Day 5: Cozumel, Mexico and Kinky Burlesque Night

The shuttle to Chankanaab Beach Adventure Park rattles cheerfully over the narrow Cozumel roads, windows cracked just enough to let in the warm salt breeze. I lean into your side, sunglasses on and a lazy smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. My thighs are still a little sore—an unspoken souvenir from the night before—and your palm resting possessively on one of them doesn’t exactly help.

We’re in a van full of other couples from the ship, all recounting the previous evening’s escapades. Everyone's dressed for a beach day: bright colors, floppy hats, barely-there swimwear, and an extra layer of relaxed camaraderie that only builds after four nights on a Bliss cruise. Behind us, his girlfriend is teasing my husband about his sunburn, and he’s protesting loudly, which only encourages her. It’s easy. Effortless. Like the whole day has been waiting for us to arrive.

The van slows as we pull past the entrance to the park, the bright sign and lush greenery giving way to curated jungle paths and flashes of vivid water between the trees. Someone spots the dolphins first. There’s a collective murmur of excitement, cameras out, sunglasses pushed up to better see.

You squeeze my leg gently, just once, and lean in. “You ready to play with dolphins today, princess?”

I grin and nudge your shoulder with mine. “Only if they’re better kissers than you.”

You give me a look that promises consequences—later. I wouldn’t be such a brat if it wasn’t so much fun to rile you up. Besides, you know how to handle me to turn me into putty, so I need some defenses to my sanity.

We unload at the park and fan out along the paths: beach one way, dolphin lagoon the other, snorkeling gear on offer everywhere in between. And I know, without a doubt, it’s going to be a beautiful, wet, sun-drenched day.

The path to the dolphin lagoon winds through shaded palms and bursts of tropical flowers. Laughter echoes ahead of us—someone else already in the water, squealing at a splash. We trade our cover-ups for life vests, tie our hair back, and follow the staff member’s instructions with lazy amusement. You help me fasten mine, your fingers brushing the sides of my breasts in a way that’s definitely not accidental.

“You need that tight to keep you safe,” you declare knowingly.

“Mm. Safety first,” I reply, lifting a brow with mock seriousness.

We wade into the warm saltwater, hand in hand, until we reach the floating platform where the trainer waits. The dolphins glide by beneath the surface, sleek shadows curving through the water. One breaks the surface, spraying a fine mist into the air, and the entire group laughs. I’m a little giddy—there’s something innocent and magical about them. That wild intelligence behind their eyes, the way they click and chatter like they’re gossiping about us.

The trainer calls one over, and I squeal when the dolphin rises from the water to nuzzle my cheek. Its skin is smooth and rubbery, and it smells like salt and sunlight. When it kisses me—soft and gentle on the lips—I nearly lose my footing from laughing.

“Jealous?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder at you.

You just smirk. “If he uses tongue, we’re fighting.”

You and I take turns—belly rides, foot pushes, hand signals. The dolphin spins in the water beneath us like we’re children at recess. Every time I laugh, I glance toward you, needing to share it. Needing you to see me like this: flushed, playful, totally undone by joy.

At one point, the dolphin nudges you toward me, deliberately herding us close. Your arm wraps around my waist in the water, and the trainer grins.

“She likes to match-make,” he says with a wink.

You lean in until your forehead touches mine. “Looks like she’s good at it.”

The dolphin whistles. We laugh.

When it’s over, we both linger at the edge, salty and happy and unwilling to break the spell just yet. We’re handed towels, and I can’t help but stretch like a cat, sun-warm and waterlogged.

We don’t rush. After toweling off, we wander hand-in-hand past the photo stand, past the families already peeling off their life vests, and toward the next adventure. The sun’s higher now, burning away the last traces of morning haze, and the lagoon beckons—clear, turquoise, impossibly inviting.

Snorkel gear in hand, we slip into the water again, this time with fewer people around. Just us and the reef below. It’s a little chillier than the beach at Labadee, so I don’t blame the others for passing it up in favor of the pools in the park.

You float beside me as I dive under, chasing schools of silver fish through scattered coral. There’s no need to talk. The silence of the water says everything. When I break the surface, breathless and grinning, you’re already there to steady me, one hand on my waist, the other brushing water from my cheek.

