Jamal pulled Pam to her feet without a word, using the kind of effortless strength you’d expect from a man built like a Greek god. She rose slowly in front of him, flushed and unsteady, her body loose and yielding in a way that only total surrender can produce. He reached for the hem of her tank top and began peeling it upward.

Her arms lifted above her head, the fabric dragging across her sweat-damp skin, catching briefly in her tangled hair before he worked it free. Then, with a flick of indifference, he tossed it toward me, where it landed in a damp, crumpled heap at my feet.

Watching them felt like being yanked into the past, and with it, a sharp stab of jealousy.

Beneath that impossible physique, Jamal could’ve passed for Amir’s twin, at least from the waist down. The same staggering size. The same quiet, arrogant control. A living reminder that no matter how many years I’d spent with Mike, I had never truly let him go, as Pam was on the verge of her own Amir story.

Under the discarded tank top was a beige bra, flat and seamless; built for function, not attention. The kind sold in bulk at Costco, in a three-pack, manufactured to contain her natural double D’s without lift, lace, or the slightest hint of seduction. It was never meant to be seen, never meant to be taken off or unclasped by the hands of another. Just worn. Forgotten. The quiet armor of someone who hadn’t been desired in a long time.

Her stomach, the same one she’d carefully kept covered beneath a one-piece swimsuit just the day before, was now bare. Soft, gently curved, her tall frame distributing it well. She didn’t try to hide it. No fidgeting, no crossed arms, no shame. Whatever modesty she once clung to had evaporated, blurred by the alcohol, and crushed beneath the sheer gravity of the man standing in front of her.

Her bra didn’t stay on long. Jamal reached around her, their bodies pressed close, her bare chest brushing the slick heat of his torso. The clasp gave with a practiced flick of his fingers. He didn’t even look at me as he tossed it aside, letting it fall on top of her tank top already lying at my feet. It wasn’t the first boring, beige bra he’d seen, the standard-issue uniform of the lonely housewives whose insides he likely reconfigured on a weekly basis.

She stood there in nothing but her jean shorts now, topless and still, her breath shallow but steady. Her breasts were heavier than I remembered, larger than they’d been back in college, the natural result of childbirth and time. They hung full and soft, swaying slightly as she shifted side to side with a dull, nervous energy.

Her tan lines followed the curves of that plain tank top she probably wore every day, leaving pale crescents across her chest and the upper swells of her breasts.

Wide and dark, her areolas were the size of pancakes; on someone smaller, they might have looked absurd, but on her, they were perfect. Bold. Unashamed. She made no move to cover herself, no effort to hide. No embarrassment. Just a woman fully exposed, fully claimed, standing at the edge of something she hadn’t planned for… and had no intention of resisting.

Jamal’s eyes moved over her with open approval, his grin deepening as he took in every inch she now offered without hesitation. He reached out and cupped her breasts in both hands, his touch slow and deliberate. “Damn, girl,” he murmured, almost to himself; a low, sure appreciation of Pam’s curves.

His hands were huge, but even they couldn’t fully contain her. His fingers spread wide, trying and failing to take in her full weight, as if testing just how much of her he could claim.

She shivered under his touch, a visible tremble that ran through her shoulders and down her spine, as if her body were relearning what it meant to be touched by a man. He gave her a firm squeeze, not rough, not gentle, just confident. Like he was claiming something he already knew belonged to him.

Pam didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Her hand moved instinctively, reaching for him again, fingers wrapping around his length with quiet reverence. Overtaken by lust, she began to stroke him slowly, not just to please him, but to ground herself, to be sure the massive weight in her hand was real and not some vivid hallucination. Jamal looked down at her, calm and in control, a knowing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Go ahead, take them off," he said with a grin, the kind that made it sound less like a suggestion and more like a command.

Pam let go of him slowly, her fingers hovering for a breath. There was a flicker of nervousness in her eyes, but lust had already taken the lead.

Her hand dropped to the button of her jean shorts. A soft pop, the rasp of a zipper, and the denim slipped down over her hips, settling around her ankles in a quiet heap.

Her panties matched the bra; beige, full-coverage, forgettable. The kind built for routine, not romance. Not meant to seduce or even be seen. Not by Steve. Not by anyone.

She kicked the shorts away, sending them skimming across the floor to land near the growing pile of clothes at my feet. I stood still, just a few feet away, my eyes dragging over the length of her body. Her legs were long and tanned, thick in all the right places, with faint pits of cellulite just beneath the curve of her ass; subtle, but visible if you were looking. Her skin tone did its best to hide the imperfection, smoothing over the texture like a soft filter, but it was there, honest and unedited.

