Day 3: Labadee, Haiti and Hollywood Glamour Night

I wake nestled under a sheet, my skin still tingling from last night’s marks. You’re already up, half-dressed and digging through the day bag. I catch the faintest hint of smugness in your posture—and fair enough, I suppose. I stretch, sore and satisfied, and you glance back at me with a grin that says you know exactly why.

“Regrets?” you murmur, coming over to caress my shoulder and drop a kiss there.

“Only that I can’t sit through dinner tonight,” I tease.

You chuckle low, smug and satisfied, and I roll my eyes—then sit up to steal a kiss anyway.

We don’t linger long. There’s too much day ahead. I throw on a cover-up and you grab swim trunks. We eat quickly at Windjammer—light, fresh, just enough to fuel us.

We take our coffee with us and linger on the pool deck before the gangway is announced. Quiet morning sun glimmers over Labadee’s green hills. I rest my head on your shoulder while we sip and wake up fully. Then we head down together, sunscreen packed, sunglasses on, and that glint in your eye promising the day’s not staying innocent for long.

You decide to try the zipline—because of course you do. I’m happy to stay on solid ground and meet you at the beach.

When we step off the ship, the Bliss vibe is unmistakable. With Wonder as the only ship in port today, the entire beach is clothing-optional—and it shows. Bikinis are already being shrugged off. Couples stroll hand-in-hand with nothing but a smile and a hat. The air smells like coconuts and salt and possibility.

You head off toward the zipline launch, and I wander to find us two loungers near the swim-up bar. A perfect view of the cove. A perfect seat for watching you land. I peel off my cover-up and stretch out, bare beneath the sun, already plotting my first frozen drink.

A bit later, you land with a whoop and a splash, all adrenaline and swagger, and I watch from the edge of the water with a drink already sweating in my hand. You don’t head straight for me. No, you’ve made friends with every person you met since you left my side. I can’t help but smile.

But when your eyes find mine across the beach, everything else fades. You cut through the crowd and the chaos and come straight to me.

“I saw you watching,” you murmur, brushing sand from my arm with your fingertips. “Did I impress you?”

“Moderately.” I hand you your drink. “Try harder.”

You sip from it, but your eyes are all for me. They’ve gone dark, with a hint of danger to them.

“Oh, really?”

Your hand journeys from my knee up the inside of my thigh. Then, you slide it over and around my hip to grab my ass. Your grip tightens in last night’s bruises, and I gasp. You smile, my excitement answering all of your fantasies.

“Try again,” you suggest. “Or I will.”

“Yes, sir,” I stammer.

“Yes, what?”

But I don’t know what any more. Not with you leaning over me, crowding out the sun and dragging me into a world where you are everything I want and the rest bleeds away. Your strong fingers massage my bruised backside, juxtaposing pleasure and pain just the way I like.

“My sir,” I try. I’ve forgotten what I joked about by now.

“Do I need to try harder?” you purr with amused menace. You don’t need your ego stroked; you just want to watch me turn into a puddle at your whim. The power trip of that is more than enough for your ego.

I smile up at you innocently. “I always like you hard.”

Laughing, you let go with a quick spank that makes me jump. Today, you aren’t going to make me pay for the brattiness. Today, it’s just playful. But you’ll remember it in other circumstances.

We slip into the warm water together, leaving our things on the loungers. The bar floats on a raft in the middle of the cove. Umbrellas poke out of the water with submerged stools around them. Bodies drift between the shade and the warm sunshine. Most are bare. Some are bronzed. A few are still under sunhats and swimsuits. But no one is pretending this is a normal vacation.

The bartender greets us with a professional smile and doesn’t even glance below my face. I ask for something pink, slushy, and dangerous. Your drink is stronger, darker, and you clink glasses with me before we melt into the water just far enough from the crowd to be private.

You pull me close with a hand low on my back. My breasts press against your bare chest, nipples tightening from more than just the water. I drape my arms around your neck, pretending it’s for balance. You know better.

“You’re showing off,” I murmur against your ear.

“You wore nothing but sunscreen and attitude. What did you expect?”

We tease and talk and flirt through another round of drinks, sharing bites from a nearby food station—skewered shrimp, grilled pineapple, sticky glazed ribs that require finger-licking clean-up I stretch into a sensual dare. You take your time cleaning my fingers with your mouth, and the look in your eyes makes my thighs press together in the water.

Other couples drift near, trade names and jokes. There’s no pressure. Just warm sun, ocean breeze, bodies glistening, and the faint beat of music behind us.

The day slides by like honey—slow, golden, and impossibly sweet.

