The sun’s a brutal prick today, late August heat slamming down, turning the concrete around my pool into a damn skillet. I’m sprawled on a lounge chair, legs restless, sweat trickling into the dip of my lower back. Ten miles. Ten fucking miles of tearing up trails, sneakers hammering dirt, lungs clawing for breath. My body’s yelling—calves tight as hell, thighs shaky, shoulders knotted like someone’s twisted rebar through them. My back’s screaming, and my tits—solid handfuls now, perky as hell—ache from the bounce, making every muscle feel the grind. I’m beat, but it’s that sweet beat, the kind that sings in your veins like a victory whoop. Still, I need relief, and I know exactly who’s got the hands to fix me.

Jake’s been my sidekick since we were knee-high, always one fence away, so I don’t think twice—just lean toward the screen door and call, “Yo, Jake, you out there, you big lug? I need one of your magic back rubs!” My voice is worn but playful, the way it’s always been with him, like we’re still lobbing water balloons at each other’s heads.

He’s over the fence quick, that goofy grin splitting his face like he’s up to no good—same old Jake, just taller and meatier. “What’s up, short stuff? Calling for your VIP lifeline?” he hollers, sauntering over, shirtless, gym shorts riding low. He’s 6’2” of football bulk now—broad shoulders, thick arms, chest slick with sweat—and damn if he hasn’t filled out. His hair’s a dark, damp tangle, blue eyes glinting with that familiar mischief. We’ve been tight forever, but I’ve never seen him bare—heard the rumors, though, about him being hung like a fucking stallion with stamina to match, girls giggling he could go all night and then some. Whatever, he’s still the dork who ate glue for kicks.

“Back’s shot,” I say, flashing him a grin, peeling my tank off slow, letting it slap wet onto the concrete. My sports bra’s plastered, black and drenched, tits pressing against it, bouncing a little when I move. “Need your paws on me, so get moving if you’re free, Mr. Full-Service.”

He steps close, voice dropping low and teasing. “Only for my favorite pest,” he says, winking like we’re still scheming to nab cookies from Mrs. Henderson’s jar. “What’s on the docket, boss? Luxury spa deluxe?”

“Rub me down, you goof,” I shoot back, laughing as I drop face-down on the cushion, cheek mashed against the faded fabric. “And don’t half-ass it, or I’ll spill you sobbed at Bambi.”

He snorts, straddling the chair behind me, thighs brushing mine like it’s no big deal—same way he’d flop next to me on the grass with a popsicle. “Big talk from the girl who bawled at Toy Story 3,” he fires back, grabbing my suntan lotion—cheap coconut crap—and squirting a fat glob into his hands. He rubs them together, the air filling with that fake beach stink, and then his hands hit—big, calloused, slick—digging into my shoulders firm. Oh, fuck yes. It’s solid, precise, thumbs pressing into the knots, breaking them down slow. I groan, long and sloppy, hips shifting under him. “There, you wizard,” I mumble, voice thick.

“Only the finest from Jake’s Premier Muscle Melt Boutique,” he teases, palms flattening, kneading my traps like he’s sculpting me anew. My skin’s slick—sweat, old sunscreen—and the lotion makes his hands glide smooth, rough edges catching just right. He’s a damn pro—always has been, ever since he fixed my twisted ankle back in the day—and his fingers hunt every ache, turning me to goo. He squirts more lotion, slicking up again, and moves lower, thumbs tracing the dip above my shorts, pressing the meat of my hips.

“How’d you get so slick at this, huh?” I grunt, eyes drifting shut, sinking into it. “Honing your craft on the cheer squad?”

“Proprietary technique, shorty,” he says, chuckling, weight settling heavier as he shifts. “Gotta keep the clientele coming back—top-shelf pampering, endless horsepower.” His shorts graze my ass, but I’m too blissed out to poke fun. He’s locked in, working me over like he’s got a PhD in this, and I’m soaking it—runner’s high buzzing, muscles finally letting go.

“Turn over,” he says after a bit, voice light but firm. “Can’t shortchange the front—Jake’s Elite Relaxation Regime don’t cut corners.”

I smirk, rolling slow, stretching out under him. “Oh, the elite regime? That include a VIP perk or two?” I tease, tossing him a wink. My bra’s still on, nipples stiff from the breeze—or maybe his hands—and he straddles my hips again, knees pinning me loose. He squirts more lotion, rubbing his hands ‘til they’re glossy, and starts at my collarbone, firm and sure, easing the tension out slow. He’s thorough, palms sliding over my chest, skirting the tops of my tits, and there’s a spark—something warm stirring low, playful but real.

