Thar She Blows! by Dex O'Donald (Patreon)

Thar She Blows! Written by Dex O’Donald

Story by Devin Dickie

Written by Dex O’Donald

© 2019-2050 QoS Comix All Rights Reserved

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Thar She Blows!

Story by Devin Dickie Written by Dex O’Donald

1.
The cruise ship has a sign above the gangway that reads

“Paradise at Sea” but I fail to see the correlation as I lug a hundred pounds of luggage on my back while my wife, Tiffany, and her best friend, Amanda, walk on ahead with only their handbags carried high on their shoulders. A bursting duffle bag is strapped to my back and four more carry-ons around my shoulders as I wheel two extra-large suitcases behind me. Other passengers swarm past me and I lose sight of the girls. I’m holding up traffic, these people are excited to board and I’m holding them up. I wish I could share their enthusiasm.

At some point I did, but that feels like a distant memory now.

By the time I’m actually on the boat I’m covered in sweat and out of breath, my shoulders are on fire, and my lower back feels like I’ve definitely pulled something. There’s no sign of Tiffany or Amanda and trying to look for them with the weight of Sisyphus on my back isn’t an option. Now on top of everything else that hurts, I have a stomachache. I don’t want my scantily clad busty

wife wandering a Jamaican cruise alone with an influence as bad as Amanda Walker at her side. I need to get this baggage off. I need to find the cabin. Then, I need to go find my wife.

The cabin is at the back of the cruise ship and it takes me nearly forty-five minutes to get there. I’m seeing stars when I finally lurch inside, letting the bags tumble from my body, feeling the muscles in my lower back seize up like a knot yanked tight. I have to sit down, I have to lie down. Fuck, is this really happening? Day one and I can’t even function? No, I decide. Not like this. I manage to roll over, reaching the best I can and finding Tiffany’s carry-on. I checked her meds but no luck. My back is really starting to burn now so when I see Amanda’s bright pink carry-on, I try my luck and BINGO – she’s got muscle relaxers for days. She certainly won’t notice one or two missing.

I take three. I lie back against the bed and wait for them to kick in.

The cabin would be spacious if it was just Tiffany and I, as it was always supposed to be, as it should be right now. But three

days ago she had me change our reservation to an adjoined cabin. From where I’m lying down, I can see through the door that connects to Amanda’s side. It assures that Tiffany and I will essentially have zero privacy over the course of the nine-day cruise.

And I’m footing the bill for every bit of it.

My back starts to loosen a notch and I close my eyes. My stomach still hurts thinking about Tiffany out there. Today she’s wearing the most provactive thing I’ve ever seen her in by far, and it’s not close. Tiffany doesn’t dress like this, not my wife, not the woman I’ve tried extremely hard to hang on to over the course of the last ten months. No, this is Amanda’s doing of course. Her influence on sweet Tiffany.

My wife could never, no matter how hard she tried, hide her grandiose buxom assets from the world. That is, Tiffany’s big tits always seemed more of a social bane to her than an advantage. In the winter it was turtlenecks, in the summer it was button-downs an extra size too big. From the day I met her, Tiffany was prouder

of her intelligence and IQ than she ever was her body, which let’s face it, is a fucking gift that historians should probably make a cast out of and display in the Smithsonian. And right now, as I lay here like a fucking gimp, she’s out there somewhere, wrapped up in a barely-there outfit Amanda talked her into. Not to mention, this goddamn cruise ship is crawling with Jamaican men. I’ve read enough erotica on the internet to know how that story goes.

Tiffany’s dress, if you can even call it that, clings to her like it’s painted on, showing off her chest like a damn billboard. The pink thing is cut low, plunging, and tight. That 40F bra she wears barely contains her most days, and now, in that dress, it’s like she’s given up on keeping anything hidden. It’s all right there: her chest—full, unmistakable—leading the way, with the rest of her just as exposed.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate her body. I do. It’s hard not to. Her waist is narrow, just enough curve to remind me why I chased her in the first place, and her hips, while slim at 36 inches, still catch your eye. But this? This isn’t the woman I married. This isn’t

Tiffany. At least, not the version of her I’m used to. She never used to dress like this — she didn’t need to.

I guess I have to accept some responsibility in this change in her...I can’t place all the blame on Amanda, no matter how much I might like to.

The muscle relaxers work their magic. I’m loose. My back is feeling better. Warmer. You know what else is feeling warmer? My dick. It’s 11am on a Monday. Usually, I’m working from home at 11am on a Monday, and Tiffany is at her Pilates class. Which means the house is empty and I’m not really working at all – I’m watching porn. And my body knows this. Which is why, like clockwork, I’m starting to get that tingly feeling in my crotch and in my brain that says let’s have us a looky lue at Pornhub. Yes, yes, just grab your phone, Samual, the ship has wifi, connect to it, and let’s just scroll through our favorites...

I glance down and notice I’m rubbing my dick over my pants. When did that happen? And why was it happening more and more? Touching myself. Compulsory movements so ingrained

that they’re practically muscle memory. My porn addiction has seeped past my mind and gone straight to the cells. It’s true that at times over the last ten months my recovery has felt hopeless. For Christ’s sake, I became so pathetic I actually opened up to my wife about my problem. I mean, can you imagine? Looking your wife in the eye and telling her you’re a total creep? What the fuck man, what the fuck. But I did it. At the time I thought it was the only way to explain what was happening in our marriage bed, or rather, what wasn’t happening. She swears up and down that my revelation hasn’t changed the way she’s felt about me...but I don’t buy that for one second.

The ship is leaving port. The cruise has started and my wife is above decks somewhere enjoying herself while I’m down here starting to scroll through Pornhub. I’ve never been caught masturbating by Tiffany, even when I did it at home while she was in the next room, I always took precautions. I take precautions now, too. I’m going to watch the videos but I won’t pull my dick

out because that would be too much to hide if the girls walked in. Just an appetizer. A few videos of my favorite flavor...

Everything went wrong at Amanda’s breakup. This cruise was booked two weeks before she showed up at our house unannounced, ranting and raving because she’d just broken up with her boyfriend. The funny thing is, I liked Tom very much. He and I got along well, even if I couldn’t stand his cunty girlfriend. Sadly, their breakup had a real time effect on my marriage. That day, Tiffany lent an ear to Amanda in the living room while I listened from the hallway, quiet as a mouse, learning more than I ever wanted to know about poor Tom.

“I’m done with white boys, boo,” Amanda said. “All they do is disappoint. And they ain’t no use unless they got a credit card with sky high limit.”

I could see her reflection in the front windows from where I stood down the hallway, and I thought not for the first time how hot she’d be if it wasn’t for her black heart and fucked up brain. Her hair is a wild, voluminous cloud of curls that flies in every

direction. Her skin is a flawless dark caramel. She’s a total biracial bombshell. Petite and oddly proportioned, mainly due to her 32D chest (Tiffany told me after I begged to know). Her ass goes without saying.

“What did you tell him?” Tiffany asked her. I could hear a faint note of sympathy for Tom in her voice, because Tiffany isn’t cruel like Amanda.

“I told him I was tired of his weak dick game! Couldn’t last for more than five minutes, he’s a white boy so forget about girth, and shit girl – length? Nah. None of that! I thought them tall skinny white boys was supposed to be GOATED on the stick but Tom ain’t got nothing but a damn twig down there.”

“That’s kind of harsh, Amanda.”

“I don’t care what it is! I mean, shit girl. He ain’t as bad as what you told me about Samual but –

“Shhh! He’s home!” Tiffany’s voice was a threatening whisper. My stomach clenched up, a lot like it is right now. “Lower your voice!”

Amanda giggled. “Maybe if you teased him for it he’d get his act together, boo. Ever think of that?”

“That’s mean and Samual is very sensitive. Now, we were talking about you and Tom...”

I didn’t dare breathe another twenty minutes while Amanda gave every excruciating detail about their abysmal sex life...details that only further illuminated my own troubles, because compared to me, Tom sounded like a goddamn Adonis.

“I need to meet some real men,” Amanda went on. “Or I’m gonna get depressed. Seriously. And you know how much medication I’m on already!”

“You should look at the cruise company that Samual and I are taking.”

The moment the words came out of her mouth I knew, I just fucking knew Amanda was going to swoop in like the vulture she was. It pains me to recall now to recall it in such specific detail.

