Day 4: At Sea and Glow Night

Steam curls around us in lazy tendrils as we sink deeper into the bubbling heat of the infinity whirlpool. The edge of the glass stretches out beside us, framing the endless horizon off the starboard side—blue on blue, sea and sky blending in the soft shimmer of early morning light.

We’re not in a hurry. Naked, unbothered, half-draped across one another with covered coffee cups in hand, we let the hot water do the work of unwinding whatever tension remains from the past three days. Your arm rests heavy behind my shoulders, and I lean into it, enjoying the contrast between the cool air brushing my face and the warm pressure of your thigh beneath mine.

Conversation comes easy. So does silence.

A few other couples occupy the other edge of the pool, equally unclothed, equally unbothered. It’s still too early for most cruisers, and those who are awake are as content to savor the quiet as we are. Someone’s laughing at something in French. Someone else murmurs low against a partner’s throat. But we’re in our own bubble—literally and otherwise.

My fingers trail through the water between us before slipping higher up your thigh. Not a demand. Just a reminder. I see the flicker of awareness in your eyes even before you set your coffee cup aside.

“Behave,” you chastise, voice still heavy with sleep but amused.

“Make me,” I counter with a lazy smirk.

You don’t. Not yet. Instead, you just tug me close so that my head rests on your shoulder. I sigh contentedly. You manage not to laugh as you watch the bratty behavior wither away; you know how to handle your princess.

We linger in the whirlpool long enough to watch the sun climb, the clouds shift, and the sea glisten like it’s teasing us. There’s nothing to do all day but this.

Eventually, we emerge from the whirlpool, skin flushed and loose-limbed, reluctant to part from the heat. But the day isn’t going to wait for us, and we’ve got pool games to lose, sun to soak in, and new drinks to try.

We towel off, throw on cover-ups, and wander the decks in sandals for a while. The pool area is already buzzing—laughter, splashing, the steady thrum of bass from a nearby speaker. We watch the chaos unfold: bodies cannonballing into the water, impromptu dance contests on deck, and some not-so-innocent cuddling on the loungers.

It’s all light-hearted fun, but eventually the sun gets high, the salt sticks to our skin, and the ice in my drink disappears too fast. We retreat to the cabin, sun-kissed and lazy, for a little time out of the heat.

The balcony’s shaded now, with a breeze moving through Central Park below. You stretch, that slow, feline sprawl that always makes me pause. Then you turn to me with that gleam in your eye…

“Take off your dress,” you tell me in my ear.

I look out at the other balconies looking into Central Park. There are other people lazing in the sunshine, relaxing between escapades. In one window, I can see a pair of couples fucking. From somewhere else, I can hear that someone else has left their door open while they scream their pleasure for all to hear. Above us, the pool deck boasts yet more watchful faces as they bounce along to the DJ’s latest high energy pop mix.

“No one can touch you but me,” you remind me. “But they’ll want to watch.”

You tip the straps of my cover-up off my shoulders. It doesn’t take much to shimmy the fabric off into a puddle and kick it back into our cabin.

You position me in one of the chairs, tipped back and lined with a towel. So far, I’m just sunbathing nude, nothing odd about that. Not on this ship. You arrange the other chair to face me. Then, you press my rabbit vibrator into my hand.

“Make yourself cum,” you tell me simply.

I’m not nervous or shy. You aren’t pushing my boundaries, yet I still take a deep breath and release it before I spread my legs. I press the vibrator to my clit and begin. It buzzes softly, an unobtrusive noise beneath the music above us. Even as I slide the length of the vibrator inside and press it against my clit, there’s no reaction from the world around us. I wouldn’t notice if there was. Your eyes are firmly fixed on me, and I can’t break away from that gaze.

It doesn’t take long for me to switch to whimpers, to broken breaths and pleading looks. I’m twisting in my chair, trying to tip that final bit over the edge. So close…

“Stop.”

I whine. I can’t help it. But I listen.

You take the vibrator from me and take my hand, drawing me back into the cabin. You close the door, and all the outside sounds cease abruptly. You turn, and I step into your body. My hands trace your bare chest, still lost in my own tangled needs.

