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Chapter 1 B:

 

The front door clicks shut behind them as Luz López steps into the sanctuary of her home, grocery bags hanging from her trembling fingers. The air conditioning washes over her exposed midriff, a momentary relief from both the heat outside and the burning stares that followed her through the supermarket aisles.

 

Her tight black leggings cling like a second skin, accentuating her bare ass with no thong to shield her, the cropped black T-shirt exposing her midriff and clinging to her firm, medium-sized breasts in the white bra—exactly as the blackmailer had demanded.

 

Beside her, Timmy tosses his keys onto the counter with the careless flick of someone unburdened by secret threats, unaware that his mother’s revealing outfit is anything but her choice. -“I’m heading up,” Timmy announces, halfway to the stairs. -“Got a paper to finish before tonight.”

 

-“I’ll call you when dinner’s ready” Luz manages, her voice steadier than she feels.

 

Once alone, she leans against the kitchen counter, allowing herself three deep breaths before unpacking the groceries. Her movements are mechanical—placing vegetables in the crisper, arranging yogurt in rows, tucking frozen items into the freezer. Each stretch to a high shelf lifts her crop top, each bend reminds her of the tight leggin.

 

The supermarket memories flood back: shoppers’ fleeting stares as she pushed the cart, the fear of Timmy’s glances at her bare ass in the tight leggings, and the humiliating moment in aisle 5, where she stripped almost completely—removing her T-shirt, leggings, and thong under the blackmailer’s orders, standing naked below the waist, terrified of being caught. Worst of all, the moment at the checkout when a child found her discarded thong under the shelf, dropping it in plain view of Timmy and others, her shame burning as she prayed no one connected it to her.

 

She slams the pantry door with a sharp thud, a fleeting rebellion against her powerlessness. Her phone vibrates, and her stomach drops. She retrieves it with trembling fingers, the screen lighting up with a message from her blackmailer—the one that controlled her life for the past few days.

 

“It’s a hot day, Luz. Cool off by the pool in a two-piece bikini. Invite your son to join. Be there by 3:00 p.m.”

 

Luz glances out the kitchen window at the backyard pool, shimmering in the afternoon sun. The tall fence offers some privacy, but the neighbor’s second-story windows loom overhead. Mr. Clarence Weaver, a 60-year-old, overweight, bald man she barely knows, often tends his yard, his disheveled clothes and unsettling presence making her uneasy. She’s never spoken to him, but his lingering gaze from across the fence always feels intrusive.

 

She types a response, fingers hovering: -"Please, not with Timmy there". Before she can send it, another message arrives: -"Delete that. Refusing has consequences". A cold sweat breaks across her forehead. How does he know? Spyware? Cameras? She deletes the draft, heart pounding.

 

The phone buzzes again: “Smart move. You know what happens when you disobey".

 

Luz closes her eyes, haunted by the mistake that brought her here: the desperate fraud she committed a few years ago to keep her and Timmy afloat when bills piled up. What she thought was a lifeline is now a weapon in someone else’s hands. If exposed, she’d lose her home, her reputation, and Timmy’s trust.

 

Her phone buzzes once more: -"The blue two-piece bikini. The one you haven’t worn in years". The blackmailer’s knowledge of such intimate details—her wardrobe, her secrets—makes her feel utterly exposed, as if they’ve stripped her bare already. Through the window, the pool shimmers, a trap disguised as relief. She could run, confess, disappear—but that would ruin Timmy’s life as surely as prison would hers.

 

With a heavy breath, she climbs the stairs toward her bedroom, toward the unseen eyes pulling her strings. Luz crosses her bedroom, the curtains still drawn wide as the blackmailer ordered that morning. The late afternoon sunlight, sharp at 2:45 p.m., spills across the room, turning her retreat into a stage.

 

That morning, after breakfast, she’d changed from her summer dress to the blackmailer’s chosen supermarket outfit—tight black leggings, short crop top, white bra, black thong—when fewer neighbors were likely awake, the street quieter. Now, with the day in full swing, the open windows heighten the risk of being seen by her neighbors.

 

Shame and adrenaline surge through her. She hesitates before pulling open the bottom drawer of her dresser. The two-piece bikini lies folded, untouched for years, its small size making her chest tighten. Now she remembers why she stopped using it years ago.

 

She glances at the mirror, her reflection a stark reminder of her vulnerability. Slowly, she hooks her thumbs under the waistband of her tight black leggings, easing them down her hips, the snug fabric grazing her skin, revealing her bare ass, no thong to shield her as she’d left it behind in the supermarket’s floor. She lifts the cropped black T-shirt over her head, the thin material sliding off, exposing her breasts beneath the white bra. With trembling fingers, she unhooks the bra, letting it fall, her firm, medium-sized breasts free in the cool air. Now fully naked, the heightened risk of being seen through the open curtains at this hour sends a rush of shame and adrenaline through her, a maddening spark of excitement flickering against her will.

 

Forcing herself to move, she grabs the bikini, stepping into the bottoms with shaky hands. The tight fabric slides up her legs, hugging her hips and ass, accentuating her curves. She ties the bikini top, its straps digging into her shoulders, the material clinging to her breasts, outlining her cleavage. The suit feels too revealing for a poll day with her teenage son around. Desperate for cover, she slips on a thin robe, its soft fabric a fragile shield against her exposure. Her hands shake as she types to the blackmailer: 

 

-This bikini is too revealing, 

-it barely covers me. 

-I can’t wear it in front of Timmy or the neighbors

-it’s humiliating. Please, I'll do anything else."

 

The reply is sharp: -"A robe? Did I permit that? You haven’t learned from the supermarket, have you? Wear it for now. Your defiance has earned you a tougher task". Her heart lurches, the promise of a harsher task gripping her with dread.

 

Luz practices a forced smile in the mirror, masking her dread. She knocks on Timmy’s door. -“Timmy?” He’s at his desk, headphones half-on, typing. -“I’m going to the pool to cool off. It’s hot today. Want to join?”

 

Her son glances up, surprised. A vague curiosity about seeing his mother at the pool flickers in his mind, quickly overshadowed by shame at the thought. His cheeks warm slightly as he nods. “Now? I’ve got this paper, but… sure, sounds good. I’ll meet you there in 5'.”

