Day 2: Nassau, Bahamas and Pirate Night

I wake tangled in you. One of your arms is flung across my ribs, your palm resting just beneath my breast. The sheet’s twisted between our legs, and there’s still salt in my hair from the ocean air last night. I breathe you in, warm and quiet. Satisfied.

Eventually, I slide free to get ready. You’re still half-asleep, but when I step into the bathroom, the door opens again almost immediately.

You don’t say anything. You just step into the shower behind me. It’s tiny, barely big enough for you to feel comfortable by yourself. Yet, our slick bodies rubbing with every move? Worth the tight squeeze.

There’s no rush. The water’s warm and strong, and your hands are lazy—more caress than clean. You wash the salt from my hair, fingers gentle at my scalp, then trail soap over my back in slow, teasing swirls. I lean into it, eyes closed. It’s not a scene. Not foreplay. Not quite.

But it’s not innocent, either.

When I rinse and step out, you stay behind to finish, giving me a look that makes it very clear tonight will be a different story.

We make our way to Windjammer and choose a large, open table near the windows. It’s intentional—today, we’re looking to meet people. The buffet is already bustling, couples coming and going in every kind of morning-after state. Some are sun-kissed and perky. Others wear sunglasses indoors. Everyone has that loosened-up Bliss energy. The only thing stronger than the coffee is the collective smirk.

I’m balancing two mugs and trying to decide between a waffle and fruit when I hear my name.

“Look what the tide dragged in!”

I turn, instantly smiling, and nearly spill both mugs. Two familiar faces—friends from a past cruise—join us at the table, dropping into chairs with matching grins. Their vibe is easy: flirty, charming, effortlessly open. There’s no pressure in their attention, just warmth and shared history. I kiss one on the cheek and hug the other, then glance back at you to make sure you're smiling, too. You’ve only met them once, but you recognize your own qualities in her husband, and your protective instincts soothe quickly.

We fall into conversation easily, stories flowing between sips of juice and bites of food. You and his wife are already laughing over last night’s dance floor chaos when her husband nudges me under the table with his foot.

“You’re doing the pirate tour with us, right?”

“Of course,” I say. “Rum and scandal? Absolutely our style.”

The four of us signed up for it after a pre-cruise chat. Nassau’s best hits: a pirate museum, a distillery, and a beach break. It’s not wild, but it’s fun, and the rum tasting ensures a dreamy buzz this afternoon.

We linger at breakfast longer than we should, chatting with a few new couples who rotate through the table. One of them compliments my tank top. You rest your hand on my thigh under the table at the exact moment I’m answering, and I know the timing wasn’t accidental. They’re flirting with intent, a game we aren’t playing this trip. I smile politely and let them hunt elsewhere.

Eventually, one of our friends checks their watch. “We should head down if we don’t want to miss the group.”

We stand together, plates cleared, lanyards swinging. Someone’s already wearing a pirate hat. I scoop up my backpack with our beach gear.

“I don’t need a hat,” I murmur to you as we follow the crowd. “I already have a captain.”

You grin at me. “Then you’d better obey orders.”

I grin back. “Or what?”

You lean close, and my heart jumps with excitement. “Before you tease too much, remember—” You pressed your mouth just below my ear hotly. “You don’t know what is in the toy bag.”

Now, my excitement is tinged with trepidation and delicious foreboding. You straighten and lift a brow with a smile. You know what I’m thinking, sensing that I’m torn between pretty submission and playing the brat to invite retribution. Neither of us is sure which side will win, which just makes it that much better.

We join the line of passengers filing off the ship, winding down the gangway and into the Bahamian sun. It hits with a warmth that blooms instantly across my shoulders, and the scent of salt, sunscreen, and rum punch hits not long after. I slide on my sunglasses and lace my fingers with yours as we follow our group toward the cluster of waiting tour buses. There’s chatter all around us—light, excited, expectant—but I keep catching snippets from the couples we sat with at breakfast.