“Such a good girl,” you praise, brushing my hair back from my face. “Think you can keep being my good girl?”

I nod quickly. Anything.

“Lay on the bed.”

I practically scamper to its center, eager for what we might do in those crisp sheets.

“I’m going to go shower,” you tell me.

I know my face falls, but you lift the vibrator into my eyeline and step beside the bed.

“You are going to play with this until I get back.”

Mollified, I take the vibrator from you. You briefly tease my nipple, tugging on one piercing before moving on to the other. Between your touch and the vibrator between my legs, my expression has morphed into a practically feline satisfaction.

“But—”

I look up at you sharply. You catch my hair and tug my head back until I can’t bend any farther.

“If you come, I’m going to fuck you in that tight little ass tonight.”

“Sir—” I protest. “But—”

You just smile. “Your choice.”

You lean over me and click the vibrator up to the next level. I squeal and twist. Not away. No, I would never do that. But somewhere. Anywhere.

I hate when you leave me alone. But I can’t share your shower; it’s too narrow in there. Instead, I’m in our bed, trying not to cum while my cunt is begging. I could move the vibrator, not hit those sensitive spots. Sabotage my own orgasm. But that isn’t playing your game, and, if I didn’t want to play your game, I wouldn’t be in your bed. So, I torture my own clit with the higher vibration.

I hear the shower in the bathroom, and I will you to go quickly. You won’t… not unless I make you want to come back.

So, I stop stifling the noises I want to make. I moan out loud. I don’t know if you can hear me, and I don’t care if the neighbors or my husband can. Besides, it feels good not to hide my own pleasure, not to worry about who else might hear. Before I realize it, I’m lost in it. My hips rock in search of an elusive climax, and my hand drifts to play with my nipple piercing.

I hum loudly, not for performance, but because it feels good. Just me and the buzz against my clit. My pussy begins to tighten, and your threat comes roaring back to the forefront of my mind. I almost pull the vibrator away, but, on a groan, I keep it in place.

“Such a good princess,” you coo.

My eyes fly open to find you standing at the foot of the bed. I don’t know how long it’s been since the water shut off.

“I was hoping you’d last,” you continue. You drop your towel on the corner of the bed and slide my vibrator away.

I sigh heavily, relieved.

“Now, I can make you fail myself.”

Your hands pin my hips before I even think to flee. Your mouth lands on my clit with vicious intent.

Far too sensitive, I can’t hold back the scream that causes. I try to grab your head, possibly to shove you away, to fight, I’m not sure. But you catch my wrists and press them both to my stomach with one huge hand. Your other hand… Your fingers press into my wet pussy as you continue to suck on my clit. My hips are riding your hand, bucking as much as I can with the pressure on my stomach.

“Please, sir,” I beg. I don’t know what I want, though. I don’t know if I want to come or if I’m not willing to pay the price. Either way, the choice was an illusion. I already know I’m doomed.

When I cum, it’s with another scream and shudders taking over my body. I’m squeezing your fingers tightly enough that you have to fight to push them into me to keep me cresting over and over again. Eventually, you pull your fingers from me and lick my slit. I shiver, but that’s all I can do now. You wipe your face clean on the towel and lay beside me on the bed.

“Rest,” you suggest as I snuggle into your shoulder. “You have a long, long night ahead of you.”

Dread tries to fight its way through my afterglow, but it fails with the heat of your skin beneath my cheek.

Admittedly, I nap for a bit. You prop the door open between our room and theirs so that I’m not entirely alone, but you and my husband jovially take off to find trouble while your girls grab a few quiet minutes.

When you come back, I’m showered and dressed in a flimsy sundress. I’m not even pretending I need a bathing suit onboard today. Strolling comfortably, we take a walk through Central Park for lunch. We grab a table in the diffused sunlight outside the Park Café, and you point out our balcony. I can’t help but blush the entire way through eating, thinking of who might have been down here for the show you put on.

After lunch, we drift back toward the pool deck for games and a pool party, full but lazy, content but restless. The sun is high, baking the decks, and the music has shifted into something playful—upbeat pop with a steel drum remix. A volleyball net stretches across one of the pools, and the DJ is calling for people to join the game as we arrive.