Then Jamal moved. With a steady hand at her hip, he turned her sideways, guiding her with the same calm authority he’d carried since the moment the door opened. His body shifted behind her, placing himself fully between us.

His back was broad and cut, the sweep of his lats wide enough to eclipse Pam completely. The rest of him looked torn from an anatomy book; each muscle sharply defined, shifting beneath sweat-slick skin. Muscles most people didn’t even know existed, brought to life with every movement under the low cabin light.

It was the same view we’d seen the day before, when he stood at the lounger across from us, silently commanding the attention of every woman by the pool. But now, from behind, there was even more to see.

The perfect arc of his ass flexed with each subtle step, round and high like it had been sculpted for worship. And just beneath it, his huge, heavy balls swayed between his legs; thick, pendulous, and utterly obscene. They matched the sheer absurdity of his cock, an anatomy lesson in scale and weight that defied logic with every movement.

Without a word, Jamal’s dreadlocks swayed as he guided Pam backward. She hit the edge of the bed, lost her balance, and collapsed onto the mattress.

He didn’t pause; just bent down, slid her panties off in one slow, practiced motion, and flicked them behind him without a glance.

They landed in the pile at my feet, right on top of her jean shorts and tank top. Plain beige granny panties, soft cotton, full coverage, completely soaked. The center was dark, almost glistening, like they could’ve been wrung out. Putting to shame what was already clinging to me beneath my own sundress.

Then he stepped aside.

Not rushed. Not careless. Just smooth and unhurried, almost theatrical, like he knew exactly what he was revealing. He shifted just enough to clear my view, then glanced back at me with that same knowing grin, the one he’d worn from the start. The one that said, We did it.

He was unveiling my best friend like some kind of trophy; laid out, conquered, claimed, exposed in her most vulnerable state. Jamal gave no mind to the husband just a few decks above, the child being watched back home by her parents, or the lifeless marriage she’d been quietly drowning in for years. None of it mattered. To him, she was barely a person. Just flesh. Just function. A mission to complete. And he wanted me to witness every inch of what he was about to take.

And there she was.

Pam lay sprawled across his bed, sunk into the sheets, her body loose and glowing in the low light. Massive tits pressed against the mattress, soft and heavy, spreading wide enough to brush both sides of her ribcage. Sweat glazed her skin, leaving her dewy and flushed, as if the cabin itself had turned into a sauna just to bear witness.

Her legs were spread wide, easy and unguarded, one knee cocked slightly outward. A soft tan line stretched across her thigh, left by the jean shorts she wore almost daily, a staple of her Mississippi wardrobe.

Just above it, only faintly visible under the moonlight the night before, the scar from the laser tattoo removal now stood out more clearly, amplified by the sheet of sweat clinging to her skin.

Still, it would’ve been hard to make out if you didn’t know what you were looking for. But I did. I knew exactly what had been there, the Confederate flag Steve had convinced her to get during a drunken haze, back before she knew better.

She hadn’t looked at me. She was either too far gone or too consumed by lust to notice, let alone care, that I was even there.

Between her legs, the hair was wild; blonde, untrimmed, and unruly, the same shade as her roots. It sprawled in every direction, thick enough to engulf her vagina completely, leaving nothing visible beneath the tangle. The wiry strands were damp, matted from sweat and arousal, wetness that had festered since the pool yesterday and carried forward into this moment. It looked untouched for years, the kind of neglect that comes from long marriages, dry spells, and the slow slide of falling out of love with your own body.

But none of it mattered. Not here. What might have been embarrassing came off as raw, almost defiant, her body too lost in the moment to remember or care what it had become. If anything, Jamal seemed the type to take it as a turn-on, proof she’d been untouched for years.

He just stood there, watching me watch her. Everything had happened so fast, yet now time moved like molasses, each second heavy with tension and disbelief. He shifted slightly, turning just enough to give us both one final view. Side profile. Unapologetic.

His cock was still fully erect, still glistening, jutting straight from his body, a whole foot of slick, unyielding dark flesh that hadn’t so much as twitched since her mouth left it. It stood like a monument, a trophy to be had, one final reminder of exactly why we were here.

She looked up at him again from the bed, her head resting on a pillow, eyes slowly tracing up the length of him like she still couldn’t believe this was real. Then, almost hesitantly, her gaze lifted, inch by inch, until it met mine.

The look she gave me said everything. She couldn’t believe this was actually happening, but she wasn’t stopping it. Not even close. It was the look of a woman who knew this could ruin her life, and had already decided it would be worth it.

