table and leaned towards her, “have sex?”
“Why—?” Stunned by the query, Sport reporter Belinda couldn’t quickly compose an appropriately indignant reply, so the lonely word was left hanging as a blunt question.
“Because that will be the price of the insightful interview you’re so anxious for.”
Sport reporter Belinda Lyle’s head spun with the effects of the alcohol and from a conflicting swirl of her thoughts and emotions. The swimmer’s expressionless eyes were those of Satan as he waited for her to sign away her immortal soul. The inner demon of her sport reporting ambition and the angel of her conscience scratched, bit and eye gouged one another. The internal fight’s non-impartial referee seemed to be her body—that suddenly gave a favorable gush of hormones in response to her admiration of his physique. Then in the midst of her turmoil, the host presented the check on a silver platter and the sport reporter fumbled out her credit card.
“Yes.” After a very long pause the sport reporter girl scrawled her blood ink onto Lucifer’s contract. The sales slip arrived and she signed it without noticing the amount. Swimmer Scott took the female sport reporter by the elbow and guided her wordlessly outside to catch a cab.