“Cruise, huh? What kinda cruise?”

“It’s a Jamaican Cruise and it’s run out of Jamaica, not stateside...which means some of the staff and passengers are more, um, your type.”

I could hear the rabid excitement in Amanda’s voice when she said: “You mean big black dudes like my ex-ex-boyfriend? On a boat in the damn Caribbean? Girl where do I sign up!”

There was a pause between them. On the inside I just kept saying don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it. Looking back, I should have stormed in and interrupted them.

“You should come with us,” my wife said. “Play third wheel until you find someone to cuddle up with. I’m sure Samual won’t mind.”

As I lay here now, I wonder if that was just Tiffany’s way of being nice, or if the thought of having to entertain me sexually for the whole trip was simply too much for her. Of course we argued when she came to me with the proposition of inviting Tiffany. A nasty argument that put me out on the couch two nights in a row.

“It was supposed to be for us, Tiffany!” I railed on the best I could but already I was shrinking in front of her almond eyes, grilling me through locks of auburn hair. “To revive our sex life and reconnect!”

“How is the reviving going by the way, Samual?” She glared at me. There was nothing I could do when she took that tone. That tone meant something barbed and caustic was coming, something only her sharp intellect could imagine when under the duress of anger and resentment. “Because the last time we tried to make love, Dr. Frankenstein himself couldn’t have revived that limp noodle between your legs.”

I stormed out then. It wasn’t the first time she’d cut me deep, but this one was between the ribs and I didn’t like it one bit. Having a woman that beautiful dissect your manhood is a brutality I wish on no man.

But like all insults that hurt the worst, it only hurt because it was rooted in truth. Our sex hadn’t always been this bad, and at times early on, it had approached something like normal and

satisfactory. Despite my size (which, for the record, Tiffany assured me before we got married that it wasn’t an issue), I was still able to give her what she needed. And surprisingly, she didn’t need much. Tiffany has the look and the body of a well-paid porn star, but a libido that is startlingly normal. At least, it was. It seems like the further I fell into my hole of inadequacy, the more she needed from me. We were falling away from each other in opposite directions faster than the speed of sound.

Eventually I came clean and told her about the porn. It flooded out of me in a pathetic stream of consciousness that I still regret. I told her about my compulsion, about edging, about how statistics showed men who consumed to much pornography struggled in the bedroom. I needed her to understand that it wasn’t her, but in my desperation to keep her I shared too much.

“What do you mean you used to do ‘some crossdressing’?” Her tone wasn’t necessarily accusatory, more bewildered if anything.

I explained it to her the best I could. How, in my teens, I would sneak into my sister’s room and try on her clothes, look at myself in the mirror, sometimes even pleasure myself.

“But you don’t do that anymore, right?”

“Not for a long time,” I sniffled. “But I love you, Tiff. And I need you to know everything.”

“I’m not so sure I want to.”
Yikes. She actually said that.
My size had never been an issue for my self-confidence...at

least not until the porn addiction got bad. Before the sickness was inside me, I figured that a good guy who knew how to use his hands and mouth and knew how to be a giving lover could get a great woman no problem. I even proved that theory by marrying a woman well out of my league. Me, a pudgy short guy with a penchant for man-boobs if I didn’t watch what I was eating, had married Tiffany fucking Thorne and given her my last name. Puffy nipples and big butt aside – I had defied the odds and married the girl of my goddamn dreams.

But the porn, over time, convinced me that the truths about my body and my penis size were truths that dictated my reality.

My favorite kind of pornography is interracial. Specifically, black men and white women. And, more specifically, a white married woman. Bonus points if the husband is in the room watching...extra points if the husband has been denigrated beyond masculine recognition.

I can see now that the inundation of absurdly sized black cocks had a detrimental impact on the way I saw my own dick. Furthermore, the numbers don’t lie. Four and a half inches is small by any standard, especially when it is as thin as a dry eraser. Everything was working against me physically in the sex department you could say, but when I started having trouble getting hard, well, that’s when the shit really hit the fan.

Our marriage took a turn for the worse. More Amanda, less sex, and the awful knowledge that Tiffany was spilling the worse of our problems to Amanda. I wasn’t supposed to know that, and

so when Amanda jabbed at me right out in the open, I just had to take it.

The three of us were out for lunch, rather, I was there against my own will. Amanda ordered the burger but had questions for the server.

“How girthy is the patty?” Her hypnotic eyes flashed at me and I felt my stomach turn. “Is it really thin and dry or is it one of the big fat juicy ones?”

“It’s fat and juicy, ma’am,” the server replied.

“Good. Those are the best kind – no – the only kind if you ask me. I’ll have that.”

I paid the tab on that lunch, too.

The argument about Amanda ended. In the end, I didn’t have any ammunition to fight Tiffany with. I was undesirable Number One in our household, and our marriage was in such shambles by that point that all I could really do was abide by that horrible old motto – happy wife, happy life! I had to call the cruise line and get us a different room. There were no suites available and the

best they could do was a smaller cabin with an adjoining bedroom. All on my credit card. Every cent.

And now I’m here. Laid out from carrying their bags, so exhausted I could sleep through the entire cruise. I’m watching a particular spicy video (a woman that looks inexplicably like my wife getting pounded by an African man while her husband sits on the floor in a tutu sucking his thumb and watching on with teary eyes) when a text from Tiffany finally comes through.

Where are you babe! This cruise is AMAZING! Amanda and I are at the top deck bar. Come find us! MUAH!

At least she’s in a good mood. And she wouldn’t be texting me if there were guys slobbering all over her, as no doubt they eventually will, given what she is wearing. Her and Amanda side by side are probably the pinnacle of fuckable on board this ship.

I need to get up and go find them...

But now that I know they are occupied, I realize there’s really no reason for them to come back to the room any time soon. Which means I’ve got a little time to finish what I started...

I turn the volume up on the porno and shuffled my waistband down far enough to get my throbbing prick out. It disappears in my hand as I start stroking, the web of my thumb caressing that familiar spot along my pink mushroom head, that sensitive place that I edge and edge and edge until I lose track of time. Sometimes my dick is hard while I’m stroking, sometimes it’s soft and dripping sticky, but I never stop beating off. This is the sickness. My compulsion. And the longer I edge the less ability I have to gauge the world around me with any certainty. I just feel so good. Giddy, even. I’m wrapped up in the moment when I look at Amanda’s carry-on bag beside me on the bed. The pocket where I got the muscle relaxers from is still open, and down deep I catch a glimpse of something pink. I reach in and close my hand around it.

Panties. Lace. Small, delicate, ruffled, sexy. I sniff them. Fresh. Amanda, the bitch, and her fresh panties. I glance at the door to the hallway. Is it locked? I can’t tell, I’m pretty sure I

remember locking it but nobody’s coming in anyway and besides the video is at the BEST part.

Quickly, I kick off my pants and take off my shirt. Totally naked, I slide those little lacey panties up my chunky legs. I can hear the material stretching, feel it biting into my skin as I settle it around my waist the best I can. They’re too small and they pin my throbbing dick to my body. The new sensation of the ruffled lace on my oversensitive skin nearly makes me cum. I start rubbing my dick over the panties, thinking about Amanda wearing them, thinking about me wearing them, eyes glued to the phone as the big black bull comes in for the money shot.

I can’t stifle the whimpering moan that escapes me when I go over the edge and fill Amanda’s pink panties with hot semen. My dick is only half hard but its leaking like a broken faucet. The orgasm hasn’t even fully passed yet and already I’m realizing the stupidity of what I’ve done – what the fuck am I supposed to do with these panties now?

I’m rubbing the mess in the panties all around, coating my flailing dick in it, watching the end of the video play out when the cabin door opens and Amanda steps inside.

I freeze. The look on her face is one I’ve never seen before and it terrifies me.

Is she disgusted? Or is she smiling?

Amanda looks me over once just to confirm that she’s really seeing it. The soiled panties, the porn, her best friend’s naked and emasculated husband lying spread eagle on the bed.

And then she’s gone, leaving me exactly how she found me – in a pair of women’s panties, covered in my own cum and shame.

2.
I get dressed but I’m avoiding the decision that has to be

made about the panties. They’re crumpled into a quickly drying ball and again I’m amazed at my own stupidity, at the way my porn-brain didn’t realize the issue this would become. And it’s nowhere near my biggest issue at the moment.

