If you asked people to describe me, they’d probably say I’m the girl next door. The perfect best friend. Sometimes the one that got away. I work hard, I’m financially independent, I’m loving, fun, caring, and funny in a way that makes people drop their guard.

And I love letting them see that side of me.

But there’s another side — one almost no one gets to see. Sacred, dangerous, lustful. Kinky, dirty, playful, mischievous. A side of me that only a very select few have ever touched, and even fewer have truly experienced.

That’s the part of me this story is about.

My desires run wild, what feels like 24/7. Sometimes keeping calm and collected feels like its own test of self-control. When I have a man in my life, I can channel those thoughts to him — turning fantasies into realities. I’ve always loved being descriptive, telling an unforgettable story that blurs the line between memory and what might come next.

A conversation down memory lane introduced me to Lush Stories. He thought it could be a creative outlet — a place where my wildest fantasies, even real experiences, could come to life while my autonomy remained intact. I had never heard of the site, but I was intrigued. Like-minded individuals, anonymous, all in the same room, craving each other’s thoughts, words, and desires.

I was hooked. I created an account before I had even read my first story. When I got to my profile, I discovered I could write. Me — the girl who hated English class, who was told it was her weakest subject. For a straight-A student, that was always a blow. But now here I was, seventy-two hours into joining, already posting my fourth story. This creative side of me had been waiting all along.

But I can’t take all the credit.

Minutes into joining, my phone pinged: new message.

He was commenting on my profile picture — a shot from my summer in Italy, turned AI-generated artwork. It was bold, outside my comfort zone. And yet, I replied.

He told me that he and his wife liked reading the stories together — that it turned them on. I felt a flicker of shock, maybe even hesitation, but also curiosity. I asked about their favorite positions. He asked about mine.

When I answered, his reply came quickly. “She’s very turned on by this conversation.”

The words hit me harder than I expected. I wasn’t just talking to him — I was talking to them. My sentences had slipped into their bedroom, threading into the space between their bodies. I could almost see it: her curled up beside him, his phone in his hand, both of them waiting for my next response.

He tells me his wife once surprised him with a threesome. Her friend came over, and things got hot and heavy between them before he even had time to process it. His first one.

I admitted I’d never had one before.

And before I knew it, I was pulled into their scene. He described her sucking him off, then asked me what I thought they should do next. The scene shifted, and suddenly I was speaking to her while he was riding her.

Part of me tried not to roll my eyes, imagining I was just talking to some seventy-year-old in his mom’s basement. But I kept going. What was the harm? If it was all just a fantasy, he’d get his rocks off and I’d never hear from him again.

Except I was captivated. The way he described her, the way the moment unfolded — it got inside my head. I’d never been with a woman before. Never even thought about it. Would I want to? Could I? Would I know what to do?

I’ve always been traditional. I love men. I love to please my man, which makes me open to almost anything — except sharing. A threesome had never once crossed my mind, let alone the possibility of enjoying one.

But now I wasn’t so sure. Was it the way he crafted the scene? The delicacy of his words? The way he urged me in, never pushing, only inviting? I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that I stayed.

The conversation carried on for a few more hours, twisting between their bodies and my words, until finally it was time to say goodbye. Goodnight.

And just like that, the fantasy was over.

The next morning, my phone pinged again. A new message. It was him. He said he was at work and wouldn’t be able to talk much, but still wanted to.

And then, almost casually, he opened up. Married for fourteen years. Three kids. His family was the best thing in his life, he said. He talked about work, about the balance of it all, and for a moment the messages didn’t feel like part of a fantasy anymore. They felt like a window.

I reciprocated. I told him about my own hopes — how much I wanted marriage and children one day, how baffled I was that it hadn’t happened yet. Plenty of potential candidates, sure, but none I could imagine growing old with.

His reply stopped me.

“Yeah, I’m a stranger, but I can tell a lot already. You’re kind and caring. You’re sexy. I haven’t actually seen you yet, but my money is on gorgeous. You’ve been hurt, yes, but you want to share your love with someone great. The men around you have been idiots, blind to what an amazing woman you are. You have a beautiful heart, a beautiful mind… and you’re a little sassy, which is great.”

I stared at the screen, stunned. That was me. All of me. He had pinned my personality perfectly from just a few messages.

I told him I was writing my first story. He desperately wanted to read it, but it was still sitting in the review queue. So I rewrote it just for him. I felt inspired by him, and I wanted him to experience that moment with me — to be the first to see this side of me coming alive.

When I sent it, he told me he had finished after reading it. That my words had turned him on so much that he couldn’t hold back.

Then he added something I hadn’t expected: his wife had read it too. She’d touched herself the whole way through. I hadn’t realized they were together again, but I didn’t mind. In some strange way, it felt like my story had slipped into their bedroom, wrapping itself around them both.

They wanted a part two.

The day continued on, and he kept messaging me. In between talking about work and life, he started sliding in GIFs of different sex positions. It never felt forced. Each one slipped in naturally, easing me deeper into the space where his desire for me lived.

One clip grabbed me — a woman bent over a massage table, gripping the sides while he drove into her from behind. It was raw, filthy, and hot. He told me how badly he wished that it was us.

I can’t explain it, but I trusted this man. I couldn’t have told you what he looked like — I’d never seen him. But I trusted his soul. With him, I felt safe. And that’s when my playful side peaked. He had me gripped — and I wanted to return the feeling.

