Opal the jellyfish

Another day, another shift on Duny Shores, Spagonia’s most average beach ever. A perfect place to catch some rays, get pissed off at the seagulls swiping your overpriced chips from the vending machine, or maybe even build a sandcastle if you ever remembered to bring a bucket.

But that’s not for you, is it? You’re a lifeguard. You don’t get to have fun.

You don’t even get much of a chance to enjoy the…other perks…of being way high up and wearing shades that conveniently disguise your wandering eyes. No, a surprising amount of your time is taken up by actually doing your job: saving dumb kids from accidentally drowning themselves. You’d figure with all the worrying parents do about sleepover murders and people getting jumped at night that they hear about on their crime shows, they’d be more concerned about one of the likeliest ways their kid can die. But you’d think wrong. Seems like they care about their phones more than being responsible, or appreciating the beauty of their environment, or doing literally anything you can do at a beach that you CAN’T do at home…

Some big, ugly bug lands itself on your arm. You slap it dead, then wince at the feeling of sensitive skin, a telltale sign of sunburn. Damnit, you must’ve forgotten to put lotion on again. You don’t even know how you keep doing it when it’s like the only thing you have to occupy yourself with, other than your smartphone. But knowing that old hunk of junk, it’s probably almost dead.

Giving a cursory glance around for any unattended children putting themselves in danger, counting the heads again, you give yourself the go ahead to look at the clock and inevitably disappoint yourself when you see it’s only five in the evening again.

…But it’s not five. It’s 7:40! That means you’ve got twenty minutes until your shift is over! RIGHT ON!

Picking up your megaphone, you give the beachgoers a quick warning that the grounds will close soon, and to start packing up. Luckily, it seems like there’s not a lot of slowpokes this time around. Kids groan, get yelled at by their parents to come back and get ready to leave, and slowly, begrudgingly trek their way back to their towels and umbrellas. Individuals go first, then families, and slowly, one by one, Duny Shores is depopulated, a sight that never fails to make you smile.

After you quickly rub on some sunscreen in a vain attempt to assuage the mild inflammation on your forearms, you take a moment to rest your eyes for a bit, and truly enjoy the gentle wind, seeping warmth, and relaxing sounds of the waves washing against the sandbanks…

…though that last part’s a little difficult when that huge, 12-person friend group starts laughing and taking photos of themselves to put on their Instagrams and Snapchats. Leave it to being on the beach 8 hours a day to make you feel like a crotchety old man yelling at those damn youngsters to get off his lawn.

…

…A beep from your walkie talkie ruins your good mood. The loud, compressed voice coming from the other end quickly worsens it.

“Hey, uhhh,” a slow, outdoor voice drawls through your ears, “I know it’s been a long day, dude, but the park’s basically closed. Can you like, check around to see if peeps are still on the beach? Over. Huhuhuh…”

You cringe when you hear your coworker chuckle at his little joke that he ran into the ground the very first day he showed up, but nonetheless, you pick up and sigh. “You know what? I’ll do you one better.”

Tapping the side of your megaphone, you cough, then tell everyone in a firmer, terser tone than Duny Shores is now closed. Then, you add that people who don’t leave after being warned will potentially be forcibly thrown out and barred from further visits.

You’re pretty sure you can’t really force people to leave, you know, like physically, but who gives a shit? If it gives them the hint, you’re good. And thankfully, that gets the rest of the stragglers going. In a few minutes after closing, the beach is spotless. Not a towel in sight. Just trash that is in no way your job to pick up.

Thank god. Maybe you’ll get home on time for once!

…At least, maybe you would if that one jellyfish girl would get up from her tanning chair. Though you have to admit she looks really nice in that black one-piece, knowing freedom is just minutes away is doing a lot to put a damper on your ‘curiosity.’

“Ma’am, the beach is closed. You have to go now.”

She opens an eye and turns to look up at you. For a moment, you almost think she’s going to listen…then she sticks out her tongue and goes right back to sunbathing.

You squeeze your walkie talkie until your fist starts to shake. That bitch.

“Alright, here’s the deal: everyone’s gone but one lousy suntanning asshole who doesn’t know how to take a hint. You guys can just go ahead and leave, I’ll deal with her myself. Skip, keep the keys in the staff bathroom for me, ok? I’ll finish locking up.”

“Heh. Whatever you say, dude. Peace!”

With that, you slide down the lookout ladder and make a beeline towards her.

The only sign that she’s aware of your existence is her lips turning up into a smirk. She languidly crosses and uncrosses her legs, putting on a show with her thighs—and flippers—not every part of you can ignore…your gait gets a little more awkward as a result. Not that it stops you from stomping all the way to her cutesy little chair.

You glare at her. When that doesn’t work, you cough. Loudly.

“Ahem.”

She picks up one of those tacky coconut glasses they use at the bar and takes a sip of whatever highway robbery of a drink she got, slurping loudly. Then, finally, she tilts down her sunglasses, shooting you a half-lidded smile.

“Yo.”

“Hi,” you say as stiffly as possible. “I don’t suppose you didn’t hear me earlier.”

“Nah, the waves were too loud.”

Oh fuck off. You LITERALLY looked at me and smiled.

“Likely story. Look, I don’t like being a douche about this kind of stuff, but I really—”

“—Wanna sip of my drink?”

You startle a bit when she reaches out—her glass in hand, the tip of her straw pointing towards you. The straw that her lips just touched…

You are now suddenly aware of how dry your mouth is. And that it’s getting drier by the second, thanks to not only her offer, but that playful look she’s giving you…and maybe what’s right below that pretty face of hers, the tentacles draping on either side pressing ever so slightly into the edges of her bust. It doesn’t help that she’s leaning forward to give you a better look.

“A-ah, no! I’m fine, thanks—” you stutter, then blush once you realize how easily she distracted you, “—Ugh! You know that’s not why I’m here.”

“Ohhh. I get it.”

“Get what?!”

“You wanted a closer look,” she murmurs, stretching in all the right ways to accentuate her physique. You swallow nothing but a lump in your throat. Your anger turns to disbelief as she starts tracing her figure with her fingers. “Whatcha wanna see?”

She cups a palm around one of her breasts. "My boobs?" she asks, demurely, sliding her hand down to her barely-covered waist, lingering for a second before gliding it across her legs. "My thighs? Or maybe..."

Her foot lifts in the air, toes wiggling right in front of your face. Your cheeks flush even harder than they already were. And yet, you don’t back away, or cuss her out—no, you just stand there and take it.

…And maybe even lean in a little, if you’re being totally honest.

"Heehee...jackpot," she giggles, continuing to idly rock her sole back and forth. Your senseless stammering almost does more to prove your guilt than your blush. "Wow, that was toootally just a hunch. Get it? To—"