Amanda is going to tell Tiffany what she saw. No doubt about it.

The blue swimming trunks I bought for this trip don’t fit me as well as I thought. The waistband digs into my fleshy waist and my ass looks far bigger than I want it to because my hips are pulling the trunks up up up until just about ALL of my flabby pale thighs are exposed. These are short shorts. These are fucking short shorts even though the ad said knee length. That, or I’ve got the wrong size. I could always change into regular shorts but at the moment the feeling of impending DOOM is hovering over my shoulders like a stalking butler, and my wardrobe choices seem unimportant. An oversized Hawaiian button up does an alright

job of covering my man boobs but none of it really matters because I am so, so very fucked.

I stuff the soiled panties down deep into a duffle bag filled with my clothes. The evidence. The smoking fucking gun. What the hell do I do with these?

When I get to the top deck it takes me a while to find them. I don’t even know if I want to find them but it seems like the only real first step. As I walk along the deck, the ocean expanding endlessly in every direction, I can’t help but notice the disparity in the ship’s population. It seems like for every woman there are four men. Large bulky creatures that all bought their muscles and six pack abs from the same catalogue. I go mostly unnoticed in this land of giants but every once in a while, one of them snickers and I pretend not to notice. Do I really look that bad? I guess more than anything, I look out of place.

Probably more so when I finally find the girls.

I see them at a tall table along a deck railing, framed like Instagram models against the blue water wall behind them. I can

see full drinks in their hands and empty glasses on the table in front of them. They are laughing. That’s good. I’ve known Tiffany long enough to know that she can’t hide her real feelings. It’s both a weakness and a strength, I think. Because if Tiffany is pissed at you, you’re going to know. If she’s disgusted, she’s going to tell you. And everyone around you will know it as well. If she’s laughing like this, either Amanda hasn’t told her yet, or she’s simply too amused to care – because she could never possibly take me seriously as a man again.

I’m not sure which would be worse.

I waddle over to them, breaking through the wave of beautiful people with my penguin gait and my heart is pounding out of my chest. What the hell am I supposed to do? And why is the goddamn sun so fucking bright?

“There you are,” I squint and smile, my hand visoring my face. “Looks like you two are off to a smashing start.”

“What in the hell took so long?” Tiffany. Smiling. Reaching out and tugging on my arm, pulling me into a hug. She doesn’t know.

As we wrap each other in a tight hug, my chin over her shoulder, I see Amanda a foot and a half away. Her mouth is just shy of a smirk, her eyes cutting and stark. The rest of her exotic, beautiful face is unreadable.

“You should stick closer to your wife, Sam. She’s having to beat these meat heads away with a stick.”

“It was only like three guys,” Tiffany sighs, adjusting her tits for the hundredth time in that pink dress. “They saw my ring and got the hint.”

“I’m not surprised,” I say cooly. “I knew she’d be getting looks the second I saw her in it. Lucky me, I’m the guy who gets to take it off of her.”

“Lucky Tiffany, it sounds like.” Amanda winks. ‘So, what’s on the menu for day one? Tiffany and I were looking over the activity schedule and it’s just loaded with things to do.”

Tiffany wraps her arms around me and says: “Amanda wants me to do the wet t-shirt contest. I told her –

“That’s not happening,” I finish for her.

“That’s what I said,” Tiffany lets go of me. “Jeez you don’t need to be so bossy about it.”

“Whose being bossy? I just said you’re not doing a wet t-shirt contest like some slut.”

“Guess I’m a slut then,” Amanda chimes in. “Because I’m doing it.”

“I didn’t mean slut,” I trip over my words. “It’s just...well, Amanda, you’re single. Tiffany is married.”

As we stand there talking a group of three giant Jamaican men come strutting by. Their trajectory feels planned, like they meant to get close enough to give Tiffany and Amanda a once over. Each of them wears swim trunks, not any longer on them than mine is on my body, and the artillery they are carrying is plain to see. I glance at Tiffany to see what she makes of them, and I see her eyes skim over them.

“There’s a men’s contest, too,” Amanda flashes a wicked smile. “They’re calling it the Trunks Championship. Basically a wet t-shirt contest except for guy in their swimming shorts.” She pauses, looking down at my absurdly short and ill-fitted trunks. “Maybe you should enter, Sam. Thick thighs save lives, after all.”

I chuckle. Tiffany squeezes my arm.

“Oh my gosh you should!” Tiffany says. “That would be so fun!”

“Absolutely not. I can’t compete with these freaks.”

“Of course you can,” Tiffany begs me. “Show them that all body types are important!”

I blush, self-conscious with what she’s insinuating.

“You’re both drunk,” I shrug. “Not happening. No contests for me and Tiffany. But we’ll be there to support you for yours, Amanda.”

“I bet you will,” Amanda smirks.

My words feel like they’re coming out too fast, my responses are there just to fill the space because I’m worried about what is

going to happen when the silence falls and the elephant on the cruise ship gets prodded with a stun gun. After some more light chit chat Tiffany announces that she’s got to pee and meanders off, leaving Amanda and I alone. I watch Tiffany walk across the deck, noticing the looks, the groups of men checking out her tits and ass and then checking in with their buddies to make sure they saw too.

“We should talk,” I say, turning my attention back to Amanda. “About what you saw back in the cabin.” My voice is shaking because Amanda, despite her cuntiness, is still a very attractive woman and its painful to talk about this with her.

“You’re talking about the fact that I caught you masturbating to weirdo porn while wearing a pair of my panties?” Amanda lifted her drink to her mouth without breaking eye contact with me and sipped from the long red straw. “I always knew you were fucked up in the head.”

Stomach sick, brief respite from my worries evaporated, I stare at Amanda dead-eyed and say: “You’re not going to tell her, are you?”

Amanda raises her dark eyebrows.
“Please, Amanda. Just...don’t. Please.”
She appears to at least consider my plea, but more so in the

way a spider considers the insect trapped in its web, trying to decide if it should eat now or later. I’ve never needed someone’s mercy as much as I do right now. And I need it from the last person on earth who would ever give me any.

“I’ll consider it,” she says nonchalantly. “But you’re going to have to get something straight if I do. This trip, this lil’ romantical vacation you thought you was having with Tiffany – it’s over. It ain’t about you and her anymore. It’s about me, it’s about Tiffany, it’s about a girl’s trip that you just tagging along with. You ain’t gonna be poo pooin’ our fun the entire time. Understand?”

The knot of dread in my stomach loosens half an inch.

“That’s it? Just let you two do your thing, and you won’t tell her?”

“I said I’d consider not telling her, Sam. That’s some fucked up freaky shit you were doing in there. You think I’m gonna keep my mouth shut about that, you best get yah damn head in the game. For starters, she’s doing the wet t-shirt contest.”

My face drops and I’m fumbling through words.

“She’s doing it,” Amanda repeats. “And your going to be the one to convince her to do it.”

“I can’t! She can’t. Amanda, please. Let’s be reasonable here!”

Amanda looks down at my absurd blue swimming trunks and snorts. “And you know what else, white boy? You’re gonna do the men’s competition. The Trunks Championship.”

“This is insane,” I beg her. “You’re blackmailing me, Amanda, do you realize that? You’re threatening me!”

“Then tell her, she’s almost back.” Amanda waves over my shoulder and smiles. Tiffany approaches. “You can tell her, or I can tell her, how about that?”

“Amanda, for the love of God, please, please don’t...”

“Hey you two!” Tiffany slides past me from behind and I can feel the weight of her delicious breasts slide across my back. “Looks like really serious conversation going on over here. Whatcha’ chatting about?”

My posture is stiff and hunched but I can’t unclench. Amanda is smirking at me. My armpits are soaked through with nervous sweat.

“He has something he wants to tell you, Tiff,” Amanda shifts on her feet. “Unless you want me to tell her, Samual?”

Tiff’s eyebrows arch in confusion. “Tell me what?”

I can’t find the words. I’m so fucking stuck. And I’m so fucking FUCKED!

“Sam?” Tiffany’s voice takes on a quality of desperation that I don’t like. “Tell me what?”

