The Pool Boy

“Hey pool boy!”

Jason looked up. He was upset that Mrs. Clyde still hadn’t bothered to learn his name after three months of cleaning her pool. More bothersome still was her insistence that he did so naked.

Really though, Jason couldn’t complain. He had a nice body, and Mrs. Clyde was always sure to pay him extra to take off his clothes. He just couldn’t help but feel a pang of insecurity every time he caught her glancing at him from inside the kitchen, or sunbathing outside on the lawn.

“Pool boy!” she said more firmly this time. Jason walked over, his bare feet stinging on the hot concrete.

“Yes, Mrs. Clyde,” he said.

She took a sip of her Mojito. “I’m driving downtown for a meeting with a loan advisor, and I won’t be back until later this evening. You’re more than welcome to shower up inside the house BUT,” she held up a finger, “under no circumstances are you allowed to go in the upstairs bathroom. Is that clear?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Jason waited until he heard Mrs. Clyde’s car pull out of the driveway, and then took a deep sigh of relief. Finally, he thought. He walked back to his truck and grabbed his clothes.

Mrs. Clyde was generous enough to allow Jason to use the downstairs shower every time after he cleaned. There was nary a spot of shade in the back by the pool, so he was always drenched by the time he was finished. It felt good to clean the sweat and chlorine off his tanned skinned before moving on to his next client.

But this time, something was up. When he walked into the shower, the water simply wouldn’t turn on. He stumbled out back to check the water pressure, but everything seemed to be working okay. The kitchen sink worked, the toilet worked. Everything but the downstairs shower.

The only shower he was allowed to use.

He looked up the stairs. Jason knew he could probably wait until he got home later that evening to clean up, and Mrs. Clyde had been very clear about her condition. But there was something almost inviting about the way she had phrased it, almost as if she was daring him to go upstairs.

Double checking to make sure the driveway was empty, Jason hurried up the stairs. He would be quick. In and out. Just like that.

With the upmost delicacy, he opened the door to the master bedroom and stepped inside. The room was massive, elegant, clean. On the floor, Jason noticed an assortment of clothes. Some were obviously Mrs. Clyde’s: a dress, a bra, leggings. But some were men’s clothes, a button down white shirt, a jockstrap.

And that’s when Jason realized: he had never once met Mr. Clyde. Not only that, but he had no concept of the man whatsoever. Mrs. Clyde barely mentioned him—if at all—and kept no pictures of him around the house, so Jason had no idea what he looked like.

Weird, he thought as he stepped into the bathroom. It was just as luxurious as the bedroom, perhaps more so. Golden wall decor, porcelain finish. And the shower. God. He knew exactly why Mrs. Clyde did not want him using it. The damn thing was the size of a large closet!

He stepped awestruck past the threshold, removing his baseball cap and closing the towering glass door behind him. When he turned the water on, it wasn’t just working; it felt magical. Jason must have stood under the steady stream of warmth for ten minutes before he realized he was supposed to be washing himself.

He looked around. There was a measly bar of soap he usually used in the downstairs shower, but here, he had the pick of Mr. Clyde’s entire selection of shampoos and body washes. Whoever this mysterious man was, he liked to have a wide variety of soaps at his disposal.

Jason reached for the first one on the end. It was a tall black bottle with a gold cap. As he unscrewed it, he felt a powerful scent fill his nostrils. Rich, musky, with a hint of spice, the soap smelled of pure masculinity. Jason dumped a large amount onto his hand and rubbed it all over his body.

“Fuuuuuuck,” Jason moaned. He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but he couldn’t help himself. He just felt that good. Washing himself in the Clyde’s shower felt regal, luxurious. He felt with ever consecutive drop of shampoo that he owned the place, that he could do anything he pleased.

Jason puffed out his chest, rubbing the suds under his arms and under his pecs. He was proud of the body he had crafted for himself. He was proud to show if off for Mrs. Clyde. Why had the thought of that ever disturbed him?

The soapy bubbles moved down his legs. Jason felt a rush of heat as he stood up straight, and he could have sworn that when he did, the shower around him got a little bit smaller. More than that, he felt himself bumping up against the sterling, tiled walls every time he took a few steps back. Just moments ago, the shower felt like a walk in closet. But the more shampoo he poured onto his body, the more it felt like a broom closet.

But Jason didn’t care. His body was numb and tingling, every patch of exposed skin so perfectly warm, every pore properly cleaned.

He closed his eyes. The bubbles were beginning to pool around his crotch, soaking his dick. He looked down. Much to Jason’s astonishment, he was hard as a steel rod. He reached down to touch his cock, but the second his fingers grazed the skin, he felt a rush of testosterone that sent him to the very brink of orgasm.