We drift between the water and the loungers, only moving when the sun demands it. You take a turn in the hammock strung between two palm trees, arms behind your head, cocky and content while I rock you with a toe. At one point, you join a few others for a casual game of beach volleyball—naked, of course. I know you’re only playing because you know I like watching you move, watching your muscles flex and slide underneath your skin while I imagine you using that same strength on me. So, I don’t even pretend I’m not admiring the view while I cheer from the sidelines with a half-melted daiquiri in hand.

Other couples meander near, some fully bare, others draped in gauze and sun hats. A few conversations start and fade like waves—effortless, friendly, free. A woman in rhinestone body chains offers me sunscreen from her tote. I take it, smoothing it over my chest slowly enough that you miss the ball. But, once the others look where you do, no one complains. The other team applauds, in fact. When you’re playing with naked, semi-buzzed players, you can’t take the game too seriously, after all.

You abandon the game to come help me with my sunscreen, and I arch into your hands. But it won’t go further than that onshore.

We laugh more than we talk. Float. Splash. Tease. The salt clings to our skin like a second memory, one I know will linger even after the water’s gone.

You kiss me more times than I can count. Sometimes just a brush. Sometimes more. Once, you lift me under the water and pull me close enough that I forget the rest of the beach exists. My legs wrap around you instinctively. My breath hitches. But you only hold me there, weightless and quiet. Letting the sun kiss our shoulders while your fingers trace idle circles against the small of my back.

By late afternoon, the drinks have slowed. The music softens. And the heat finally gives way to that dreamy haze that says it’s time to head back.

I gather our things while you shake the sand out of the towel, and we walk back along the sand with sun-flushed skin and shared glances full of promise. There's sand in my hair, salt on my lips, and contentment wrapped around every bone.

There are more kisses on the walk back to the cabin. Kisses that end with us tripping against each other until we’re pressed to the door of our cabin while you fumble with your lanyard to slide your key into place. When the door falls open behind me, you start to drive me towards the bed.

“No, I’m sandy!”

“Me, too,” you comment, your mouth busily nibbling on my neck.

I put my hands on your chest. “I don’t want to get the bed sandy.”

Your hands stroke down my back firmly before you take my hips.

“Are you going to tell me you didn’t get worked up today? Grinding and teasing? You had yourself quite a grand time.”

I groan. “Yes, okay, I’m horny,” I admit. “But I still don’t want sand in the bed.”

“Fine,” you shrug.

You swoop past me, grabbing my wrist on the way by. I turn and follow, not quite sure on your intentions. Then, my hands are on the balcony railing, and you’re pushing up my cover-up to bare my ass. Before I can decide if this is a good idea or not, you’re cock is already at the entrance to my pussy. And, at that point, I really don’t care if it’s a good idea: it’s the only idea in my head.

I arch my hips back, tipping needily towards you. You don’t make me wait. You fill me suddenly, and I gasp in pure exaltation. So full of you. You were so right: of course I got worked up teasing you. Watching you, rubbing my body against yours.

Our bodies are coated in the sand we couldn’t brush off, and it grates where our thighs rub together. But that’s just one more sensation as you slam your hips into mine with frenzied intent. I don’t tell you to go harder, faster. You will if you want to. You know I like it.

So, when you do, I moan my appreciation.

“That’s a good girl,” you praise, “Taking all of this thick cock in that needy pussy.”

“Yessssss,” I groan.

You grab hold of my shoulder with one hand and my hip with the other. And then you proceed to give me as hard and as fast as I could ever want.

I think I scream. You pull out of me while I’m still spasming and ropes of cum splatter my ass.

For a minute, neither of us does anything but breath. Then, you pull me upright, my back to your chest.

“See, the bed is still clean,” you tease. “Now, let’s get you clean.”

“And you,” I murmur, half drunk on my orgasm.

“Of course. I need to keep you upright in the shower.”

I laugh and swat at your shoulder, but I don’t correct you.

Admittedly, I do take longer than normal to get ready for the evening. But, that’s not my fault. It’s Hollywood Glamour Night, and I am not showing up to the TSC VIP party looking like I just got dragged through the sand and sunburnt on top of it. No, curled hair, femme fatale makeup, and a long black dress laced tight enough to accentuate every curve. A plunging sweetheart neckline competes for attention with a slit all the way up to my upper thigh. Silver shoes and sparkling jewelry finish off my look, and I’m finally ready to go.

You and my husband wandered off somewhere. You and he dressed in slacks, dress shirts, and suit vests awhile ago. It took you and him under ten minutes to go from shower to ready. We opened the adjoining door so that his girlfriend and I could get ready together while you two entertain yourselves and get out from underfoot. She’s wearing a scarlet fantasy. I don’t know if it’s lingerie or a gown, but she looks exquisite and untouchably powerful.