 

-“Great,” she says, her throat tight, closing the door before he sees her trembling hands. Her phone buzzes: -“Remove the robe before leaving the house.” The blackmailer’s warning that the next task will be worse as her price for defiance echoes in her mind, fueling her fear of what’s to come as she grabs a large towel, hoping it offers some cover, and heads downstairs, knowing Timmy will follow soon.

 

Luz slides open the patio door, the afternoon heat hitting her as she steps outside. She removes her robe, hanging it on a chair inside, the blue two-piece bikini exposing her under the sun’s glare at 3:00 p.m. Each step toward the pool feels like surrender, the blackmailer’s strings pulling her forward.

 

She settles on a lounge chair, the plastic strips pressing into her back, adjusting the bikini top’s straps, which dig into her shoulders. The tight fabric strains against her firm breasts, barely containing them, pressing them together to form an irresistible cleavage. The bottoms ride up slightly, accentuating her ass, the tight material outlining her hips.

 

The faint hiss of a hose from Weaver’s yard sharpens her dread; the 60-year-old neighbor probably watering his plants, his unsettling figure potentially peering through the fence’s gaps. He usually doesn’t linger long before returning inside, and Luz clings to the hope that, if she’s lucky, he won’t see her in this tight bikini.

 

Across the yard, Timmy emerges in swim trunks, his eyes flickering over her briefly quick, casual, but Luz feels it, her paranoia flaring.

 

-“Water looks great,” Timmy calls, dropping his phone and towel on a chair. Luz crosses her arms, then uncrosses them, fearing it draws attention. -“Perfect for today,” she replies, forcing cheer. Timmy dives in, splashing water that cools her skin. She puts on sunglasses, needing a barrier.

 

A comfortable silence settles between them, almost letting Luz forget why she’s here. But then she catches Timmy’s gaze lingering on her hips and the strip of skin where the bikini top hug her breasts, his eyes tracing the tight fabric before darting away. Not leering, but noticeable, a brief curiosity that fuels her shame.

 

Moments later, as she adjusts her position, she notices his eyes drift for a fraction of a second to her again, the bikini top’s tight fit accentuating her cleavage, before he quickly looks away. The fleeting glance, barely perceptible but enough to unsettle her, deepens her unease. Has the blackmailer engineered this? Was this deliberate unveiling, with her son mere steps away, intended to amplify the humiliation consuming her?. She dared not reveal the chains of blackmail binding her, trapping her in this sordid charade where every action danced to the tune of invisible puppet masters.

 

Teenagers’ laughter sharpens from the street, meters away from the fence, mingling with the rhythmic spray of Weaver’s hose. Luz glances over, spotting three boys, one in a red shirt, their voices carrying a mocking edge. Weaver’s shadow shifts near the fence, as if he’s paused his watering, heightening her fear of his unsettling gaze. -“You know those kids?” she asks, voice strained but casual.

 

Timmy looks. -“Red shirt’s in my Econ class. Don’t know the others.” He seems unconcerned. -“Why?”

 

-“Just curious,” Luz says, settling back, praying they don’t peer through the gaps—or worse, that Weaver does.

 

-“You seem tense,” Timmy observes, surprising her. -“Everything okay?”

 

-“Just a long day,” Luz lies, hating how easily untruths come now. “The supermarket was exhausting.” She forces a smile, her skin prickling under the imagined eyes of the neighbors.

 

Her phone buzzes on the table beside her lounger. The message glows: -"Take off the glasses. Ask your son to apply sunscreen, front and back". Her stomach twists, the command crossing a line—too far. How much further will she let this blackmailer push her? What has she gotten herself into? - she thinks.

 

Having to wear that bikini on the pool deck, under the gaze of neighbors or curious onlookers walking along the sidewalk like, is pretty humiliating, but this sunscreen task with Timmy feels unthinkable. She had no choice but to comply for now, she knew now that defiance only brings harsher consequences.

 

The blackmailer’s warning of a worse task looming in her mind. The words blur before her eyes as she looks at Timmy, laughing at something on his phone, unaware of the manipulation at play. Another buzz: -“Do it now, files are ready to go public. I warned you this task would be harder.”

 

“Timmy,” she says, her voice barely audible. She removes her sunglasses, clears her throat, and tries again. “Timmy, would you mind putting some sunscreen on me? I can’t reach.” Her hands tremble as she reaches for the lotion bottle on the side table, her movements mechanical. This is just sunscreen, she tells herself. Mothers and sons do this all the time. It’s innocent. Except nothing is innocent anymore—not with the blackmailer watching, controlling every move.

 

Timmy glances up, casual, untroubled. “Sure, no problem,” he says, setting his phone down. The teenagers’ chatter grows louder, closer to the fence, mingling with Weaver’s hose, as she prepares to hand Timmy the bottle.

 

Timmy opens the sunscreen bottle, the soft pop of the cap breaking the tense silence in the pool yard, Luz lies on the lounge chair staring up at the clear sky; it was a really hot day. She never imagined the blackmailer’s demands would come to this. The worst part isn't what's about to happen; it's knowing that this is only the beginning, that the blackmailer's demands will continue to increase, that her fears are confirmed with every passing minute.

 

Timmy squeezes a generous amount of sunscreen into his palm, the white lotion pooling like liquid chalk against his skin. He hesitates for just a moment before pressing his hands to his mother's shoulders, feeling the warmth of her sun-soaked skin beneath his fingers. Luz flinches at the first contact—a small, involuntary spasm that she immediately tries to disguise as a shiver. She fixes her gaze on the fence, on the teenagers beyond. Luckily the hose in Weaver’s yard stops, a sudden silence that brings a fleeting relief—he’s gone inside.

 

-"Sorry if it's cold," Timmy murmurs -"It's fine," Luz answers, her voice unnaturally high. She forces herself to relax beneath his touch, to breathe normally, to pretend this is nothing more than maternal concern about sun damage.

 

His hands move in slow circles, spreading the lotion across her shoulders and upper chest. He works methodically, his touch professional, almost clinical—exactly as it should be between mother and son. Luz begins to hope that perhaps this won't be as terrible as she feared.

 

-"Don't forget my stomach," she says, the words automatic, robotically following the blackmailer's script. He nods, coating his hands in lotion before letting them glide over the smooth expanse of her midriff. His touch lingers, tracing the curve of her waist a little lower than expected, deliberate and exploratory.