Amanda licks her lips and starts to say, “When I went up to the cabin earlier, I opened the door and I caught –

“Amanda convinced me to let you do the wet t-shirt contest,” I spit the words out like a nervous actor in his first stage play. The shock of hearing them makes me draw breath and I can’t think of what to say next.

“Seriously?” Tiffany is incredulous, bemused. “You’re kidding?”

“He’s not kidding,” Amanda throws in. “Right, Sam? Go on. Tell her.”

I may have mentioned earlier that my wife, Tiffany, is no rube. She’s quick, and she’s grown accustomed to seeing most of her hunches about people and situations turn out exactly as she first perceived them. To lie to her like this takes total dedication. Total endorsement with some measure of sincerity thrown in like an alibi to justify it. But to feel these words leaving my own mouth is a real time reminder of what sort of trouble I’ve gotten myself into, and that I am risking it all once again just to try and cover up

my previous mistakes. It feels like a sort of ‘regret avalanche’ that you cannot dig yourself out of no matter how hard you try.

“I guess we’re only young once, right?” I start strong, but I can tell Tiffany is giving me silent inquisition. She doesn’t buy it yet. And if she doesn’t buy it by the time I’m done talking, she’s going to know something is up – and then I’m fucked. It needs to be real, it needs to be sincere. “And, um, well, I don’t own you, Tiff. We’re married and we love each other, but I don’t own your body. I think your femininity should be celebrated, quite frankly. What better way to do that than with autonomy? With some real, sexual freedom.”

Sexual Freedom? Where the hell did that come from and why on earth did I say it?

“I don’t know,” Tiffany says, all false modesty. “I’ll think about it. I’m surprised you’re okay with it, but I don’t know. That kind of thing has never really been my style. Plus, it sounds terrifying. There are so many guys here.”

“We’ll get good and drunk before we get on the stage,” Amanda laughs. “Now tell her the other part, Samual. Go on. Don’t be shy.”

Tiffany’s face turns expectant and I can count the freckles on her cheeks. I have to hold onto this woman. I have to.

Letting out a long sigh I go all in: “I’m signing up for the Trunks Championship. Just for a laugh.”

“That’s exactly what it will be too,” Amanda giggles. “An absolute fucking riot.”

3.
The drunken afternoon gives way to the first night aboard

the cruise ship. Somewhere between happy hour and dinner the three of us signed up for our respective competitions, both the wet t-shirt contest and the Trunks Championship happening back-to-back at 3pm the following day. I’m well drunk when we sign up, and even starting to feel a bit better about everything. Yes, the trunks competition would be humiliating, and the wet t-shirt contest was going to cause me great emotional distress, but if that was all I had to do to get out of this mess, then I would. I’m certain that the alternative, Tiffany finding out what happened, is far worse.

After dinner we keep drinking. I’m getting sloshed well beyond where I should be and so is Tiffany. Amanda is surprisingly alert for all the booze she’s taken down, and I’m certain some piece of candy from her treasure trove of prescriptions was responsible.

By nightfall, the horniest of the men can be kept at bay no longer. We are at Club Paradiso, a nightclub on the south end of the cruise ship, chatting under the stars and enjoying champagne, when the brutes start to swarm the third wheel, Amanda. She’s careful with who she wants to start with so she bats the first few men away. But then along come three suave Jamaican’s, three pillars of muscle and testosterone that smell like salty beaches and expensive cologne. And while they may have eyes for the biracial bombshell with the extravagant hair, they aren’t counting Tiffany out of the equation, despite my arm firmly fastened around her bare shoulders.

“Not enough beautiful girls on this cruise,” the handsome one named Bodé has his arm around Amanda already and she doesn’t seem to mind. Bodé, like his friends, has a thick islander accent. “And here we find the most beautiful girls of them all and one is taken!”

“She gives you more than you can handle, little man – I can tell!” Ziggy says. He’s six and a half feet tall with a nest of

dreadlocks that fall nearly to his ass. He’s saying these things to me with a white smile on his face but the words are laced with trademark predation of a drunk.

“Don’t give the white boy no trouble,” Damian says, the bulkiest and blackest of the trio. “He must be hidin’ a baby seal under dem’ shorts if he’s here with these two beauties on his arm!”

Laughter is cheap and shared. Amanda is ordering shots for the table, and mostly keeping the Jamaicans occupied, though they keep finding ways to interject themselves into the silence between Tiffany and me. I get this feeling that Tiffany doesn’t want my arm around her shoulders anymore but I can’t say if that’s because of her body language or my own paranoia. I should point out that being around men like this, in real life as opposed to a computer screen, puts my psyche in a strange condition. Just like porn conditioned my ED and my premature ejaculation, it also conditioned me to certain perspectives that may or may not be valid given any one particular situation. What I mean is, I can’t

seem to act normal around the harmless black man at the DMV, not without certain images and scenarios flooding my thoughts. But here, right now, surrounded by the sort of men that are actually in the videos I am obsessed with, it renders any kind of bravado or normalcy of conversation impossible. I simply don’t know how to act around strong black men.

I go quiet and docile when the conversation starts to border on the inappropriate.

“Some say the white folks pick this cruise for swinging,” Ziggy chuckles, eyes soaking in my wife’s cleavage. “Is that why you two are ‘ere?” Come to sample the local flavors of Jamaica?”

I pretend I don’t understand what he said, which is believable because his accent is so thick. Tiffany blushes and giggles, and thankfully, tells him no, not us.

“But she will be at the wet t-shirt contest tomorrow, boys,” Amanda blurts out, basically in Bodé’s lap. “So if you wanna see what the white boy been hogging all to himself you better not miss it.”

Jamaican eyes go wider than a Jamaican full moon and they all transfix on Tiffany’s body. Her nipples are hard and cutting through the fabric of her dress and all at once I’m reminded of the price I have to pay tomorrow. I feel sick. If the contest is anywhere near as demeaning as the way Bodé, Ziggy, and Damian are staring at my wife, well, I might have to jump overboard.

Last call comes around 1am and everyone is drunker than they should be. Amanda rallies the group and says she’s got party favors back at the cabin and that’s where we should all go. I try to explain that there just isn’t room in the cabin, that we should call it a night, but Amanda gives me a disapproving look and I shut my mouth. She’s drunk, which means she’s unpredictable. One wrong move and this whole rouse goes up in smoke.

My best bet is to lay low, shut up, and wait this out.

The cabin and its adjoining room feel tiny the moment we all shuffle inside. It’s also a bit like returning to the scene of the crime, as I haven’t been back since the incident. It’s also Tiffany’s first time seeing it.

“It’s cozy,” Tiffany said, slurring the two words. “Should have asked for bigger though.”

“I tried,” I mumble, on the verge of reminding her that we had a bigger cabin before Amanda was invited but immediately decide better. The less I talk right now, the less trouble I can get into.

There’s not a lot of places to sit. It starts with the five of us dispersed in the main cabin, which means Ziggy and Damian are both sitting on the bed where Tiffany and I will be sleeping. Tiff and I are also on the bed, though I’m basically falling off the corner while the Jamaicans let their balls breathe. And I mean exactly that – in that tiny cabin I could smell their distinctive scent seeping out from the legs of their trunks. They were barefoot too, and I couldn’t help but notice the calloused and dirty state of their feet. I look at Tiffany to see if she’s disgusted, but she’s only smiling drunkenly, offering small talk here and there as it drifts around the small, enclosed space. I notice her eyes drifting again and again to Ziggy and Damian, until she is turning her body

towards them, turning her back to me, and starting to delve more and more into conversation with them. While I’m relatively forgotten and drunk, I start to think about pheromones, what the sciences says about female response to men’s natural body odors. Personally, I very rarely smell like anything. Not BO, not sweat, nothing really. I’m mostly hairless on my body, and I never seem to sweat very much unless I’m nervous or anxious. But even then, one swab of deodorant a day keeps me good until bedtime. Musing on this in my drunken silence only makes the prevalent smell in the room all the muskier. We are quite literally sitting in these stranger’s stench...my beautiful, innocent wife, is all but coated in it.

On a smaller, single chair in the corner, sits Bodé. Amanda is in his lap and they are starting to get feisty. He’s feeling her up quietly and I wonder if I should do the same with Tiffany, show her who she belongs to, but it would be an awkward movement given that she is now facing Ziggy and Damian on the other side of the bed.