I sent him a photo of me lounging in the pool. My face cropped out, but my body in full view. He was hooked instantly. Turned on at work. And I was back in my favorite game: the chase, the tease. How far could I push him at his desk?

Next came a shower photo — side profile, a honey pot covering my nipple, but my bum exposed.

“You are so fucking hot. I can’t stand up from my desk right now. I’m squirming so badly and wish I could be with you right now.”

That’s when the possessive side of me came out. I told him that when he got home, I wanted him to message me — stroking himself, thinking about me. Only me.

He wanted to know what I was doing, and I told him: writing my second story. Because that’s what he had become — my muse. I was so turned on I could hardly separate the words from the desire. Him. The writing. The fantasy. It was all colliding and blurring into one.

I was caught up in the moment, but fully aware of the choice I wanted to make. I wanted him to see me. To know my eye color. The plumpness of my lips. The seduction written across my face.

He was back in my inbox the next morning, and I felt the butterflies. Our rhythm was easy now — casual banter, learning more about each other, letting the conversation weave between light and heavy without effort.

And then he threw a curveball.

It stopped me dead in my tracks. My heart kicked hard against my ribs, my knees went weak.

“Why do I have this fantasy of coming home to you. Pressing you against a wall and passionately kissing you.”

The words hit differently. They felt more intimate than anything before. More dangerous. More real. My chest tightened, my pulse spiked, and a pool of wetness spread between my legs just from reading them.

He told me how lucky he felt to have messaged me. To have stumbled into this connection. That he felt this pull toward me he couldn’t ignore.

And then he admitted something that made me hold my breath.

He had a crush on me.

He said it was new for him — strange, even — because he’d only ever had eyes for his wife. But now, there was me. He said his body was literally aching for me, craving something it had no business craving.

The words melted into me, a mix of forbidden and irresistible. He wasn’t just turned on. He wanted me. Desired me in a way that felt raw, almost painful in its intensity. And I wanted him too — maybe not his life, but the way he made me feel.

And the truth? I felt it too.

He told me he was taking his wife on a cruise. No kids — just a romantic getaway. The words sent that low pull through me again. Them. Together. My craving for him. And maybe her.

The cruise left in six days. In that moment, I made the most impulsive decision of my life: I bought a ticket.

The days leading up to departure were a blur of restless energy. I threw myself into planning, curating outfits for every possible moment — lounging by the pool, intimate dinners, late-night encounters. Each choice felt like part of a strategy, though I couldn’t quite picture how it would unfold. My mind froze every time I tried.

Instead, I replayed the same images over and over: his eyes finding me across the deck, her noticing me for the first time. Would she smile? Would he try to hide his reaction? Would there be attraction at all? Could they ever trust me enough to become their third?

The day came faster than I expected. Boarding pass in hand, I walked the gangway with my heart thundering in my chest. Around me were families and couples buzzing with excitement. For them, this was a vacation. For me, it was a collision course.

I’d splurged on a bigger room. A suite with a lounge area, a king bed, a balcony that opened to the endless horizon, and a deep soaker tub I already imagined filling with bubbles and champagne. Private. Indulgent. Dangerous.

I dropped my bag and slipped into the first outfit I’d chosen: a fitted bikini, a light lavender that made my skin glow. Sliding on sunglasses, I forced myself to breathe, then headed for the pool deck.

That’s where I saw them.

She was stretched out on a lounger, a wide-brimmed hat tilted back just enough for me to notice the tumble of deep red hair spilling over her shoulders. It glowed like copper in the sun, impossible to ignore. He sat beside her, shirtless, tanned, a drink in hand. He looked relaxed, but the second his eyes lifted and locked on mine, everything changed. His body stilled. His lips parted. Recognition sparked instantly. He knew.

Her hand brushed his knee, pulling his gaze back for a moment. She adjusted her hat, sipping her drink, unaware of the silent charge that had already snapped between us.

I turn and walk away, every step deliberate, even though my insides are in chaos. I don’t dare look back, but my whole body is humming with one hope — that he’ll follow. Selfishly, recklessly, I want him to myself first.

*****

“Babe, I’m a little hungry. Do you mind if I go find something to eat?”

I try to sound casual, steady, but my chest is hammering. My eyes are locked on her retreating figure — the curve of her back, the sway of her hips as she walks away. I can’t let her vanish into the ship. Not without me.

“Sure, see you later,” my wife answers, distracted, eyes still buried in her latest Lush Story. She doesn’t even glance up, and relief surges through me.

I rise slowly, forcing calm into my movements, but inside I’m burning. Each step feels urgent, impatient. I’m not hungry. I don’t care about food. I only care about finding her — about what happens when I do.

I weave through the deck, scanning every direction. People are everywhere — couples arm in arm, kids darting between loungers, bartenders shaking cocktails. But not her.

My pulse spikes. Did I wait too long? Did she slip away?

Then I spot her. She’s ahead, near the glass elevators, pausing just long enough to check her phone before slipping inside.

I move faster, forcing my strides into something that looks normal, controlled. The elevator doors start to close, and for a moment panic rips through me — but I catch her gaze through the narrowing gap. Her eyes lock on mine, wide, daring. She doesn’t press the button to hold the doors. She lets them close, leaving me on the other side.

It’s a game.

I jab the call button, my body thrumming with adrenaline, and when the doors open again, I step inside, knowing exactly where she’s gone. I ride down one level and find her in the corridor, leaning casually against the wall outside the suites, as if she’s been waiting.