 

Luz feels a shiver run through her, a mix of surprise and something darker—electric, intimate, impossible to ignore. The proximity, the heat of his hands against her skin, makes her acutely aware of every movement, every breath, every charged pause between them.

 

From across the fence, a sharp whistle pierces the air. Luz and Timmy exchange a glance, a flicker of unease passing between them. The group of teenagers are a few steps away from the fence, their laughter and movement hinting at their attention, though it’s impossible to tell exactly what they’re focused on.

 

The uncertainty sends a flush of heat across Luz’s skin. -"Ignore them," she says quickly when Timmy turns toward the sound. -"They’re just messing around".

 

Her phone buzzes beside her, and her heart sinks. -"Tell him not to forget your cleavage and the upper part of your breasts. Make sure he's thorough. The sun burns most where skin is usually covered".

 

Luz stares at the words, bile rising in her throat. this demand shifts the situation into a darker, more exposing tone. This is deliberate, calculated to push boundaries, to create inappropriate intimacy. The blackmailer knows exactly what he’s doing—engineering a situation where mother and son cross lines that should never be crossed.

 

-"Um, Timmy," she begins, hating herself for each word, -"could you... the sunscreen... I burn easily on my chest too." She gestures vaguely toward her cleavage, where the tight bikini top creates a deep shadow between her breasts. Timmy's eyes follow her hand, and she sees the momentary widening of his pupils, the slight parting of his lips before he catches himself.

 

A creak from Weaver’s yard catches her ear, Luz can’t believe her bad luck. It’s Weaver dragging a deck chair facing the sun, his body towards the fence now. The teenagers’ chatter grows louder. -"Sure..." he says -"...Of course" his voice cracking slightly.

 

His hands hover above her skin, trembling slightly, his wide eyes showing his shock at the situation. At her request, he nods nervously and squeezes a small dollop of sunscreen onto the full, heaving curves of her cleavage and upper breasts, his movements at first precise and innocent, carefully applying the lotion with a focus that seems almost clinical. Her face burns crimson with shame, each touch heightening her humiliation under the blackmailer’s demands. But as he continues, his confidence grows, and he begins to take subtle liberties—his hands linger a moment too long, pressing just a bit deeper into her soft flesh. Then, as if by accident, his fingertips slip ever so slightly beneath the fabric of her bikini top, barely crossing the line, his face still projecting innocent intent as he continues applying the lotion, masking his boldness with a pretense of thoroughness. His touch is light, almost reverent, and Luz feels a reluctant, shameful thrill blooming low in her belly—a physiological response to touch that has everything to do with being a woman touched by a man.

 

Her mind snaps to Weaver’s presence—Weaver, who never sunbathes, now lounging on his deck chair facing the fence. Just her wretched luck. Is he leering at this provocative scene unfolding in the pool yard, or merely soaking up the sun? The uncertainty sets her heart racing.

 

Shame floods her immediately. This is her son. Her body should not respond to his touch this way. The shame mingles with anger at the blackmailer who has engineered this moment, who has taken something pure—a mother's love for her son—and twisted it into something sordid.

 

Timmy takes far longer than necessary with this part of his task, his hands lingering on the full, heaving curves of her cleavage as he spreads the sunscreen with exaggerated care, his fingertips slipping slightly beneath the fabric of his bikini top, each touch growing bolder and more deliberate, venturing just a bit further under the edge.

 

His gaze fixates on Luz’s breasts, their firm, rounded forms straining against the tight bikini top, the fabric stretched taut as if struggling to contain their fullness, accentuating every curve and creating a deep, irresistible cleavage that glistens with lotion under the sun.

 

His breathing grows uneven, a faint flush creeping up his neck as he steals glances at her face, trying to hide the heat building in his body. Mentally, he’s snapping vivid pictures of every moment, unable to believe this is happening.

 

The air crackles with unspoken tension, her rigid silence under the blackmailer’s coercion only intensifying the charged moment. A sudden shout from the teenagers on the street snaps her out of her trance, their voices too close to the fence, jolting her with fear of their mocking eyes.

 

-"I think that's good for the front," Luz says abruptly, desperate to escape, desperate to break the moment. -"I'll turn over now for my back. -“Can you grab a towel?”

 

Timmy reaches for a towel from the table, where two lie folded: one slightly longer, the other noticeably smaller. He hesitates, then deliberately picks the smaller one.

 

He hands her the tiny towel, and Luz turns onto her stomach, draping it over her round ass to shield it from view, though it barely covers enough. She notices its size and says, “It’s a bit small, but it’ll do,” knowing it’s not fully compliant with the blackmailer’s demands but desperate to avoid baring herself so brazenly to Timmy and terrified of the neighbors’ prying eyes.

 

She rolls over onto her stomach with the towel covering her ass, hoping desperately that Timmy didn’t catch a glimpse of her exposed curves in that fleeting moment before the towel settled, her heart racing at the thought of his eyes or the neighbors’ catching her. She feels immense relief at hiding her face, concealing the confusion and embarrassment etched there.

 

Her phone buzzes again, and she twists her neck awkwardly to read the message: -“That towel on your ass isn’t part of the outfit I specified. Why do you keep defying me? Don’t you see each disobedience makes things worse? Tell your son to untie your bikini top. Don’t want tan lines, do you?”

 

Luz’s breath catches, the warning about her defiance fueling her dread, yet a small part of her feels she’s dodged a worse fate—her ass remains partially covered by the tiny towel, and only her back would be exposed, a fragile shield in this spiraling trap.

 

-"Timmy," she says, her voice muffled against the towel, -"could you untie my top? So I don't get tan lines."

 

She feels him freeze behind her, processing her request. There's a moment of absolute stillness, a held breath, before his fingers touch the knot between her shoulder blades.

 

He fumbles with it briefly, his fingers trembling with nervousness or anticipation or both. The pressure of the blue fabric across her back releases as the strings of her bikini top come undone, and Luz presses herself more firmly against the lounger, her chest flattening against the cushion to keep the top from slipping off completely.

 

Timmy applies sunscreen to her back in long, smooth strokes, starting at her shoulders and gliding down to the small of her back, where the curve of her spine meets the tiny towel draped over her round ass, barely covering it. His touch, initially light and careful, shifts—slower, more deliberate, as if savoring the task.