I catch bits and pieces of her conversation with them while Amanda starts to grind in Bodé’s lap. I’m encouraged that, at least for the time being, Amanda has forgotten about me and the incident from earlier.

It’s getting late. I can tell Amanda is going to be off with Bodé soon, into their adjoined room where I’m sure we will hear everything, but what alarms me is the thought of being alone with the two pushy Jamaicans while my wife is too drunk to stop the chit chat and go to bed.

“I’m tired,” I whisper in her ear. “We have a huge day tomorrow. Maybe we should call it.”

When Tiffany turns around, I realize it’s the drunkest I’ve maybe ever seen her before – and that’s saying something. She’s nearly cross-eyed, browning out. I’m certain she’s not going to remember the end of the night tomorrow morning.

“Shhhhhure,” Tiffany breathes, putting her hand on my shoulder like she’s trying to make the room stop spinning. “Less gotuh bed.”

For the first time in weeks I happen upon a bit of luck. Some good timing for once. Because as I’m cajoling Tiffany to call it, Bodé stands up and he has Amanda in his arms. She’s laughing madly. She points to the adjoining room and he walks through the doorway with her.

Ziggy and Damian glance back at us: I’m hugging Tiffany, she’s barely keeping her eyes open. They glance back at the room Bodé and Amanda just disappeared inside. The two of them get up, go in there, and close the door behind them.

Good. Maybe they’ll run a train on her and she’ll be too exhausted to torment me tomorrow.

I lay Amanda down on the bed, she groans. Her eyes are closed and she’s breathing heavy. Toast. I go across to the adjoining cabin door to check for a lock – no surprises, there isn’t one. Plus, the only way the trio will get out is by coming back through the main cabin and taking the front door. But that’s fine because the bed is on the other end of the room. They’ll have absolutely no reason to come poking over there.

I vow to stay awake until they leave, and then shuffle my wife under the blankets and start undressing her. The dress is tighter than I could have imagined, and she groans and complains in gibberish as I get it off of her. Away comes the bra, and maybe in my drunken clumsiness I refamiliarize myself with the contours of my wife’s tits. She doesn’t seem to mind – actually reaching out for my dick but missing. Ten seconds later, naked and blanketed, Tiffany is snoring softly. The only part of her body that is revealed is her cute auburn head, pouty mouth open and pushing through stray locks of hair.

I turn the lights out and slip into bed beside her. Her body is warm, inviting, and to my surprise I get an honest to goodness hard on. I press it against her backside and breathe her in. She smells incredible. Next door, they’re making a racket. Not fucking, not yet, but Amanda’s annoying squeal-giggle comes at regular intervals and I’m kind of hoping it might wake Tiff up so she’ll see what I have for her. No such luck.

I’m supposed to stay awake but it’s late, and I’m tired. Next door, I hear my name being brought up in conversation, I wonder how much shit Amanda is talking about me...or if she’s letting things slip that she shouldn’t.

It all molds together and then I can’t tell the difference between being awake or dreaming.

Time passes.

I wake up with Tiffany’s mouth wrapped around my throbbing dick.

“Oh, Sammy,” she whispers wet lips around it. “You’re so fucking hard for me.”

It’s pitch black. My hands find her thick hair and I run my fingers through it. Tiffany takes my length without issue, all of it, and yet surprisingly I don’t cum. No, I’m in control. Maybe it’s the booze. Maybe it’s the muscle relaxers. Maybe it’s my last day on earth. Its incredible none the less, and my wife’s warm wet mouth works my rod until I know I need to fuck her.

We wrestle in the dark. She’s on her back before me and I can almost see her body in the darkness but I’m glad I can’t because then I would cum to quickly. Instead, I find her moist entrance and thrust inside her with more vigor than I have in months. She actually moans, spreading her legs wider, reaching out the grab my thighs like she wants more. I start to fuck her. I breathe. I’m in control.

But then I’m not. It’s coming on just as quickly as it always has before and I’m maybe six pumps in. No, NO! I thought my body could forget, I thought my brain could be fixed.

“I’m going to cum,” I squeak.
“Nooooo,” Tiffany’s voice is anguish. “Wait. Waaaiiiitttt!” I hold. Holding. Fuck – it’s cumming.
“Nooooo,” Tiffany whines.
And then I can’t see anything but white light. I groan, I

shoot, but something is very wrong. The light clears and I realize it’s the light from Amanda’s room – the door has been thrown wide open. And now, huddling feet away, are the three Jamaicans.

They are stoned out of their minds, drunk, and they are pointing and laughing at me and Tiffany.

“No,” is all I can muster.

In the horrible embarrassment of it all the three men fall over each other laughing, open mouthed, eyes trained to my wife’s gorgeous body and the tiny mess I’ve made below her belly button.

“Shrimp dick shot his baby load!” Ziggy guffaws.

“White girl’s nipples are bigger than his entire cock!” Damian cackles.

“Don’t be shy, baby,” Bodé grins, talking about Tiffany. “Your husband is the one that should be embarrassed! Ha!”

I look down at Tiffany and she’s got one hand shielding her face from the light and the men in the doorway. She’s blushing, so innocently, so sadly. Her other arm, thin and bony, tries to hide her massive, pale melons, but it’s utterly useless. In the streaming light I can see the induvial blue veins below the milky flesh, and her nipples are wide and bumpy.

The guys see all of her. And they see the dribble of a load I’ve left in my desperation.

“Get out!” I cry. “Get out of my cabin!”

They ignore me. Their smiles grow bigger. Tiffany is so out of it I think she might be falling asleep again. And as I pull breath into my lungs to scream at them once more, Amanda slinks from the room and out in front of the hecklers.

“Sam’s got a tiny baby dick,” she says, wired in the eyes. “No surprises there.”

The cacophony of laughter reaches its peak and I look down once more, at my dangling deflated pink penis with a single drop of cum leftover on the thin tip. Helpless, exposed, I beg them to leave.

Eventually, they do.

4. Hangovers all around in the morning.

After some ibuprofen and orange juice I ask Tiffany what she remembers about last night. For her, it ended with the two of us going to sleep. I decide that’s all I can remember as well.

It’s a big day. A bad day. But I’ve got to get through it.

We check in for the two contests around 1pm and by then we’ve all had enough hair of the dog to kick the hangover and replace it with a mild, irritable buzz. Tiffany in particular is drinking a lot, trying to gather her courage for what’s to come.

The schedule said the first competition of the day was going to be the wet t-shirt contest. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, it all kind of sucks, but maybe getting Tiffany’s part of it over with is for the best.

Scanning over the rules and regulations of the contest, I focus on a few important details that might take the sting out of the whole thing.

Contestants are encouraged to wear bikinis underneath their t-shirts.

No male nudity of any kind will be tolerated – make sure your trunks are not see-through! This is more Battle of the Bulge than peepshow!

Maybe this won’t be so bad. Humiliating, yes. Catastrophic? No.

But as we make our way back to the room to get changed for the contests, I start to notice the other entries to the Trunks Championship. Men twice my size, fit, with defined bodies and the utmost confidence in their ability to win the contest. I haven’t much thought about it, hoping to deal with the stress when the time came...but now I see that the repercussions for my mistake are going to be severe.

Side by side with those meatheads? Sheer embarrassment awaits me.

Maybe it’s what I deserve.

The girls were given large white t-shirts. Whatever else they decided to wear with it was up to them. A queasy feeling starts to enter my gut as I watch Tiffany change into her red two-piece bathing suit, and then don the large white t-shirt. Totally dry, it outlines her humongous breasts ad nauseam. Thank God she is wearing a bikini underneath because the perfect circular outline of her nipple is already visible.

“You sure you’re cool with this?” Tiffany asks me in a brief moment of lucidity. “I don’t have to do it.”

“Yes you do!” Amanda calls over from the next room.
“It’s fine,” I lie. “Have fun.”
She leans over and kisses me. “I’m shocked you’re doing the

Trunks Championship. And don’t be nervous. I’ll be there to cheer for you.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

A short while later Amanda comes out in her white t-shirt. She pulled the bottom hem through the collar and fastened a knot at the center of her chest, leaving her backside and midsection

totally bare, her skin like caramel. The knotted shirt holds her breasts in a hammock, and she looks good. But not good enough to beat Tiffany.

