The Goddess of the Pool (Patreon)

I adjust my sunglasses, lounging on my usual poolside chair, the sun warming my skin as I pretend to read my book. But I’m not here for the book, or the swim, or even the sun. I’m here for her—the giantess who’s become the center of my world every time I come to this upscale resort pool. She’s here again today, stepping into the water like a deity descending from the heavens, her blue one-piece swimsuit gleaming against her bronzed skin, barely containing her massive chest and sculpted abs. Her thighs are like tree trunks, rippling with muscle, and her arms—God, her arms—could probably lift a car without breaking a sweat. A living goddess, and I can’t take my eyes off her.

Every day, it’s the same. She shows up, her hair swept into a high bun, her presence commanding the entire pool deck to stop and stare. And every day, she brings a new guy—some fit, handsome man who looks like he spends hours at the gym, but next to her, he’s just a toy, a plaything she can toss around as easily as I’d toss a beach ball. Today’s guy is no different—dark hair, chiseled abs, blue swim trunks—but he looks small next to her, his hand in hers as she leads him into the pool. I watch, my breath catching, as she lifts him effortlessly with one arm, holding him above the water like he weighs nothing, his legs dangling while she laughs, her voice deep and resonant, echoing over the splash of the water.

Can you imagine what it’s like to have that kind of power? To lift men up so easily, their bodies light as feathers in your hands, their eyes wide with awe and a little fear? I can’t stop imagining it. She sets him down, and he’s grinning, clearly smitten, but she’s already bored—I can tell by the way she turns away, flexing her arms as she stretches, her muscles bulging under the sunlight. She knows everyone’s watching. The moms under the umbrellas, the lifeguard pretending to adjust his whistle, me with my book forgotten in my lap—everyone’s eyes are on her, and she loves it. She’s a living goddess, and I’m completely under her spell.

I’ve been coming to this pool for weeks, ever since I first saw her. That first day, she was with a different guy—blond, broad-shouldered, but just as insignificant next to her. She’d picked him up and tossed him into the deep end, her laughter ringing out as he surfaced, splashing and laughing too, like he’d just been blessed by a deity. The next day, another guy—taller, with tattoos—and she’d pinned him against the pool wall with one hand, her bicep flexing as she whispered something in his ear. I couldn’t hear it, but I saw the way he melted, the way he looked at her like she was the sun and he was just a planet in her orbit.

I want to feel that power. I want to know what it’s like to walk into a place and have every single person stop what they’re doing, their eyes locked on me, their breaths held in anticipation. I want to feel the ground shake under my steps, to lift a man with one arm and see that mix of fear and adoration in his eyes. I imagine myself in her place, my body towering, my muscles rippling, my presence undeniable. I’d pick up a guy—maybe the one she’s with today—and hold him close, feeling his heartbeat against my grip, knowing I could do anything I wanted with him. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, a heat pooling in my core that has nothing to do with the sun.

She’s wading deeper into the pool now, the water barely reaching her hips while it’s up to her guy’s chest. She turns, catching my eye for a moment, and I swear she smirks, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. My cheeks burn, but I can’t look away. I’m turned on by her—the way her swimsuit hugs every curve, the way her abs flex with every movement, the way she radiates power like it’s as natural as breathing. She’s a storm, a force of nature, and I’m caught in her pull, helpless and aching to be closer.

She grabs her guy again, this time wrapping her arms around him from behind, lifting him out of the water as she spins him around. He laughs, but it’s nervous, and I can see the way his hands grip her forearms, trying to hold on to something so much stronger than him. She sets him down, then flexes her arms for the crowd—because that’s what we are, her audience—her biceps swelling to the size of my head, her chest heaving with pride. I bite my lip, my book slipping to the ground, forgotten. I want to be her. I want to feel that strength, that dominance, that raw, unapologetic power.

I imagine myself walking over to her, kneeling at her feet in the shallow end, looking up at her towering form. “Teach me,” I’d whisper, my voice trembling with want. She’d laugh, that deep, commanding laugh, and maybe she’d lift me too, her hands strong and sure, showing me what it’s like to be held by a goddess. I’d feel her power firsthand, her muscles flexing against me, her presence overwhelming every sense I have. I’d worship her, not just because she demands it, but because I’d want to—because she’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of being.

She dives into the pool now, her body cutting through the water like a blade, and I watch, mesmerized, as she surfaces, water streaming down her shoulders, her swimsuit clinging even tighter. Her guy swims over, but she barely acknowledges him—she’s too busy basking in the attention, in the knowledge that she’s untouchable. I’ll be back tomorrow, same time, same chair, hoping for another glimpse of her, another chance to dream of her power. Because she’s a living goddess, and I’m just one of her devotees, longing to feel the storm she embodies, even if only in my fantasies.