Every instinct is at war — husband, father, protector — but none of it is strong enough to stop me.

“Hi,” I manage, my voice low, uneven.

She doesn’t answer right away. She just smiles, slow and knowing, before turning her keycard and opening the door to her cabin. She slips inside without a word, leaving the door cracked open behind her.

And I follow.

The door clicks shut behind me, the air suddenly thick, charged. She leans back against the wall, calm in a way that makes my pulse pound harder. Her eyes never leave mine, and the silence stretches until it feels unbearable.

Then her lips curl into the faintest smile.

“Well? Aren’t you going to kiss me, Scott?”

The sound of my name on her tongue shatters me. I cross the space in an instant, pressing her against the wall just like I’d told her I dreamed of — the fantasy I’d whispered now a reality.

I’m on her in an instant, slamming her against the wall, my mouth crushing hers. The kiss is wild, messy, all tongue and teeth, like years of restraint combusting at once. She gasps into me, and the sound drives me past reason.

My hands grip her hips hard, pulling her into me, grinding until I can feel the heat of her even through our clothes. It’s maddening — the friction, the ache, the way her body fits against mine like it’s always belonged there. She claws at my shoulders, pulling me tighter, urging me to take, to lose control, and I nearly do.

I lift her, and she locks around me instantly, her back thudding against the wall as I press into her, fully clothed but so hard, so desperate it’s almost unbearable. Every thrust of my hips against hers is a warning: I want more, I can’t stop, I’m already gone.

And for a second, I almost do it; I almost rip the thin line between fantasy and reality to shreds. The image flashes hard in my head — pushing her panties aside, sinking into her, losing myself.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

Because I’m married. Because until now, I’ve only ever had eyes for my wife. Even that one time — the threesome — it wasn’t my idea. She wanted it, she invited her friend, and I went along because it pleased her.

This is different. This is mine. This is a choice I shouldn’t be making.

I kiss her harder, one last desperate press of my mouth against hers, before I force myself to breathe, to remember. My body is on fire, aching to keep going, but my chest is full of guilt that makes it almost impossible to move.

*****

It’s like I can read his mind. His body is pressed hard into mine, every inch of him screaming that he wants me. But even as his kiss devours me, I can feel the conflict burning under his skin. His wife is just a floor above us — the woman who is his entire world. The life they’ve built, the family they’ve created.

That truth hums inside me as sharply as my own desire. I want him — God, do I want him — but the part I can’t shake is them. Her with him. Her control. Her approval. Without it, this feels like stolen heat, borrowed time.

I press my palms to his chest, forcing a little space between us, my breath ragged as I try to regain composure.

“I hope me surprising you on this cruise is okay,” I murmur, my voice soft. “A bold move, I know… but maybe the best opportunity for things to escalate. Or not. Depending on what you both want.”

The words hang between us, heavy and trembling — an invitation, a confession, and a boundary all at once.

His hands are still on me, his breath hot against my cheek, but his kiss stills. His forehead rests lightly against mine as he exhales.

“You are amazing,” he whispers, voice rough, reverent. The way he says it makes my chest ache. Not just turned on — he’s in awe.

But I can’t ignore the weight pressing down on us. Her.

“So… how does she find out I’m here?” I ask quietly, searching his eyes.

The question lands heavy. His jaw tightens, his gaze flicks toward the floor before coming back to me.

“She will,” he says finally. “She notices everything. And I don’t want this to be something I hide from her. That’s not who we are.”

My pulse spikes. Part of me is terrified, part of me electrified. “And when she does?”

A slow, conflicted smile pulls at his mouth. “Then we see where this goes. She’s the one who invited someone else in before. If she wants this… if we want this… it’ll happen. But she needs to know first.”

He strokes my cheek, thumb lingering like he doesn’t want to let me go. His eyes are softer now, calmer, though I can still feel the heat simmering just beneath.

“You are amazing,” he says again, firmer this time, like he needs me to believe it.

I nod, swallowing hard, still pressed against the wall with his body caging mine. My pulse is wild, my lips swollen, but the reality between us hangs heavy. She’s close. She’s part of him. And whatever happens next, it won’t just be about the two of us.

“I should go,” he murmurs finally, though he doesn’t move. Only after a long beat does he step back, running a hand over his face like he’s trying to pull himself together.

When the door closes behind him, I lean into the silence, breath trembling, the taste of him still on my mouth.

*****

When I get back to the pool, she’s still on the lounger, hair spilling across her shoulders, her book open in her lap. She looks up at me, squinting slightly against the sun.

“Find something to eat?” she asks casually.

“Yeah,” I answer too quickly. My voice feels tight in my throat, my chest still burning from what just happened below deck. I sit beside her, trying to seem normal, but I can feel the tremor in my hands.

She studies me for a beat too long before glancing back at her book. I know that look — she’s clocked something. She always does.

We sit in silence until she finally closes the book and sets it aside. “You’re acting strange.”

I force a laugh, but it dies in my throat. She doesn’t smile.

Later that night, in our cabin, I can’t keep it in anymore. She’s brushing out her hair at the vanity, her reflection sharp in the mirror. I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, heart pounding.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

She freezes for half a second, then slowly sets the brush down. “Alright,” she says carefully.

I drag in a breath. “Do you remember that girl we messaged with? On Lush?”

Her eyes narrow slightly in the mirror. “Yes.”