His fingers nudge my bra straps, easing them down slow. “Gotta ditch this for the platinum treatment,” he says, tugging the bra off, peeling it down my arms like we’re stripping for a cannonball. My tits spill out, soft and heavy, nipples tightening in the air. He lets out a low whistle—pure Jake—then keeps his hands on my ribs, working around my chest, kneading the muscles there like it’s all routine, not touching the goods yet.

“What kinda budget service is this?” I grumble, smirking up at him, voice rough but light. “Thought Jake’s Luxury Overhaul covered all the bases.”

He grins, big and goofy. “Oh, you want the cream cartel deluxe, the lactose liberation?” He grabs the lotion, squirting gobs of it on me—thick, cool streams splattering across my tits, dripping over the curves, the coconut scent hitting sharp as it pools on my skin. Then he’s on them—full-on, no hesitation—hands diving in, palms warm and rough, kneading slow through the slick mess, thumbs dragging over the soft skin, spreading the lotion in lazy swirls. My breath hitches, a little catch I can’t hide, and he keeps going, working them like he’s chasing knots that don’t exist. His fingers spread, squeezing light, then firmer, brushing my nipples—slow circles that make them pucker hard under the wet sheen. He’s thorough as hell—palms sliding under, lifting them through the gooey slickness, thumbs grazing the sides, then back over the tops, dragging slow, lotion smearing everywhere. My skin’s buzzing, heat creeping down my stomach, settling wet between my legs.

“First-class treatment now?” I ask, voice thick, giving him a playful nudge even as I squirm. “Or you just groping me for kicks, you creep?”

“Only the finest from your pal Jake,” he says, thumbs flicking my nipples one last time before easing off, grin wide like he’s daring me to bust him. He slides his hands lower, over my abs, skipping the shorts. “Legs next,” he says, shifting back. “Flip over—gotta wrap the back with the royal touch.”

I roll my eyes but drop back onto my stomach, topless now, tits mashed into the cushion, lotion smearing under me. He grabs the lotion again, slicking his hands, and hits my lower back, then drifts down, working the tops of my thighs. He’s deep in it, fingers digging into the meat, and then he’s at my upper inner thighs—real close. His thumbs press in, slow and firm, and fuck—there’s this jolt, hot and sharp, right where my legs meet. He brushes me there, knuckles nudging my pussy through my shorts, light but dead-on.

I twitch, a quick gasp slipping out, and he pauses, hands still. “Whoops,” he says, voice dripping with fake innocence, but he does it again—another “slip,” knuckles grazing me firmer, lingering. My shorts are damp, clinging, and my clit’s awake, pulsing soft. Those upper thighs—they’re live wires, every bump sparking through me, heat pooling fast. “Easy, you big dope,” I mutter, but it’s wobbly, and he chuckles, hands still teasing, pressing that spot over and over like he’s testing my limits.

“Gotta ensure the full-body special’s up to snuff,” he says, all cheek, and I’m caught—melting under his slick hands, burning for whatever goofy game we’re playing now. My body’s humming, half-loose from the massage, half-tight from the fire building low, and he’s still the same Jake—goofy, cocky, but damn if he doesn’t know how to wind me up.

I’m face-down still, grinning into the cushion, body buzzing from his hands—those big, slick paws that’ve turned me into mush. My pussy’s throbbing now, a steady pulse from all his “accidental” brushes, shorts soaked with sweat, lotion, and a wetness I can’t brush off. He’s straddling me, working my lower back like he’s the king of muscle-melting, and I’m half-lost, giggling like the kid who just nabbed the last gummy worm from our secret pile.

He shifts, and I catch it this time—sly bastard peels off his shorts, quiet but not quiet enough, and I glimpse it through the corner of my eye before I settle back down. His cock swings free—massive, thick, a fucking stallion’s pride even half-hard—and I stifle a laugh, pretending I didn’t peek, but holy hell, those rumors weren’t kidding. His thighs brush mine, bare now, hot and close, and my brain’s playing tag with the heat, too fuzzy to call him out yet. He squirts more of that cheap coconut lotion, hands rubbing together, and then he’s back, palms sliding over my hips, thumbs dipping under my shorts like he’s planning his next move.

“Gotta untie these for the VIP platinum experience,” he says, voice low and cheeky, fingers tugging at the strings of my bikini bottoms—black, loose from the run.