One of our friends points out the pirate flag fluttering above the museum entrance and groans with mock drama. “If there’s a gift shop, I swear I’m buying a fake parrot.”

“You do that,” his wife says. “I’ll be at the rum tasting trying not to make out with the bartender.”

We laugh and fall into step behind them as the tour begins. The pirate museum is delightfully kitsch—dark corridors lit with flickering lanterns, mannequins in faded sashes, creaky floorboards and staged scenes of seafaring chaos. The guide hams it up with a theatrical pirate accent, but it’s the stories that hold me—real history buried beneath campy animatronics. A few displays make me think of you. Torture instruments, mostly.

You catch me eyeing one a beat too long.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I murmur, bumping my hip against yours.

“I already have more than I can use,” you reply, low and pointed. My skin flushes, and I take your hand again—mostly to keep myself from fidgeting.

From there, the group moves on to the distillery. The air smells like sugar and heat, sweet and sharp all at once. We sample rums in tiny glasses lined up like a flight, each one more golden than the last. One tastes like fire and honey. Another like bananas and mischief. A third makes me cough, and you tilt your head at me in amusement. You switch my third glass for your second, too bitter for me where the other is too sweet for you. The warmth builds fast and settles deep, loosening the group even more.

People start leaning closer when they talk. Laughs last longer. Hands linger a beat too long. There’s a subtle shift in posture—hips cocked, shoulders rolled back, tongues looser. Not sloppy. Just… looser.

Someone makes a joke about drunken pirates, and it spirals into a full group photo at the gates, everyone raising their tasting glasses with a cheer. I lean into you for the picture, pressing a kiss to your shoulder just as the camera clicks.

As the tour bus winds towards the beach, the guide keeps up a monologue about the sites we pass, recalling pieces of the tour and putting them into context for us. My head is on your shoulder, your hand on my thigh. All is right in my little world.

When we reach the beach, I can’t change fast enough. The moment we arrive, I grab my coverup and head for the changing huts. I’m out two minutes later in my bikini, a gauzy sarong tied at my waist and sunglasses perched high on my nose. I’m not dressing for attention, not here. But I still walk back toward you knowing your gaze will find me the moment I emerge.

It does.

And you smile like I’m the only treasure worth finding on this whole pirate tour.

I have spray-on sunscreen in my backpack, but I hand you the lotion instead and turn my nearly bare back to you. Your strong hands stroke over the muscles of my back like you’re giving me a massage instead of just putting on sunscreen. I moan openly and purr.

“Save it for the ship!” someone teases nearby.

I flush, and you hand the bottle back to me. The beach may be adults only, but it’s still public, a vanilla beach club. It’s loaded with other Bliss cruisers, but still. I grab the spray-on kind instead to finish the job. You smirk, and I stick out my tongue. But, I douse myself in sunscreen. Otherwise, you won’t be able to touch me without rubbing a sunburn all week.

Once I’m sufficiently slathered, we wander toward a pair of loungers claimed by our friends. One of them already has a drink in hand and sunglasses perched high on her head like a tiara. She waves us over with the lazy grace of someone who’s exactly where she wants to be.

The beach club isn’t crowded, but there’s a steady buzz of music and mingling. The DJ is tucked beneath a shaded canopy, spinning chill island tracks with just enough beat to sway your hips without meaning to. Staff flit between loungers delivering frozen cocktails and bottles of water, and Bliss cruisers are easy to spot—more relaxed, more tactile, more free. The energy is flirtatious but friendly. No hard sells. No pressure. Just a lot of tan skin, sunglasses, and knowing smiles.

We drop our towels and settle in. I stretch out beside you and prop myself on one elbow, already watching the glint of sunlight across your chest. I pretend not to notice how many people’s gazes slide over us, but you know. Of course you do. You rest one hand on my thigh in quiet reassurance that you’ve got me, then hand me a cold drink from the tray a server just dropped off. I sip it gratefully—sweet, tropical, and laced with something strong.