You toss your shirt aside and wade in with the others, muscles flexing as you leap for the ball. My husband’s already in on the chaos, laughing hard when he misses a hit… Probably because he was shamelessly flirting with a pair of women perched on the edge of the pool. The splash fights are inevitable.

I toss my dress on a lounger with your shirt and take a seat on the edge of the pool with the other women. It’s a mix of tiny bikinis, bare chests, and those, like me, who skipped a suit altogether. With my legs dangling in the water, I crack open a hard seltzer. The can beads with condensation almost instantly, the fizz biting at my tongue in a way that’s just sharp enough to wake me up. When the guys miss a pass and the ball veers wide, one of us stretches to tip it back in—barely saving the play. You wink when it’s my turn.

You step between my knees, dripping and grinning and ask to try my drink. Being the brat that I am, I make a show of considering before offering you a sip. All you have to do is raise a brow to get me to hand you the can with chagrin. You take a long drink—never breaking eye contact.

“Too sweet for me,” you tease, licking a stray drop from your lip.

I arch a brow. “Then maybe you should’ve just tasted me.”

The women around us giggle and groan in equal measure.

“Oh, but you’re even sweeter,” you banter, pressing a quick kiss to my leg before diving back into the game.

I don’t stop watching you. The way the water slides over your shoulders, the way your grin flashes before you spike the ball, the way you throw one look at me and make my skin feel too tight.

Glow Night is still hours away, but we both know the fuse is already lit.

Eventually, the sun begins to dip and the energy shifts. Not toward quiet—Bliss never quiets—but toward a different rhythm. We towel off and slip back into loose clothing—nothing too constricting, nothing we’ll be wearing long. You lead me to one of the afternoon BDSM workshops, not because we need the lesson, but because we enjoy the atmosphere. The chance to reconnect, to observe, to be among people who understand. But, you can always pick up a new bit of information.

On one of the settees around the Attic Comedy Club holding the dungeon this cruise, I sprawl across your lap like I belong there—and I do. My sundress rides up just enough to bare the backs of my thighs, and I don’t bother tugging it down. Your fingers thread through my hair with idle possessiveness, slow and steady. I hum when your nails scratch lightly at my scalp. You don’t even notice you’re doing it, but I notice. I always notice.

Around us, newer couples test toys for the first time—spanking paddles, cuffs, floggers. The dungeon team runs demos, guiding cautious hands and offering adjustments. There’s some nervous laughter, a few squeals, and a lot of grinning. I catch your smile now and then—warm, amused, and proud. My husband’s across the room, assisting with a flogging tutorial. He’s in his element, rhythmic and confident. Normally I’d be helping: keeping people out of his backswing, chatting with onlookers, answering safety questions. But today?

Today I’m yours.

Instead of offering instruction, I field the overflow from the dungeon staff. Curious couples pause by our corner to ask about dynamics, about power exchange and long-term compatibility. You answer evenly, kindly, never talking down. I chime in when prompted, still curled in your lap, one hand loosely stroking your arm while your own never stops threading through my hair.

We leave when the demo winds down, slipping into the TSC meet-and-greet in one of the quieter lounges. It’s casual and breezy—small groups swapping travel stories, glasses clinking, flirtation flowing soft and natural. I talk with someone about their excursion plans for Cozumel, sipping something sweet, still half-weightless from the whirlpool, the sun, the wine.

And then, you touch me.

Not overtly. Just a hand drifting down my side until it curves firmly around the swell of my ass. A squeeze. A trace. One finger drawing slow and deliberate between the cleft, just enough to remind me of your promise.

The rest of the room fades as my breath tightens and my heart quickens with a thrill of trepidation.

You press a kiss to my shoulder—chaste to the world, but I know better. I can feel the smug satisfaction in your body, the promise echoing beneath your skin, even as you press an innocent kiss to my shoulder.

I’ve been marked for the evening.

And I haven’t forgotten.

