Getting fingered by Becky Puny Pervert chapter 10 by Froakie

The vortex intensifies, the water now churning with a audible gurgle. The current is a tangible force, a relentless tug-of-war against your exhausted muscles. It tries to suck you down, to drag you into the dark, unknown depths of the pipes. You dig your heels in, swimming against the tide with every ounce of strength you possess. Your powerful stroke cuts through the water, your determination a physical shield against the drain's hunger. You manage to hold your position, fighting the pull to a standstill, a tiny island of defiance in a swirling sea.

Just as your muscles begin to scream in protest, a familiar shadow falls over the sink. You glance up, blinking through the spray, to see Becky leaning over the edge. She's changed out of her towel and into a pair of soft, pink cotton shorts and a white tank top that, while more modest than the towel, still struggles to contain her generous bust. Her damp blonde hair is tied up in a messy bun, and her face, freshly scrubbed, is free of makeup.

Her emerald eyes widen as she takes in the scene: you, battling for your life in the center of a miniature whirlpool.

"SAMMY!" she gasps, her voice booming like a clap of thunder. Without a moment's hesitation, she plunges her hand into the water.

Her arrival is cataclysmic.

Becky's hand enters the water with the force of a meteorite impact. A colossal tsunami, born from the displacement of her arm, erupts from the point of entry. The wave, a wall of soapy water several times your height, crashes down upon you with unstoppable momentum.

You were already struggling, your muscles burning from the fight against the drain's pull. This new assault is too much, too fast. The wave hits you broadside. You're tossed from your feet like a piece of driftwood, tumbling head over heels in the churning chaos. All control is lost. The world is a dizzying vortex of white foam and blue water.

You're swept towards the drain, the current now impossibly strong. You claw at the smooth, wet porcelain, your fingers finding no purchase. For a horrifying second, you feel the suction seize your leg, pulling you down into the metal grate. The cold steel presses against your shin as the force tries to wedge you into the opening.

Then, Becky's fingers, searching blindly in the frothy water, brush against you. It's not a gentle rescue. It's a clumsy, panicked shove. Her fingertip, a fleshy battering ram, slams into your side. The impact is jarring, knocking the air from your lungs, but it also serves to dislodge your leg from the drain's grasp.