There was no talk of condoms, birth control, protection, none of the things that were supposed to come first. It didn’t matter. Her eyes made that clear. What I saw wasn’t hesitation. It was pure, reckless hunger. A silent vow to deal with the consequences later.

He stepped forward again, slipping back between her legs, and just like that she disappeared from view. His frame filled the space, blocking her from me, leaving only the bottoms of her feet visible, parted easily around his body. Faint smudges of dirt streaked her soles, the kind that lingered from flip-flops long past their prime.

From where I stood, all I could see was motion, the flex of his glutes, the shifting muscles along his back, the slow, steady roll of his hips as he positioned himself in missionary over Pam. From this angle, his size looked even more obscene, hovering near an entrance shielded by a thick, tangled fortress of pubic hair.

It was a view I’d never had before, one I’d lived, but only from beneath Amir, never from the outside looking in. Jamal’s cock wasn’t just big. It looked unmanageable, like something that didn’t belong between any woman’s legs.

And then he just held there. Almost taunting, giving Pam one final second to register the gravity of what was about to happen, something that could never be undone. A moment to take one final look at the man who now hovered over her, the kind of man Steve had trained her to hate.

And he gave me the same. Time to take in the view. His ass looked like two black sweaty medicine balls packed under tight skin, flexed and solid, while his massive balls hung motionless above the foot-long shaft, suspended between her legs.

With a slow push of his hips, he drove forward, the gigantic mushroom of his cock pressing into Pam, forcing past the wiry resistance of her tangled blonde bush. Strands bent and spread under the pressure, damp curls clinging as the thick crown disappeared inside, framed by the matted fringe around the base.

Her body tensed instantly, hips jolting as the pressure hit, and a low, guttural grunt tore from her throat; raw, involuntary, pulled from somewhere deep inside. Her hands flew to his arms, clutching tight, her fingers digging into his biceps like she needed something solid to hold on to, something to anchor her through the first real penetration she'd felt in three years.

He paused for only a moment, letting Pam catch her breath, just long enough to brace herself. Then his hips rolled forward with quiet, relentless force, pressing in a little deeper. The front several inches of him caught the light with every movement, glistening with her arousal; wet, slick, and impossible to ignore. There was no mistaking the stretch. No buildup. No mercy.

I had to pinch myself to make sure I was awake. Standing behind them, watching it unfold, I could hardly believe what I was witnessing. It felt surreal. Like something torn from a dream I was never supposed to remember.

Barely a minute in, Pam screamed, “Oh, fuck, Jamal!” Hearing his name ripped from her lungs was its own shock; raw, unfiltered, the type of name synonymous with everything she was supposed to hate, now torn straight out of her core.

It wasn’t performative or polite; it was primal. Sharp and guttural, the kind of sound a woman makes when something inside her breaks open. Her legs jerked, heels dragging against the sheets, her hands clinging to Jamal’s arms like she was bracing against impact. Her orgasm hit fast, like it had been locked inside her for three years, just waiting for someone to tear it loose, and he had, barely even trying.

There was no mistaking it. No faking it. A rush of creamy release began to coat him, wet and opaque, streaking his shaft as he kept moving without slowing down. The front of his cock glistened with her climax, her body still pulsing around him, trying to catch up to what was happening even as he stayed buried inside. Her tangled bush caught some of it too, the damp curls slicked and clumped together with the mess, like her orgasm itself had turned into a crude kind of hair gel.

And standing there, I saw it; clear, physical proof that women were built differently. We responded differently. I’d had orgasms: hard, shaking, explosive. But not like this. Not visible. Not dripping. Not tangible. What I was looking at wasn’t just a feeling; it was evidence. There was so much release. Pam wasn’t just exposed; she was vulnerable, undone in the most physical, unmistakable way. And he had barely even started.

I hadn’t even realized my hand was moving until it was already there.

I lifted my sundress, the fabric bunching around my waist, and pressed my fingers between my legs, right over the soaked panties that had been clinging to me for what felt like hours. The moment I touched myself, I exhaled, shaky and shallow, my body already on edge, already begging. I started to rub, slow and steady, locked to the rhythm playing out in front of me.

He drove deeper, lowering his body over hers, each thrust sinking further inside. At least seven inches were buried in her now, maybe more, his shaft as thick as a shaving cream can, a slick ring marking the boundary of Pam’s arousal with over five more inches still waiting behind it. What remained in reserve was already more than Mike or Steve had ever managed, even on their best days.