We stroll into the TSC VIP party in the Music Hall arm in arm—me in black, her in scarlet, both equally dangerous in our own ways. The lighting is low and golden, all shadows and shimmer. A jazz-infused beat pulses just beneath the surface, mingling with soft laughter and the clink of champagne glasses.

The room has transformed. Sheer curtains drape the walls in gold and ivory, catching the light like spun sugar. Naked bodies glisten on scattered chaise lounges, posed like art, like dessert—because that’s exactly what some of them are. Human platters adorned in candies that lie still beneath carefully placed mouths. Nothing crude, not with their partners standing watch over them. Just opulence. Invitation. Celebration.

A server offers us drinks, and I take one with a smile that feels more feline than polite. My lipstick is already perfect, but I sip anyway. The bubbles of the berry seltzer tickle my throat.

You and my husband spot us from across the room. You look like sin and trouble in that vest, your sleeves rolled just enough to showcase those forearms that know exactly what to do with rope or a flogger. His grin is wicked and knowing. He watches your eyes track the length of me, the way I shift my weight with a calculated sway.

He murmurs something to you—some shared joke or promise—and the two of you close the distance.

You greet me with your eyes first. Then, with your hand at the small of my back. Possessive. Warm. You don’t say anything at first, just tilt your head and take in the full view. I arch slightly, posing and preening.

“You approve?” I murmur, voice soft enough that only you and he hear it.

“Absolutely,” my husband admires with a grin to us both.

You lean in, brushing your mouth near my ear with a playful tone. “You’re going to make all the other men come slavering over you.”

I grin. “I’m not here for the other men.”

The scarlet goddess at my side laughs low. She’s already drawn a crowd with nothing but her presence. My husband stands at another epicenter, his magnetic personality a beacon. She blows us a kiss before slipping off to flirt with him and a couple she danced with the night before, leaving me and you in the golden haze of soft music and heavy expectation.

This party isn’t just glamorous. It’s decadent. Lush. Designed for indulgence.

And I intend to indulge.

You and I take the dance floor and blend our steps into the music. Both of us dance with others off and on, but we inevitably tangle back together. My husband even grabs me for a bit of swing dancing while you teach the steps to a blushing woman who had been playing wallflower. I teach another gentleman how to waltz, and a friend grabs me for a fast-paced salsa. A quick cha-cha with you, and I’m back in the fray with my tribe. Everyone is all smiles and friendly touches.

When a rumba plays, there’s no question: I’m yours. It takes longer to identify the song than for us to melt together, my breasts pressed against the front of your body, feet moving in perfect time with yours. It’s slow and steamy, just the way we like it. Our hips shift, smooth as silk and perfectly aligned. I chuckle against your neck when I feel you harden between us. My thoughts start to grow dim at the edges, completely absorbed in the blatant sexuality of flowing with you on the dance floor.

I don’t know how long we move together like that. It must only be one song, but it takes me a minute to get my bearings when we finally stop moving.

“Hungry?” you ask with deliberate innocence.

I step in close again, my breath hot against your cheek. “Only if you’re going to feed me something thick and warm.”

“I’ll order you the filet in the dining room,” you quip back.

I groan and laugh. You offer your arm like a gentleman. Your smirk ruins the illusion. Nonetheless, I take your arm to head to dinner.

The Music Hall spins a little as we walk—less from the drinks and more from the sheer high of moving with you, of owning that space, that moment. My dress clings to my skin, hot from the lights and the press of bodies. My lipstick might need reapplying, but you don’t seem to mind.

We take our time weaving through the crowd. My hand never leaves your arm. The occasional compliment brushes past us—“Stunning,” “Gorgeous couple,” “Hot as fuck.” Someone murmurs, “That rumba should have come with a warning,” and I don’t bother hiding my grin.

By the time we reach the dining room, I’ve almost forgotten the hunger you asked about. Because it’s not food I’m craving anymore.

But dinner will do—for now.

The dining room is a jewel box tonight—glimmering chandeliers overhead, polished wood gleaming, and silverware catching the candlelight. Waitstaff in crisp uniforms move like choreography, weaving between tables set for pleasure as much as formality.

We’re seated at a round table for eight—half familiar faces, half new introductions. A couple we’d met in the hot tub the night before greets us like old friends. One of the new pairs jokes that they’re just here for the beautiful views, looking pointedly at the others around the table with comically exaggerated stares. Conversation flows easily, the shared glamour softening even the shyest smiles.

