GINNY & GEORGIA

Mama/Daughter-Time by the Pool - Ginny (18+), Georgia, and Abby (18+)

Ginny’s toes flexed against the plastic mesh of the lounger, her skin tacky with coconut oil and the relentless sun. Her phone was somewhere—probably dead, probably scorched—so she’d been left alone with the wet hush of the pool filter and the occasional cicada shriek. The backyard was a Monet fever dream, all overgrown hydrangeas and the shimmer of chlorinated blue, and she’d almost dozed off when the sliding door screeched open.

Georgia, in a yellow bikini that looked illegal in three states, swanned out holding a pitcher of something clouded with ice and lemon slices. She paused at the edge of the concrete, chin tipped up, sunglasses flashing. “You’re going to fry if you don’t rotate, Ginny.”

Ginny peeled open one eye. “Isn’t that the point?” She stretched, feeling the suit bite into her hips. “I’m working on my base layer.”

“Base layer, huh.” Georgia set the pitcher down with a clink and propped a hand on her waist. “God, I forgot what it was like to be eighteen and think you’ll never wrinkle.” She slid her sunglasses into her hair and gave Ginny a look—half appraisal, half challenge. “Scooch.”

Ginny rolled to one side, making room. Georgia dropped onto the lounger, careful not to spill, and let her knees splay apart like she owned the world. She reached over and, with a magician’s flick, untied the knot at Ginny’s hip.

“Hey!” Ginny clapped a hand to the loosened string, but Georgia only grinned, slow and sharky.

“Lesson time, babe. You’re going to get lines if you keep those on.” She reached for Ginny’s other tie, then waited. Ginny could feel the heat in her cheeks—sun, or something else—as she let her mom finish the job.

She lay back, blinking at the intense blue, and felt Georgia’s fingers brush her thigh, featherlight, then trace up her sternum, looping the top of the bikini with one finger. “You know,” Georgia said, “when I was your age, I had to sunbathe topless in secret. My mom would’ve had a heart attack.”

Ginny snorted. “Pretty sure Nana already thinks you’re a lost cause.”

“I am a lost cause. That’s the fun of it.” Georgia’s hand was warm, soft, and it hovered at Ginny’s navel, palm down, heat radiating. “You want to tell me what’s really going on with you? Or do I need to pull a full therapist on duty?”

Ginny bit her lip. She hated how easy it was, how Georgia always knew. “Nothing’s going on. I just—” She trailed off as Georgia’s hand kept moving, up to the curve under her ribs, then down, lower, over the flat plane of her stomach.

“You’re tense,” Georgia said. “You need to relax.”

Ginny almost laughed. “And you think this is relaxing?”

Georgia leaned in, her hair brushing Ginny’s shoulder, lips close. “You have no idea.” She kissed the spot under Ginny’s collarbone, then lingered, lips barely grazing, as if she was waiting to see if Ginny would squirm away or lean in. Ginny stayed, not moving, not breathing. She felt the world narrow to that one point of contact, the softness, the deliberate slowness.

Georgia’s fingers caught the strap at the nape of Ginny’s neck and tugged, undoing the knot with a practiced flick. Ginny’s top fell away, and the air hit her chest, cool and electric. She should have felt exposed, but instead she felt—curious. Like being watched by someone who already knew what you looked like under all your clothes, and wanted to see it again anyway.

Georgia knelt up on the lounger, legs on either side of Ginny’s hips, and looked down at her with the same appraising, slightly wicked energy she brought to every PTA meeting and tax evasion scheme. Then, in a single, cartoonishly smooth motion, she popped off her bikini top, baring breasts that were tanned, round, and more impressive than Ginny’s had ever been. It wasn’t fair.

“Jesus, Mom,” Ginny said, squinting against the sunlight. “You’re, like, a genetic violation. I’m supposed to be the hot one.”

Georgia grinned, dropping the top to the ground. “Maybe if you spent less time scrolling TikTok and more time swimming laps, you’d have arms like these.” She flexed, and Ginny laughed.

“You’re insufferable,” Ginny said.

“Not yet,” Georgia countered, and shimmied out of her bottoms, letting them drop to the concrete. She stood there, completely naked in the middle of the backyard, sunlight painting every curve and scar and shadow, and Ginny felt her mouth go dry. Her own suit was bunched at her knees, and she kicked it off, because why the hell not. This was happening. This was happening.

Georgia sat back on her heels, hands on Ginny’s thighs, and said, “You want to know the secret to confidence?”

Ginny tried to play it cool. “Tequila?”

Georgia leaned in, hair falling in soft waves over her shoulder. “It’s acting like you already have what everyone else wants.” She kissed Ginny, slow and deep, and Ginny’s head spun, because it was just a kiss but it was also everything, all the tension and longing and weird forbidden hunger she’d been carrying since their first ‘lesson’.

The kiss broke, and Ginny felt the absence of it like a sunburn. Georgia pulled her hair into a loose ponytail, then lowered herself, mouth trailing down Ginny’s sternum, between her breasts, past her navel. Ginny couldn’t see anything but the top of Georgia’s blond head, couldn't feel anything except the anticipation gathering in her gut, a coil winding tighter and tighter.

Then Georgia’s mouth was on her, tongue tracing slow, deliberate circles. Ginny gasped, hips jerking, but Georgia’s tongue moved with a lazy focus, like she had all afternoon and nowhere else to be. Ginny’s back arched off the lounger, the plastic mesh biting into her shoulder blades, and she heard herself make a sound she’d never made before—high, needy, a little bit desperate. Her hands fisted in the blue-striped towel beneath her, damp with sweat and pool water and now, apparently, her own slick.

