Day 1: Embarkation and Tropical Night

The cabin door clicks shut behind me. A shiver ghosts down my spine. I don’t turn around; I know you’re there.

My suitcase rests beside me, but I don’t move to unpack. I don’t move at all.In the center of a small cruise ship cabin, I just wait, absolutely still. Not like someone hiding. Like prey caught in the moment before a predator strikes. I already know I’m caught. After all, I walked in on your arm.

There’s nowhere to hide anyway. The cabin is small, functional. A sliding glass door takes up the far wall, revealing a narrow balcony that overlooks the ship’s central park. I see movement in the cabins across the open-air atrium, but they’re so far away from my world right now.

My world has shrunk to this: a closet and vanity on the left, bathroom door on the right, and tiny couch against the far wall. The couch is nothing more than a few cushions, but I already know I’m going to have my face buried in them at some point. And between me and the bed? Nothing but a few short steps.

You haven’t touched me yet. When your fingers finally find my spine, barely more than a brush, I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“One whole week,” you murmur. “My choices. Only mine. Are you sure that’s what you want?”

My throat tightens. So does my core.

Just yours and nothing else—for the whole week. Just yours. I let the breath ease out of me, let my shoulders fall and my pulse settle into something quieter. The storm of overthinking finally gone. No messy decisions. No hesitation. No need to second-guess.

I want it more than I can say.

So I nod.

“Unpack, then,” you say. “Show me what you brought for me.”

Something settles in me. An easy chore, but a beginning.

I open my suitcase and begin to fold or hang things: party outfits, play clothes, sundresses, lingerie. You watch from the small couch, and I feel your gaze on every item. Whoever sees me in these—dancing, kneeling, stripped bare—it will be because I wore it for you. Because it comes off for you.

I unpack your suitcase too—just for convenience. I like you watching me work.But when I reach for the toy bag, your voice stops me.

“No,” you say.I freeze.“That part,” you continue, “you don’t get to see yet.”

You don’t tell me what to wear; you always say you like me in anything I choose to wear. But I know what will make your eyes heat as they trace over me. I change into something breezy—a halter dress that moves with the ocean breeze and hints at bare skin beneath. Easy to slip off later if you want it to go. You watch me as I dress, but not with scrutiny. Just attention. Presence.

When I’m done, you nod once and take my hand like it belongs to you.

We leave the cabin together, hand in hand, and the shift is immediate. The hallway is alive with the subtle electricity of shared secrets and blatant sensual exploration. Bliss Cruises are couples-only, and that fact lingers in the air—no kids, no awkward strangers, just open smiles and the quiet knowledge that everyone here came to slip into another reality.

We wander the ship, half exploring and half drifting through the floating city that is Wonder of the Seas. After all, we can’t get lost if we don’t have a destination in mind. Music spills from the elevators, laughter echoes down the hallway, and even the air smells like fresh sea breezes. Some people are already lounging in the sun on the pool deck. Our balcony looks over central park, so we wander through there to get our bearings. Instead of the music from inside, there’s quiet birdsong drifting from behind the greenery. A bar sits beneath a trellis with fairy lights twined around it. At dusk, it’ll be a dreamy sight, I’m sure. I look forward to finding out. All the while, my fingers are entwined with yours, my head periodically resting on your shoulder. The demands of daily life fall even farther away with every step. And this is only the calm before… everything.

Eventually, our meanders redirect towards the Promenade with purpose. The corridor is bright and alive—retail lights glow, music thumps softly from nearby lounges, and conversations bubble over and blend together into a cheerful hum. But I weave through it, tugging you along behind me. With a knowing smile, you tag along.

The instant I step past the TSC banner and into On Air Club, I’m enveloped in hugs from people I haven’t seen in person for months, even a year in some cases. You tap my shoulder to let me know you’re going for a drink, but I’m in good company. The Travel Social Club is my tribe, so their meet and greet is a daily pleasure. I even scoop up a lanyard to carry my key for the week. The hang tag on it reads “Kinky.” I don’t grab DTF or the other labels. I’m not just “down to fuck.” I’m here for a different kind of play.