Taking a shower in Mrs. Clyde’s bedroom was one thing. Busting a nut in there was another. Jason tried not to masterbate in strangers homes out of principal, but the strangest thing was that this home didn’t feel stranger to him anymore. The shower might not have been the vast, mysterious trove of wonders it was when he first walked in, but he now felt a comfortable familiarity with it, as if he’d been using it for years…

No. It wasn’t possible. Jason shook his head and turned off the water. He stood for a moment, allowing the excess water to drip off of him, and for the cool breeze of the overhead fan to make him shiver. He turned instinctively and grabbed the towel hanging off of the door.

Did I leave that there? he thought to himself as he started the long process of drying his body. It seemed there was a lot more body there to dry, as Jason found he was still finding wet spots after a full minute of running the towel over his skin. There must have been something in the soap, he thought. Something that was messing with his mind, a relaxing agent that was forcing him to think slower, to perceive things as bigger of smaller than they actually were.

He stepped out of the shower, grabbed his baseball cap and placed it back on his head. It felt unusually tight, almost a full size too small. He walked towards the door and froze.

“M—Mr. Clyde,” Jason stammered. He had expected Mr. Clyde to be your standard family man. Medium height, perhaps a little overweight. But the man standing in front of Jason was massive. No, he was enormous. Impossibly huge, jacked beyond what was conceivably healthy for a man his age. But most intimidating of all: he was stark naked.

Mr. Clyde didn’t say anything. He just stood there, staring at Jason with a mix of confusion and terror. Jason didn’t dare move. He fancied himself a fit guy, but he knew he couldn’t match Mr. Clyde in a fight.

There was a noise downstairs. The front door opening. Mrs. Clyde. Shit.

In a flash of movement, Jason dove outside the door and grabbed his clothes. He stopped. Nothing. No one had tried to run after him. He turned around to see that the bathroom was empty. Where had Mr. Clyde gone?

“Hello?” Mrs. Clyde called from downstairs, “honey? Is that you?”

The realization dawned upon Jason. He was alone. That wasn’t another man he was staring at in the bathroom. It was… it was…

No.

He stepped back inside. The image for the man re-appeared, but he was following Jason’s every move. A reflection. It was not possible. Jason was only a 23 year old pool boy, not a 45 year old ex bodybuilder.

Steps on the stairs. Jason looked down at himself. Naked. He dove for his shorts, but when he tried to force them up his gargantuan legs, they ripped in several places.

The steps were getting louder. He searched the ground and grabbed for the only piece of clothing he knew would be able to fit him.

The door to the bedroom creaked open.

“Honey,” Mrs. Clyde said, looking her husband up and down seductively, “I didn’t expect you home so early.”

Jason struggled to make the words sound convincing. “I… I didn’t expect to see you either.” His voice was as comically deep as his body was cartoonishly big.

“I forgot some of the paperwork and had to drive back,” she said, marching towards him with a sultry air. She ran her hands over his sculpted body, feeling his post-shower warmth. “I see someone wants to spice things up.”

Jason gulped. This was wrong. He knew this was wrong. Mrs. Clyde was his employer, not his wife. He couldn’t just assume someone else’s position. Someone else’s job. Someone else’s life.

But as she began to worship his body, kiss his biceps, stroke his dick through the mesh jockstrap, he felt all those fears melt away. By the time he had her on the bed, clothes off and legs spread, he had forgotten about Jason, about his job cleaning pools, about his old body, his old life.

“Oh, Jonathan,” she moaned as he put that thick, manly dick to good use. Is that my name? he thought to himself. Jonathan… Jonathan… yeah, I like it. Jonathan. He was just getting used to the sound of it, the feel of it in his mind, when he felt a familiar sensation build up at the base of his dick. A warmth, a tension, a rush of testosterone.

Johnson Clyde let out a powerful grunt, thrusting deep and long as he shot his load inside his wife. He panted, sweat dripping down from his head to his chest, which flared and flexed as the orgasm rocked his titanic body.

He collapsed onto the bed, breathing deep and hard. His mind was flooding with new memories, of his marriage, of his time as a professional bodybuilder, of his current job as the head of a personal hygiene company, designing special soaps for men.

Mrs. Clyde turned to him. “Honey,” she said.

“Yeah babe?” Johnson said in his deep, baritone voice.

“Where did you get that hat from?”

Johnson Clyde brought his hand up to his head to feel the baseball cap, still impossibly right around his skull. One final memory of his old life was clinging on for dear life, and the only sense that Johnson could make of it were the next several words to come out of his mouth:

“Babe,” he said, “I think we’re gonna need a new pool boy.”