 

Now the the bikini top straps were untie, he notices the sides of Luz’s breasts are more exposed, offering more space to apply the sunscreen. Trying to seem innocent, he slowly glides his hands along those soft, outer curves, taking his time with each pass.

 

Luz tenses with each graze, her body stiffening under the blackmailer’s control, her face burning with shame at the thought of neighbors, and at Timmy’s lingering touches. Yet, a reluctant, shameful thrill stirs within her, her body betraying her with a flush of excitement she can’t suppress.

 

Her phone vibrates, and she glances at the screen, her stomach lurching at the message: -"Take off the front of your bikini completely so it doesn’t get in the way."

 

Her breath hitches, dread mixing with shame as she processes the command. Knowing the situation is escalating, Luz turns her head slightly toward Timmy and murmurs, -“Wait a second, honey,” her voice trembling as she shifts on the lounger.

 

She reaches for the already loosened bikini top, her fingers trembling as she lifts the untied fabric away, letting the front piece fall completely aside, the motion exposing her breasts before she quickly presses her chest tightly against the lounger to preserve what little modesty remains. -“The fabric was just bunching up and bothering me,” she adds softly, her excuse feeble as she adjusts her position, now practically naked, covered only by the bikini bottoms and the tiny towel, unable to believe she let it come to this—her control slipping away so gradually.

 

Timmy, noticing the change, pauses before resuming, his hands now moving with noticeable confidence. He spreads the sunscreen in slow, deliberate strokes along her back, his thumbs pressing more firmly against the soft, exposed curves of her breasts, lingering longer than before.

 

His touches grow bolder, and Luz’s heart pounds as she feels his fingers graze dangerously close to her left nipple, then, seconds later, her right, each brush sending a jolt through her. The alarming realization that the situation has escalated to unthinkable, forbidden limits snaps her back to reality, guilt crashing over her for letting her excitement reach such peaks.

 

Desperate to halt the escalation, she says, “Honey, that’s enough for the back. Move to my legs now please” In her haze, she’d lost track of the neighbors—had they seen this unfold? How could she explain this wasn’t her choice? What would they say, seeing her like this with her son?.

 

She glances toward Weaver’s yard, noticing the 60-year-old neighbor now holding his phone, seemingly scrolling or checking it casually, but Luz’s mind races with paranoia—could he be using the zoom to record or snap photos of her vulnerable state? The situatuion fuels her dread as she lies nearly naked before her son, the exposure to him carrying an unbearable weight of shame and devastating consequences—her reputation shattered, the neighborhood abuzz with scandal, her role as a mother tainted if Weaver’s phone captures this humiliating scene. The blackmailer’s threats bind her to this moment, trapping her in a web of fear and exposure.

 

Her phone vibrates once more. The message is brief, cruel in its simplicity:

-"Seems you’re enjoying this. Tell your son to cover every spot”.

 

Luz’s stomach twists as she reads the words, her mind reeling—why does the blackmailer keep saying “your son” and now taunt her with “seems you’re enjoying this”? Is it a calculated jab to remind her of her bond with Timmy while mocking her with the idea that she’s finding pleasure in this, all to deepen her humiliation? The cruel phrasing cuts into her, amplifying her shame as she lies exposed, trapped by the blackmailer’s relentless control.

 

Luz lies still on the lounger, already face-down, her hips shifting slightly under the tiny towel, the motion drawing Timmy’s eyes to her barely covered form.

 

Beyond the wooden fence, the three teenagers have drawn closer, two practically draped over the slats, their companion lingering nearby, their loud chatter laced with occasional hoots. One of them pulls out his phone, showing something to the other two, and they let out a collective murmur of excitement, a low, satisfied hum that sends a chill through Luz—could they have captured a photo or video of her humiliating predicament? If they leaned any closer, they’d have a clear view of her.

 

Across the yard, Weaver’s lounge chair still to the fence, his figure sprawled under the sun, phone still in hand, seemingly scrolling. But then, his phone’s flashlight flicks on, casting a brief glow, and Luz’s dread spikes—is he recording her, or is he just an old man fumbling with his device? After agonizing seconds, the flashlight turns off, but the ambiguity gnaws at her. The neighbors’ windows gleam silently, heightening her fear of exposure.

 

Beyond the crushing shame of being so exposed under Timmy's eyes, Luz’s mind races with the devastating consequences if anyone captured this moment—photos or videos spreading through the neighborhood, every neighbor whispering about her scandalous display, her reputation as a mother destroyed, the entire community judging her for this unthinkable scene.

 

Timmy edges closer, shifting his position to apply sunscreen to Luz’s legs, now even nearer, with a privileged view of her glistening form—her bare back shining with lotion, the tiny towel barely covering her round ass. Her calves, thighs, and legs all exposed. By tilting his head slightly, he catches a glimpse beneath the towel, where the curve of her ass begins, the sight striking and intense.

 

He starts at her feet, his fingers gliding smoothly over her ankles and up her calves with a firm, almost clinical touch. But as he reaches the backs of her thighs, close to the curve of her ass, his movements slow, his fingers hovering with a faint tremble.

 

Luz feels the pause, her pulse hammering, caught in a storm of shame at her exposure. She can’t fathom how she’s in this position.

 

Timmy continues up her thighs, working the outer sides with an innocent precision, then moves to the inner thighs, his hands inching closer to her barely covered private areas under the towel. Taking subtle liberties, his fingers brush slightly beneath the towel’s edge, grazing the sensitive skin where her thighs meet the start of her ass.

 

The scene grows increasingly charged, and Luz’s body betrays her, a shameful thrill surging, making her wonder if her blue bikini bottoms are damp from her excitement.

 

Timmy, as always, takes his time, and Luz can’t tell if he’s deliberately lingering or innocently following her orders, the situation thrust upon her by the blackmailer. Timmy's eyes were locked onto Luz's thighs, his hands moving with a slow, deliberate precision as he applied sunscreen, inching closer to the edge of her blue bikini bottoms, his fingers mere inches from the sensitive but covered skin of her pussy. Each time his fingers grazed the hem, Luz felt a jolt of electricity surge through her, a mix of shame and thrill coursing through her veins, intensifying the guilt that gnawed at her. He occasionally slipped his hands under the small towel, tracing the curve where her thighs met her firm, round ass, but always hesitated to push further.