I snort, giggling into the cushion like we’re scheming to TP old man Jenkins’ tree again. “VIP platinum? That the Jake Exclusive—knead me ‘til I’m noodle soup?” I’m not thinking straight—too loose, too playful—and I don’t lift my head, still smirking about that quick peek I got. The strings loosen, cool air hitting my skin as he pulls the fabric aside, baring my ass. My shorts are still on, sorta, but they’re useless now, shoved down enough that my tight runner’s ass is out—tan lines sharp, sweat beading where his hands land.

He squirts more lotion, slicking his palms, and then he’s on my ass—kneading slow, fingers digging in like he’s shaping clay. “Only the best from Jake’s Royal Relaxation Resort,” he teases, thumbs working the crease where my cheeks meet my thighs. I groan, loud and goofy, hips shifting under him. “Fuck, you’re too good at this, you dweeb,” I mutter, grinning. “That beast I spotted come with a lifetime warranty or what?”

“Endurance package included, shorty,” he fires back, chuckling like he’s daring me to test him. “Gotta keep the VIPs purring—full-service marathon, deluxe edition.” His fingers slip lower, “accidentally” brushing my pussy—quick, a light graze over the lips—and I twitch, a spark zapping through me. “Whoops,” he says, voice pure mischief, but he does it again—thumbs dragging slow, nudging my slit, slick with lotion and my own wet. My clit’s pounding now, loud in my head, and my thighs tense, heat pooling fast.

“Watch it, you big oaf,” I laugh, but it’s shaky, and he shifts, knees nudging my legs apart, settling between them. He’s still massaging, palms working my ass, those “slips” hitting firmer—knuckles grazing my pussy, teasing the edges. I’m spread, open under him, brain spinning like we’re kids caught swiping popsicles. “Full-service deluxe,” I mumble, half-giggling, voice rough, accidental as hell. “That include the downstairs wax-and-buff too, Mr. Marathon?”

He laughs, loud and bright, like we’re cracking up over a dumb riddle. “Oh, it’s the Diamond Dust Shine Plan,” he says, hands sliding up, thumbs grazing my slit one last time. “Jake’s Elite Spa Escape—every corner gleaming.” He lowers, hot skin pressing close, and I lift my ass, just a little, playful, chasing the heat—fuck—he’s in. His cock slides deep, thick and hard, stretching me raw in one smooth thrust. It’s sudden, wild, and my breath catches, a sharp gasp slipping out like I just lost at hide-and-seek.

“No shorts to dodge this time, huh, sneak?” I laugh, half-shocked, but he moves, hips rocking, and I’m gone. He’s behind me, hands gripping my hips, slick with lotion, pulling me back as he thrusts again—slow at first, then harder, deeper. His cock’s a monster—thick, long, filling me up, stretching my walls sore and tight. I’m on my knees now, ass up, elbows digging into the cushion, and every slam rocks me forward, tits bouncing free, nipples scraping the fabric. The lotion’s slick between us, wet smacks loud over the cicadas, and I’m groaning, ragged and loud, pushing back to meet him like we’re racing to the swings.

“Fuck, Jake,” I pant, voice wrecked, thighs trembling as he pounds me from behind. “This the VIP turbo treatment?” He’s relentless, hips snapping, cock dragging against every nerve, hitting deep—real deep—until I’m shaking, heat coiling tight in my gut. “Only for my star client,” he grunts, grinning, hands sliding up my back, then down, grabbing my ass, spreading me wider. “Jake’s High-Octane Overhaul—gonna leave you purring, short stuff.” I feel it building—fast, fierce, a tidal wave—and I laugh, breathless, “Better not short-circuit, grease monkey!”

“Don’t stop,” I gasp, and he doesn’t—thrusting harder, one hand slipping under, fingers finding my clit—rough, slick, rubbing fast. It hits like a freight train—my first orgasm, strong as hell, tearing through me. My pussy clenches tight around him, pulsing hard, and I yell, a raw, goofy “Holy shit!” ripping out, body shuddering as the pleasure slams me silly. My arms give out, face smacking the cushion, but he holds me up, still fucking me through it, stretching it out ‘til I’m a trembling mess, giggling like a lunatic.

He slows, pulls out, and I’m panting, dazed. “Flip over, shorty,” he says, voice thick but playful, and I do—slow, sloppy, rolling onto my back like we’re switching bases in tag. My legs spread wide, bikini bottoms dangling useless, and there it is again—his cock, massive, long, veins bulging, tip glistening with lotion and my wet. I’ve seen it now, no surprise this time, but fuck, it’s still a marvel—hung like a stallion, thick as hell, built to last. He grins, all teeth and smug, flexing like he’s posing for a yearbook pic. “Still liking the view, huh?” he teases, and I laugh, shoving his chest. “You’re such a clown,” I say, but my pussy’s throbbing, clit screaming anyway.