Tiffany is going to win and that’s just a foregone conclusion.

“Go into my room and try on that bikini I put out for you,” Amanda says to Tiffany. “Might be more comfortable than that one you got on. After its soaked with water I mean.”

Tiffany agrees and walks into the next room. I can hear her moving things around, looking for this other bikini. Amanda leans down and whispers in my ear.

“These are your trunks for the contest.” She shoves them into my hands. “Don’t ask any questions just put them on.”

From the attached room, Tiffany yells: “What bikini, Amanda? I don’t see one!”

“Put them on now,” Amanda spits quietly.

The heat is on. If I argue with her now there’s a better chance that Tiffany catches us and catches on. I have questions, like why

is it so important I wear these, but I keep them to myself. When I hesitate, Amanda nods her head like do it now.

Humiliated, I drop my blue trunks and change into the grey ones she’s given me. They are more like boxer shorts than anything else, but there’s some sort of itchy cup guard in the crotch.

Amanda giggled when she saw my dick. Now that I’m changed, she whispers: “Don’t worry. Nobody’s gonna see your little wee wee. It has a built-in cup.” She turns and heads over to the adjoining room to help Tiffany find the bikini. Amanda shuts the door behind her and they start talking but I can’t hear what they’re saying.

I stand up and check out my new trunks. They are more like boxers, grey and loose, yet the crotch itself is oddly containing. A little itchy. I’d feel extremely exposed if it wasn’t for the oversized Hawaiian shirt I have on. I want to take a closer look at these trunks, see what the hell is going on in the middle, but then

high-pitched giggling from the adjoining room distracts me and the door swings open. The girls are ready to go.

It's time.

The party deck is packed. Shirtless men and bikini clad women with plastic cups of booze in their hands and music blaring from high speakers. I haven’t seen it this crowded yet and I’m struck by the disparity in skin tone. The boat is heavily Jamaican. Tiffany is on my left, Amanda on the right, good angel and bad, the three of us walking to our fates. Tiff is already getting eyes and her shirt is totally dry.

There are two stages constructed at either end of a swimming pool, about half a football field long. The pool is filled with people, worse than Vegas at noon in the summertime. I walk the girls over to where other female contestants are lining up beside the stage. They all wear the same white cotton shirt, though some do it in different styles the way Amanda has.

“Alright this is it,” I say nervously to Tiffany. “Have fun...I guess.”

She hugs me, gives me a sloppy kiss on the cheek. Drunk, she says: “It’s all in good fun. I’ll see you on the other side!”

Amanda is looking at me like she knows something I don’t. I say my final goodbyes and go out into the audience. The atmosphere here is tense, full of testosterone and aggression. It’s hard for me to get a good view of the stage over so many tall men so I move back until I can walk up onto a bar deck, cattycorner with the stage itself. Women are starting to walk out on stage, a long line of them, and near the back I spot Tiffany and Amanda. Tiffany looks nervous. And drunk. Amanda looks cool and calm as usual.

Amanda. Her scare tactics are why I’m about to watch my wife degrade herself for a crowd full of men. Why does she want to torture me so? If she hates me so much, why not just tell Tiffany what she saw and stand back and watch our marriage implode? Her motives are incomprehensible to me, and only frustrate me more if I try to make sense of them.

The roar of the crowd goes up, the music comes down, and a bombastic Jamaican man with a microphone comes running down the stage in front of the line of women, shouting and amping the crowd up.

“Alright everybody! Make some noise! It’s time to get WET!”

Music blares loudly again, thunderous hip-hop bass that sets the whole crowd to dancing. The girls on stage twist and move, some throwing their ass out. Amanda let her titties bounce up and down as she worked it for the crowd. Tiffany, thank God, still seems quite shy about the whole thing.

“Damn ladies,” the announcer licks his lips as he walks up and down the row of breasts on stage. “All these titties looking a lil’ too DRY if you ask me! Come on Rastas, let’s hose em’ down!”

My breath catches in my throat as a sudden burst of shirtless Jamaican men swarm the stage. Some carry buckets, big white buckets with water sloshing over the rim and splashing to the hardwood stage. Others, at either end of the stage, have hoses – huge thick hoses that are filled taut with water pressure.

Amongst the men on stage I recognize Ziggy, Damian. Damian has a bucket of water clenched in his hands, arms flexing with the weight of it. Ziggy is manning one of the hoses, the hose closest to the end that Amanda and Tiffany are on.

“SOAK DEM TITTIIES BOYZ!”

The music, somehow, gets even louder. The crowd more crazed. And then the Jamaicans are dousing the beautiful buxom women on stage – my wife included. Buckets upturned, hoses unleashed, screaming giggling girls screeching from shock as the cold water blasted them.

Damian upturned the bucket on Tiffany while Ziggy’s hose only had eyes for her. My hand curls into a fist at my side but I’m powerless. This removed from it, watching just like another spectator, it doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. Tiffany is laughing wildly, hair a mess, her white shirt sticking to her giant breasts as she tries to avoid the onslaught of hose water. Thank God she’s got a bikini on or else –

Wait. What bikini?

There is no bikini.

AMANDA YOU BITCH!

My stomach sinks and I can hear all the guys around me talking about my wife. There are twenty women up there but only one doesn’t have a bikini on below her shirt and it’s Tiffany. Her wide pink nipples are erect and poking through. The sunlight hits her full on and every contour of her breasts is revealed. The shirt is so wet its as if she’s not wearing one at all and Ziggy won’t stop hosing her down. He’s laughing and I want so badly to rush down there, through the mob, and tackle him. But who am I kidding? That’s not possible. Not for me.

“Damn yo check out the brunette with the melons!” “Shiiit bro does she have a wedding ring on?” “Imagine being married to a slut like that?”
“Dawg I would eat them titties for lunch!”

The crowd is getting rowdier. The announcer is running up and down the stage pointing at different pairs of soaked breasts but none get the ovation my Tiffany gets. Ziggy cools it with the

hose but only for Damian to dump another full bucket over her head. Amanda is laughing hysterically beside her, reaching over and groping Tiffany’s tits to get a rise out of the crowd. I know she can’t see me, doesn’t know where I am, but it feels malicious. As if Amanda is doing it just to irk me.

It's working.

I disassociate. My face goes red hot. I can’t hear the announcer next to me anymore because the crowd of men all around me are screaming. They’ve found a nickname for my wife and they won’t stop chanting. It’s horrible. Just horrible...

SWEET – TITS! SWEET – TITS! SWEET – TITS!

Over and over. They walk Tiffany out to the front of the stage, separate from the other girls, tits front and center. The announcer raises her left hand in victory, and Ziggy nearby raises her right hand. With both arms stretched over her head, Tiffany’s soaked watermelons take on a new life and practically jiggle in the wake of the crowd’s collective exhale.

“WE HAVE A WINNER!”

SWEET – TITS! SWEET – TITS! SWEET – TITS!

My heart rate doubles and I wish I could wish this all away but there is no way to stop it now. And as Tiffany drunkenly smiles with her breasts exposed and her arms raised in the air, a pair of black hands, Damian’s to be precise, come from behind and envelope Tiffany’s tits in a rough, fiendish manner. Tiffany’s eyes go wide and she screams with laughter, she tries to pull her hands down but Ziggy and the announcer aren’t letting her and now she’s squirming and jiggling and getting groped in front of a crowd of hundreds. The cruise ship is pure pandemonium now as Tiffany laughs right along with everyone else.

There are no words for the anger running through my body. The last I see of Tiffany is her falling back against Damian as he continues to grab her tits over the soaked through shirt. The crowd jostles, moves, and I can’t see anything anymore except the backs of the men ogling my wife.

Music blares but I have no idea what is going on. All the life has gone out of me and I decide no, I won’t be doing the Trunks

Championship. That I no longer care whether Amanda tells Tiffany or not. All I want to do is hide my head away, be alone, find some peace and quiet to let my heart break.

Eventually I’m out of the claustrophobic crowd but the wet t shirt contest is over and people are dispersing towards the other stage – especially the women. While the big black men seem to be going one direction, all the ladies are headed for the Trunks stage. This confirms my decision to go back to the cabin, to get away from this, to bail.