“See anything good?” you ask.

“Yes.” But I’m looking only at you.

We drift that way awhile, floating, exploring, fingers linked whenever they can be. Eventually, we kick back toward the beach and collapse together on a pair of lounge chairs in the shade. A fresh towel. A bottle of cold water between us. I stretch, still wet, and prop my head on your shoulder. You play absently with my damp hair while I watch a group of strangers try to organize a game of beach volleyball that quickly devolves into laughter and flailing.

Before we head for the swim-up bar, we take our time wandering the rest of the park. The walking paths curve past Mayan replicas tucked into lush groves, and we pause to read the plaques and steal a few kisses in the shade. A lazy manatee floats near the edge of another lagoon, and we watch him drift before turning toward the botanical gardens. There, orchids bloom in hidden alcoves, and butterflies cluster in bursts of orange and white on tall flowering stalks. You pull me in for a photo by a waterfall, and I try not to look too smug when you say I outshine the scenery.

We wind through a buffet of local foods for lunch. You laugh when I move a few spicier items to your plate when they prove too strong for me. But, the food is good and the company is better. Several others from the ship join us at our table to share their dolphin experience stories with us. Someone else did a manatee swim.

Afterwards, a group of us head towards the sea lion show. It’s half comedy and half educational, as the park clearly tries to balance the well-being of the animals with the need to entertain paying guests. But, as every animal so far has looked happy and well cared for, I decide to enjoy the show. You’re laughing beside me, always up for the fun, goofy, and quirky things in the world.

From there, we follow the signs toward the lagoon’s freshwater pool, sandals slapping against the path as we wind past carved stone statues and bursts of hibiscus. Somewhere behind us, the dolphin lagoon fades into the sound of palm leaves swaying and birdsong that’s too tropical to identify.

The pool opens before us like an oasis—crystal blue water glittering beneath the sun, rimmed with thatch umbrellas and sun loungers. But it’s the bar that catches my attention: tucked into one corner, half-submerged, with guests perched on underwater stools, drinks in hand. The bar is lively, and the promise of a frozen drink is too good to resist.

“I see something I want,” you croon.

I grin. “Drink first or me?”

I can’t resist teasing back, “Why not both?”

We wade into the water, cool against sun-warmed skin, and take our place at the bar. We skip the alcohol, but you order something citrusy for yourself and a frozen, fruity concoction for me—bright pink and utterly impractical. I steal the umbrella before I even take a sip.

“Of course you do,” you bemoan, watching me with that half-lidded look that always makes my thighs clench. “Think you can behave yourself?”

Unrepentant, I taunt, “For now.”

But the mood here is light, lazy. We let the water carry some of the heat, leaning in close, our knees brushing beneath the surface. Couples chatter nearby. One woman laughs so hard she nearly spills her drink. Someone starts a splash battle on the far side of the pool.

Your fingers trace slow patterns along my thigh under the water. I shift subtly, not pulling away, but not encouraging you either. Just letting the tension build in the way we do best.

You clink your glass against mine. “To salt water, sun, and being just this side of indecent.”

I drink to that.

As afternoon drifts towards evening, we board the ship salty and sun-kissed, already planning showers and soft clothes. We breeze through the TSC meet and greet, promising to spend more time with everyone later. After we’re clean again. The day’s heat clings to us, but you help rinse it away, soaping every inch with a devotion that feels a little like worship. There’s no rush. No agenda, for once. Just the slow settling of bodies that know they’ll ache in the best way tomorrow.

Wrapped in a plush towel, I perch at the edge of the bed while you dry off. My hair is still damp, and the cabin’s cool air kisses every freshly scrubbed inch of skin. You check the time and raise a brow.

“Two hours until dinner,” you say, casually. “Think we’ll make it?”

I pretend to consider. “We could nap…”

You stalk toward me like a panther that’s heard a challenge, towel slung low on your hips. “Should, my sunburnt girl.”

I’m not sunburnt, not quite, but it’s a close thing. And I’m definitely tired. So, I let you tuck me into your side under a sheet. You pet me until I relax entirely. Our legs tangle. My head rests on your chest, your heartbeat steady beneath my cheek. There’s no need to fill the silence. This is the kind of intimacy that doesn’t need sound.