My fingers moved faster, attempting to keep pace with Jamal’s rhythm, in sync with Pam’s caveman-like grunts. The wet cotton dragged against me, friction building from deep inside, my thoughts slipping out of focus, until suddenly, I wasn’t just watching. I was remembering. Amir. But now I was seeing it from a different angle, not from Pam’s view beneath him, but as if from a camera behind. A perfect view of a missionary scene. Of what it must have looked like when I was in her place, spread out, taken, exposed.

Pam screamed again, suddenly, sharply, almost panicked.

“Oh fuck, Jamal! I’m gonna cum again!”

It wasn’t a moan. It was a shout, full of disbelief, as if her own body had betrayed her. The shock in her voice was unmistakable, like she couldn’t comprehend two orgasms hitting so close together. That kind of release had been impossible with Steve. Impossible with any man she'd been with. But not now. Not with Jamal.

She came again, her body locking up as another wave of arousal spilled out, coating him. And still, Jamal didn’t slow. He didn’t flinch. I couldn’t see his face from where I stood, but I imagined it, blank, maybe even grinning, completely unfazed. His rhythm never changed, driving into her with the same brutal consistency, like a machine built to finish what it started.

His balls bounced with every thrust, heavy and tight, but the penetration wasn’t deep enough for them to slap against her ass. They just moved with him, rising and falling in sync with each motion, following a momentum that wouldn’t be interrupted by anything, not even her second orgasm in almost as many minutes.

I couldn’t help myself.

Drawn in like a magnet, I moved closer; slowly, silently, circling around to see what I couldn’t from behind. I needed a new angle, a new perspective. I needed to see her.

I stepped to the foot of the bed, just beside Jamal, now towering and motionless for a beat as I arrived. From here, the complete transformation was visible. Pam lay beneath him, wrecked and radiant, her entire body glistening.

Her breasts had flattened under their own weight, spilling outward against her ribcage, flesh shining with heat. Between them, a shallow pool of sweat had gathered, catching the low cabin light. The rest of her torso was drenched, not a single dry inch left on her skin.

Her hair clung to her face in wet, matted strands, darkened by moisture like she’d just stepped out of the shower. The flush in her cheeks ran deep, vivid enough that even her tan couldn’t hide it. She looked overwhelmed, ruined, alive in a way I had never seen before.

Then her eyes found mine.

She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. If she tried, it would’ve come out in tongues, a new language born entirely from pleasure. But she didn’t need words. Her face said everything. Eyes wide, unblinking, lips parted in a breathless daze, the look of a woman completely filled, completely used, and dangerously close to her limit.

An expression that screamed I was right about everything.

My gaze darted between them, restless, unable to land. Jamal’s eyes caught mine, steady and unreadable, though that smug grin lingered at the edges. He kept driving into Pam with mechanical precision, hardly any effort required, breathing as calmly as he had back in the Golden Mermaid, all while fucking the life out of her. Then he shifted, hoisting her legs higher onto his shoulders.

That’s when it happened.

His eyes dropped, just for a second.

I followed.

Her leg.

His focus locked there, and the rhythm of his hips faltered, just enough to give him away. I knew he’d finally seen it. The scar, soft and faint, curled like a whisper along her inner thigh. Hidden until now, revealed only by the way he had her stretched out beneath him. And just below it, the ghost of a tattoo: the rebel flag. Faded but unmistakable, clinging to her skin even after three removal sessions like a shameful memory that refused to let go.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. I saw it in the way his eyes held; so did Pam. The slight pause in his body, just for a breath. He was seeing all of her now. Not just the body he was buried inside, but the ugly history etched into her skin.

Something shifted in him. The SpaceX nerd charm he’d worn so effortlessly earlier vanished, replaced by something darker, focused, and unrelenting. A raw intensity took over, like the moment he saw her scar had flipped a switch. His movements changed. Gone was the rhythm. What followed was force. Precision. Purpose.

Pam tried to speak, to explain what he’d just seen, but the words collapsed before they could form. Her mouth worked soundlessly, stammering through broken breaths, as if reaching again for the same excuse she’d whispered on the Serenity Deck the night before—“it was… a… mistake.” This time, the phrase never made it past her lips, cut off by the first punishing thrust that stole her voice and began to unravel her completely.

His hips began to drive harder, deeper. The sound shifted too, wet and sharp, and for the first time, I heard the slap of his balls against her ass with every punishing thrust.

I watched, stunned, as the full length of him, every last inch, disappeared inside her now. All twelve.

It didn’t seem possible, especially for someone who hadn’t had sex in three years. But her body didn’t resist. It welcomed him like it had been waiting for this. Like somehow, she'd been built for it.