Dinner is a quick activity, passed with friends moving through on their own paths. We’ve shoved quite a lot into our sea day and there’s more still to come. We head back to the room and pass people already sporting their glow night outfits. The creativity is boggling, and the sexiness is off the charts. Indoors, pasties and thongs are a minimum, but everything else is on display and displayed well.

We shower off the day without hurry. I have glowing star pasties and temporary tattoos. You take a few of the glowing tattoos, and I draw a pattern on your biceps with glowing face paint. My makeup consists of green glitter for the occasion and glitter-laden lip gloss. I pull on a bright green fishnet dress with attached stockings. My silver heels add another bit of shine.

Just for fun, I press a kiss to your cheek and leave a sparkling imprint there.

“Marking what’s yours?” you joke, pulling on a green, mesh shirt.

I smirk and shake my head. “Just having fun making you sparkly.”

“Oh?”

Your dangerous tone alerts me, and I freeze. Your arms come around me, stroking up from my hips to cup my breasts. One hand continues higher to take my throat.

“I have something to make you ‘sparkly,’ too.”

I squirm a bit. I can’t help it. I fight a little, just to let you know I can. But your hands tighten just a bit, and I’m trapped. You’d never hurt me, but you could. The precipice between your control and my pain is intoxicating. I can’t help but dance on that edge to feel your strength in more ways than one.

When you feel me relax against you, you let go slowly.

“Lean over the bed,” you order. “Ass up, legs apart.”

Fuck. In my heels, I step carefully into position. You come up behind me and press my shoulders down so my face is inches from the sheet. I’ll have to hold position—don’t want to smear my makeup across the sheets. The tiny fishnet dress leaves my backside exposed when I lean over; it wasn’t designed for modesty. And the little thong I’m wearing? I wouldn’t call it much of a barrier against anything you might want to do to me.

You start with spankings. Nice and easy, your hands thudding against me and then squeezing, caressing. Once my nerves begin to sing, though, you switch activities. The magic wand vibrator starts up, and you press it against my clit.

“Hold that there, princess. Can you do that?”

I nod, biting my lip as I moan.

Your fingers tease at my pussy, dipping inside oh so shallowly. I whimper and shift my hips back in demand, but another sharp spank is my own reward. Your wet fingers trail up to my ass, circling the puckered hole tauntingly. I jerk forward, but you catch my hip in your other hand.

“I’m not going to fuck your ass right now, sweet girl,” you reassure me. “But I want you to be ready for it later.”

He releases my hip, and his fingers return coated with lube. You’re playing with a part of me that I don’t let anyone else touch. Just you and my husband. Ever. Your control is the only thing that makes this sensation bearable. A silicone plug pushes insistently at my ass. It takes all of my focus to relax enough for it to slide in. The vibrator tormenting my clit helps distract me from my anxiety and shove me more firmly under your dominion. All of me is shaking my the time the flared end of the plug settles against the cleft of my butt.

“Breathing all right, dear heart?”

I nod.

“Good.”

You click up the speed on the vibrator. I gasp and jerk, but there’s nowhere to go. I can’t escape the feeling I’d be trying to flee. Your left hand, the one that wasn’t playing with my ass, begins to play with my pussy. You wring another groan from me when you press two fingers inside and stroke the wall between my pussy and that plug.

“So full, aren’t you, my good girl?”

Again, I only nod.

You lean over me. “Not as full as you’ll be later.”

Straightening, you grab a wipe and clean the extra lube off. You click off the vibrator and clean it, too. You vanish to wash off your hands as I try to regain my bearings.

“Look in the mirror,” you direct.

I look over my shoulder at the mirror. I can see the butt plug peeking from beneath my dress, between my cheeks. Then, you turn it on.

Different colored lights fade in and out from the LEDs in the base. You’re grinning so ridiculously that I can’t help but laugh.

“Seriously?” I demand.

Rather than answer my indignation, you pull me upright and kiss me before pulling me out of the room. We have a party to attend.

Studio B pulses with light and sound, the thrum of the bass vibrating through the soles of my heels and up my spine. The whole space is alive with blacklight—neon greens and ultraviolet purples flashing in time with the beat. Bodies writhe under strobes, painted in UV-reactive makeup, glowing tattoos, and strips of clothing that barely qualify as such.