Eventually, the cabin lights shift as the sun begins to dip, casting golden light across the floor.

I rise to start getting ready.

Tonight is Kinky Burlesque Night—and we’re attending the Fetish Dinner in Chops Grille. It's not the kind of evening where you just throw something on. There’s elegance in this kind of kink—a refined decadence, a knowing edge.

I dress like a dare. The corset is deep crimson with black boning, cinched until my waist curves like sin and breath comes with a thrill. The soft hiss of stockings sliding up sun-warmed legs, the tug of black mesh drawn smooth across my hips, the quiet cinch of laces tracing my sides—everything about this outfit is meant to be felt before it's unwrapped.  A half-sheer skirt hangs low in back but parts high in front, showing off thigh-high fishnets held by delicate straps. Fingerless gloves of black lace slide to my elbows. My black heels are sky-high and unforgiving—meant for show, not comfort. Hair piled high, deliberately messy, the kind of undone that takes effort and invites fingers to delve into it. My makeup smolders—dark lashes, glittering lids, and lips the color of fresh strawberries. I look in the mirror and give you a look over my shoulder. The kind of look that says I know exactly what I’m doing. And who I’m doing it for.

You watch from your spot on the bed, your eyes trailing down every inch like you’ve already planned how you’ll undo me. Then, you step up behind me, meeting my gaze in the mirror. Your collar wraps around my throat and tightens.

Your outfit is tailored—black shirt, open at the collar, with dark slacks that cling in all the right ways. A hint of leather at your wrist. Clean. Dominant. Understated power with no need to boast.

When you offer me your arm, I take it gladly.

But you pause and smile. “One last thing before dinner…”

And suddenly, I realize that, regardless of what dinner we’re served, I’m the main course of the evening.

The restaurant is beautiful. All dark wood, black leather seats, and crisp white tablecloths. An entire wall looks out over the endless ocean. It's the perfect place for an elegant dinner. But tonight is more than that.

The dungeon master saw us come in, and he knows me. There's already a kneeling pad on the floor for me next to your chair. With a gentle hand on my collar and the other steadying my arm, you put me on my knees beside your chair. You set your phone on the table. I try not to stare at it. Of course, you notice. So, you put my head against your thigh, below the height of the table. I can’t see what your hands are doing any more. A gentle buzz starts between my legs, a vibration against my clit. The remote vibrator you slid into my panties to heighten the edge of the evening. We both know how much I like it.

A waiter steps up politely to the other side of the table. All the staff in the restaurant knew this was the fetish dinner. I don’t have to be embarrassed or worry about what they’re seeing. We have to be polite, but you know the lines. Several dungeon monitors are wandering around the space, making sure we’re all following the rules. There’s a suspension rig set up across the room for a demonstration later. Me, on my knees beside you with a remote vibrator? Harmless.

“Keep your hands on my leg,” you order gently. “Don’t stop touching me.”

I smile and stroke my hands over your dress pants. Beneath the fabric, your muscles tense. A tiny smile toys with my mouth. I could stroke and play, but I’ll save that for later. For now, I’ll be good. Until I decide not to be.

You order a lemon drop for me, but just water for yourself. You want an absolutely clear head even if you send me spinning. With your hand in my hair, I let the world blur into colors and vague sounds while the vibrator teases my clit. I can’t come like this, just go quietly insane.

You pull my head back up and hold the sugar-rimmed edge of the glass to my lips. The sweet citrus hits my tongue like a shock and grounds me back in the world. The vibrator ramps up a notch after I’ve swallowed, but you back it off again before bringing the glass back. Another sip, this time of icy water. Without you holding my head, I want to squirm. Instead, I keep my hands on you, my knees on the kneeling pad, and my legs pressed together to keep the vibrator in place. I could easily shift it off my clit, but, well, you know I like it. And I love that look in your eyes when you know what you’re doing to me.