She couldn’t stop watching the top of Georgia’s head, the way her hair swung forward and plastered to her cheek. The sun was so bright it left afterimages on Ginny’s retinas, little stars that swam behind her eyelids every time she squeezed them shut. Georgia’s hands were everywhere, strong and certain, and Ginny felt that familiar floaty detachment, like she was watching this happen from ten feet above her own body.

The pleasure was sharp, almost mean. Ginny wanted to run, fight, or maybe just melt into the lounger and never come up for air. She’d never been like this with anyone—never let herself get this loud, this bare, this obvious. Georgia pressed her deeper, her tongue flicking, her lips sucking, and Ginny’s hips bucked helplessly.

Then Georgia pulled back, just a little, just enough to make Ginny whine. She looked up, eyes blue and wild, mouth slick. “You okay, baby?” she said, voice low and syrupy.

Ginny nodded, throat too tight to speak. Her hands scrabbled for Georgia’s shoulders, nails digging in, and Georgia grinned like she’d just robbed a bank.

“Good.” She dove back in, this time faster, rougher, like she wanted to see Ginny come apart. Ginny clamped a fist over her own mouth, but it barely stifled the noises. The whole world blurred at the edges—chlorine, lemon, heat, Georgia’s tongue, Georgia’s fingers. Ginny’s legs shook, her stomach trembling, and she felt the orgasm building, deep and hot and inevitable.

She tried to hold on, tried to slow it down, but Georgia was too good, too skilled, too determined. Ginny gave up and let herself go, let the pleasure crash over her in waves. She came with a silent scream, her body convulsing, her vision whiting out for a second. When she landed, everything felt soft and distant, like she was underwater.

Georgia licked her clean, slow and thorough, then kissed her belly and crawled up beside her. She brushed Ginny’s hair back from her face, gentle now, and whispered, “See? Relaxing.”

Ginny couldn’t stop laughing. She felt boneless, skin humming, like she’d been plugged into a wall socket. “You’re insane,” she managed, voice hoarse.

“Runs in the family,” Georgia said, and started to lick her pussy again, slow and sweet.

Ginny’s eyes fluttered closed, but then she heard the rasp of the gate and a voice, familiar and unexpected, shout, “Hey guys! Sorry I’m late but—”

The voice died, strangled. Ginny craned her neck in time to see Abby, standing in the yard holding a canvas beach bag and an expression that belonged in a cartoon. Her mouth formed a perfect O. The canvas bag slipped from her fingers and thunked onto the deck, discharging a bottle of sunscreen and a tangle of neon strings.

Georgia, still between Ginny’s thighs, glanced over her shoulder, unhurried, as if she’d just been caught watering the begonias. She arched one brow and said, “Hey, sugar. We’re working on our vitamin D. You want in?”

Ginny’s hand shot to her face. All the blood that had been everywhere else in her body rushed to her cheeks. She wanted to scramble up, cover herself, do literally anything except lie there and let her best friend see her naked, legs splayed, her own mother’s face inches from her cunt. But her muscles had gone to pudding.

Abby, for a second, did not move. Ginny could see the gears working—Abby the overachiever, Abby who color-coded her planner and spent three weeks rehearsing for Model UN, Abby who had probably never even seen her own parents hug. Her eyes darted from Georgia to Ginny, then back again. She blinked, hard.

“Oh my god,” Abby said. “Are you— Is this—” She pointed, wordless, at the scene.

Georgia smiled, all teeth and mischief. “It’s a free country, honey. Take off your shoes and stay a while.”

Abby’s face went through a dozen shades—pink, white, beet red, then a weirdly calm beige. She bent to gather her spilled things, hands shaking enough that the sunscreen rolled away twice. “I just— I thought we were swimming. I can come back, I—”

Ginny tried to sit up, but Georgia’s hand pressed her gently back. Then Georgia got up, not bothering with the towel, and strolled over to the poolside table. “Don’t be shy, honey. I made lemonade.” She poured a glass, the ice rattling in a deliberate, lazy way, and held it out. “You look parched.”

Abby stared at the glass, then at Georgia, then at Ginny. “You’re both naked and you were totally…” she trailed off.

Ginny’s mouth tasted like the bottom of a battery. “It’s not—we’re just—” She looked at Georgia, who seemed to have achieved some higher plane of chill.

Georgia laughed, throaty and bright. “It’s the European style, Abby. You know, like the French Riviera. No tan lines, no regrets.”

Abby’s hand dropped. She blinked hard, as if expecting the image to disappear, but it didn’t.

“You’re both insane,” Abby said, voice shaking. “Like, certifiably. I—” She looked at Ginny, eyes huge and bright, and then at Georgia, who was now lounging back on her elbows, legs stretched out, not even pretending to cover up.

Georgia patted the lounger next to her. “Come on, Abby. It’s a pool party.”

Abby stood for a second, like she was waiting for a punchline, then toed off her ratty Vans and peeled the jersey over her head. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. She hesitated, then shucked her short too, leaving them in a heap by the gate.

“Jesus, peer pressure,” she muttered, but there was something reckless in her smile, like she’d just been dared to jump off the roof.

Ginny felt herself flush all over again. She’d always thought of Abby as her default best friend—funny, smart, completely unshockable. But now Abby was standing there, in the flesh, her skin goosebumped and pale against the glare of the pool, and Ginny realized she’d never actually seen Abby naked before. Not really. Not like this.

Abby came over, stepping around the lemonade, and dropped onto the lounger beside Ginny. She looked at Georgia, then at Ginny, her mouth twisted in a grin. “So. Is this, like, just a family thing, or…”

Georgia smiled at her and ran her hand softly along Abby's thigh, “Welcome to the family, Abs.”

TO BE CONTINUED...

(Zoom into the background in the last pic of Abby...)