I had been working at the shore club for six months when I first spotted Miss Marilyn.

The tips from our wealthy clientele were funding my “escape Mom’s house” plan; my own place was the goal.

She was older — pushing fifty, maybe? — but her arms and tits didn’t show her age. Her tennis lessons, along with countless afternoons poolside sipping peach mimosas, contributed to a banging body that resembled a woman at least ten years younger. I always knew when she was there because of her toes. They were always painted a tangerine color.

Her long legs were usually situated in an inviting way, crossed and shimmery, like some high — fashion magazine cover. Those stems led up to a sweet spot that I desperately wanted to get lost in.

I had always liked older... Read More