The private resort’s indoor pool, midnight, no one else around.
She had challenged them: “Bet I can hold my breath longer than both of you combined.”
The brunette in black and the blonde in gunmetal gray just smirked, tied her wrists loosely with a pool towel “for fairness,” and pushed her under.
Three minutes turned into four. Her toned body started to twitch, pink bikini clinging like wet paint. When they finally hauled her out, she was limp, lips blue, water streaming from her open mouth, stomach perfectly flat and still.
They didn’t call for help. They carried her straight to the basement medical suite the resort keeps for “VIP emergencies.” Door locked. Lights blazing. Monitor already flatlining (rigged, of course).
They threw her soaked body onto the crimson crash table, legs dangling apart, pink bikini bottom riding low enough to show the sharp V of her hips. No sheets, no gown, just slick skin and that obscene flatline tone filling the room.
The brunette climbs up first, knees straddling the girl’s ribs, black bikini top brushing the pink one beneath her.
Hands lock high on the sternum. She leans her full weight in.
The girl’s chest caves hard, ribs flaring, abs hollowing so deep her navel punches outward, glistening, swollen from the pressure.
Another brutal thrust. Water still drips from her hair onto her stomach, running into that protruding belly button like it’s trying to refill her.
Thirty merciless compressions, fast, deep, rhythmic. Each one makes the girl’s breasts jolt inside the soaked pink fabric, nipples stiff and visible, body rocking like she’s being fucked back to life.
The blonde takes over breathing. She pinches the nose, seals her mouth over those cold blue lips, and forces two long, wet breaths. The girl’s chest rises obscenely high, back arching off the table, navel straining upward like it’s begging for more abuse.
Then the blonde grabs the defib paddles (unplugged, ice-cold metal) and drags them slowly across the pink bikini top, circling hard nipples before pressing them dead center on the sternum.
The brunette slams down again, hips grinding against the girl’s waist with every pump, sweat mixing with pool water, sliding down both their bodies.
They trade places over and over. Compressions. Breaths that turn into slow, invasive tongue kisses. Paddles rubbing, squeezing, teasing.
The monitor never beeps. The girl stays perfectly limp, gorgeous, drowned doll, letting them use her body as long as they want.
The brunette finally growls against her lips between breaths, voice thick:
“Stay gone just a little longer, baby… we’re nowhere near done pounding that heart back into you.”
blakekathryn
baratheonpilled
discoholicmusic
germansingergirl
kianamaiart
jacobvanloon
tangentwithtanner
amandla
pixelskylines