“When we were chatting, I told her about the cruise. I was in the moment, excited about our romantic getaway… and then today I saw her. She’s here, on the boat. She said she wanted to surprise me. Surprise us.”

Her head tilts, eyes narrowing as she studies me. A beat of silence stretches before her lips curve into the faintest, unreadable smile.

“Well,” she says softly, almost to herself. “That is bold of her. Bolder still of you to tell me.”

The calm in her voice chills me more than anger ever could. She isn’t lashing out. She isn’t breaking down. She’s thinking. Calculating. And I can’t read which way she’ll turn.

*****

The next day, I keep to myself. I’m not hiding exactly, but I’m not looking for them either. The ship is big enough to disappear into — long decks, crowded pools, endless corners where no one notices you.

It isn’t about fear. It’s about trust. I know they need space, time to talk, to unravel whatever last night stirred up between them. I don’t want to push. I don’t want to overstep.

Still, every time I pass a couple holding hands on the railing, every time I hear laughter at a nearby table, my chest tightens. I wonder if it’s them. If she’s watching me the way I watched her. If he’s still replaying the press of my lips against his.

I give them the day. And the next. Letting the silence stretch, letting them decide if this ends as a mistake or becomes something more.

I come back to my room after tanning by the pool, skin warm and humming with restless energy. I drop my towel, walk over to the counter, and make myself a rum and Coke. I need something to settle the jitters twisting in my chest — the endless what-ifs. What if yes? What if no?

I take my first sip, the ice clinking against the glass, and that’s when I see it.

A white note on the floor by my door.

My stomach flips. I must have stepped right over it when I came in.

For a moment, I just stare at it, frozen. The glass sweats in my hand, condensation dripping onto the carpet. My pulse is loud in my ears, every nerve in me sparking with possibility.

Slowly, carefully, I set the drink down and crouch to pick it up.

The paper is folded in half, no envelope, just plain white. My fingers tremble as I unfold it.

A single sentence, written in neat, looping handwriting:

“Drinks tomorrow 8 pm. - Deck 5 Lounge.”

That’s it. No name. No explanation. Just an invitation.

I chose a butter-yellow dress for tonight — soft, simple, but radiant. It clings just enough to illuminate the tan I’d been building by the pool, and when I caught my reflection earlier, my blue eyes shimmered like the Caribbean water beneath us.

If I had to guess, I would have expected to see him first. Maybe waiting at the table, glancing at his watch, restless.

But instead, I see her.

Her soft red hair falls in loose curls around her shoulders, catching the low light of the room. She’s about 5’7, porcelain skin glowing like she’s never been touched by the sun. And her breasts—God. Full, natural, the kind that move with her body in a way that leaves no doubt. I feel the flicker of insecurity in my chest, conscious of my own B-cup, though I hate admitting it.

She’s wearing a sage-green cocktail dress that hugs her curves perfectly, the color making her eyes seem deeper, more dangerous. She’s at the bar, ordering drinks with a calm confidence that makes the space around her bend toward her.

Then she looks up.

Her eyes lock onto mine across the bar, steady, unflinching. For a beat, neither of us moves. The hum of the room fades, the clink of glasses and low chatter falling away until it’s just her gaze holding me in place.

Then, slowly, her lips curve into the faintest smile. Not playful, not warm exactly — something sharper. An invitation wrapped in a test.

She lifts her glass, acknowledging me with a small tilt before nodding toward the empty stool beside her. A silent summons.

My pulse quickens. I smooth my dress with trembling hands, willing my legs to move. As I cross the room, her eyes follow me the whole way. By the time I reach her side, my throat feels dry.

“Yellow suits you,” she says softly, her voice even smoother than I imagined. “Like you knew the Caribbean was waiting for you.”

Her voice is calm, measured. It makes the air feel thicker, like she’s deliberately testing how steady I can stay under her gaze.

I sit beside her, nerves buzzing under my skin. The bartender sets a fresh glass in front of me — rum and Coke — though I don’t remember ordering it. She must have.

“I wasn’t sure you’d actually come,” she says after a pause, turning her glass slowly between her fingers.

“I wasn’t sure you’d actually want me here,” I admit, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.

That earns me a smile — not soft, but sharp. A smile that says she’s in control of this moment. That this was her idea, her choice.

I feel the shift before I see him. The energy changes, heavier, electric. Then his hand brushes her shoulder as he steps up beside her, his presence impossible to ignore.

He doesn’t speak right away. Neither of them do. They just look at me — together — and for the first time, I feel the weight of exactly what I walked into.

The three of us move a smaller table with lounge chairs placed closely together. The candlelight, soft between us. She leans back in her chair, eyes fixed on me, her voice steady.

“I have to admit, when I first found out you were here, I was taken aback. Then that wave hit me… remembering what it felt like, texting you while he was inside me. You’re beautiful.”

A smile tugs at my lips. I don’t shrink under her gaze. I meet it head-on, letting the heat of her words settle into me instead of unraveling me.

“So are you,” I answer smoothly.

Her brow arches slightly, amused, maybe even impressed. Her hair shifts as she tilts her head, studying me with a sharper kind of curiosity now.

For the first time tonight, I don’t feel like the outsider. I feel like I belong at this table.

She swirls her wine, then looks from me to him — holding his gaze just long enough for me to feel the unspoken power shift.

“So tell me,” she says smoothly, turning back to me, “have you ever been with a woman before?”