 

Luz's heart pounded in her chest, her eyes darting around the yard, praying that no one was witnessing this illicit scene. The air was thick with tension, her body responding with an excitement she couldn't control.

 

As his fingers brushed against her bikini's hem again, nearing her most intimate area, Luz felt the situation spiraling, but she was a puppet under the blackmailer's control.

 

Her phone buzzed, the message sending a wave of dread through her:

-"Time’s up. Tell your son to remove the towel.”

 

Luz’s heart sinks knowing what this order means—she’ll have to be fully exposed, the blackmailer is pushing her too far. Hasn’t she already paid the price for putting on the robe before?.

 

The thought of baring herself in front of her son, the shame of having to ask Timmy to remove it, was overwhelming. She’d rather take the towel off herself. With no choice left, fearing worse consequences, she stammers, voice trembling but trying to sound calm, “Timmy… the towel’s in the way. Could you take it off?.

 

Timmy froze, his hands slick with sunscreen, his eyes taking in the sight of Luz's glistening back, her long legs, and the curves barely concealed by the towel. In disbelief, he softly asked, "Sorry, what did you say?" as if he hadn't heard her clearly.

 

Her face burning with embarrassment, repeated herself, her voice barely audible, "The towel… please take it off." He hesitated, a frown creasing his brow, and asked softly, “Take it off? I don’t know, those kids over there… they give me a bad vibe.” Luz’s stomach churned, her face burning with embarrassment, but she forced a steady tone, “Don’t worry about them, they’re not even paying attention.” Inside, she was dying of shame, the fear of their eyes or phones capturing her nearly unbearable.

 

Timmy, still in shock, slowly peeled the tiny towel away, revealing Luz clad only in her bikini bottoms, the fabric wedged between her round ass cheeks, putting every curve on blatant display.

 

She lay practically naked before him, in full display now, so vulnerable, exposed to the potential gazes of Weaver or the teenagers by the fence. Timmy stood frozen, his eyes glued to the sight before him, taking in her bare back and barely covered ass.

 

Luz’s heart pounded as she stole a glance toward the fence, where the three teenagers were now huddled closer, one still holding his phone, their excited whispers spiking her fear—had they recorded or snapped a photo of her in this vulnerable state? Across the yard, Weaver, the 60-year-old neighbor, lounged even nearer to the fence, his phone angled in a way that made Luz’s stomach churn—was he secretly filming her exposed form, or just checking messages? The possibility of photos or videos capturing this moment sent a fresh wave of dread through her, the thought of such evidence spreading through the neighborhood unbearable.

 

Timmy resumed his task with a hesitant but focused grip, starting with the less exposed areas—the smooth curves of Luz’s hips and the taut lines of her legs. His hands, coated with sunscreen, slid over her skin, working their way toward her full, firm ass. Each knead sent her asscheeks trembling, the soft, rounded flesh jiggling slightly under his palms. The bikini bottoms, stretched tight across her slit and wedged deep between her asscheeks, shifted with each press, accentuating her curves. The weight of the anonymous blackmail hung over the moment, pushing the situation further than either intended, and Timmy’s hands lingered on her ass longer than necessary, the sight of her jiggling ass cheeks stoking a forbidden heat within him, his breath uneven as he fought to stay composed.

 

Luz felt every press of Timmy’s hands with a mix of dread and heightened sensitivity, the warmth of his fingers sinking into her asscheeks, each stroke sending a ripple through her flesh. The blackmailer’s demands echoed in her mind, forcing her into this escalating moment, and the sensation of Timmy’s hands kneading her firm, rounded ass—especially near the tight wedge of her bikini bottoms hugging her slit—sparked an unwanted thrill. 

 

Her ass swayed under his touch, the sunscreen amplifying the slick feel, and though her skin glistened faintly, it was the raw pressure of his hands that dominated her senses. Caught between the coercion driving her and the electric charge of his lingering touch, Luz’s breath grew shallow, her body tense with the conflict of shame, fear, and the undeniable heat of the moment.

 

Her phone buzzed again, the message cold and demanding:

-“Spread your legs more and instruct your son not to miss any spots”.

 

Luz's heart sank—this was beyond anything she had imagined, yet knowing defiance could make things worse, she casually parted her legs slightly, as if adjusting her position, then said, her voice shaking, -"Timmy, make sure you cover every spot; I burn easily."

 

Timmy nodded, his voice soft as he replied, -"Got it," his hands gliding over her inner thighs now, his fingers working in slow circles that inched higher with each rotation.

 

Luz bit her lip as his thumbs brushed dangerously close to where her bikini fabric stretched thin over her slit. Each time he approached that forbidden boundary, she felt herself grow warmer, wetter beneath the thin material.

 

The tension between them crackled like electricity, and when his pinky accidentally grazed against the edge of her bikini, she couldn't stop the small gasp that escaped her lips.

 

Timmy hesitated for just a moment, his breathing noticeably heavier, before continuing his task with trembling hands.

 

Luz’s mind reeled, the accidental graze of his thumbs igniting a forbidden heat that pulsed through her core, her body betraying her under the blackmailer’s relentless command. She pressed her face into the lounger, the rough fabric scraping her asscheeks as she fought to suppress the rising tide within her, each of Timmy’s touches now a tormenting blend of shame and arousal.

 

The sun beat down, amplifying the slickness of the sunscreen and the sweat beading on her skin, her legs trembling as she kept them parted, exposed to his innocent yet increasingly perilous ministrations.

 

Timmy’s hands moved with a hesitant precision, the lotion spreading in slow, deliberate circles along her inner thighs, his fingers inching ever closer to the thin bikini fabric that barely concealed her.

 

Luz’s breath hitched with each pass, her hips shifting involuntarily as his thumbs brushed the edges again, the contact sending sharp jolts of sensation through her. She cursed the blackmailer silently, fighting to suppress the urge to moan, the thought that he might be watching—recording this—fueling her humiliation, yet the warmth between her legs grew, a shameful wetness seeping into the bikini. The risk of Timmy noticing loomed like a shadow, but the lounger’s angle and her downward gaze offered a fragile illusion of privacy.  Beyond the fence, the teenagers’ chatter grew louder, one of them letting out a low whistle, their voices teasingly indistinct, as if they’d caught a glimpse of her exposed form through the slats. Luz’s stomach twisted, her fear of their prying eyes intensifying her dread.

