Kiddie Pool
by Mat Twassel
Copyright© 2026 by Mat Twassel
Flash Sex Story: Drew and Jamie hook up in her childhood kiddie pool. Illustrated.
Caution: This Flash Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fiction Illustrated AI Generated .
She’s been sitting in her parents’ old living room—her living room now—listening to the refrigerator hum and the ceiling fan tick in its familiar, slightly uneven rhythm. On the couch next to her rests her parents’ framed wedding portrait.
Her once-upon-a-time boyfriend Drew is supposed to come over in an hour. They will probably do what they always did back in high school: talk a little, drift toward the couch, fall into the same patterns. She presses down into the couch, leans back, and takes a deep breath.
Maybe today could be different.
She stands, walks through the kitchen, and opens the side door of the garage. The cement floor is empty but for an old lawnmower, a few oil stains, and a coiled garden hose. Dust swims in the stale air. Propped against the far wall is the sled. She remembers the times her dad towed her through the snowy streets and into the forest and she would cry out, “Faster, faster, don’t stop.”
Hanging nearby on a stout peg is the plastic kiddie pool—the once-bright fish on the bottom now ghostly pale. She remembers being five or six, splashing until her fingers wrinkled, her mother calling from the porch to be careful.
She lifts the pool from the hook. It sags in her hands like a deflated balloon, like a condom filled with cum.
The backyard is bright and quiet, the grass green and thick. Who will mow it now? She spreads the pool on that thick, green grass, kneels next to it, takes the button-headed valve into her mouth, and begins to blow. After minutes of hard breathing, her cheeks ache and the pool is but half inflated. Another few minutes and she judges it sufficiently firm. She presses the spit-coated nozzle into its seat.
She drags the garden hose to the spigot, hooks it up, twists it on, and listens to the rush of water, the gurgle and gush. The pool fills slowly, the surface trembling in the sunlight. She dips her fingers in. Icy. Maybe the sun will help. Maybe cold is part of the point.
When the water reaches halfway, she shuts off the hose and goes back inside. Tucked in the back of a drawer, she finds her schoolgirl one-piece, smelling faintly of sunscreen from teenage summers, and behind it is that brazen bikini, never worn outside this bedroom. She changes quickly, feeling a flicker of self-consciousness. A quick glance in the mirror. What would her mother say?
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