Ralph Burch - Swimsuit sinners

"There's a naked girl swimming in the ocean," said the young man.

The older man chuckled. "That's beach life." Then he did a double take, as he steered their motorboat into deeper water.

"Naked? No clothes?"

"She's bare all right," said Phil. His binoculars were plastered on the swimming figure.

"That's new!" said George, the older man, eyes gleaming. "Even in Atlantic City." Then his eyes dulled. "Probably ugly." He knew life usually let you down.

Phil Griffin adjusted the glasses, frowning in concentration.

"No. She's luscious. What a… breast stroke… go faster."

"Wish I could," said George Panther. "There's a problem with our gas supply."

The rest of his words were drowned in a roar as Phil reached over and jerked the throttle of the outboard motor full open. The motorboat surged forward, drowning out George's, "Hey!"

The swimming figure that Phil wanted to inspect was well out in the bay, almost halfway to a yacht that rode the waves across from the Atlantic City Boardwalk. The nude swimmer seemed headed for that yacht.

The roar of the engine made further talk impossible. George Panther contented himself with steering grimly to avoid running down the less interesting swimmers here close to shore. By this time he already had a good idea of who the target swimmer was, and he knew she'd be mad when they caught up with her. The motorboat waves would make her bob in the ocean and lose strokes. But he also knew this Phil Griffin and didn't want to argue.

George shook his head as he watched his young partner. Phil Griffin was handsome, well-built and impetuous. At twenty-seven he was one of the best swim trainers for Olympic endurance swimmers in the nation, but he had this fault…

Right now Phil was both enjoying the sight of the girl's body and rating her athletic power, George guessed.

He was right about that. "Not bad," said Phil in a murmur that George couldn't hear. At first Phil had hoped that the swimmer was Madeleine Metcalf, the women he'd come three thousand miles to find, but he could see it wasn't her. She was, however, a powerful swimmer, cleaving the water with a steady two-mile-an-hour stroke that was professional. And she was sexy.

It would be good to talk to this stranger. Ever since Phil had left California, he'd feared he might not get his prize swimmer, Maddy Metcalf back. If not, he'd need a replacement, and this girl was worth an interview.

Of course Maddy came first. Absolutely. Still, as he scanned the trim lines of the unknown swimmer, he felt a rising excitement. Even if she had a trainer, or belonged to a club, he might get a date. After all, he was a stranger in town with no black book of numbers to turn to.

Watching Phil with sardonic amusement, George also guessed Phil's secondary interest. George was Maddy Metcalf's uncle. She'd told him plenty about her training time with Phil. Phil and Maddy had worked to get her on the U.S. Olympic swim team two years ago, in 1924, pointing for the Paris meeting. Gradually they slipped into a hot affair so heavy that Maddy broke training and didn't make the team. Afterwards she fled Phil.

For two years Phil had been obsessed with getting Maddy back. He swore he'd put her in the 1928 Olympics two years from now and get her two or three gold medals. Maybe, thought George, if Phil could stay away from sex.

The engine stopped. Just like that. One moment they roared along, cutting through the waves, gaining on the swimmer. The next the motor died abruptly and they slithered through the water, slowing to a stop.

"What's wrong!" cried Phil in agony.

"I told you I was about out of gas," said George. "Full throttle burns it up too fast. If we'd puttered along…"

Phil glared up, stood up and started to take off his clothes.

"You're going in the water?" asked George, astonished.

Phil stripped rapidly.

"I might as well say hello to her."

Clothes off, Phil wore bathing trunks, not conventional shorts. Phil never bothered with shorts. He stepped to the edge of the boat.

"Tell 'em on the yacht to send out some gas," said George. "I'm stranded."

"Maybe the girl isn't swimming to the yacht."

"She is. That's my backer's daughter, Flair Singleton," said George.

But Phil was gone, cleaving the water in an expert dive that left George's motorboat rocking only gently.

Alone in the boat George pondered the situation as he watched Phil cut through the water like some Goddam porpoise. What a swimmer. Only the young man's wound in the Kaiser's war prevented him from winning his own gold medals. On land you'd never know, but the water knew, he was permanently slowed down.

George pulled out a hip pocket flask, inhaled some slightly cut gin and considered the possibilities. He had oars; he could row ashore for gas, but he was broke. He could also row to the yacht and get free gas, but that also took effort. With the wisdom of his forty-five years, he decided to wait until Phil sent rescue. It would come soon because Flair Singleton was no Maddy Metcalf. Maddy still had a soft spot for Phil, despite her anger at him. Flair on the other hand was a bitch virgin with warm spots for no man. Phil would get a fast shuffle. With a sigh of contentment, George laid down on a seat, rested his flask on his chest and began to daydream future glories, staring up at a blue sky of an August, 1926, afternoon in Atlantic City, New Jersey…

"Hello there," said Phil swimming up to the girl.

"Beat it," said the girl. "Twenty three and a big skidoo."

"I'm Phil Griffin. I train women swimmers," Phil offered.

"I've heard of you. I've heard you were coming. My father's nurse is Maddy Metcalf. She used to swim for you."

"Uh," grunted Phil. Not so good… if Maddy'd said too much.

Phil was aware of the girl's sleek, gorgeous body. She must be twenty or so, with blonde features and a smooth, tanned skin. She had meat on her bones, but was beautifully proportioned. He could tell she was also an endurance swimmer, being able to talk so easily in the water.

"Headed for the yacht, huh?" said Phil.

"Yes. It belongs to my father, Victor Singleton. I'm Flair."

Victor Singleton would be George's backer, the pharmaceutical executive from New Jersey inland, Phil knew.

"Is Maddy on the boat?" he asked. "I've come all the way from California to see her. I guess you know that. I have a new project for her."

"She's not on the yacht," said Flair. "She hates you. I can see why. You're too fresh."

"Listen, I was just admiring your stroke. As a professional trainer…"

"Take off your trunks."

"What?"

"When I'm stripped, I don't allow clothed swimmers alongside."

"How come you're stripped?"

"Dad gave me a bathing suit. I tried it out. It belongs on somebody's old maid aunt."

A real flapper, thought Phil. A wild girl of the twenties, a rich man's reckless daughter.

Flair suddenly stopped swimming and for seconds Phil was treated to the sight of two magnificent breasts, nude, with big, pink centers. Treading water she let herself sink her glories just out of sight.

"Strip or skip," she insisted.

Phil felt a thrill of erotic feeling. To swim with this beauty, it was a small price to pay. He doubled his body and his trunks were gone.

"I'm really only interested in your style," he said, grinning. "Maybe you could swim in my new project."

"Maybe you want to screw me in the ocean," she shot back. "Maddy confessed you tumbled her once in a pool."

"A pool, maybe. The ocean, no," said Phil. "It's the waves."

It was too bad, too, because going naked had sent thrills and tempting rushes through his belly. His cock had slowly begun to stiffen just at the realization of being out here all alone with a beautiful, naked girl. A wild one. Their bodies touched. For a second he felt warm, silken flesh lubricated by the water.