 

“Mom, is this okay?” Timmy’s voice broke through, soft and uncertain, his hands pausing as his fingertips lingered near the crease where her thigh met her pelvis.

 

Luz forced a strained response, a small, involuntary moan escaping as she affirmed, “Mmm… yes, just… keep going, please,” the words tasting bitter as she encouraged him deeper into this coerced intimacy.

 

His hands resumed, the circles widening, and when his knuckles grazed the bikini’s edge once more, a muffled whimper broke free, her body arching slightly before she clamped down on the sound. The thrill of his touch, unintended yet dangerously close, pushed her closer to the edge, her mind a chaotic swirl of guilt and forbidden pleasure.

 

The air thickened with tension, the distant splash of the pool a stark contrast to the charged silence between them.

 

Timmy’s fingers, slick with lotion, traced higher, his pinky brushing the fabric directly over her slit, the pressure fleeting but enough to draw a shaky intake of breath from Luz.

 

Her thighs quivered, the sensation overwhelming, and she bit her lip hard, fighting not to moan as she fought to stay silent.

 

Her phone buzzed with a new message from the blackmailer:

-"Spread your legs more.”

 

Overwhelmed by her arousal, her mind clouded and unable to think clearly, she unconsciously obeyed, her legs parting further, exposing her more fully to his hands.

 

Timmy’s touch grew bolder, his thumbs now sliding along the bikini’s seam, the friction against her sensitive skin igniting a surge of heat that she couldn’t control.

 

Luz’s body tensed, her climax building with each accidental graze, the line between innocence and impropriety blurring under the sun’s relentless gaze. She glanced toward the fence, the shadow of Mr. Weaver’s house a constant threat, the possibility of his eyes adding to her dread. Beyond the slats, the teenagers’ laughter spiked suddenly, one of them whispering excitedly, their voices carrying just enough to make Luz’s heart race—were they peering through the gaps, catching her vulnerable state? Yet, the fear only heightened the illicit thrill, her hips rocking subtly against the lounger as Timmy’s hands worked, oblivious to the storm within her.

 

When his fingers slipped slightly beneath the bikini’s edge, brushing her bare skin, the dam broke. A silent orgasm ripped through her, her body shuddering as waves of pleasure crashed over her, her face buried in the towel to muffle any sound. Her eyes darted toward the fence, where the silhouette of one teenager shifted, his phone glinting in the sunlight, as if angled toward her. The thought of a photo capturing her in this moment of shameful release sent a fresh jolt of panic through her, amplifying her guilt.

 

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, the intensity leaving her breathless, her pussy pulsing with release beneath the thin fabric.

 

Timmy paused, his hands stilling as if sensing a shift, but he said nothing, his focus returning to the lotion.

 

Luz exhaled shakily, convincing herself he hadn’t noticed, her heart pounding as she lay there, the aftershocks of her climax mingling with a crushing guilt.

 

Her phone buzzed beside her, and she glanced at the screen, her stomach lurching at the new message: -“Looks like you enjoyed the sunscreen. Tell your son to go to the pool.” The words stung, a confirmation of the blackmailer’s watchfulness, and she swallowed hard, her voice trembling as she called out, -“Timmy, why don’t you go cool off in the pool now?”

 

He withdrew his hands immediately, nodding quickly. “Oh, sure. Good idea.” His voice sounded strained, and as he stood, Luz turned her head slightly, catching a glimpse of his face—flushed, eyes dilated, lips parted. He’s aroused. Unmistakably, visibly aroused. The realization crashed through her like a wave of ice water, shocking her back to reality.

 

"Thank you, Honey" She said.

 

He nodded again, “Yeah, no problem,” he mumbled, shifting awkwardly, angling his body away from her, trying to hide his erection. Luz caught a fleeting glimpse of a bulge in his pants, the sight sending a jolt of shock through her. Already backing toward the pool. In one fluid motion, he turned and dove in, disappearing beneath the water’s surface.

 

Luz carefully retied her bikini top, her fingers trembling so badly she had to try twice. Her phone buzzed again, and she read the new message with a sinking heart: “Well done. You certainly enjoyed that. Perhaps more than he did. We’ll be in touch soon.” She closed her eyes against the surge of shame, a new fear gnawing at her—had her son noticed her orgasm? The blackmailer had succeeded in creating exactly what he wanted—a moment of inappropriate intimacy, a crossing of boundaries that could never be uncrossed. The knowledge sat heavy in her chest, a stone of dread and guilt.

 

In the pool, Timmy swam vigorous laps, channeling his confusion and arousal into physical exertion. Neither of them could look at the other. Neither of them could name what just happened. And somewhere beyond them both, the blackmailer watched, planning his next move, his next demand.

 

Twenty minutes have passed since Timmy’s hands glided over Luz’s body, applying sunscreen across her back, ass, and inner thighs, his fingers lingering too long near her private areas. The pressure of his fingertips against her sensitive skin, brushing the edges of her bikini, had pushed her over the edge, a silent orgasm rippling through her as his fingers grazed her slit, her body shuddering beneath his touch while she bit her lip to stifle any sound.

 

The memory of that illicit climax, triggered by her son’s unwitting touch under the blackmailer’s cruel command, left her trembling with shame and an unwanted, intense warmth that lingered in her core.

 

Now, Luz lies on the lounger, face-up under the blazing sun to avoid exposing her ass cheeks further. She’s re-tied her bikini top, the knot tied but the fabric too small, pressing her full, soft breasts together, creating a deep, prominent cleavage that spills slightly over the edges, accentuating every curve.

 

Her skin still tingles from her son’s touch and the blackmailer’s cruel manipulation, a cold dread spreading from her core despite the heat, and she can still feel the dried juices from her orgasm clinging to her pussy beneath the bikini bottom.

 

Across the yard, Timmy swims laps in the pool, his powerful strokes slicing through the water, each one distancing him from the charged moment they shared.

 

Her phone rings on the lounger, breaking the silence, and she braces for the next humiliating command.

 

The message glows on the screen:

-"Join him in the pool. Now. Cool off with your son.”

