Hard Yank

She said pull. Lucy didn’t wait for please.

Lailani barely got the red heel off before Lucy’s wet latex hand closed on her ankle. No flirt. No countdown. Just a hard horizontal yank that took Lailani off the coping and into the black mouth of the deep end like the pool had a throat. Water slammed her ears. Her dress ballooned once, then plastered. She kicked—instinct, not refusal—and Lucy rode the kick down with her, black catsuit shining like a blade.

They hit mid-depth still thrashing. Lucy didn’t ask. She spun Lailani, shoved her face-first toward the tile floor, and planted a gloved palm between her shoulder blades. Lailani’s lungs were already half-empty from the surprise. That was the point. Lucy’s free hand found the zipper of her own suit, then Lailani’s bra strap, then hair—a fistful— and used it as a handle to drag them both deeper.

Gigi dropped in from the shallow end like a red-lipped missile, bangs plastered, latex flashing. She hit them at speed, legs wrapping Lailani’s waist from the front while Lucy took the back, a sandwich of shine and force. Lailani’s eyes went wide—half panic, half the filthy joy of being outnumbered. Gigi mouthed down with zero sound and both of them shoved.

Bottom. Tile. Lailani’s back arched hard enough to hurt. Lucy’s thigh drove between hers; Gigi’s mouth found her throat and bit—not soft. Lailani’s hands scrambled for purchase and found only slick latex and the chain Lucy had left dangling from the ladder. She squeezed it between her legs like a fuse and came on the first rough grind, body seizing, hair a black storm under the underwater lights.

They didn’t surface when she needed air. They surface when they decided. Lucy dragged her up by the hair, Lailani’s face breaking the water with a gasp that was almost a scream, glistening, spit and pool water on her lip. “Again,” Lailani rasped, soft accent shredded. “Harder. Don’t let me think.”

Lucy smiled with teeth. Gigi was already underwater again, a dark shape waiting with open arms. The second yank took all three of them straight to the floor in one continuous whip of motion—no romance, no cutaways, just depth and appetite and the pool lights strobing like a club that had learned to drown people properly.