You lift the lemon drop for me to drink and flick your finger across the screen of your phone to send the vibrator pulsing higher after you watch me swallow. Over and over, you repeat this. Water, lemon drop, then bread. Two of your fingers slide into my mouth, and I suck on them with just as much intent. You’ve got me chasing an orgasm I know I can’t reach, but my mouth is yours. My eyes slip closed, trusting you entirely. I don’t even realize you’ve ordered our meal or that it has arrived until a warm bite of steak slides between my lips in place of your fingers. I chew, I swallow, I moan.

I beg, “Sir…”

“Do you want something, princess?” you ask in a low voice.

You have the vibrator turned up as high as it’ll go. My fingers tighten on your pants, grasping and gripping the fabric. I can’t help the whimpering pleas that don’t quite translate into words. Besides, you know what they mean. You trail your fingers down my throat, over your collar around my neck, and down along the edge of my cleavage pushed up at the edge of my corset.

The vibrator clicks off, and I practically squawk my protest.

When you lean down close, my sound stops abruptly.

“Be a good girl,” you offer, “Sit in your seat, eat your dinner, and I’ll let you cum later.”

I try not to grumble. You’re right, of course. Sitting and eating my entire meal at your feet is impractical, not to mention not something we normally do. That’s the first time you’ve fed me yourself. Stealing food off your plate doesn’t count; I do that all the time. This is different.

So, I sit in my chair and eat my steak. I watch the suspension demonstration, watch the dungeon master flog another guest. Yet, I can’t focus on anything. You still have your phone on the table, and I still have a vibrator pressed against my clit. It might be silent now, but you have the power to change that at any second.

Dessert arrives in the form of a delicate chocolate torte, glossy and sinful, garnished with gold leaf and fresh raspberries. I try to focus on the richness melting across my tongue, but you’ve moved your phone closer to your water glass, your fingers casually resting on the screen like a loaded weapon.

“You’ve earned a treat,” you purr dangerously. “One for your mouth. One for your cunt.”

The vibrator clicks on low. Just a hum—barely there—but enough to make my knees squeeze together and my fork hesitate halfway to my lips. I close my eyes and take another bite, pretending to savor the flavor when I’m really just trying not to tremble.

I shift slightly in my seat, enough for you to notice.

“Don’t grind,” you warn under your breath, calm and razor-sharp. “Be still, show me you can be my obedient princess.”

I obey, my thighs twitching with the effort. My hand grips the edge of the table. You smile like we’re sharing a joke, lifting your fork to your lips with measured grace while I unravel beside you.

Then the setting shifts.

The hum pulses up a notch.

I choke softly on my next bite, stifling the sound with a napkin and a sip of water. My skin flushes beneath the corset, sweat slick along my spine. You lean close, eyes on mine.

“Good girl,” you praise, brushing your knuckles along my thigh beneath the table. “Don’t come.”

God, I want to.

The fork shakes in my hand. My stomach flutters, and not from the food. All around us, people talk and laugh and moan in their own quiet ways, but your world wraps around me like a velvet vice—scented with citrus and chocolate and your control.

The vibrator climbs again.

I blink rapidly, trying to focus on the torte, on you, on anything except the wave building low and deep inside me. Your hand settles over mine, guiding the fork to my lips. I take the bite, chewing with trembling restraint.

Then the pulse cuts off.

Silence between my legs. A vacuum.

My gasp is sharper than I mean it to be, and you cover it with a sip of your water like nothing happened. You set the fork down, napkin folded over your lap with calm precision.

“Finish your dessert,” you say gently. “Then we’ll see if you’ve earned your release.”

And I do. Because I’m desperate to be good. And I already know what you taste like when I’m allowed dessert after dinner.

After dinner, you help me to my feet, steadying me as though the floor might not be solid under my heels. You're not wrong. I’m flushed and barely holding it together, still wet, still aching. The vibrator remains in place, mercifully quiet—for now.

You don’t let me remove it.

“You’ll need it,” you murmur, brushing my ear with your breath. “We’re going to a show.”

You guide me down the corridor, your hand resting possessively at the small of my back. I catch glimpses of other couples dressed to the nines in velvet, mesh, harnesses, and feathers as we make our way to the theater. The air hums with anticipation.

We take our seats near the front. You drape an arm around my shoulders like the perfect gentleman. Your other hand, unseen to the crowd, slides your phone into your palm. I catch the screen out of the corner of my eye. It’s open to the vibrator app.