The question lands between us like a spark. My mouth opens, but before I can answer, I catch the way his jaw flexes, his eyes darkening as though the question alone unravels him.

He clears his throat, finally speaking for the first time tonight. “You don’t have to answer if you’re not comfortable,” he says softly, though his gaze is locked on me. “But… I’d like to know too.”

The way his voice dips on that last line makes my pulse kick. His wife smiles faintly, watching him, almost like she’s daring him to admit just how badly he wants to hear the answer.

I take a slow breath, steadying myself. “No,” I admit. “I haven’t. Honestly, I’d never even thought about it. Not once. My first consideration… the first time it ever crossed my mind… was the night I was talking to both of you on Lush.”

Her lips part slightly, then curve into a slow smile. “So it was us,” she says softly. “We were the ones who made you curious.”

“You didn’t just make me curious,” I reply, meeting her gaze. “You made me want it. Want you.”

The silence that follows is thick, electric. He shifts in his chair, jaw tight, eyes flicking between us like he’s barely holding himself together. The weight of them both on me is almost unbearable — not judgment, but hunger.

The silence hums between us after my confession. Her hair slips over one shoulder as she tilts her head, studying me with that same unreadable smile.

Then I feel it — his hand, sliding across under the table until it brushes against mine. Not grabbing, not demanding, just a quiet contact that makes my pulse spike.

She notices. Of course she does. Her lips curl faintly.

“Why don’t you kiss him?” she asks softly, her voice smooth as silk. Not a question — a command dressed as curiosity.

I glance at him, his eyes already dark, waiting. The candlelight flickers over his face as if the whole room has been holding its breath for this moment. I lean in, lips finding his, and the spark is immediate — heat, hunger, all the pent-up ache between us spilling into one kiss.

When I finally pull back, her smile is sharper. “Good,” she murmurs. She takes a slow sip of wine, then sets her glass down. Her gaze never leaves mine.

“Now,” she says evenly, “hand me your panties.”

The air crackles between us, her eyes locked on mine, daring me to submit. My pulse hammers, but instead of fumbling, I let a slow grin tug at my lips.

“I would,” I murmur, leaning in just slightly, “but I’m not wearing any.”

Her brows lift, surprise flickering before she lets out a soft, amused laugh — low and wicked. She glances at him, and the way his jaw tightens, the way his hand flexes under the table, tells me everything. My little confession just lit him on fire.

When her eyes return to mine, they’re darker now. “Prove it,” she says softly.

I slide my chair slightly closer to hers. Slowly, I lift my dress so it rides just above my knees. With one hand, I pick up the drink menu, angling it like I’m showing her something. My other hand finds hers beneath the table.

I guide her fingers onto my thigh, the heat of her touch making my pulse spike. Inch by inch, I draw her hand higher, until we reach my sex. I hold her there, breath trembling, then press one finger into me so she can feel the wetness pooling within.

Her lips part, a soft moan escaping before she can stop it. The sound floods me with power.

Keeping her hand in mine, I pull it gently from beneath my dress. And then, in one swift, deliberate movement, I bring her fingers to his lips.

His mouth parts without hesitation. His tongue flicks against her fingertip, tasting me, and his eyes burn as he sucks her finger into his mouth.

The air at the table turns molten. Around us, diners laugh and clink glasses, oblivious to the fact that in our small circle of candlelight, everything has changed.

She slips her finger from his mouth, his lips parting with a faint gasp as if he isn’t ready to let go. Her eyes glint in triumph, savoring what just happened.

That’s when I rise from my chair.

The scrape of wood against the floor makes them both look up at me, surprised. I smooth my dress, heart steady, and pull the spare key card from my clutch.

Without a word, I place it on the table between us. The candlelight catches it, the plastic gleaming like a dare.

I meet her gaze, then his. Neither speaks. Neither has to.

And then I turn and walk away, leaving them with the choice.

Back in my cabin, I leave the yellow dress pooled on the floor and slip into the soaker tub. Steam curls around me, the water rising until it laps over my bare skin.

I sink back against the porcelain, arms stretched along the rim, my body hidden and revealed in equal measure by the rippling surface. Candlelight flickers across the water, catching the curve of my breasts, the swell of my hips, teasing with glimpses before the waves disguise them again.

I hear it — the soft beep of the keycard, the click of the lock. Footsteps cross the floor, steady, deliberate.

He enters first, and the sound that leaves his throat is low, rough. “Fuccck…”

She follows just behind him, her eyes locking onto me immediately.

I rise from the tub, water cascading over my body in silver rivulets. My skin glistens under the soft cabin light, every curve on display. I don’t flinch. I want them to see all of me.

He takes a step toward me, hunger carved into every line of his face — but I lift my hand instead, reaching for hers.

Our fingers touch. I draw her closer, sliding the straps of her dress from her shoulders until it pools at her feet. Her bra and panties follow, discarded in silence.

When she steps into the tub with me, the water ripples around us. Steam curls between our bodies as she presses in close, skin to skin for the very first time.

I glance past her shoulder, meeting his eyes. His chest rises and falls, tense, hungry, as if he’s barely holding himself together.

My voice comes low, steady, but laced with heat. “Can I kiss your wife?”

The question hangs heavy in the air, sharp and intimate. His jaw tightens, his gaze flicks to her, then back to me. A beat of silence, then he nods once, rough and certain.

“Yes.”

