In the pool!
Verfasst: 14 Okt 2025, 09:51
It was one of those perfect summer days. The sun was blazing, the pool was packed, and our family was right in the middle of it — Mom, Dad, and three kids in bright, cheerful swimwear. We had a plan: drink plenty, skip the bathroom, and let the fabric do the rest. No holding back. Just warmth, closeness, and splashy fun. The kids were thrilled by the challenge: whoever peed their swimwear the most would win a giant ice cream. With juice, tea, and giggles, the day began — not with control, but with golden rebellion.
In the shallow pool, the youngest let loose first — proud and discreet. His sister sat on the edge, brushing her hair while her swimsuit turned warm and alive. The oldest stood on the diving board, grinning, and peed his trunks full, sending golden swirls into the water. No one minded. Quite the opposite. Later, Dad slipped away for a moment — the restroom was quiet empty as usual. He took the first cabine and sat on the toilet, the tiles cool beneath his feet. Sitting in his soaked speedo, he breathed slowly, feeling the fullness inside him. Then, with a grin and no hesitation, he pushed ... He touched himself through the piss-heavy trunks, and his body responded. A twitch. A sigh. He came into the fabric, quietly, completely. The speedo hugged it all — wet, sticky, and proud. It was the best of the day - and after a quick shower he headed for the rest.
Back in the pool, they floated together on an air mattress — half drifting, half melting into the moment. They swam to the edge and settled on the underwater step. She climbed onto his lap, legs wrapped around him, arms resting on his shoulders. Their soaked swimwear clung to their bodies — wet from water, wetter from want. She rubbed herself against him, whispering, “I want to piss my bikini right here, on your lap.” He groaned, pressing into her, his trunks already steaming. Her hand slid between his legs, teasing through the soaked fabric. He twitched, pulsed — and came again, flooding his speedo with heat. Her bikini shimmered, drenched from inside, slick with her own desire. They moved together, slow and wet, held by the warmth, the yes, the splash. The pool around them danced with golden swirls — but inside their fabric, something deeper stirred.
At the end of the day, the pool champion was crowned. The oldest had turned his trunks golden eight times and earned his ice cream. The kids’ swimwear bore proud yellow traces — no one had gone to the bathroom, and no one had missed it. The showers, the water slide, the smiles — all part of the game. Everybody knew: That’s what swimwear is made for!
In the shallow pool, the youngest let loose first — proud and discreet. His sister sat on the edge, brushing her hair while her swimsuit turned warm and alive. The oldest stood on the diving board, grinning, and peed his trunks full, sending golden swirls into the water. No one minded. Quite the opposite. Later, Dad slipped away for a moment — the restroom was quiet empty as usual. He took the first cabine and sat on the toilet, the tiles cool beneath his feet. Sitting in his soaked speedo, he breathed slowly, feeling the fullness inside him. Then, with a grin and no hesitation, he pushed ... He touched himself through the piss-heavy trunks, and his body responded. A twitch. A sigh. He came into the fabric, quietly, completely. The speedo hugged it all — wet, sticky, and proud. It was the best of the day - and after a quick shower he headed for the rest.
Back in the pool, they floated together on an air mattress — half drifting, half melting into the moment. They swam to the edge and settled on the underwater step. She climbed onto his lap, legs wrapped around him, arms resting on his shoulders. Their soaked swimwear clung to their bodies — wet from water, wetter from want. She rubbed herself against him, whispering, “I want to piss my bikini right here, on your lap.” He groaned, pressing into her, his trunks already steaming. Her hand slid between his legs, teasing through the soaked fabric. He twitched, pulsed — and came again, flooding his speedo with heat. Her bikini shimmered, drenched from inside, slick with her own desire. They moved together, slow and wet, held by the warmth, the yes, the splash. The pool around them danced with golden swirls — but inside their fabric, something deeper stirred.
At the end of the day, the pool champion was crowned. The oldest had turned his trunks golden eight times and earned his ice cream. The kids’ swimwear bore proud yellow traces — no one had gone to the bathroom, and no one had missed it. The showers, the water slide, the smiles — all part of the game. Everybody knew: That’s what swimwear is made for!