Eventually, someone suggests getting in the water, and I leap at the chance. The sun is high, and the sea looks like a postcard. We walk into the surf together, the water cool and bright against sun-warmed skin. I dive under once, surfacing with a shake of my head and a delighted gasp at the warmth of the Caribbean sea. When I slick my hair back, you’re already there—wet, grinning, and very close.

We drift together, half-swimming and half floating, as the others splash nearby. I loop my arms around your neck, legs bumping against yours in the gentle current. It’s playful. Almost sweet. But every brush of your body makes me more aware of what’s waiting for us later.

And you? You’re smiling like you know exactly how wet I already am—and not just from the ocean.

Eventually, we swim back to shore, rejoin the group for another round of drinks, and let the sun dry us on our towels. The hours stretch in that easy, vacation way—sun, swim, sip, repeat. At some point, you tuck a towel under my head and let me rest with your hand on my lower back while I close my eyes and listen to the music, the waves, and your steady breath beside me.

It’s calm. Perfectly so.

But later? We both know today is only the foreplay.

Tonight, the dungeon doors open. And you haven’t yet told me what’s in the toy bag.

By mid-afternoon, the lazy afternoon has sunk into my bones. We’re warm and buzzed, draped across each other on a lounge chair as the sun begins to slip toward the horizon. My skin is salty and sweet, my thighs pleasantly sore from the sea, and your fingers keep tracing lazy patterns just under the hem of my swimsuit cover-up. Every so often, you lean in like you might kiss me, but then just smile instead—like you’re saving it.

Eventually, our group starts gathering bags and beach towels. Someone makes a joke about not being fit for public consumption without a shower. You squeeze my hip in agreement.

“Let’s get you out of the sun, my pale treasure,” you tease.

I murmur and curl into you more.

“Up you go, my cuddly girl,” you prompt, scooping me up and onto my feet. You keep me tucked into your side as we go back to the bus, scooping up my backpack on the way. We don’t bother to change for the quick ride.

The ride back to the ship is quiet, all of us a little sun-drunk and pleasantly worn out. By the time we step back onboard, I’m craving two things: a cool shower and whatever look is in your eyes when you unzip the toy bag.

Back in the cabin, we don’t speak. We don’t need to.

You peel my damp cover-up off and unclip my bikini with the same careful ease you used this morning. There’s no rush now, but there’s no uncertainty either. You drop your own swimwear and pull me under the water with you. The shower is warm but barely. I pout, but you know what I need. I may want a scalding shower, but my pink skin needs coolness. The salt washes away as you tilt my head back under the spray. Your fingers comb through my hair again, and I close my eyes to let myself sink into it. If I moan when you knead the tension from my shoulders, neither of us comments on it.

But when I step out and towel off, I notice your eyes on me—not lazily, not casually. Assessing. Anticipating.

I tug on a sheer, black pirate-style shirt first. It clings to damp skin and makes no secret of the skull-and-crossbones pasties beneath—just enough for propriety’s sake, but barely. Fishnet stockings come next, followed by a burgundy, ruched skirt that hugs my hips. I roll thin black boots up over my knees, stopping at mid-thigh. Then comes the underbust corset, cinched tight around my waist. It pushes my breasts up like an invitation, and I see your eyes linger just long enough to make my skin tingle.

At the mirror, I play with my hair and makeup. I weave little braids into my dark red curls and let the rest fall in tousled waves. Smoky eyeshadow, bright red lipstick. I don’t rush. I’m not posing for you—but I know you’re watching, and I let you. Besides, I’m watching you, too.

You change too. Black trousers cling to your hips, and that white linen shirt—the one you claimed looked too fine for a scoundrel—somehow makes you look even more dangerous. You roll the sleeves with precision, just enough to show your forearms, then adjust the cuffs like a man used to restraint. It’s not theatrical. It’s worse. It’s plausible. You could pass for a rogue captain with a ship of your own, a man with a blade at his belt and sin on his mind. And tonight, I intend to follow your lead straight into trouble.