I close the distance slowly, savoring every second of the build, until my lips finally brush hers. Soft at first — a tentative graze, a testing. She responds instantly, tilting into me, and the kiss deepens.

Her lips are different than I imagined. Softer, fuller, with a sweetness that makes my pulse race. My hand slides to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her damp curls, pulling her closer as her body presses against mine.

The water ripples around us, carrying the sound of our low moans. Her tongue teases mine, hesitant for a moment before daring further, and soon we’re tangled in a kiss that feels less like a first and more like something inevitable.

Behind us, I hear his sharp inhale — a sound of hunger, awe, and something primal as he watches his wife kiss me for the first time.

I cup her face, fingers tangled in her damp curls, while her hands find my waist under the water, fingertips grazing up my spine. The warmth of her touch makes me shiver, though the bath is already hot.

Her moan slips into my mouth — soft, surprised, and devastatingly sexy. It drives me to pull her tighter, water splashing against the porcelain as our kiss grows hungrier.

Her skin is smooth under my hands, slick with heat, and I explore without thinking — her shoulder, the swell of her breast, the elegant curve of her back. She mirrors me, her touch tentative at first, then bolder, as if she’s been waiting for this as long as I have.

Her lips are still wet from our kiss when she eases me up onto the built-in bench, the warm water lapping at my hips. My body sinks back against the curve of the tub, legs parting instinctively as she kneels between them.

She looks up at me once, her eyes glinting, her hair plastered damp to her shoulders. A wicked smile curves her lips.

“I want to taste you,” she murmurs, her voice low and certain. “The way you said you were wet for us that night… I want it for myself now.”

The words send a shudder straight through me.

And then she’s on me.

Her mouth seals over me, her tongue stroking slow, deliberate lines at first, savoring. My hips jolt against her face, the shock of it stealing my breath. The water ripples around her, but it’s nothing compared to the fire of her tongue, circling, teasing, pressing deeper with every flick.

I clutch the wall behind me, my knuckles white, as the moans tear out of me. She devours me like she’s waited years for this — no hesitation, no mercy.

When she sucks hard around my clit, I cry out, head tipping back against the tile, body shuddering under her control. My thighs close around her, desperate to hold her there, to never let her stop.

The orgasm slams into me hard, pulsing through every nerve, as I writhe under her mouth. She doesn’t stop, not even when I’m trembling, her tongue lapping up every last tremor of me until I collapse against the bench, spent and gasping.

When she finally lifts her head, her lips are glistening with me, her smile wicked and triumphant.

I force my eyes open — and there he is.

Still standing at the edge of the tub, his face twisted with hunger and restraint, his breathing ragged, fists clenched like he’s seconds away from snapping. Watching his wife taste me into oblivion.

When I step over the edge of the tub, he’s there immediately, a towel in his hands. His eyes rake over me with a raw hunger that makes my pulse spike, but his first move is gentle — wrapping the towel around my body, his fingers brushing my skin, lingering at my hip.

Then he kisses me — hard, desperate, like he’s been holding back for far too long. His mouth crashes onto mine, stealing my breath, his grip tightening on my waist as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear. The towel loosens under his hands, slipping lower, forgotten, as his tongue claims me with a hunger that makes my knees weak.

And then she’s behind me.

Her hands slide over my hips, damp and warm, slipping up my ribs to cup my breasts as she presses her body flush against my back. I’m caught between them, his mouth devouring mine, her touch claiming me from behind.

His tongue tangles with mine, rough and hungry, while her lips find the curve of my neck, sucking, biting softly until I moan into his mouth.

I can’t move — I don’t want to. I’m theirs, trapped between their heat, their hunger closing in from both sides.

His kiss is still on my lips, his hands gripping my waist, when she slips between us. Her fingers lace with mine, and with a sly smile, she tugs me gently but firmly away from him.

“Come with me,” she murmurs, leading me toward the bed.

The sheets are cool beneath me as I sink back, my body still humming from the bath, from their touches. She doesn’t climb onto the bed right away — instead, she turns to him.

Her fingers trail slowly down his chest, lingering over every line of muscle, before tugging at the hem of his shirt. Inch by inch, she peels it off him, her movements unhurried, deliberate, like she knows both of us are watching.

His chest rises and falls under her touch, his eyes locked on mine as if the sight of me sprawled on his bed is the only thing keeping him upright.

She smiles faintly, sliding her hands down to his belt. She doesn’t rush — she teases, fingers brushing just above the line of his waistband, making him groan low in his throat. When she finally unbuckles it, she glances over her shoulder at me, her eyes glinting with wicked delight.

It’s not just for him. It’s for me too. Every button she pops, every inch of skin she reveals, is a show — her way of making sure I feel the same hunger building in my chest that she sees in his.

By the time his pants fall to the floor, he’s trembling with restraint, his body bared, and she’s still in control — undressing him piece by piece, teasing him, teasing me, until we’re both desperate for her to finish.

She drops to her knees on one side of him. I slide off the bed and kneel on his other side, my hand curling around his shaft just beneath her mouth.

Slowly, I lean in, letting my lips take him too, our tongues brushing as we trade control back and forth.

The three of us move in sync — my mouth replacing hers, then hers replacing mine — until we’re both licking, kissing, sucking him together. His groans are rough, ragged, his hands fisting in our hair as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

Our mouths move over him in sync — trading, sharing, sometimes together, sometimes apart. His thighs, trembling as his hands fist tighter in our hair, guiding us but never quite able to keep pace with how much we’re giving him.