And then I see it: a new setting.

Sound-reactive mode.Oh no.Oh yes.

The lights go down. The stage glows violet. A smoky saxophone solo starts up as a statuesque redhead in rhinestones and elbow-length gloves saunters into view. She shimmies. The crowd whistles.

And my body buzzes.

The bass of the sax? A pulse against my clit.The clap of hands? Another jolt.Laughter, cheers, stomps, the cry of “Take it off!”—each one sends a signal through the toy between my legs, an unpredictable rhythm that sets my nerves on fire.

You keep your arm around me, fingers tracing lazy circles on my bare shoulder, completely unbothered as I squirm beside you. I try to keep my face composed, but you know me too well. You lean in to whisper:

“You’re going to sit through the entire show like this. And if you’re a good girl and don’t make a scene, I’ll let you come after the finale.”

I nod. Barely.

The performer straddles a chair and the music slams into a new beat.

I clutch your hand.

The crowd roars.

The vibrator answers.

I bite the inside of my cheek and pretend to focus on the sequins glittering under the spotlight.

This is going to be the longest hour of my life.

The show unfolds like a slow, decadent seduction.

Every performer brings their own flavor to the stage—cheeky, dark, elegant, brazen. One twirls from silk ribbons, their feet never touching the ground. Another stalks the edge of the crowd with a riding crop and a smirk that dares you to disobey. Rhinestones flash, pasties spin, corsets loosen. Each act is louder, hotter, more unrestrained than the last.

Which means the vibrator between my legs never lets up.

Every burst of applause jerks my hips. Every bass drop from the speakers makes my thighs clench. I can’t predict it—there’s no rhythm, no mercy. Just the toy reacting to every sound, every scream of joy, every drumbeat in the dark. The anticipation makes it worse. I never know what will set it off next.

You sit beside me like you're watching opera. One arm still around my shoulders, fingers teasing the edge of my corset. Your other hand stays casually draped on your leg—holding your phone, thumb resting right above the manual control. Just in case you decide sound isn’t cruel enough.

You lean close, your lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“Don’t you dare come without permission.” You know I can’t come from just this, but your words add another layer to my arousal. Your control of me is its own intoxicant.

I nod, desperate. So close I can barely breathe, but I hold the edge.

For you.

The final act is a riot of sound and color. The entire cast returns in glittering harnesses and barely-there lingerie. A fire performer lights up the edge of the stage, their every step timed to the crash of drums and the roar of the audience. The applause shakes the walls.

And I break.

I don’t come, but my thighs tremble, my nails dig into your hand, and I sag against you with a muffled gasp that no one hears over the chaos. You tighten your grip around my waist, steadying me, silent and smug.

As the lights go down and the final bows are taken, you kiss my temple softly.

“Good girl.”

The toy finally stops.

I don’t move.

You give me another moment before you rise, tugging me gently to my feet. My legs feel like water, but you guide me out of the theater with your hand firm and sure at my back.

“You’ve earned your reward,” you whisper as the door closes behind us and we disappear down the hall.

We detour through the dungeon. It’s packed on Fetish Night with everyone exploring the fantasy of it. A couple we know from back home is practically putting on a show with the intensity of their pain play. My husband is working his way through safely introducing newbies to impact, showing eager spouses how to properly use the dungeon’s tools. He has several wives simpering over him in his leather vest and cocky grin. His girlfriend swans through the room, leaving tormented men in her wake. She and he won’t play here; not their style. But my husband can’t bring himself to leave the dungeon shorthanded on their busiest night, and he’s just a volunteer.

Any other cruise, I’d be herding my husband’s hopefuls and keeping curious onlookers from inadvertently stepping into a floggers path in this crush. That’s not this trip, though. Your hand is heavy on my lower back, its heat muted by the corset I wear. I make quick rounds through the room to greet friends and share each other’s outfits. But this isn’t a night for serious play in the fetish room, not when it’s crowded with explorers. Taking up a station for the length of time we need would be unforgivably selfish.

And I need. God, do I need so very much.