You order the filet for me without missing a beat. I laugh, because you remember things I would have forgotten. We eat, we flirt, we trade stories with the table—some funny, some suggestive, none too serious. Everyone’s a little glossier tonight, a little looser after a day in the sun and a night wrapped in silk and fantasy.

And when dessert comes, I take one look at the rich chocolate tart in front of me, then glance at you. You aren’t much for sweets, but I still offer to share.

“Tempting,” you murmur with a smirk, “but I think I’ve got something sweeter in mind.”

And just like that, the solarium calls.

We slip away before coffee’s poured, fingers laced, laughter still echoing in the back of my throat. It’s not a dramatic exit—no one stops us. They know. Everyone knows. Formal nights bring indulgence, and Bliss always rewards curiosity.

You lead the way through the quieter decks, past lounges still humming with music. The crowds are all either at dinner, getting ready, or already at one of the several parties taking place onboard tonight. My heels click softly on the carpeted floors as we wind toward the front of the ship. The solarium waits—glass-domed, dimly lit, and near deserted at this hour.

At the entrance, dividers are set up and Bliss staff hands us a tote. No street clothes in the solarium. Lingerie and swim wear only.

Together, we step behind the screens. Not because we’re shy, but because we want to toy with each other. You strip down to just your slacks without preamble. I like you dressed that way: with a hint of civility to highlight the barbaric. My warrior.

When it comes to my dress, though, you loosen the laces reverently and tease every bit of exposed skin.

“No panties?” you ask, voice thick with amusement.

“Didn’t want panty lines,” I lie.

Your eyes gleam, and in one smooth motion, you remove the dress and leave me bare except for my silver heels. I bend over in front of you, absolutely innocently, to take them off. Except you know it’s not innocent. Your hand squeezes me in warning, but I just giggle and collect our discarded clothing into the tote. You hand me your slacks, and, completely bare and shameless, we walk into the solarium.

The ocean is black beyond the glass, stars glittering far below the horizon line. It feels like floating, like we’ve stepped outside the world. Padded platforms beckon between potted palms, each one surrounded by gauzy curtains. If you leave them open, you invite others to participate. A few couples are taking advantage near the center of the room, their quiet moans perfuming the air.

You draw me to a bed at the edge of the room and close the sheer curtains between us and the rest of the room. They can still see outlines, shadows, but no one will interrupt us.

Tonight is ours.

You sit first, leaning back on the white sheets with a quiet confidence that makes my pulse flutter. I stand before you for a moment, letting the shadows and soft light catch the curve of my hips, the swell of my breasts, the slight imprint of the corset still lingering on my waist. Your eyes trace every inch like a man memorizing scripture.

Then I straddle your lap, one knee on either side of your thighs, and settle against the hard line I already know is waiting for me. Your hands come to my hips, anchoring me, guiding me—controlling, but never hurried. You like the tease. You crave the game as much as the reward.

I dip my head to kiss you, soft at first, then deeper, more insistent. You taste like rum and restraint. My nails drag lightly down your chest, leaving no mark, but promising that I could.

Behind us, the solarium hums with low music and low moans. The curtains ripple with a passing breeze, and I catch flickers of movement—bodies entwined, lovers claiming pleasure like they’ve earned it. It doesn’t distract. It enhances. We're one of many, but I only see you.

You grip my thighs and guide me against you, our skin slick and overheated already, the head of your cock sliding just barely through my folds. I gasp at the contact, rocking forward instinctively.

“Not yet,” you murmur, catching my mouth in another kiss that takes my breath. “Slow tonight. Show me.”

I rise up and sink down slowly, your cock stretching me inch by inch, delicious and deliberate. We both groan, and I brace my hands on your shoulders, eyes fluttering shut. Our rhythm starts slow, undulating like the ship beneath us, like waves.

Every movement is drawn out, each shift of my hips driving us both closer while holding just short of release. You guide me, hold me, own me—and I ride you like you’re the only thing keeping me grounded. The sheer curtains ripple again, and I feel the gaze of others brushing over our silhouette, but I don’t care. I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for you. For us.

And when I finally do fall apart, it’s with a whispered cry and your name on my lips. You come just after, holding me tight, breathing ragged against my neck as our bodies tremble together in the warm, sultry dark.

We stay like that for a while—still joined, still surrounded by heat and shadows and indulgent sighs from neighboring beds. Eventually, you stroke my back and kiss my temple, and I smile without opening my eyes.

Tomorrow will come soon enough. But tonight, in this cocoon of glass and starlight, we float in something far richer than fantasy.