Her tongue flicks along the base while I take his tip deep into my mouth, sucking hard. Then we switch, her lips sliding down his length while I lick along the underside, teasing where I know he’s sensitive. My mouth sucking one of his balls while my hand massages the other.

He’s falling apart above us. I can feel it in the way his hips jerk, the way his breath stutters, the way his grip turns desperate instead of steady.

I glance up at her, and our eyes meet over his cock. Without a word, we both pull back slightly, our hands stroking him in tandem.

He groans, louder this time, and then it happens — hot, thick release spilling over us in pulsing waves. Across her lips, her chest. Across mine too, dripping down my chin as I lick it from my fingers.

We’re both gasping, laughing breathlessly, our faces slick and shining under the dim light, while he stands there trembling, utterly undone by the two of us together.

She leans in, kissing me through the mess, her tongue sliding against mine, the taste of him shared between us.

We tumble onto the bed together, sheets twisted, bodies damp with sweat and steam. He collapses back against the pillows, chest heaving, eyes still dark but heavy with exhaustion. “Give me a minute,” he mutters, a rough laugh under his breath, and I can tell he means it — his body is spent, trembling.

She doesn’t waste time. She rolls toward me, her red curls spilling across the pillow, her eyes sharp and gleaming. Her fingers trail down my arm before she takes my chin, tilting my face toward hers.

“I want you,” she whispers, her lips brushing mine. “I want your mouth on me. Make me cum.”

My breath catches. A jolt of nerves shoots through me — I’ve never done this before. Not in reality, not outside of a fantasy. My body tenses with equal parts fear and thrill.

“I’ve never—” I start, but she silences me with another kiss, slow and certain.

“I’ll show you,” she promises against my lips, her voice low and coaxing. “Just do what feels good to you. I want to feel you.”

Behind us, he groans, already stirring again at the sight of us — his wife commanding me, me trembling on the edge of something I’ve never tried.

She takes my hand, guiding it between her thighs, showing me the warmth, the slickness already waiting. My breath stutters.

“Feel that?” she whispers against my ear. “That’s what I want you to taste.”

I swallow hard, nodding. She shifts, straddling my chest, her knees pressed into the sheets on either side of me. My heart pounds as she lowers herself, her scent filling my head, dizzying.

“Start slow,” she murmurs, brushing her fingers through my hair. “Just like you’d kiss me.”

I lean up tentatively, my lips brushing her, tasting her for the first time. She gasps, hips jerking lightly, and the sound sends fire through me. Instinct takes over — I lick, then suck gently, exploring, testing.

“That’s it,” she moans, her fingers tightening in my hair. “Yes, baby… just like that.”

Her praise drives me, my tongue circling, pressing deeper, finding new rhythms. She guides me when I falter, soft whispers, subtle pulls of my hair, but more and more I stop thinking and just do. Her hips grind against my mouth, her moans filling the room, until I forget I was ever nervous.

When I glance up, she’s watching me with half-lidded eyes, her lips parted in ecstasy. And just beyond her, he’s hard again, stroking himself slowly to the sight of me devouring his wife.

Her thighs tighten around my head as I lick deeper, sucking her clit between my lips the way I’d kiss her mouth. Her moans grow louder, sharper, each sound vibrating straight through me.

“Yes,” she gasps, tugging my hair tighter. “Don’t stop—god, don’t stop.”

I obey, tongue circling, then flattening to lap her in long strokes, greedy now. My nerves are gone — replaced by raw hunger, by the desperate need to give her everything she’s asking for.

She rolls her hips against my mouth, chasing it, using me, and the taste of her floods me, sweet and salty, addictive. I moan into her and the vibration makes her cry out, shuddering above me.

Her head falls back, curls spilling down her shoulders, breasts heaving as she thrusts into me harder. “Just like that,” she pants. “Oh, fuck, don’t stop—yes, yes—”

Her body goes taut, every muscle straining as the orgasm slams into her. She jerks against my mouth, trembling, crying out my name as waves crash through her. I keep licking, sucking, dragging it out until she finally collapses forward, thighs quivering, body undone.

When she lifts her head, her face is flushed, eyes glassy, lips swollen from moans. She looks down at me, smiling slow and wicked. “Not bad for your first time,” she whispers, brushing my cheek.

I glance past her, breathless, and see him — stroking himself hard, his chest rising fast, eyes locked on us with raw, unrestrained hunger.

She lies back on the sheets, flushed and glistening, her hair spilling wild around her head. I straddle her hips, lowering myself until our slick clits press together. The first grind steals a gasp from us both, sharp and needy. Her hands slide up my thighs, grabbing my waist to pull me harder against her.

Then he moves in behind me.

The bed dips under his weight, his heat searing my back as his cock brushes against her entrance — the same woman I’m grinding against, skin to skin, our moans tangled together. His hand clamps onto my hip, steadying me as he slams into her in one hard, hungry thrust.

The jolt rips through me, his force pushing me down against her, our clits grinding harder, wetter, the friction unbearable. I cry out, but the sound cuts off as his other hand snakes up around my throat, tightening just enough to make me dizzy with lust.

Pinned between them, I’m undone. His cock, pounding into her through me, her fingers sliding up my belly, tugging at my nipples, twisting until I moan into the room. Then her hand dips lower, slipping between my thighs. She pushes one finger into me, curling it deep, before dragging it up to my lips.

