Abigail couldn’t shake the memory of her intense week with Chris, but as her husband Mark announced yet another business trip, she decided to approach things differently this time. Unbeknownst to her, Mark’s trips had become his excuse to fuck his 19-year-old personal assistant, Lena—a slim, eager blonde with perky tits and a tight ass that he bent over conference tables and pounded relentlessly. Their sessions were quick and dirty, him grunting as he filled her young pussy, but Abigail was focused elsewhere.
When Chris suggested the Mediterranean cruise, she saw it as a chance for relaxation and self-rediscovery, not a repeat of their past taboo fling.
“Sure, let’s go,” she said over breakfast, her blue eyes steady. “But things are different now, Chris. No more of that stuff. I need space to figure myself out.”
At twenty, Chris was still his muscular, towering self, his 9-inch cock always ready, but he nodded, masking his disappointment. They boarded the ship in Barcelona, the warm sun kissing their skin as the vessel set sail.
From the start, Abigail made her boundaries clear. In their shared cabin, as Chris tried to pull her close, she gently pushed him away.
“Not this time, sweetie,” she said firmly, her blonde hair swaying as she unpacked. “I want to enjoy the cruise on my own terms. Chris’s green eyes flashed with frustration, but he held back, hoping she’d change her mind. The first day at sea was tense—meals eaten in awkward silence, his hands brushing her thigh under the table, only for her to shift away.
“Come on, Mom, you know you want it,” he’d whisper, but she’d shake her head, her 32C tits rising with a deep breath. “No, Chris. This is about me now.”
As days passed, Chris’s annoyance grew. He’d watch her petite 5’1″ frame move around the ship, her sundress hugging her curves, and feel his cock harden in his pants. One evening in their cabin, he tried again, pressing against her from behind as she looked out at the sea.
“Just let me touch you, Mom. I need that tight pussy,” he groaned, his hands sliding up to cup her breasts.
But Abigail turned, her blue eyes cold.
“I said no. I’m done with that.”
Frustrated and rejected, Chris stormed out, muttering. “Fine, if you’re not going to put out, I’ll find someone who will.” Abigail shrugged, unfazed. “Do what you want,” she replied calmly. “I’m here for myself.”
With Chris out of the picture, Abigail embraced her freedom. She spent the next three days immersed in activities that made her feel alive and empowered. First, sunbathing became her daily ritual. Each morning, she’d claim a spot on the upper deck, the vast blue ocean stretching out like a canvas. The sun warmed her skin as she stripped down to a skimpy bikini that barely contained her 32C tits, the fabric straining against her nipples as a gentle breeze teased them erect. She’d lie back on the lounge chair, her blonde hair fanned out like a halo, soaking in the rays while the ship’s gentle rocking lulled her into a trance.
For hours, she’d bask, feeling the heat kiss every inch of her petite body. Passengers strolled by, their eyes lingering on her curves—the way her hips flared slightly, the subtle arch of her back that accentuated her ass. She’d oil herself up slowly, her hands gliding over her arms, down her stomach, and along her thighs, the slick lotion making her skin glisten.
“This is pure bliss,” she’d think, closing her eyes and letting the sun’s warmth seep into her. One afternoon, a group of admirers—mostly men—set up nearby, stealing glances as she adjusted her top, exposing just enough cleavage to tease. She’d chat casually with them, laughing about the sea views, but kept it light, revelling in the attention without any strings. The sunbathing sessions stretched on, each one a meditation of sorts, where she’d feel her worries melt away, replaced by a growing sense of liberation. By evening, her skin was golden, a light sheen of sweat highlighting her form as she headed back to her cabin, feeling more alive than ever.
Learning to pole dance was next, and it quickly became her favourite escape. The ship had a dedicated studio with a polished pole in the centre, and Abigail signed up for classes without hesitation. On the second day, she arrived in tight leggings and a crop top that showcased her toned midriff and the swell of her breasts. The instructor, a lithe woman with tattoos and a confident swagger, demonstrated the basics: gripping the pole, spinning gracefully, and building strength.
Abigail threw herself into it, her sessions lasting over an hour each time. She’d start by warming up, stretching her limbs and feeling the pull in her muscles. As the music pulsed—sultry beats filling the room—she’d wrap her hands around the cool metal, her body pressing against it.
“Lift with your core,” the instructor urged, and Abigail hoisted herself up, her legs wrapping around the pole in a controlled spin. It was sensual and empowering; she felt sexy in a way that had nothing to do with anyone else. Her blonde hair whipped around as she twirled, her blue eyes focused in the mirror, watching her form.
Over the days, she progressed to more advanced moves. One evening class, the room dimly lit with spotlights, she practised inversions—hooking her knees over the pole and hanging upside down, her top slipping to reveal the underside of her breasts. The rush of blood to her head mirrored the excitement in her veins.