The electricity between us doesn’t abate even as we socialize briefly. But, just in case, you give me a gentle push, and I stumble back. The shock of hitting the wall, tripping in my heels, changes my mindset abruptly. You’re stalking towards me, closing the short distance between us without giving me time to fall further. You would never let me actually fall. In the tight corset, every breath turns shallow and fast. Your fingers trace the edge of it while my hands press against the wall to anchor me.

Vibrations begin at my core again, and I groan openly. Everyone can see what you’re doing to me. I’m sunk in your control, and everyone knows it. The buzz of their conversation dies away as I stare into your hungry face, but my eyes squeeze closed on the next pulse of the vibrator. Your hand locks on my throat just above the leather of your collar, pressing me against the wall, the only thing holding me up. Except you slide your thigh between my legs, until I’m practically riding it. I grind my hips down, the vibrator trapped between us and yet giving me no relief.

Cut off gasps are your prize, and you’re gathering every single one of them. My hands flail and lock onto your arm. I’m not trying to push you away; I’d collapse if you let go. But just my clit? I’ll go insane before I ever reach orgasm this way. You and I both know it. Which means it’s deliberate on your part.

“Please,” I beg shamelessly. “Please, sir. Please help me come.”

You increase the vibration, and I moan and whimper, arching against the wall and riding your thigh.

Suddenly, your thigh is gone, and I’m floundering, your hand the only thing keeping me against the wall and vaguely upright. But then you are right against me, switching to cupping the back of my neck and keeping me against the wall with the press of your chest against mine.

And your other hand replaces your thigh between my legs, under my skirt.

You don’t keep me in suspense. Your fingers sweep aside my tiny panties and delve into my pussy. With your palm keeping the buzzing vibrator in place, you give me what I needed. Finally.

My groans reach a pitch above the rest of the sounds of the dungeon. Two of your strong fingers are enough to stretch me the way I need. My hips rock desperately, greedily chasing the orgasm you’re offering. As wound up as I am, it doesn’t take long to make me shatter. I come with a glorious scream. My entire body clenches. My knees sag, driving your fingers deeper into me before you catch me with your body. I cling to your shoulders as I fall apart.

You wait until I’m twitching at the sensation of the vibrator on my sensitive skin before you draw your fingers free of my wet core and take the vibrator with them.

You give a perfunctory wave to my husband before gathering me close to you and move me from the dungeon. My legs are unsteady underneath me, tottering on my heels. You don’t even pretend we’re using the stairs. We step into the elevator, and you rest me against the glass wall at the back before teasing me more. The elevator takes us up past the promenade, where a riotous party is in full swing.

Through the curved glass of the elevator, the ship feels like another world entirely. Neon lights pulse from the Promenade deck below, music thumping in a joyful, oblivious rhythm. Couples laugh over cocktails. Dancers swirl in glowing silks. No one looks up. No one sees the way your body cages mine against the wall—except maybe our own reflections in the glass.

Your fingers trail down my side as the doors slide closed. I feel the wetness you left behind, the ache you haven’t yet eased. You cup my jaw with one hand and force my gaze back to yours.

"Still with me?" you murmur, voice low and rich.

I nod, lips parted, barely able to breathe let alone speak.

"Good."

Your fingers drop to the back of my thigh, lifting it high until I’m balanced precariously on one stiletto heel, the slit of my sheer skirt baring everything. The cool air of the elevator kisses my skin. You tug my panties down, kneeling to lift one unsteady foot, then the other, and pocket them with a wicked smile.

“Won’t be needing these anymore.”

You don’t push more—not yet. Instead, you stroke your hand up the inside of my leg as you stand, possessive and proud, and I feel the Dominance vibrating between us with just as much energy as the vibrator against my clit earlier and just as arousing. You wrap an arm around my shoulders and tuck me between the warmth of your body and the cool glass. The elevator glides upward, past level after level, and all I can do is moan into your chest, trying not to slide down the glass behind me.

By the time we reach our deck, I’m trembling again. My thighs are slick. My chest is heaving. And you haven’t even undone your pants.

The elevator doors glide open onto our floor, and you don’t give me a chance to wobble out on my own. Your hand stays at my back, steady and sure, guiding me down the corridor like I’m not still trembling inside my corset.

The hallway blurs. Your arm around me is the only reason I don’t collapse.