“Open,” she whispers. I obey, sucking her finger greedily, tasting myself while she smirks up at me, her hips rising to meet his every thrust.

The rhythm builds — his body slamming into hers, her hand working me, our clits grinding harder and harder with every movement. My cries mingle with hers, his groans rough and guttural behind me, his hand at my throat holding me in place while his other keeps me steady on her body.

The heat builds fast, unbearable, all three of us tangled in the same rhythm, the same need. Her back arches beneath me, my thighs shake, his grip turns bruising as his thrusts grow frantic.

We finish together — her moan, my scream, his growl — one explosion of sound and heat and wetness, our bodies convulsing in sync until the sheets are damp, our skin slick, our breaths ragged.

I collapse against her chest, his weight pressing into my back, all of us shaking, trembling, spent but still clinging to one another.

The room is quiet now except for our ragged breathing, the sheets damp beneath us. My body is still trembling, every nerve lit, but I can’t move — I’m caught in the tangle of them, his chest heavy against my back, her fingers stroking lazy circles along my hip.

For a long moment, none of us speaks. It’s just heat, sweat, and the lingering pulse of release. Finally, she lets out a low, breathless laugh, her lips brushing my ear. “Messy little surprise you turned out to be.”

I smile weakly, eyes drifting shut as his arm tightens around me, his lips pressing once against the back of my shoulder. But the ache inside me hasn’t gone. If anything, it burns deeper — a hunger still waiting to be fed.

The next couple of days passed in a blur. We had drinks together, wandered through port towns, browsed little shops, and sat by the water. On the surface, it was all platonic — safe, easy, almost ordinary.

But under the laughter and casual conversation, there were moments. Subtle, fleeting gestures that lingered too long to be accidental. His hand, brushing mine when he passed me a drink. Her knowing smile when our eyes met across a crowded bar. The way his gaze dropped to my lips when I laughed.

Small sparks, buried under restraint. Enough to remind me that what had happened in that cabin wasn’t gone — it was smoldering quietly, waiting for the right moment to flare again.

*****

It was the last day of the cruise, and my wife told me she was going to spend it at the spa — a full day to pamper herself before heading back to reality. We had breakfast together first, lingering over coffee and fresh fruit, her laughter light, her skin glowing from the week in the sun.

I walked her down to the second level, to the frosted glass doors with “Spa & Wellness” etched across them. She squeezed my hand, kissed my cheek, and I told her she deserved it. She did. She needed this.

I stood there for a moment, watching as she disappeared inside, the doors shutting quietly behind her.

And in that instant, my heart rate spiked.

It hit me all at once — the chance, the danger, the hunger. I had no idea if I’d get to see her again before this trip ended. But I knew one thing with absolute certainty.

I needed to.

The moment the spa doors closed behind her, I didn’t hesitate. I couldn’t. My feet were already moving, fast down the corridor, heart hammering in my chest.

By the time I reached your deck, my palms were damp. Every step closer, the ache in me grew sharper, heavier, until it was all I could feel.

I stopped in front of your door, breath shallow, pulse wild. For a second, I almost turned back — almost convinced myself it was too much, too dangerous.

Then I knocked.

The door opened, and there you were.

Hair loose, skin still dewy from the sun, eyes widening the moment they found mine. And just like that, all the restraint I’d fought to hold onto all week shattered.

The door slams shut behind us, and before I can even draw breath, his mouth is on mine — rough, desperate, claiming me. His hands grip my hips hard, dragging me against the thick press of him, and it’s nothing like the careful, controlled man I’ve seen all week.

I moan into his kiss, my fingers clawing at his shirt, tugging until the buttons pop. He yanks it over his head, tossing it aside, then lifts me with a groan, my back hitting the wall as my legs wrap tight around his waist.

“This,” he growls against my mouth, teeth scraping my lip. “God, I’ve needed this. Needed you.”

I can barely answer — my words dissolve into a gasp as his hips grind up into me, the thick outline of his cock rubbing exactly where I’ve ached for him. Weeks of restraint, of stolen looks and aching silence, all crashing into this one frantic need.

He doesn’t take his time. He doesn’t ask. He tears my panties aside, lines himself up, and with one brutal thrust, he’s inside me.

I scream, clutching at his shoulders as my body splits around him, finally full, finally satisfied. Every thrust is hard, punishing, his forehead pressed to mine, his growls mixing with my cries as he pounds me against the wall.

There’s no finesse, no performance — just raw, frantic hunger, the kind that comes from craving something too long and finally having it. His hand clamps around my throat, tightening just enough to make my vision blur as his hips slam into me again and again.

“Mine,” he rasps, voice breaking. “Even if just for this.”

And when I shatter around him, screaming his name, he follows instantly, spilling into me with a guttural moan that leaves us both trembling, clinging, utterly undone.

We collapse together, breath ragged, bodies slick, still pressed against the wall. His forehead rests on mine, his chest heaving, his hands trembling as they slide down my sides.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence and the thundering of our hearts. No ship. No time. No one else.

Then reality creeps back in. His grip loosens. He kisses me once more — slower this time, almost tender — before setting me back on my feet.

“I have to go,” he whispers, voice rough, wrecked. His eyes linger on me, full of everything he can’t say.

And then he pulls his shirt back on, opens the door, and slips out without another word.

The room is quiet again. My legs are shaking, my lips swollen, my body still throbbing with the memory of him.

But the ache… the ache hasn’t gone.