Jac-you-zzi
Finally, after a week of preparation you get to use your new Jacuzzi. What are these water wings, though? You guess you'll put them on, and take your first ever dip.
(Spoiler: you should not have put them on.)
This story is a request for @Daxter_Crimson !
Jac-you-zzi
You hold the water wings in your paws, wondering why they were included in the welcome pack. They are lighter than they look. When you bring them to your nose, they reek of a plastic-y smell you can only describe as "factory."
So silly. You dangle them between your thumb and forefinger, calculating how miniscule a portion of the eight-hundred dollar price tag covered their production. Two dollars? Fifty cents? It's a cute touch, you suppose.
The water wings - or "arm-bands" as you called them when you were a kid - are mostly clear. What you assume to be their upper half is entirely transparent, magnifying the light beaming through to the blurred lower half. The colours of your forearms and paws refract through them until its empty space becomes navy blue, the maroon accents of your fur creating a camouflage effect. You were always a colourful ferret.
Your arms are thin enough to slide through the bands. They squeeze past your elbows when you raise your arms, settling somewhere between your biceps and shoulder. In the uppermost corner of each water wing is a chunky nozzle. You step up to the Jacuzzi.
Ah, the Jacuzzi. The sweet, sweet Jacuzzi. You take a minute to close your eyes and inhale the subtle scent of chlorine. Beautiful. You can hear the water bubbling away: churning to one of forty-eight different air-massage settings. This is more than just a Jacuzzi: this is a weeks worth of handiwork and headaches, compounded into a seventy-two inch by seventy-eight inch cauldron of sheer heat-soaked relief.
"Let yourself be taken to aqua paradise," its website promised. "From the moment you set foot in the waters of our _Jac-you-zzi_Jacuzzi technology, feel the weights and woes of a lifetime float away." You're down for that. You're _so_down for that.
You bring your arms to your lips, puffing air into the nozzles of the water wings: first the right, then the left. They groan under the pressure. It leaves you a little light-headed. You drum your paws on the edge of the Jacuzzi, thinking back to all the reviews you've read.
"This hot tub cured my cancer."
"My arthritis has never felt more manageable than after taking a dip in this."
"HELP!! MY BROTHER TURNED INTO A RUBBER DUCKIE."
You smile. The garage was definitely a good place to set this up. There was plenty of space, and - most of all - seclusion. Isolation. Solitude. Some loved it, others loathed it - but you _lived_for it. And now you could finally enjoy some me-time without the static of the television or the buzzing of your mobile zapping you out of your zen.
The vertical wooden slats of its sides beckon you. Who are you to refuse? You dip a hand in first, splashing around excitedly, before hoisting your entire lower half over.
Ah!
Hot.
Ahhhh.
Warm.
Ahhhhh-ha-ha-haaa.
Just right.
You lay back, floating in the pool while the water wings do all the work. They creak under the weight of their own air in that distinct way only an inflatable can. The yellow light of the garage soothes over your closed eyelids like butter. Jets of air pat the middle of your back and the side of your thighs, releasing any and all remaining tension. This is it. _This_is the eight-hundred dollar price tag.
The arm-bands creak again. You let your mouth drift open, filling your lungs with cool air to balance out the moisture cocooning around your body. Your chest rises above the surface of the water, goosebumps running down its surface.
Another creak, this time not from your arms. That's strange. You inhale again, slowly.
Crr-eek.
It sounds like it's coming from your mouth. You bring your legs back towards the floor of the pool - except your feet can't seem to find it. The Jacuzzi was never meant to be this deep. You frown, blaming the arm-bands for being too good at their job. They constrict around your arms like a sphygmomanometer measuring your blood pressure.
It's impossible to see your legs through the bubbles of the water. You kick, and splash your paws over the surface, trying to steer yourself towards the edge, but the air pumps have moved on to a different one of their luxurious forty-eight settings and are holding you in the centre. Every time your fingertips near an edge of the pool, you drift back a couple of inches. If only your arms had a bit more mobility to them: if only these stupid arm-bands weren't there.
You breathe in.
Squeak.
It definitely came from your mouth this time, and you heard it in your mind. A squeak, plain as day. What the hell?
You look to the arm-bands, trying to wedge a claw underneath them to pull them loose, but they are too slippery. They hold tight to your fur, blue-on-blue, with the vaguest line defining their edge. As another gasp of air fills your lungs, you realize you've failed to actually exhale this whole time. A horrible feeling settles in your middle.
Your diaphragm pushes upwards to breathe out - you know the action, you've done it ever since you were born, so why isn't it working? It feels alien. You take a nice, deep breath in instead, until your chest feels like it's going to burst and your gut sticks out under the water.
Screee-hss.
The dizziness from earlier is back, winding its way around your mind as you ride a carbon dioxide high. This is wrong. This is dangerous. This... Turns you on more than you could ever imagine.
You try four claws this time, digging them into your arm until it stings, but still the water wings don't budge - in fact, you can't even see the edge line any more. With another inhale and creak, you tug open their plastic nozzles, but you can't hear the hiss of escaping air.
Vision of all but the Jacuzzi becomes a purple-blue blur. Somehow, you manage to trace a paw down your chest and over your belly - which bulges to an absurd roundness - before stroking over your crotch. God, it's embarrassing, but you can feel yourself throb as you fill with air. Your paws press over your delicates, searching for that rock-hard boner you know is desperate to unload in your new Jacuzzi.
You rub, and pat, and search over your groin, eye-lids drooping heavily, but all you get in return is a groan and the smooth feel of plastic. That wasn't right. Plastic?
A thought crosses your mind: something about your chest and a penis. The water is soothing. You try to swing your legs. There is no resistance.
If only the bubbles weren't there, you think to yourself, for some reason - you're not sure why. You glug down some more oxygen. A haze fogs over your thoughts. Drops of condensation form on your arms.
Scree, squee, squeak.
Each breath brings your body higher above the surface. You grin. The blue-red camouflage of your fur brightens and simplifies.
You try to look at your front to see just how much air you've swallowed down. A seam of material - only a centimetre or two - runs down from your chin to your... Well, to whatever is still under the water. Your neck and head and shoulders and arms feel so light. It is blissful. The sight from your left eye fades to nothing more than a dark circle in your minds-eye. Next to go is the right. You stop inhaling.
You squeak, both mentally and literally, as your grin holds itself in place, the wet fur of your body enhanced by a PVC sheen. The bubbles wobble you back and forth. With what little function your body still contains, you bring your arms together, close to your chest, to grope at your new face. So sleek. The lightness of air and the lustre of plastic glides its way up past your elbows to your paws, dulling your fingertips and claws until they form a perfect, bulbous shape. The volume of your chest accepts them gleefully, evening out any creases or grooves with a strained groan.
Scrrr-ik, you think to yourself.
Sqwik, you think.
Sss - queak.
...