“There you are, darling!” I hear behind me.

I turn and immediately am enveloped in familiar, beautiful scents. Unlike me in my retro-style sundress covered in pineapples, my husband’s girlfriend is all glamour for her first impression onboard. She skipped a dress and went straight for lingerie. My husband comes up behind her and sweeps me into a quick kiss. Stepping back, I give him a once over. His greatest nod to the evening’s tropical theme is a linen shirt untucked over his slacks. Granted, I’m not dressed for hunting. They are.

You slide a drink into my hand and shake hands with my husband. Our rooms are next door, but we haven’t crossed paths since boarding. We trade a few quick plans and touches, but my husband and his girlfriend wander off into the rest of the meet and greet like a pair of smiling sharks. They’ll find others who match them soon enough. Me? I tip my head onto your shoulder and smile. I have who I want already, and I intend to have an absolute blast with you.

Couples smile, trade names, ask flirtatious questions. Every face carries warm eyes and open curiosity. You’re beside me the whole time, letting everyone know exactly who I belong to. I’m not just decoration—I never am. I’m yours, but I’m me.

Eventually, we wander up to Windjammer for dinner. It’s casual but stacked with options—fresh seafood, jerk chicken, roasted vegetables, desserts that gleam under glass. We fill our plates and take a two-top near the window. Sunset streaks gold across the horizon as the ship steadily leaves the port behind. I lift another bite to my mouth, but I barely taste it. You haven't looked at your food in minutes—your gaze keeps slipping to the edge of my neckline. I’m too aware of your leg pressed against mine under the table, of the other couples passing with friendly glances, of the low thrum of tension already building in my thighs. By the time I set my fork down, you're smiling like you've already undressed me.

By the time we finish dinner, the sky has surrendered completely to dusk. The ship hums louder now—not in noise, but in energy. Sunset has passed, and the night is officially ours.

A crowd has gathered just off the Promenade, not around a band or DJ, but around a cart piled with neon-lit headphones. A crew member catches my curious look and offers me a pair with a grin. “Silent disco?” he says, as if that explains everything.

I slip them on and the world changes—thumping bass, sultry beats, and just faintly, the laughter of others caught in the same private concert. I can see couples moving to entirely different rhythms depending on the channel they’ve chosen, hips rolling, feet tapping, bodies pressed close under colored lights. Without the headphones, it must look absurd. With them, it’s intoxicating.

You join me, sliding your own set on, and I feel that little thrill when our eyes meet—our music syncing instantly. The rest of the ship falls away as your hand curves around my lower back, drawing me in. We dance there, just for us, even as the crowd sways on multiple wavelengths.

When we finally hand the headphones back, the night feels hotter, brighter, and my pulse is already in step with yours.

Tropical Night kicks off across the decks. Music pours from speakers in the Promenade, the Boardwalk, and the pool decks overhead—slow, hot, pulsing. There are flower leis and neon palm trees, fruity drinks in every hand, and couples already swaying like they’ve been dancing for years—or maybe just met.

We head toward the vibrant Latin music, and I don’t wait for you to pull me. I take your hand and lead this time, tugging you toward the motion, toward the heat. The deck is full, but not crowded. There’s space to move. To flirt. To lose ourselves in rhythm.

You move well—I knew you would—but I still love the moment where we fall in step without speaking. We dance. Not to be polite. Not to kill time. We dance because it’s foreplay. You match my body like you’ve done it a hundred times before. My hips roll into yours. Your hands settle low. We dance slow, then hot, then playful. We laugh with our whole bodies. When I lean back to whisper something in your ear, I know exactly what I’m doing.

Another couple joins us—accidental at first, then deliberate. We all have “kink” labels on our tags, a must for me in a sea of swingers. The woman spins beside me, lets her hand trail across my shoulder. Her partner catches your eye, and a silent conversation happens in the blink of an eye. We all smile. It’s not a promise. But it’s not nothing.