“You’re a natural,” the instructor said, applauding as Abigail slid down seductively, her body undulating like a wave. She imagined performing for herself, not for validation, and it fuelled her. The sessions were long, often extending with extra practice, where she’d grip the pole tighter, her thighs burning as she held poses that made her feel strong and desirable. By the end of each class, she’d be sweating, her heart racing, a newfound confidence radiating from her.
The gym was her third haven, a place to channel her energy into pure physicality. The fitness centre on the ship was state-of-the-art, equipped with a variety of weights, machines, and mirrors. Abigail went daily, early mornings and late afternoons, dedicating hours to sculpting her body. She’d start with cardio on the treadmill, her petite frame pounding the belt as she ran, her blonde ponytail bouncing and her 32C tits heaving with each breath. The rhythmic thump of her feet echoed, sweat beading on her forehead as she pushed herself harder, the endorphins kicking in.
Then came the weights. She’d move to the squat rack, loading up with plates and positioning herself under the bar. As she descended into squats, her ass tightening and her legs burning, she felt a rush of power.
“One more set,” she’d mutter, gritting her teeth, her muscles flexing in the mirror. Other gym-goers watched, but she ignored them, focusing on her form—her back straight, her core engaged. On the bench press, she’d lie back, gripping the bar and lowering it to her chest, her arms straining as she pushed up. The weight felt symbolic, like shedding her past. Hours passed in this rhythm: pull-ups that made her arms ache, yoga mats for cooldown stretches where she’d contort her body, feeling the stretch in her hips and thighs. By the end of her sessions, she’d be drenched, her body a testament to her resolve, and she’d leave the gym with a glow of accomplishment.
Meanwhile, Chris’s annoyance had boiled over. After Abigail’s repeated refusals, he wandered the ship, his frustration turning to action. One night in a bustling lounge, he spotted Mia—a young, busty brunette with a short skirt and flirty eyes.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said, sliding up to her at the bar. “Want to get out of here?”
She giggled, and within minutes, they were in her cabin, clothes flying off.
“Fuck, your tits are wonderful,” he groaned, sucking on her nipples as he fingered her wet pussy.
Mia moaned, “Take me, Chris. I need your big cock.”
He pounded her relentlessly, his 9-inch shaft stretching her tight hole, their bodies slapping together in a frenzy.
“You’re such a tight little slut,” he growled, filling her with cum before storming out, satisfied but still bitter. Abigail, hearing about it indirectly, shrugged it off.
“Good for him,” she thought. “I’m better off alone.”
The argument came on the fourth night, sparked by Chris’s lingering resentment.
“You act like you’re too good for me now,” he snapped during dinner. Abigail met his gaze calmly.
“This isn’t about you, Chris. It’s about me.” He stormed off, disappearing for three days, but she didn’t care. She immersed herself in her routines, feeling more liberated than ever.
On Saturday night, as the ship docked in Athens, Abigail was at the bar, unwinding after another fulfilling day. That’s when Marcus approached—a 6’4″ Black man with a bald head, piercing blue eyes, and muscles that could make anyone weak.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, his voice deep and commanding. He was a businessman on a break from his divorce, his ex-wife’s cheating still fresh. They talked for hours, sharing stories, and by 1 a.m., the chemistry was electric.
“Let’s go back to my cabin,” he suggested, his eyes roaming her body.
In his room, things escalated quickly. Marcus pulled her into a fierce kiss, his large hands tearing off her clothes, exposing her pert 32C tits and shaved pussy.
“I’ve been dying to taste every inch of you, Abigail,” he growled, his voice dripping with lust as he pushed her onto the bed. His 12-inch cock stood rock-hard, thick veins pulsing along its length, pre-cum glistening at the tip. She stared, her blue eyes wide with anticipation.
“Fuck, Marcus, that cock is massive. I want it to wreck me,” she moaned, spreading her legs wider.
He started with foreplay that stretched on for what felt like hours, his hands and mouth exploring every curve of her petite body. First, he pinned her down, sucking on her nipples with rough, hungry pulls, biting them just hard enough to make her gasp.
“These tits are fucking perfect—soft and bouncy, just begging to be marked,” he said, leaving red hickeys around her areolas. His tongue trailed down her stomach, licking and nibbling, making her squirm.
“Oh, God, yes, tease me like that,” she begged, her body arching as he reached her thighs.
Marcus spread her legs further, his breath hot against her dripping folds.
“Look at this wet cunt, so eager for my tongue,” he taunted, diving in with long, slow licks from her arsehole to her clit. He sucked her swollen nub into his mouth, flicking it rapidly while sliding two thick fingers into her tight hole. “Squeeze around my fingers, you dirty slut. I want to feel you gush,” he demanded, pumping them in and out with deliberate force.