When we reach our cabin, you don’t flick the lights on. The ambient glow from the balcony filters in, just enough to paint shadows across the room. You kick the door shut behind us and pull me in with a hand hooked firmly in my collar. I stumble against your chest, and you hold me there for a beat, letting me feel your heartbeat—steady, controlled, in stark contrast to the chaos you’ve ignited in me. Now there’s nowhere to run, and no need to hide.

Your hand cups the back of my neck as you press me against the stateroom wall, breath hot at my ear.

“Take off your gloves and your skirt. Keep the rest.”

I obey, my fingers trembling as I peel the lace from my arms. Shimmying the skirt off from underneath the corset takes more work, but you want my butt exposed. You step back just enough to give me space to move, watching me with the kind of focus that makes me feel stripped bare even before you touch me again. Your gaze catalogues the skin revealed like you’ve earned it. And you have.

“On the bed,” you murmur, voice low and commanding. “Face down. Ass up. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

I obey, every nerve already primed. The sheets are cool beneath my palms as I crawl into place, presenting myself to you with my stockings and heels—wet, desperate, waiting.

The bed dips behind me. I don’t dare look back—not because I’m afraid, but because I want the anticipation. Every second that passes with you silent, just watching me splayed out for you, makes my pulse beat harder in my ears.

Then I hear it. The soft whisper of your belt sliding free.

You fold it slowly, deliberately, letting the leather snap once between your hands. Not hard—just enough to make me flinch and arch instinctively. It’s not the sound that gets me. It’s knowing you haven’t even begun yet.

Your hand smooths over my ass first, cool and claiming. You squeeze once, then again, drawing a sharp breath from my throat. The belt doesn’t come down immediately. You take your time, warming me up with your palm, open-handed smacks that sting just enough to wake up my skin. You’re not trying to punish—yet. This is just the beginning. Arousal with every crack of sensation.

By the time the belt lands, my skin is already buzzing. The leather sings across my ass with a delicious, stinging kiss. I jolt, moan into the pillow, hips shifting of their own accord. You give me time to feel it, to sink into it. Then another. A little lower. Then again. You build rhythm, not speed. You’re not chasing a reaction. You’re cultivating it.

The corset traps my breath. Every gasp feels shallow, hungry, almost frantic. But I don’t ask you to stop.

You drop the belt beside me and lean over my back. Your palm glides over the heat you've raised in my skin. “That’s my girl,” you whisper, and I melt under the praise.

You trace the backs of your fingers over my welted curves, down to the top of my thighs. Then you lean in closer, lips at my ear. “Still so greedy.”

I nod, unable to speak.

Your hands slide down the insides of my thighs, nudging them wider. Then something else brushes over me—cool, unfamiliar.

A different texture teases along the back of my thigh—cool, featherlight, utterly foreign.

It takes me a second to place it. Then I realize: the tips of your fingers are holding something silky. A strip of fabric? A tassel? No—longer than that. The tails of your flogger. You trail them over the curve of my ass, slow and deliberate, letting them whisper over the sensitive skin you’ve already lit on fire.

I shiver. Not from fear. From the promise.

You tease first—dragging the flogger down my back, across the backs of my thighs, letting me feel every strand slide and curl like liquid over flesh. My body trembles under the lightest touch now, all nerves strung tight. You could flay me or fuck me and I’d beg for both.

Then it lands.

Not hard. Not yet. A kiss of impact. The flogger fans out against my skin in a measured thud that feels like a heartbeat. You drag it away slowly, then bring it back again—harder this time. Still controlled. Still deliberate. I moan and arch, the sound half-pain, half-lust. My legs widen, invitation and surrender both.

You speak low, barely above a breath. “Color?”

“Green,” I gasp, without hesitation.

“Good girl.”

The flogger falls again, this time faster, alternating sides. My ass, my thighs, the top of my back. You paint me with sensation—fire and silk, sting and ache. My skin is burning and alive, and all I want is more. Each strike is a gift, each pause a torment. You read my body like a map, every gasp a landmark.

And then, without warning, it stops.

I whimper at the loss. My body is strung out, shaking, aching for more—more pain, more praise, more of you. Anything.

You climb onto the bed behind me. Your hand slides into my hair and tugs gently, raising my head. “You’re doing so well,” you murmur against the shell of my ear. “But I think it’s time for something a little… sharper.”