This is not your average cruise party. This is Bliss.

The air is thick with sex and sweat, but no one’s high—just drunk on energy, music, and the way desire hums between everyone here. Some couples dance like it’s foreplay, all grinding hips and parted lips. Others are shirtless and sparkling, their glowing bodies pressed together under the moving lights.

You keep me close.

One hand on the small of my back, another at my waist, your body moving in time with mine. My glow-in-the-dark thong and fishnet dress leave nothing to the imagination, and the plug nestled inside me is still gently pulsing with its rainbow LEDs. I can feel it shift every time my hips roll, every time I grind against your thigh.

And you know it.

You lean in, voice low and warm in my ear. “Feel that?”I nod. Just barely. The plug shifts inside me with every sway of my hips, and the sensation is a constant reminder that I’m already yours, already claimed, already teetering on the edge of obedience and surrender.

“Good,” you murmur, brushing your lips along my jaw. “Stay with me.”

We move together—not to impress anyone, not for attention, just because it feels right. The music isn’t background noise anymore; it’s a heartbeat we’ve both synced to. My body curves into yours, chasing the pressure of your hand on my hip, the strength in your grip when you pull me back against you.

You’re fully dressed, at least by Bliss standards: mesh shirt, glowing tattoos, your slacks somehow making you look even more dangerous beneath all the neon. I’m in fishnet and heels and practically vibrating from the pulse between my legs, but with your arm around me, I feel grounded. Anchored. Safe.

No one else matters. Not the crowd around us, not the flashes of color, not the thrum of bass you can feel in your teeth.

Just the feeling of your breath against my neck.Just your hand tracing down my back.Just the subtle press of the plug when I move in rhythm with you.

You don’t push. You don’t tease beyond a quiet promise murmured beneath the beat:“You’ve done well, princess.”You stroke a slow, appreciative hand over my ass.“I’m going to take such good care of you when we get back to the room.”

I shiver. It has nothing to do with the air conditioning.

We keep dancing until the floor blurs into color and motion, a glowing memory that will live in the pulse of my body long after the lights dim. And when you finally tug me gently toward the exit, I don’t protest. I already know the best part of tonight is still ahead.

You guide me through the decks, your hand never leaving the small of my back. My heels click softly, echoing just behind the hum still vibrating in my bones from the dance floor. There’s no rush now. The anticipation is its own reward—drawn out and delicious.

Our room feels darker than usual when we slip inside, but it’s not empty. It hums with promise. With intent.

Back in the cabin, the door locks with a quiet click behind us. You don’t speak.

You don’t have to.

The air is thick with promise. My body still hums from the bass of the music, from the hours of your hand on my skin, and from the heavy, pulsing reminder nestled between my cheeks.

You’re still in that green mesh shirt, the faint shimmer of my kiss print lingering on your jaw. The glow tattoos on your arms fade in and out with the slow, predatory movement of your body as you approach.

I stand perfectly still—bare but for my silver heels and the plug. Waiting.

I don’t move to undress. That’s not my decision to make tonight. I stand still in the center of the room, watching you. The glowing stars on my chest still flicker softly, the drawings on us both a little smeared from sweat and movement. The butt plug shifts as I breathe, every pulse and twitch a reminder that my body is already partway primed, held open for you.

You take your time undressing. I watch every movement like it’s a performance choreographed for me alone.

You tip my chin up with two fingers. “On the bed. Legs spread. Plug stays in.”

I obey, crawling back onto the sheets and reclining against the pillows. You like seeing me in fishnets, like the feel of them under your hands almost as much as I like the extra sensation on my skin. I part my legs for you, and you climb between them, placing the wand vibrator in your hand like an artist selecting a brush.

“You’ve done so well,” you murmur, voice rich and low. “And I’ve waited all night to watch you fall apart.”

The wand flares to life, and you press it directly to my clit. The jolt is immediate. My head kicks back, and my thighs twitch, but you press your forearm across them to pin me in place.

“There’s my girl,” you say softly, even as your other hand slips down to part my folds and push two fingers inside me—deep and deliberate, curling upward just right. I whimper, but I don’t ask you to stop.