 

Luz stares at the words, hearing the mockery behind them. "Cool off". As if anything could extinguish the burn of shame consuming her from within, intensified by the memory of her orgasm sparked by Timmy’s fingers slipping against her, the guilt crashing over her now, heavy and suffocating, for enjoying her son’s unintended caress under such twisted coercion.

 

She retied her bikini top after Timmy left, the knot clumsy and precarious, checks her bottoms, and stands on legs that threaten to buckle beneath her.

 

The teenagers have moved on from the street, a small mercy in a day without kindness. But Mr. Weaver sits in his lounger across the fence, basking in the sun, occasionally adjusting his hat.

 

Luz walks to the edge of the pool, her eyes meeting Timmy’s as she approaches. The tension in the air is palpable, a heavy silence born from the strange moment they shared earlier, though neither dares to address it.

 

Timmy doesn’t know she had an orgasm, but he senses something was off, the awkwardness hanging between them unresolved.

 

Luz, unaware that Timmy missed her climax, struggles with her guilt. To break the ice, she forces a smile and says, “It’s so hot today, isn’t it? I think I’ll join you in the pool.” She steps closer, her voice casual but strained as she adds, “It’ll be nice to cool off a bit.”

 

Timmy nods, relieved by her normal tone, interpreting it as a sign that things are okay between them again. “Yeah, the water’s perfect,” he replies, treading water with a small smile.

 

She slips into the water feet-first, a controlled entry that barely disturbs the surface. The cool water closes around her overheated skin, and for one blessed moment, she feels nothing but relief. The conversation eases slightly, and she wades a little deeper, keeping her arms crossed lightly over her chest. “You’ve been swimming a lot lately,” she says, forcing a light tone. “Are you training for something, or just enjoying the summer?”

 

Timmy chuckles, kicking gently to stay afloat. “Just enjoying it, I guess. Though I did think about joining the swim team next year. Dad always said I had potential.” He pauses, then adds, “Remember how he used to time me with that old stopwatch?”

 

Luz nods, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite the guilt creeping in. “Oh, yes, he was so proud of those little races. He’d cheer like you were in the Olympics.” She laughs softly, though her mind drifts to the feel of Timmy’s fingers, the orgasm they triggered, and a pang of shame hits her—what would her late husband think if he knew? She pushes it aside, focusing on keeping the chat going. “Do you still have that stopwatch somewhere? It might be fun to dig it out.”

 

“Maybe,” Timmy says, grinning. “It’s probably buried in a box upstairs. I’ll look later if you want.” He dips under for a moment, then resurfaces, shaking water from his hair. “What about you? You used to love swimming too, right? Before… everything.”

 

Luz’s smile tightens, the memory bittersweet. “Yeah, I did. Haven’t been in much since your dad passed. Maybe it’s time to get back into it.” She adjusts her position, the water lapping at her shoulders, trying to ignore the way her bikini clings to her skin. “The pool’s been neglected lately—maybe we should clean it up together sometime. Make it a project?”

 

“Sounds good,” Timmy agrees, his tone brightening. “We could get it sparkling again. Dad would’ve liked that.” He floats a little closer, the conversation easing the tension, though Luz can’t shake the guilt simmering beneath her forced cheer.

 

For a moment, they’re just mother and son again, sharing a fragile connection.

 

Luz and Timmy waded into the pool, the cool water a welcome relief after their tense conversation. The mood lightened as Timmy grabbed a beach ball, tossing it to her with a grin. “How about some pool volleyball?” he suggested, his tone playful.

 

Luz caught the ball, laughing softly, feeling a flicker of normalcy return. “You’re on,” she replied, adjusting her stance. The tight blue bikini top strained against her full breasts, now above the waterline as they moved, but she brushed off the exposure, focusing on the game. Timmy’s careful glances at her chest went unnoticed, his eyes darting away each time to avoid being caught, a mix of curiosity and guilt flickering within him.

 

They volleyed the ball back and forth, the rhythm of the game easing the awkwardness between them. For Luz, it felt like a return to their old bond, the bikini’s revealing fit fading into the background as she reveled in the moment with her son. Timmy, however, struggled to keep his gaze neutral, stealing quick looks at her curves, his hands remembering the sunscreen application.

 

The ball sailed wide on Luz’s next hit, bouncing out of the pool and landing near the fence where Weaver lounged. Timmy chuckled, splashing water. “You threw it out—your turn to get it!” he teased, the lighthearted jab suggesting their earlier tension had passed.

 

Luz rolled her eyes playfully, scooping water with her hands and splashing him in the face before climbing out. “Fine, but you owe me!” she called, the water dripping from her as she stepped onto the deck. Timmy wiped his face, watching her from behind, his eyes tracing the firm, round shape of her ass. His mind flashed to his hands on her earlier, but guilt and embarrassment smothered the memory, leaving him silent.

 

Outside the pool, Luz’s stomach churned as she spotted the ball near the fence, just feet from Weaver, who seemed engrossed in his phone. The bikini felt impossibly small now, her shame mounting at the thought of approaching him. With no choice, she glanced at Weaver—his focus still on his screen—and moved forward, stepping out of Timmy’s line of sight toward a small tree where the ball had rolled.

 

She reached the tree, the branches obstructing her reach. Pretending normalcy, she bent down, the bikini stretching tight across her hips. Weaver remained still, seemingly oblivious, but Luz couldn’t tell if he could see through the fence’s gaps. Turning her back to him, she crouched lower, the effort pushing her limits. The ball remained just out of reach, forcing her onto all fours, her head dipping further as she strained.

 

Her position worsened, the air brushing against her exposed skin as her ass cheeks parted slightly, the bikini thong wedged deeply between them. The sight offered a privileged view of her round, firm curves to anyone watching. Then Weaver coughed, muttering something indistinct. Luz’s face burned with humiliation, her heart racing at the possibility of his gaze. Was he leering? Recording? The uncertainty crushed her.

 

From the pool, Timmy’s voice broke through. “Mom, did you find it?” he called, his tone casual. Luz froze, unwilling to respond and risk drawing Weaver’s attention if he hadn’t noticed her yet. She lowered herself further, her ass now fully spread, the bikini fabric barely covering her asshole and the lips of her pussy. A faint click—like a camera shutter—reached her ears, but she couldn’t be sure. Was it Weaver? Her imagination? Panic surged.

