I wear a red pencil skirt and a tight black tank top; he says I’m the best-looking woman in the room. I know it’s not true, but I love him for saying it. We get drinks and sit back at first, watching all the other vacationing revelers and locals dance together; we aren’t drunk enough yet to join the fray, so we chat quietly to each other while stroking each other’s arms and legs. A couple of drinks in, I’m feeling better about dancing, so I stand up and stride into the middle of the floor, keenly aware of the fact that he’s watching me move my hips in figure eights and play off of other dancers’ moves. He stares at me from the bar as I dance with other men, wanting me more than ever. When I walk over to him and suggest we take a detour to the bathroom, he is so in. We walk back to where the restrooms are, keeping watch of people coming and going until there’s a lull in traffic, which is when we take the opportunity to dip into the ladies and sneak into a stall. We put our empty glasses on the back of the toilet; I sit on the lid and unbuckle his belt, eager for what’s underneath. I unzip his jeans and pull out his semi-erect cock, letting it grow in my warm, moist mouth, making bright red smears on it with my lip gloss.
He slides his fingers into my hair, pulling my head toward him, leaning his own back and closing his eyes with satisfaction as he thrusts in past my lips until he’s rock hard, head tight and glistening with my spit. In a moment of inspiration, he takes my hands and pulls them up and underneath his belt, then continues to fuck my face in a way I would only let someone do if I really loved them.
I pull back eventually and look up at him, my eyes laughing because the bathroom is now filled with the chatter of drunk 22 year-olds. I continue stroking him, holding a steady gaze, until we can no longer hear voices. He zips up and I peek out first before conspiratorially grabbing his hand and tip-toeing back out into the bar. We continue drinking: beer, shots, cocktails. At one point we’re at the far corner of the bar – not quite hidden, but not quite out in the open – and he says, “I have something for you.” He unzips and pulls his cock out, then places my hand over it. “What are you doing?!” I squeak. “It’s fine,” he slurs. Luckily, everyone else in the room seems to be in the same state we are, so I touch him lightly with my fingertips, trying to block the view with my body. I’m not as concerned later on in the evening when he pulls one of my legs onto his lap and slides a hand up the inside length of my skirt before slipping a finger under my knickers and into my cunt. Then I give zero fucks about who can see us. I tilt my pelvis toward his hand, clenching around his finger. He laughs and pulls it out before putting it into his mouth to savor my taste.
We leave the bar and walk down the beach toward our guesthouse; there are no lights along the way, so anywhere is good. We park in front of an overturned canoe; he sits down against the faded wood, drunk enough not to care about having sand all over his bare ass, and I slide a condom down over his surprisingly-erect dick (ah, the beauty of youth) before straddling him and using the strength in my quads and gluts to rise and sink down onto his cock. I hold his head in my hands and kiss him, my knees stinging from the hard sand, my cunt wanting and wanting and wanting, all charge and sizzle. A couple of people walk past us on the beach with their phone flashlights on to guide the way; I sit perfectly still for a couple of minutes while they pass, convinced that since I’m wearing a skirt, it’s fiiiiine. If we don’t move, they can’t see us. I restart and ride until the sand becomes too much, at which point we stumble 100 meters to our guesthouse and pass out, tangled limbs fitting together like Tetris pieces.
We wake up hungover to a bed covered in sand; we mumble “Morning” to each other with sleepy eyes and knowing smiles, then kiss each other languidly in the blind-striped, mid-morning sunshine. We gossip about ourselves over a full fry-up and suddenly, I know I’m in deep. Dangerous waters, maybe – but I’m a diver and I know the risks. For now, his arms are a buoy, his lips a regulator. I’m safe.