We dance together for a moment, but then the crowd shifts with a new song. I slide back into your arms for another song. Or two. Or five. The beat deepens and pressure builds, slow and thick. The air is warm and heavy now.

You lean in, mouth close to my ear.

“Come with me.”

I don’t need to nod; you already know I’ll follow. We slip from the crowd towards the front of the ship. Tucked into a protected area, a sundeck transformed under the moonlight into a sensual playground. Circular daybeds with canopies are covered in clean sheets. Fires flicker in hurricane lamps all around the deck. And above us? Stars, nothing but stars. Here, the music of the party fades into irrelevance, buried beneath the equally distant sound of waves as the ship cuts through the sea.

You guide me to one of the daybeds near the edge, away from the soft chatter and flicker of lanterns. The mattress gives beneath me, cool and clean. The canopy rustles in the breeze as I lie back, the fabric above catching the motion of the stars.

You don’t speak.

Your hand moves up my leg, slow, deliberate, anchoring me in the moment. I know this rhythm. This isn't a grab or a grope—it’s a claiming. Fingers tracing the outline of where I begin and where your intentions end. My breath catches when you hook a finger beneath the hem of my dress and begin to draw it up. I lift my hips, offering. Not shy, not hesitant. Just… yours.

The night air slides over my thighs, kisses damp heat between them. You look down at me like you’ve waited all day for this. Maybe you have.

When you bend to kiss me, it’s not frantic—it’s measured. Mouth brushing mine, then trailing along my jaw. Down my neck. My hands drift up your shoulders while you explore with slow, maddening confidence. Every flick of your tongue, every scrape of your stubble, reminds me that this week belongs to you. I belong to you.

You take your time. Your fingers tease but don’t enter. Your tongue follows the trail of heat along my inner thigh, stopping just shy of relief. The denial coils tight. My hips shift, restless, and you reward me by flattening your tongue just once against me—broad, hot, possessive. I gasp, arching, and you press your hand to my stomach to hold me down.

"Not yet," you murmur. “Let them watch a little longer.”

I don’t know who’s watching. I can’t see anything past the gauze of the canopy and the blur of starlight above, but I know we’re not alone. Somewhere nearby, someone will hear me come. Maybe more than one.

And when your mouth returns to me—this time with purpose—I stop caring who hears. I moan and gasp, my hips rolling into your mouth, a mimicry of the dance floor. You and I both knew dancing together would lead to this. I can hear other couples drift into the other daybeds when their soft noises rise to join mine.

You catch my hand in yours, but I grab your fingers instead.

“Please,” I manage to beg, stroking your fingers intently. I know what I want.

Of course, so do you. I can sense your smile against my clit. You know exactly what will make me scream. You’re just enjoying the taste of me, the feel of me squirming underneath you, dancing to your tune.

Again, I squeeze your fingers and sob out, “Please.”

“You want to cum for me, my princess?” you ask. Your lips brush my clit with every word, but it’s your voice that really pushes me into desperation.

I twist into your mouth more. You oblige me… sort of. Your teeth lock around that bundle of nerves. Not biting, just holding. The sound I make is half sob, half wail, and all need.

When I’m forced to that high, you slide your fingers inside of me. Between the sucking of your mouth and the stroking of your fingers, I’m caught. I cease caring about anything else. Your other hand cradles my hip, ensuring I stay where you want me, because I don’t have the mind to keep myself in check anymore.

I don’t ask for permission. Not tonight. You want me to come. It’s not a choice. My orgasm washes over me slowly, encompassing even the air I breathe. You pause, holding me there with your tongue and fingers pressing just right. My body is trembling with tiny shivers as every nerve sparkles in time with the stars above me. Then, you move, and I fall apart.

I’m limp and languid when you stretch out beside me and tug me into your shoulder. Eventually, you’ll tuck me into bed, and we’ll sleep just like this. But, for now, we listen to the muffled sounds of pleasure around us and watch the stars together.