Abigail writhed, her hands gripping the sheets as he added a third finger, stretching her painfully good. He alternated between licking and finger-fucking her, edging her closer to orgasm before pulling back, making her whine. “Please, Marcus, don’t stop—make me squirt all over your face!” she cried, her voice hoarse after what seemed like an eternity of teasing.
Finally, he let her cum, his tongue lashing her clit as she exploded, juices squirting onto his mouth and chin. But he didn’t stop; he kept fingering her through the aftershocks, prolonging her orgasm until she was begging for his cock.
“That’s just the start, whore. Now, I’m going to pound that pussy until you can’t walk,” he growled, positioning himself between her legs. He rubbed his 12-inch monster against her entrance, teasing her with the head before slamming in deep.
“Take that big black cock, you cock-hungry bitch—feel it splitting you open!”
The fucking was relentless, lasting well over an hour in that position alone. He thrust hard and fast, his balls slapping against her ass with wet smacks, while she moaned incoherently.
“Fuck me harder, you beast! Pound my cunt like it’s your personal fuck hole!” she screamed, her nails raking down his back. He grabbed her hips, pulling her onto his shaft with brutal force, each stroke hitting her G-spot and making her eyes roll back. “Your pussy’s so tight and wet, gripping me like a vice—I’m going to fill you with my cum,” he grunted, leaning down to bite her neck, marking her as his. After her third orgasm, he finally released, pumping hot ropes of cum deep inside her, filling her to the brim.
“Take that load, you filthy slut—feel it dripping out of your stretched cunt.”
But they weren’t done; the night bled into morning, with Marcus flipping her into doggy style for another round. He spanked her ass until it was red and raw, then slid back in, his cock still rock-hard.
“Beg for it in your ass, slut. I know you want me to stretch that tight hole,” he ordered, spitting on her puckered entrance and working a finger in. She pushed back, moaning,
“Yes, finger my ass while you fuck my pussy—make me your filthy whore!” He obliged, adding a second finger to her rear as he continued pounding her from behind, the dual sensations driving her wild. They switched to reverse cowgirl, where she straddled him and bounced on his cock for another extended session, her tits jiggling as she rode him.
“Bounce on that dick, you nasty bitch. Make yourself squirt again,” he commanded, rubbing her clit furiously until she did, her juices soaking his thighs.
The filth escalated with kinky additions—he tied her wrists to the bedpost with his tie, edging her with his fingers and mouth for what felt like ages before plunging back in.
“You’re not cumming until I say so, you greedy cunt,” he teased, denying her release over and over until she was sobbing with need. When he finally allowed it, they moved to the shower for a third round, where he bent her over under the water, fucking her ass for the first time.
“Your ass is so fucking tight—I’m going to ruin it,” he groaned, thrusting slowly at first, then building to a frenzy, cumming inside her again as she squirted against the tile wall.
As the ship set sail for home, their marathon continued for three days non-stop, each session ending with him unloading deep inside her. In the shower, he’d soap her up and fuck her against the wall, water washing away their fluids only for him to fill her again.
“Wash my cock with your mouth, baby, and swallow every drop,” he’d say, making her deepthroat him until she gagged, then flipping her over to pound her pussy once more, his cum leaking out as he thrust back in. Back in the cabin, they’d explore every kink—him using his fingers to probe her holes while she sucked him, or tying her up for hours of edging and squirting, always finishing with him cumming inside her fertile depths.
By the time the ship docked back home, Abigail was sore and satisfied, her body marked and full of his seed. As they disembarked, she turned to Marcus with a sly grin.
“My husband’s away for the weekend. Why don’t you come stay at mine? We can continue this in my bed—no interruptions.” Marcus’s blue eyes lit up, his cock already twitching at the thought.
“Hell yes, babe. Let’s make this weekend one to remember.”
They arrived at her house, and the moment the door closed, they were at it again. In her marital bed, Marcus threw her down, ripping off her clothes and diving between her legs for another hour of oral worship. “
I’m going to fuck you until you’re dripping with my cum, you cock-slut,” he promised, before sliding his 12-inch shaft into her swollen pussy. The weekend became a blur of non-stop sex—round after round, with him cumming inside her over and over. On Friday night, he pinned her in missionary, thrusting for what felt like eternity, filling her with his hot load and watching it leak out before going again. “Take every drop, whore—I’m breeding this tight cunt,” he growled, making her cum around him multiple times.
Saturday brought even filthier escapades; he tied her up and edged her for hours, then pounded her ass and pussy in alternation, each time ending with a deep creampie.
“Feel that cum flooding you—I’m going to knock you up,” he taunted, thrusting harder. Sunday was no different, with them waking up to fuck, pausing only for quick meals, then going back at it—him on top, her riding, doggy style with his hands around her throat, always finishing inside her.
As the weekend ended, Abigail lay in his arms, his cum dripping from her well-used holes. Will she be pregnant? Find out in the next chapter…