He’s between my legs fast, looming over me, and he lines up, thrusting back in, missionary now, deep and frantic. I wrap my thighs around him, strong from all those miles, and hump back as best I can—rocking my hips up, meeting every slam, giggling through the heat. “Fuck, yes,” I moan, hands clawing his back, nails digging into sweat-slick skin like I’m marking my spot. He’s close, chest pressed to mine, breath hot on my neck, and I’m rocking into him, frantic, matching his rhythm. “Jake’s Instant Gratification Hotline?” I pant, and he laughs, “24/7 express, babe!”

His hands grip my hips, yanking me into every thrust, and it’s deep—fuck, so deep—hitting spots that make my eyes roll back. My tits bounce hard, nipples brushing his chest, and the heat’s building again, fast and wild. He groans, thrusts turning wild, and I feel it—his cock swelling, pulsing inside me. “Shit, I’m—” he starts, and I’m there, pussy clenching tight, heat exploding low. We come together, massive and messy—my orgasm crashing through, walls gripping him as he unloads, hot spurts filling me up, spilling out around him. I’m shaking, moaning loud, thighs locked around him, humping through it with a shaky laugh, and he’s grunting, hips jerking, riding it out ‘til we’re both spent.

We collapse, him half on me, cock softening inside me, both panting like we just raced the block. I’m sweaty, sore as hell—pussy full, body wrecked, buzzing with that post-fuck high. He shifts, grinning down at me, lazy and smug. “Jake’s Total Bliss Warranty—five stars?”

I smirk back, voice hoarse. “Yeah, you big oaf—feel full as hell and serviced silly.” He laughs, rough and bright, smacking my thigh light, and we’re sprawled there, wrecked but grinning, pool water lapping nearby as the afternoon fades, still joshing like the dumb kids who’d trade comics for candy.

I’m sprawled on the deck, legs shaky, pussy sore and humming from Jake’s cock—still full of him, slick with cum and lotion, buzzing with that post-fuck high from his wild ride earlier. He’s collapsed on me, chest heaving, that massive dick softening inside me, and I’m wrecked—sweaty, sticky, grinning like an idiot who just won a bet over who could eat more marshmallows. The air’s thick with heat, chlorine, and us, cicadas droning loud as hell.

He shifts, pulling out slow, and I feel the wet slide, his load dripping down my thighs. “Full service, my ass,” I mutter, voice hoarse, smirking up at him like he’s still the kid who’d trade me his juice box for my chips. He’s grinning too, lazy and smug, sweat rolling off his chest, that bronze football tan glistening. His hair’s a dark, damp mess, and his blue eyes are locked on me like he’s proud of the chaos he just unleashed—same old Jake, just taller and cockier.

“Pool time, you big lug,” I say, shoving him off with a playful nudge. “Gotta cool off after your so-called ‘marathon deluxe’ trashed me.” My legs are jelly, but I roll to my feet, bikini bottoms dangling useless around one ankle, and stumble toward the water. The concrete’s hot under my soles, rough against my calluses, and I kick the bottoms off, leaving them with my bra and tank in a sloppy pile. Naked now, I dive in—water’s warm but crisp, swallowing me whole, rinsing the sweat and stickiness away.

I surface, slicking my hair back, and he’s right behind me, cannonballing like the show-off he’s always been, splashing half the pool over the edge. “You absolute goof,” I laugh, splashing him back as he pops up, shaking water off like a soggy pup. He’s bare too—shorts long gone—and I catch another look at that cock, swinging heavy even soft, a stallion’s pride just chilling. I’ve seen it already—snuck a peek when he ditched his shorts on the chair—but it’s still a hell of a sight, thick and proud like they said. Water streams down his chest, cutting paths through the sweat, and he lunges at me, all play, grabbing my waist like we’re still fighting over the last swing at the park.

“Gotta clean you up,” he says, voice rough but bright, hands sliding over my hips under the water. “Jake’s All-Inclusive Spa Special—satisfaction guaranteed, every time.”

I snort, shoving him back but not hard. “Oh, you’re the poolside janitor now? Part of the Jake Almighty Maintenance Crew?” I tease, grinning wide. We’re a mess—wrestling, splashing, legs kicking, water churning around us. My nipples are hard, scraping his chest as I twist, and I grab his shoulders, pushing him down like I used to dunk him in the creek. He pops back up, lifting me—hands under my ass, hoisting me onto the pool edge like he’s flexing for the old neighborhood talent show. I’m perched there, legs dangling, water dripping off me, and he stays in the pool, chest-deep, grinning up at me like he’s about to pull a classic Jake stunt.