The click of a case opening. The hiss of fabric pulled aside.

You reach out and draw something metal down my spine. Cool. Unforgiving. It’s not pain yet. Just the threat of it.

A blade?

No, not on the ship. A Wartenberg wheel.

I gasp, even before it bites.

You smile against my neck.

You drag the Wartenberg wheel slowly along the small of my back—barely a whisper of pressure right at the edge of my corset, just enough for the spikes to kiss each nerve awake. I suck in a breath and arch against it, not to escape, but to chase the contact. Every flicker sends jolts straight to my core.

When the wheel traces the edge of my welted ass, I whimper, hips twitching involuntarily. You chuckle, low and approving.

“You’re so sensitive now,” you murmur. “I could spend hours just playing with you like this.”

You could. But you won’t. Not tonight.

Because the edge has shifted—grown darker, hotter. You want me. I feel it in the way your breath stutters against my skin, in the heat of your hand as it palms the curve of my ass and holds me steady.

“You want to be filled, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” I whisper, breathless.

Your hand pushes between my legs, fingers sliding through slick heat. You groan softly. “Dripping.”

You don’t make me wait.

The sound of your zipper lowering is loud in the quiet between us. Your hands settle on my hips. A beat of silence—a warning, a mercy.

And then you’re inside me.

One slow, claiming thrust. I gasp—more sound than breath. The stretch is exquisite, your cock thick and perfect, and my body gives way around it like I was made to be taken like this.

You don’t move yet. You stay still, buried deep, letting me feel every inch of you.

Then you begin to move.

Your thrusts are deliberate at first—deep, slow, controlled. Designed to make me feel owned, filled, undone. Each time you drive into me, my thighs tremble. My breath stutters. The corset presses into my ribs, making it harder to breathe, harder to do anything but feel.

Your grip tightens on my hips. Your rhythm builds. I lose track of time, of thought. My fingers knot in the sheets, the world narrowing to the way you fuck me—powerful, unrelenting, perfect.

“I want you to come like this,” you growl, voice rough with need. “Clench around me. Show me how good it is to be stretched around my cock.”

And I do. With a broken cry, I fall apart—my orgasm tearing through me like lightning. My whole body convulses, thighs locking, spine arching, cunt gripping you tight. You hold still and let me ride it, your hands keeping me grounded while I quake beneath you.

But you’re not finished.

Your hands slide up my sides, then grip the edge of the corset. You pull me up onto my knees, flush against your chest. “Take it off,” you command against my ear.

My fingers scramble for the laces. They’re slick with sweat and still shaking, but I obey. I peel the corset off and let it fall to the floor, my chest rising in deep, hungry breaths now that I’m free.

You pull out of me and turn me in your arms, dragging me until my knees hit the edge of the bed.

“On your knees,” you murmur. “Mouth open.”

I drop to the floor obediently. You fist your hand in my hair, not cruel, just guiding me exactly where you want me.

I suck you deep—slick with my own arousal, my lips swollen, throat open for you. You groan at the sight, your control beginning to fray.

“That’s it,” you pant. “Just like that. Look at me.”

I do. My eyes lock with yours as you fuck my mouth, slow and deep. Then faster. Harder. My hands press to your thighs to steady myself.

“Hold still,” you growl.

I freeze. My lips part wider. I let you take.

And you do.

You curse—once, low and savage—and pull out. Your hand wraps around your cock as you stroke yourself hard, your other hand buried in my hair, keeping me in place as you come in hot, thick stripes across my bare chest.

You let the silence hold for just a moment.

Then your fingers trail down to smear it into my skin with reverent, claiming strokes. A final mark. A promise.

You watch me—spent, bare, marked. Then you take my hand and pull me gently to my feet.

No words, no commands. Just the quiet, practiced intimacy of someone who knows exactly what I need next.

By the time we settle beneath the sheets, the air is cooler, the frenzy tamed. I curl against you, skin warm, heart slow.

You wrap your arm around me, fingers still tangled in my hair.

“Mine,” I purr against your skin happily.

I can feel your smile in the dark. “Your warrior,” you agree. “Your sir.”