When I stand up to go, you set a hand on my arm to stop me. At some point when I wasn’t looking, you got into the toy bag. You have my collar, your collar, in your hand. It’s black leather with red accents and black hardware. The ring on the front declares exactly where I stand in relation to you. Yours. It even has your coat of arms on a shield plaque I made for it. Absolutely, completely yours whenever I wear it.

Immediately, I take off the skull and bones necklace I had planned to wear. You step up and wrap the collar around my neck. My head drops to your shoulder while you brush aside my hair to fasten the buckle just right. Not too tight, but not so loose that I’ll forget it, even for a second.

When we step into the hallway, we’re not in Nassau anymore. We’re in-character. So is everyone else.

The ship has transformed.

On the Promenade, the lighting is lower. Deep reds and flickering lantern lights glow from the bars. The music is dirtier, more drum-driven. Couples in corsets, leather belts, and pirate hats laugh with darkened eyes and red lips. There are swords and lace and low, slow grinding to the rhythm of a sea shanty gone sexy.

You order me a club soda with lemon; I need it more than alcohol after being in the sun all day. The mood is all heat and swagger. You wrap your arm around my waist and pull me close, rocking together in sync to the music.

I spot couples from the beach, from breakfast, from last night’s dance floor. Familiar faces grin in pirate hats or fishnet. A man with kohl around his eyes lifts his glass at me and mouths the word “wench” with a wink. I wink back and shimmy against you, just for fun. You nip my ear, reminding me of the danger I’m flirting with. But I like that edge on you.

We make it to the TSC meet and greet just before dinner, slipping into the On Air Club again. The vibe is more raucous tonight—everyone's looser, louder, flirty and flushed from sun and day drinking. There’s a plastic treasure chest full of temporary tattoos and cheeky eye patches. Someone hands me a tattoo that says Brat. I grin and stick it on my inner thigh. You growl low in your throat, barely audible, but it sends a thrill straight through me.

After another round of hugs, a few introductions, and one particularly cheeky woman offering to let me sit on her lap “for pirate solidarity,” we head to dinner.

The table is bigger tonight—one of those half-booths at the back of the dining room that feels both open and tucked away. Most of us are still in theme, laughing over rum cocktails and comparing outfits. The food is hearty and hot. The conversations get saucier with every course. I sip from your glass and steal bites from your plate. You rest your hand on my inner thigh under the table, just once, long enough to make me glance up at you with a heat that says, soon.

Because I know what comes next.

Tonight, we aren’t just dancing.

Tonight, the dungeon opens.

And I already know who’s going to kneel first.

After dessert, the group splinters—some off to change, others toward the afterparty. You brush a crumb from the corner of my lip and let your thumb linger a second too long. It’s not a kiss, not quite. Just a reminder. Of control. Of what's waiting.

We don’t head back to the cabin. Your toy bag sat on the ground beside us through dinner, a silent guest that spoke very loudly.

Instead, we follow the steady trickle of couples toward the lower decks, past familiar lounges and through quieter corridors where the music dulls to a hum. Conversation thins. Laughter softens. There’s a current pulling us now, something darker and deeper than the pulsing beat upstairs.

Outside the entrance, a staff member checks to make sure we’ve read the rules posted there. No one here wanders in by accident. The lighting shifts. Cooler, lower. Reds and shadows. Leather creaks. The scent of latex, sweat, and lube is unmistakable. A few couples are already playing—nothing extreme yet, just warmups. Rope, crops, whispered rules. Anticipation buzzes like static in the air.

You glance down at me, and I know without words: it’s time.Time to strip away everything soft and show what I really came here for.

The moment we step inside, the energy wraps around me—low moans, the crack of leather, the hum of restraint. My skin prickles as we pass through the space, your presence a shadow at my back. You nod to the attendant by the equipment, exchanging a quiet word. A hand brushes my lower back. That’s all. That’s the signal.