 

Timmy called again after a tense silence that stretched like eternity. Finally, her fingers closed around the ball. She stood, glancing around—Timmy in the pool, Weaver still seemingly absorbed in his phone, leaving her unsure if he’d seen her humiliating pose. Heart pounding, she bolted toward the pool, her breasts bouncing in the tight bikini. Nearing the edge, she tossed the ball in and dove headfirst.

 

The force of her dive sent a wave crashing toward Timmy as she plunged into the water, her body slicing through the surface. Underwater, she felt an odd absence—the pressure of the bikini top was gone. Surfacing with her chest submerged, she glanced down through the rippling water and realized with a jolt that the worn fabric had slipped off completely during the dive. Timmy stood before her, his eyes locked on her, wide with shock.

 

Instinctively, Luz clamped an arm across her breasts, turning away from him in a panicked pivot. Only then did she realize she now faced Weaver’s direction across the fence, her vulnerability exposed to his potential gaze. Her face flushed with humiliation, the cool water doing little to ease the heat of her shame.

 

She prayed innocently Timmy hadn’t seen, though his wide-eyed stare lingered a moment too long, his flushed face betraying his racing pulse. The air crackled with tension as she sank lower, water lapping at her chin. “Timmy! My top—it came off!” immediately cursing herself under her breath, “Damn it, Luz, why’d you shout?” The outburst could draw another neighbor’s attention.

 

Timmy froze, a mix of shock, embarrassment, and a raw spark of desire crossing his face. His eyes had caught a fleeting glimpse of her bare shoulders and the curve of her breasts before she turned, the image searing into his mind. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—” he stammered, voice cracking. “Where’d it go?” The blue bikini top floated toward the deep end, drifting with the current.

 

Underwater, Timmy’s gaze lingered on her ass, the bikini bottoms wedged between her cheeks, the sight burning into his memory. He delayed retrieving it, prolonging the moment, his eyes also tracing the curve of her breasts, partially covered by her arms, the way they pressed together creating a deep, enticing cleavage that drew his attention despite his efforts to look away. “I see it! Stay there, I’ll get it,” he called, swimming slowly, his eyes flickering back to her submerged curves.

 

Luz remained frozen, her arm pressed tightly against her breasts, the water offering scant relief. Weaver’s chuckle cut through the air, his phone raised, a soft “Nice!” escaping him. Her grip slipped slightly, one arm lowering just enough to expose most of her breasts briefly under water. She pressed back, praying no one saw, though doubt gnawed at her. Timmy returned with the top, his breath hitching, the exposure fueling his excitement.

 

-“Here,” he said, his trembling hand brushing hers, sending a spark through Luz. -“Thank you,” she whispered, turning from Weaver. -“Could you… turn around completely? I need to fix this,” she quivered.

 

She fumbled with the wet fabric, struggling to position it over her breasts. As she lifted her arms to tie the strings, her breasts were briefly exposed, the sunlight catching their curves. Her heart skipped as she spotted a curtain twitch in a neighbor’s window, sending a fresh wave of humiliation through her. She hurried to tie the knots, the damp fabric clinging tightly to her skin, her breaths coming in short, panicked bursts. “Okay,” she said at last, her voice unsteady. “I’m decent.”

 

But as Timmy turned slowly, his eyes locked onto her, unable to resist lingering on the wet bikini top, the fabric molded to her full breasts, clearly outlining her hardened nipples and framing her striking cleavage. Luz caught his stare, her cheeks burning as she realized how her nipples were pressing through the fabric, her mind reeling—I’ve been in the pool like this the whole time? This nightmare, driven by her wretched luck, feels like a trap she never chose.

 

The look ignited a warmth in her, despite the shame and fear flooding her mind.

 

“I think I’ve had enough swimming for today,” she said, voice strained, desperate to escape. “I should get going”

 

“Yeah,” Timmy agreed, his face flushed, his quickened breath betraying his excitement. “I’ve got that paper to finish.”

 

Luz gripped the pool’s edge, lifting herself slowly. Water revealed her hips, then her ass, the bikini bottoms wedged tightly between her cheeks, parting them briefly. She felt Timmy’s gaze, shame and arousal surging, an echo of her orgasm intensifying her sensitivity. Timmy’s eyes lingered, capturing the image, guilt mixing with desire. Luz hurried to stand, wrapping a towel tightly.

 

As they gathered their things, a tense, uncharted space lingered between them, filled with unspoken emotions. Timmy’s mind replayed the day—sunscreen, the pool, her ass emerging—remorse warring with the taboo thrill. Luz felt the ground shift, her guilt over the orgasm a lasting scar.

 

Later that night, Timmy and Luz sat at the kitchen table, the soft hum of the evening settling around them. The tension between them had returned, a silent undercurrent despite the blackmailer’s earlier message after the pool incident: no tasks for the rest of the day. They ate in near silence, attempting a casual conversation to bridge the gap.

 

Timmy broke the quiet, his voice hesitant. “Mom, is everything okay between us?”

 

Luz’s heart skipped, the fear gnawing at her that he might have noticed her orgasm. She forced a smile, her voice steady but strained. “Yes, everything’s fine. Why do you ask?”

 

He set his fork down, studying her. “You’ve seemed off these last few days. Even at the pool today, you were acting strange.”

 

Her mind raced, a wave of guilt crashing over her. She thought of the blackmailer, how his cruel demands were shattering her bond with her son. Because of him, they’d crossed forbidden barriers—lines a mother and son should never breach. Her gaze drifted, landing on Timmy’s hands, his fingers, and the memory of her orgasm triggered by those same fingers flooded back. The shame burned through her, a memory etched forever in her mind.

 

She shook herself from the reverie, meeting his eyes. “It’s all good, really. I just haven’t been feeling well these last few days,” she lied, scrambling to cover her tracks. “The heat’s been unbearable lately, that’s all.”

 

Timmy nodded, seeming to accept her explanation. “Yeah, I noticed the air conditioning feels off. It was really hot this afternoon after the pool.”

Luz latched onto the shift. “I felt it too. We’ll need to call a technician to fix it in the next few days.”

The conversation trailed off, the kitchen falling silent once more.

 

Continues on chapter 2...

 

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