“Where the fuck you think you’re going?”
I turn around. It’s Amanda. Somehow, she’s found me. “I’m done,” I tell her. “That was wrong...you convincing her

not to wear a bikini.”
“Quit your whinin’. Tiffany had a good old time up there and

so what if she got some male attention? See, Sam, what you saw up there is what real men do. Real men go out and get bitches. They don’t watch porn on their phone and masturbate into a pair of panties like some goddamn sissy!”

I can’t argue with her. I’m sick. I turn to go.

“If you walk outta here I’m telling Tiffany what I saw. And judging from the way she let Damian get all the free titty he wanted, I’d say now ain’t a good time to let her go on the prowl.”

I hate that she’s right. Hate that she’s getting into my head. But what’s the point of it anymore? That girl on stage, she wasn’t my Tiffany. Because my Tiffany would never allow another man to do that to her. She would never do that to me.

“Still a lot of time left on this boat,” Amanda coos. “Be a shame for you to spend every night of it in the doghouse while some island boy is railing your wife.”

She’s in my head. I can see the things she’s saying as a clear reality, as if the porn I love so much has become a real, tangible outcome in my own life. But for the first time I’m realizing that maybe it is all better off as a fantasy. What if Amanda is right and she tells Tiffany and Tiffany turns her back on me?

I turn around.

“You swear to me this is it,” I say. “Swear to me we forget it ever happened if I do this.”

“I ain’t gonna say a damn word. But you gotta hold up your end of the bargain.”

Amanda doesn’t wait for my response. She puts her arm around my shoulders and leads me over to the check in table at the Trunks stage.

5.
In the lineup along the side of the stage I am by far the

shortest and least in shape of them all. I’m the only white boy, and I’m the only one wearing a shirt. These men are adonis level hunks, some of them rubbing their muscles down with baby oil before the competition starts. Every pair of swimming trunks is short, ranging from red, to blue, to black, to purple and pink. Mine are the dullest, and the flimsiest. But the material around my crotch feels protected enough that even with water blasted upon it, my ‘bulge’ shouldn’t give too much away.

If anything, laughing at me would be anticlimactic. Maybe Amanda did have some sort of heart after all.

“I think you are mistaken, white boy,” a familiar voice comes from behind. “This is the men’s competition. The women’s is already over.”

It’s Ziggy. Damian is with him. They are both shirtless and shoeless, wearing only short swim trunks that already stretch with the size of their packages within. Damian is smiling especially

hard at me. Like he knows exactly what he did, and he knows I saw every second of it.

“Leave me alone,” I tell them.

“Your wife’s titties are like soft bread,” Damian sneered. “But what I really want to know is what her pussy feels like.”

Ziggy laughs. I go red hot in the face but there’s nothing I can say or do. They are both significantly taller and stronger than me. As the line begins to move out towards the stage, the file in on either side of me, and when I try to relocate the female hose of the show yells at me to get back in line.

A feminine call goes up in the crowd and now we are walking out across stage. I can’t bare to look at the crowd but, in my periphery, it’s an ocean of gorgeous women in bikinis cheering. Gorgeous women no doubt confused by my presence on stage.

It’ll all be over soon, I tell myself. You just have to get through the next twenty minutes.

“Alright GIRLS,” the female announcer sings into the microphone, “it’s time to see those Johnsons!”

I’m staring at my feet but the crowd explodes and girls catcall from the crowd at the buff men I share the stage with. My head wanders left, to right, looking up and down the row of men and all that exposed flesh.

“First things first – get yo’ damn shirt off sweetie pie!”

I don’t realize she’s talking to me until someone is tugging at my shirt and I look up for the first time. The crowd before me gives me vertigo and I’m stunned and embarrassed, I acquiesce to the woman tugging my Hawaiian shirt off over my head. Now I’m shirtless too, and the dichotomy of it beside the others is liking dropping a handful of snow onto black tarmac.

“Somebody skipped chest day, ladies,” the announcer winks at the crowd. “And every other damn day at the gym too!”

The female crowd erupts at the insult. Without realizing it, I’m searching those mocking faces for my wife.

“Uh-oh, he turnin’ red!” the announcer continues to prod me. “Look how embarrassed old jiggle butt is girls!”

More unrelenting laughter. The guys on stage are laughing at me too. The color in my face is seeping down my neck, coloring my bland and chubby chest. My nipples are soft and dry and extremely puffy.

“Damn this white boy shoulda’ done the wet t-shirt ya’ll! I mean look at them chubby donut nips!”

I’m two seconds from bolting off the stage when the music finally kicks up and the announcer calls up the hose. Three beautiful women come on stage carrying the same hose that blasted my Tiffany all to pieces. As they join us, I notice for the first time something different about this stage than the others. At the front is a diving board. A plank, so to speak. It’s a straight drop off down into the deep end of the massive pool below.

“Let’s go right down the line!”

The hose comes on, and the man closest to it gets sprayed down. He’s about nine men away from me, with Ziggy just before me and Damian just after. Whooping and whistling accompanies the first man’s hose down, his small swimming trunks quickly

plastered to his crotch and the outline of his member visible. It’s long and twisted around on itself, girthy, with a well-defined head that tells you exactly where it is. The female audience goes insane. I think of my own penis...and I pray that whatever kind of trunks these are that Amanda has given me, they hide the truth of it. The sad, sad truth.

“Let’s hear it for old Long Dong Johnson, ladies!”

One by one, down the line, the hose comes and sprays away all modesty. Of course every man in the competition is hung. Why else enter? These guys wanted everyone on the boat to know they were packing. Which again begged the question – why am I here?

Finally, when the hose is two men away from me, I spot Tiffany and Amanda huddled in a corner of the pool. To my horror, they haven’t changed clothing. Amanda is in her tied knot white t shirt, the pink top beneath it pushing through. But Tiffany...Tiffany is still in her white t-shirt without the bikini beneath. I can see her tits from the stage. And almost just as bad...she’s laughing.

“Let’s see what this Rasta man is packin’, shall we?”

It’s Ziggy’s turn and he stands proudly as the hose does battle with his crotch. The blue trunks plaster back, and a hog the length of my forearm is revealed, snaking this way and that along his thigh. It’s so exposed I can see the outline of a specific vein.

The announcer catches me staring and says loudly into the microphone: “Hey white boy, take a picture – it’ll last longer!”

This really sends the crowd into hysterics and my petrified eyes find Tiffany in the crowd. Amanda is in her ear, whispering something, and my wife is smiling.

“I don’t know girls, this Rasta man might be in the lead at the moment,” the female announcer laughs. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves – it’s puffy mcpufferson’s turn!”

This is it. I brace myself.
The hose takes aim.
“FIRE!”
The moment the harsh flow makes impact with my trunks

I’m certain its going to not only outline my small, scared penis,

but possibly blow them off altogether. It’s cold, cold enough to make me wonder how these guys were still so big after getting hosed down. I can’t see anything, the spray of the water is too forceful for there to be any sign of anything just yet. But then the hose stops, and it’s time for my reveal.

My eyes are closed. I can’t look. A collective gasp goes up and for the briefest moments the cruise ship is silent. I know immediately that the crotch protector in my trunks has failed. But I have no idea to what extent.

Not until I open my eyes.

HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHAH! HAHAHAHAH!

The flimsy trunks are plastered to my crotch. Everything beneath them is completely and utterly see-through. But it isn’t my penis that is showing. It’s the crotch protector, except, it’s not a crotch protector at all.

HAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHA!

Cotton candy colored panties squeeze my junk in a small tight package. The actual swimming trunks over the top of them

are more like wet naps and do nothing to cover the obvious fact that I’m wearing ladies’ underwear. I don’t know how Amanda did it until I can the flimsy pieces of tape coming off in the water. Frozen with humiliation, the crowd’s heckling is paralyzing. Beside me, Ziggy and Damian and all the other guys are joining in as well.

HAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHA! HAHAHAA!

My vision blurs with tears and I search for Tiffany but I’ve lost her. My hands creep over my crotch, as if that will do any good now that everybody has seen.

“The little lady has a wedding ring on!” the announcer cackled. “Who’s the lucky man?”

Ziggy and Damian grab my arms, a lot like how they did Tiffany early, and wrestle the sopping wet rag of boxers from body. Now it’s just me and my cotton candy panties. My ass busting out the seams, my thick thighs obscuring my crotch but there’s no missing that brightly colored spot in the middle. The

hose comes again, flattening the panties against my nonexistent bulge.