You guide me towards the spanking bench—angled low, padded black leather, polished and waiting. I step toward it and spread a sheet over it. I’m aware of eyes, but I don’t look for them. You are there behind me, unclasping my corset so it falls away from my waist. My shirt is the next thing you arrange, dragging the fabric over my breasts to bare the skull pasties beneath. With a hand on my collar, you press me down onto the spanking bench.

I bend, knees on the cushion, hips lifted. When I settle my chest against the upper pad, the cool, fresh sheet presses against my breasts. I shiver. You aren’t done yet. You gather my skirt up to my waist, covering parts of me you don’t want to strike and revealing my ass, which you absolutely do want to hit. The fishnets stay. So do the boots. You’re not done admiring them.

And then I hear it—leather whispering behind me as you test the weight of your favorite flogger. I can feel your gaze drag over every inch of exposed skin. My breath deepens. I arch my back slightly, offering. Inviting. Needing.

“Color?” you ask, low and calm.

“Green,” I breathe, already trembling.

The first strike doesn’t hurt. Not really. It’s a caress with teeth—broad, thuddy leather warming my skin in an instant. The second lands a touch harder, a little higher. You’re drawing the pattern you know by heart—my back, my ass, my thighs. Not punishment. Not performance.

This is yours. This is us.

And when I moan, openly and without shame, I know you’re smiling behind me. The way you always do when I surrender beautifully.

You shift your stance behind me—silent, efficient, controlled—and the rhythm changes.

Thud. Thud. Swish.

You alternate textures now: the dense kiss of suede followed by the sharper bite of leather-tipped tails. My hips jerk, breath catching on the inhale, but I don’t move away. I press into it. I want more. I want it deeper.

You give it to me.

Not all at once—never all at once. You work me up with deliberate patience, painting heat across my skin in layered reds. I hear the low sounds I’m making, half-moan, half-whimper, and I don’t care who else hears them. The bench absorbs my shudders, the way my fingers clench the edge, the way I breathe through each strike like it’s a wave I have to ride.

At some point, you drop the flogger.

Your hands replace it.

You cup the heat of my ass, fingers kneading the sting until I exhale with a soft, broken sound. Then your hands part me, and I know you’re admiring your work. You brush a kiss between my shoulder blades, soft and grounding, before trailing a hand downward. My thighs tremble under the weight of it.

When your fingers slide between my legs, I gasp. I’m soaked. You knew I would be.

You circle slowly, a teasing pressure that keeps me panting. I try to grind back, but your hand disappears and lands instead with a sharp smack to my thigh.

“Not yet,” you say.

I whimper. You lean forward until your lips hover just beside my ear.

“You’re not done kneeling, and I’m not done watching you squirm.”

I moan in response, head bowed, skin burning in the best way. You give me a moment—just a moment—to breathe, and then I hear it. Another toy from the bag. I can’t help it; I look. Not a flogger this time. Something smaller. Tighter. Sharper. My husband’s crop, the mean one. Fuck. I try to move away frantically. You press me back in place with a hand on my spine. You even set the crop there, its weight a clear threat. I command myself into a stillness so intense that my muscles shake with it. I won’t drop the crop on the floor, but I dread when it hits me.

Yet, you aren’t behind me with it. You shift me slowly—more forward, my head extended over the support, thighs still parted wide. My boots stay on. My skirt is still bunched at my waist. The corset lies discarded, but the fishnets remain, stretched tight across flushed, marked skin. My top hangs open, breasts fully exposed, heaving with each breath. You reach across my back to take them in each hand, squeezing them, toying with my piercings to the edge of pain. Then, you step away, and I hear the familiar sound of your zipper.

And then—another presence. Close. Confident. His scent, his silence, his hand smoothing along the small of my back in wordless approval.

My husband.

 You would never let anyone else just walk up and touch me when I’m vulnerable like this. I don’t have to look; I know him by feel. By the way his palm flattens possessively over my ass before rising—then falling in a sharp, perfect smack.

I jerk forward into you. You're already standing in front of me, your cock in your hand, already thick, already hard. You run it along my lips, smearing the head across the wreckage of my ruined lipstick.

“Open,” you murmur.

I do.