Her screams rose with it, no longer moans but something wild and frayed. Desperate. She sounded like an opera singer with brain damage, ragged, raw, completely unrestrained. She wasn’t riding pleasure anymore. She was being dragged under, her body jerking with every savage thrust.

Her head shook side to side uncontrollably, like her brain was trying to outrun the sensation ripping through her. It wasn’t thought but pure instinct, a failing attempt to survive the overload as incoherent gibberish spilled from her lips.

I’d nearly forgotten her phone was still in my hand after that first vibration, but now two more came back to back, muffled against my palm and buried beneath her screams, the bitter irony of Steve checking in while his wife was being split in half two decks below his feet.

Her fingers clawed at the sheets, knuckles gone white, clutching the bed like it was the only thing holding her together. Her reaction was everything I’d hoped for, everything I’d obsessed about over the past day. And now I was watching it play out in real time, like some twisted, beautiful prophecy coming true.

It felt like a finale. Not just a climax, but complete obliteration. He was finishing her on purpose, with ruthless precision, fucking her so hard she might need a wheelchair to leave the room. Every thrust landed like a command, pounding her so deep it felt like he was rewiring something inside her. She wouldn’t walk away from this the same. She might not walk at all. And she would never forget it.

She writhed beneath him, soaked and stretched and shattered, her body learning a new definition of pleasure with every punishing stroke. He was ruining her for Steve. If they ever became intimate again, it would feel empty by comparison.

Jamal ensured she would think about this moment every day. Obsess over it. Dream about it. The way he felt inside her. The way her body responded, like it had been waiting its entire life for this.

Pam began to cum again, but this time, she wouldn’t be alone.

Her mouth dropped open, but no words followed. Just air, gasps, and jagged sounds that fractured in her throat. Her entire body convulsed, locked in a release so powerful it looked like it might break her. And then Jamal followed.

His rhythm changed first; slower, heavier, each thrust drawn out with precision, the unmistakable cadence of a man teetering on the brink. And then, just as the moment overtook him, his gaze dropped; not to her face, not to where their bodies joined, but to the inside of her thigh.

Without warning, he pulled out, his cock surging as a thick blast erupted from the swollen flare of his mushroomed head, arcing through the air in what felt like slow motion. It hit the faded tattoo; his intended target, before ricocheting onto her left breast, splattering across the wide, pancake-sized nipple with precision so absurd it felt like a parlor trick.

He shoved it back in without hesitation, driving deep with a guttural grunt before the second rope even had the chance to escape. Pam was too far gone to care, lost in the storm of three orgasms in under fifteen minutes, her body trembling beneath him as aftershocks rattled through her brain-dead state.

He emptied himself with brutal precision, each eruption from his massive, twenty-one-year-old balls torn out of him in loud, exaggerated cries that bordered on taunting; shouts meant to brand the moment into her, to make sure she knew exactly what was happening to her even in her wrecked haze. At least ten in all, each one louder and deeper than the last, punishing her body and marking her from the inside out.

She collapsed beneath him, every limb slack, chest rising and falling in desperate, heaving waves. She wasn’t unconscious, but she wasn’t fully there either. Her eyes fluttered, unfocused. Her lips parted, breath shallow. She was a sweaty, trembling mess, hair stuck to her forehead, skin flushed, body marked with the proof of everything he had done to her.

The woman who lay there now was unrecognizable from the civilized, respected fourth-grade teacher she was back home. That version of her didn’t exist in that moment. She had been stripped away, undone completely, replaced by something raw and real and wrecked.

Finally, Jamal pulled out.

He stood slowly, leaving Pam sprawled on the bed behind him; open, her sloppy blonde bush matted and glistening, a petri dish of orgasmic fluids leaking from the gaping hole he’d just used. Her body twitched in small, involuntary aftershocks, every spasm squeezing more mess into the tangle below.

She looked unresponsive, like her system had shut down just to process what had been done to her.

His cock quickly softened back to its thick, eight-inch flaccid state, still streaked with the aftermath of her. My eyes were drawn to it again, the same impossible shape I’d first seen outlined through his swimsuit, now fully exposed. It looked like it had awoken solely to alter Pam’s identity, to rewrite something fundamental inside her, and was now settling back into rest.

He turned to me.

Towering over me by nearly a foot and a half, we locked eyes. His expression was unreadable at first; flat, controlled; but then, slowly, that familiar SpaceX nerd charm returned to his face. It was like he’d slipped out of himself for what he’d just done to Pam, and now he was back. Calm. Almost gentle.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t need to.

That look, quiet, certain, and absolutely unshakable, told me everything.

I was next.