“Such a wet little cunt. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

I moan in response. I’m too far gone to speak.

You fuck me slowly with your fingers while holding the vibrator steady. I’m shaking, overwhelmed and strung tight. You know exactly what you’re doing—and you stop just before I break.

I groan in frustration, but you’re already shifting, kneeling beside me. You wrap my hand around the vibrator so that it stays on my clit.

“Open your mouth.”

I do. You guide your cock past my lips, letting me taste you, fill my throat. The stretch makes my eyes water, but you don’t thrust. You let me adjust, your fingers cradling my head, your voice low and rough with praise.

“Pretty mouth. Plug pulsing in your ass.” You press your fingers back inside me. “Cunt still dripping. Every hole full, just like I wanted.”

You proceed to wreck me. I’m screaming around your cock between choking and gagging. My pussy spasms around your fingers as you force an orgasm out of me. Only when my screams turn to weak mewling do you withdraw your cock, watching my spit glisten along your shaft. Then you climb off the bed and tug me down the mattress until my ass hangs near the edge.

You don’t ask. You don’t need to. You line up and push inside my pussy with a groan. I gasp at the sudden stretch—still slick and open from your fingers, but nothing compares to the thick pressure of your cock. I moan greedily.

You fuck me deep, braced over me, one hand back on the wand. The second it touches my clit again, I jolt.

You grin.

“Come again for me, princess. Be my good girl. Come with that plug in your ass making you so tight.”

I do—helpless, writhing beneath you as you keep the vibrator pressed against my clit, your cock dragging through the center of my orgasm, drawing it out until I’m breathless and ruined.

You don’t stop, not until I’m limp.

You ease the wand away but don’t pull out. Instead, you flip me gently, guiding me to my stomach and then up to my knees. The garter straps of my fishnets dig into my ass, and you toy with them with admiration.

I barely register it when you kiss my spine, from the base of my neck all the way down until your lips rest between my shoulder blades. I’m floating, pliant, held together only by your hands. You murmur, “Just relax,” as you reach between my cheeks and stroke the plug’s base.

I tense, but only for a second. You slide the plug free with a slick, slow twist that makes my whole body jump—and replace it, immediately, with the head of your thick cock.

“You’ve been so good,” you whisper. Lube dribbles against my tight hole, and I shake with nerves. My breath shudders out of me. You press your palm to the small of my back and lean in, your voice like thunder just under my skin. “But remember what I told you?”

“That… you’re…” I stutter weakly. “You’re going to fuck my ass.”

You start to push in—slow, firm, and devastatingly controlled. I gasp, hands clenching in the sheets. But I don’t resist. I trust you.

I cry out at the stretch, but you’re patient. You push in an inch, then wait, letting me feel every inch. Another. Then stillness.

I rock back just enough to take more of you, and you groan—guttural, like you’ve been waiting for this all damn day.

And maybe you have.

You fill me with slow, punishing precision. Each thrust is measured, each retreat designed to make me ache. Your hand finds its way under me, to my cunt, already soaked from hours of anticipation and your practiced control.

“Good girl,” you groan when I whimper your name. “So full. So mine.”

I nod against the mattress. I can’t form words anymore.

You fuck me then—deep and claiming—until my body is limp and pliant in your arms, until there’s nothing left but heat and pleasure and your name on my lips. Until I stop fighting anything but the need to feel more of you. The pace builds—then steadies. Your rhythm is deep, relentless, claiming.

When you come, it’s with a rough growl and your teeth grazing my shoulder. You hold me there, cock still pulsing inside, your hands grounding me while my body melts around you.

You stay there a long time. You fold your body over mine, wrapping me in warmth and weight and safety. I’m trembling under you, all used-up satisfaction and boneless trust.

Eventually, you ease out, careful, and gather me against your chest. You drag us to the shower to rinse off, but we tumble back into bed in short order. Your hands are gentle. Your breath is steady.

We tangle together, skin on skin, no tension left in my frame. I drift off against your chest, still glowing faintly under the soft cabin lights, held in your arms.