Your girth fills my mouth slowly, deliberately, while the rhythm behind me begins. His hands, his flogger, and his fucking riding crop—one after another, layered in alternating strokes that make my knees shake. Heat builds where the leather kisses skin, and each strike drives me deeper onto your cock. I choke and moan around it, tears springing unbidden as sensation overwhelms me from both directions.

You hold my head with both hands, firm but not cruel, guiding each thrust just deep enough to remind me who I belong to. Behind me, my husband speaks low, words meant only for me—praise, possession, dark affection.

The flogger lands again.

And again.

Your grip tightens.

And then his hand slides between my thighs. Two fingers dip inside me—soaked, desperate, greedy. I moan so hard I nearly gag, and you pull back just enough to let me breathe, eyes on mine, watching me fall apart.

“She can take more,” you say. “You’re so close, aren’t you, princess?”

“Tight and wet, love,” my husband murmurs smugly.

To prove his point, his fingers curve just so. You slide deep in my throat again. He presses me down into the bench with a hand on my sacrum. Tears bubble over to trail down my face. My orgasm, when it comes, rips me apart. I can feel the evidence of it running down my leg like a river. But you both planned for that. At some point, towels materialized under my knees, and I don’t remember moving for them.

You ease from my mouth, and I gasp raggedly against the bench cushion.

Then both of you move, each trailing a hand along my side as you switch places. You both know I don’t like to feel abandoned, so you keep in touch with me. That small action undoes me equally as strongly as the violence of the previous moment.

One hand pushes my skirt higher. Another lifts my chin.

And I am filled. While my husband grips my jaw to force himself down my throat. Behind me, your cock slides inside me in a slow, claiming thrust. I sob and choke, lost in the fullness, the weight, the stretch, the rhythm. Evidence of my orgasm is coating your thighs, and my husband’s hand carries the scent of it to me. Your hips slam forward as he mercilessly fucks my mouth. I can’t brace. I can’t think. I can only feel.

The orgasm slams into me mid-thrust—utterly unbidden, devastating. I shatter. My vision whites out, body clenching hard around you while my moan vibrates through him. Behind me, you grip my hips tight and grunts through your release, buried deep, holding still inside me as I tremble and drip. I want to collapse forward against the bench, but my husband is holding me firm through my orgasm, keeping my breath for his own until he feels me melt. Only then does he slide free. Air rushes into my lungs, and I slump onto the bench, unable to hold myself up.

I’m a mess of sweat and cum and flushed, marked skin. A satisfied, claimed, adored mess.

Neither of you rush. You both move with the practiced ease of men who know exactly how far I fell… and exactly how to bring me back. My husband squats down and lifts my head for a kiss. He rests his forehead against mine.

“Are you good, beautiful?” he asks.

I nod, my head rubbing against his.

“Do you want me to stay?” He glances up at you as well when he asks. He would never abandon me if I needed his care, scene or not.

“I’ve got you, don’t I, my sweet girl?” you reassure me and answer him, your hand coming up to massage my head.

My eyes roll closed, and I purr and stretch against the bench.

My husband chuckles and presses a quick kiss to the top of my head before he leaves me in your care. You already took advantage of his presence to step away for a fresh sheet and towel to clean me up. Rubbing it over my pussy is a special kind of torture, but I’m soaked and I need it. You unbind me and have to scoop me into your arms. We collapse together on a couch set aside for aftercare. My husband cleans off the station before his girlfriend saunters up with a willing victim for the two of them to torment. I smile at him briefly, but my head drops against your shoulder and my eyes close.

You press a glass to my lips—cold, citrusy water. I sip from your fingers, lazy and wrecked and so damn happy.

I murmur a soft thank-you. It might be incoherent. I don’t care.

“I should probably fix my hair,” I mumble.

Your smile is pure mischief. “Why? You look exactly how I want you.”

“Wrecked and disheveled?” I joke.

“Happy.”

And I melt again—this time not from pain, not from pleasure.

But from the peace of being completely, utterly held.