The announcer pretends to have binoculars as she kneels down near my crotch and screams: “I can’t see nothin’ but a little itty bitty clitty!”

HAHAHAHAHA! HAAHAHA! HAHAHA!

And then, from the crowd, from the stage, from the sea and from the sky, comes the chant. I can’t make it out at first but soon it is loud and constant and Ziggy and Damian have started to push me towards the edge of the stage.

“Walk – the – plank! Walk – the – plank! Walk – the – plank!”

Squirming, fighting, kicking, I’m wearing nothing but a small pair of panties – Amanda’s panties – as the two Jamaicans wrestle me forward. The crowd heckles and calls and screams as I near the plank. Then I’m out over it, on it, nudged forward inch by inch to the edge.

My pleas sound girlish and scared. I know Tiffany is seeing this. Is she laughing? Is she humiliated?

Ziggy’s foot comes to my thick rearend and he shoves. In a fleeting moment, like an angel coming down from the clouds, I am revealed in all my terrible glory and the faces of many are held in rapture at this awful miracle. I plummet.

I hit the water.

6.
The endless pool is a fun house of horror.

Laughing clown faces pushing and shoving and splashing me. I’m defenseless. I am a full-grown man in panties in public and have become the target of the intoxicated and oversexed. The water isn’t the worst part, though. Getting out it the worst part. No cover from the flashing cameras and pointed fingers. Just me and my cotton candy delight darting this way and that, blocked off here so turning to scurry there, only to find myself encircled by a mob. Panic sets in. I become more fragile and they all delight in seeing me come apart.

Finally, impossibly, I break the crowd. I’m running down an air-conditioned hallway that makes me shiver, makes me feel the tight waistband of the panties of my humiliation. I can’t take them off or I’ll be naked. I have nothing to change into.

I have to get to the cabin. It’s my only salvation.

Up ahead, the hallway goes into one of the ship’s indoor casinos. Even through the double glass doors I can see the place is

packed. I badly need to get through but my feet slow, then stop me. Can I really take another public shaming? Because it will happen if I try to walk through that place dressed like this.

Two taps on my shoulder and I know it’s Amanda before I even turn around. How did she get here so fast? Was she following me?

“Looks like you’re in a bit of a predicament here, white boy.” Amanda has a purse over her shoulder, the straps of a bikini (the one Tiffany should have been wearing) sticking out the top. “You should probably throw some clothes on or I think Tiffany gonna lose even more respect for your flabby ass.”

My stomach tightens. Tiffany. What did she tell Amanda after seeing me like this?

“Please, Amanda, I need you to get me clothes,” my eyes well with tears. “I’ll hide in this bathroom and you can bring me back something to wear! Please!”

“I got yah clothes right here. Follow me.”

She says it with such confidence that I can’t help but follow her off the hallway, into the family restroom. She locks the door behind us and turns to me, already reaching into her tote bag.

“Take off your panties.” Her voice is harsher than it’s been. Nothing playful there. Authoritative and borderline angry.

“Can I have my clothes?”
“Take. Off. Your. Panties.”
I sigh, turn, and start yanking them down. I hate them and

all the horrible emotional turmoil they’ve caused. But I know it’s Amanda, not the panties.

“I can’t believe you did this to me,” I say, shaking with rage. “Why do you hate me so much?”

“Here’s the deal white boy,” Amanda clicks her teeth. “Tiffany is on her way to the cabin right now – as we speak. She asked me if I thought you been acting strange and I told her you sure was. Told her I thought I saw you stuffing something real secretive like into that duffle bag full of clothes. Way in the back.”

I went painfully still, like a modern sculpture, holding out the panties with one arm outreached and a hand covering my shame.

“How...” I swallow in a dry throat. “How do you know –

“I did some digging. Figured you were too stupid to throw them away. I mean really, Samual. What kind of fucking idiot leaves evidence of the crime?”

She snatched the panties out of my hand and then dumped the bag she carried. Clothes and makeup clattered out onto the tile floor.

“So like I was saying. Tiffany ain’t long for that bag, boy. She’s gonna go in there and she’s gonna see what you did. Unless you put on some clothes and drag your dumpy ass along just as fast as you can.”

I would sprint if I could but I can’t go naked. I’d be stopped or arrested. Disgusted with myself, I realize I should have kept the panties on, dealt with the embarrassment, and powered through. There is no way I can get them back from Amanda now.

No, she has her own outfit in mind for me.

Every second off the clock is painful. I’m in the final ten minutes of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off trying to beat the parents’ home, only I haven’t even started running yet.

“Two choices,” Amanda said, holding up the hot pink bikini. “Naked way, or my way.”

“Fine!” I scream, out of time. “Fine just give it here!”

“Makeup first.” She lifts a tube of lipstick. “Then I’ll let you have the suit.”

“AMANDA PLEASE!”
“Tick tock, Sammy. Tick tock.”
Maybe Tiffany will get distracted on her way back to the

cabin. Maybe some new fans will stop to talk and stare at her breasts while I get back with enough time to get those soiled panties out of my duffle bag, and maybe even this makeup from my face.

Amanda is quick with it but not as quick as I would like. In the mirror at our side I see my lips turned a fluffy red, my cheeks

blushed pink, and heavy black mascara rimming my eyes. The touch of her brushes and pencils is quick and smooth against my face and I am literally counting seconds in my mind. Amanda starts giggling. When she sets the makeup aside, I think it’s time to get the stupid bikini on and sprint but she’s holding a can of hairspray and dousing me with it. Twisting my scruffy blonde locks into a wild, feminine tangle.

“Now the bikini.”

Amanda backs up against the exit door, hands behind her back, leaning as she grips the doorknob. I’m befuddled at first by the hot pink bottoms, struggling to get them on the right way, nestling my petrified penis into the crotch. Then the top. The oversized, ridiculous bra. I can’t believe Tiffany actually fills this thing out. The huge cups are empty and delated, my puffy nipples only just breaching into their zone.

I dart for the door as soon as I’m dressed, mentally pushing through the anguish of being completely feminized by this biracial she-devil. But Amanda is blocking the door and she won’t move.

Not until I beg. She tells me to grab a stack of paper towels by the sink and soak them through. I don’t understand but in my panic I do it.

“Stuff the cups. Go on. Make some titties.”

I bemoan the act but do it anyway. Stuffing wet paper towels in until the cups are filled out. takes her t-shirt off, the one tied in a knot at the collar and tosses it to me. She has her yellow bikini on underneath and even in my anger I recognize how hot she is.

“Put it on,” she says. “Wear it like me.”

It’s the final key to getting out so I do it. I tie the white t-shirt through the collar and it cups my huge fake tits and I’ll be damned if I don’t like a thick white girl come on a Jamaican cruise to locate some of that strange. It’s actually terrifying, glimpsing myself in the mirror, realizing the totality of my short transformation.

“Good luck,” Amanda calls after me as I dart out. “Hope you’re not too late!”

Through the casino I go. I manage to pass some without notice but not all. First a strange look, then a crack of a smile, and then I’m gone. I’m a horror show, but men are noticing, women are snickering. Someone recognizes me from the Trunks Championship.

I keep going.
Across the entire cruise liner.
When I finally make it to the cabin the door is ajar. I’m

certain I closed it this morning. There is sound coming from within, and although it’s currently indiscernible, there is something in it I don’t like.

Something that makes me want to go back the way I came.

I push into the main cabin. It’s much the same as I last saw it except for one thing. On the bed.

My duffle bag is upturned and everything inside is scattered across the top of the bed. Standing there like the topper on a Christmas tree, are the black panties. Balled up, stained lace. Crusted white.

Tiffany found them.

Standing there in my shock, it is the sounds coming from the adjoined room that get my feet moving. The door is closed and there is definitely more than one person in there. One of them is Tiffany.

She doesn’t sound right.

I walk towards the door. Tiffany was so drunk earlier. And I never saw her again after she won the wet t-shirt competition. Was she high on her own ego? She looked it when she was laughing along with the rest of them during my great humiliation. All those emotional highs, under the microscope of alcohol, and long term unfulfillment in the bedroom.

And what of her anger? When she found the panties, and remembered all that I’d told her from before...and then realized they weren’t even hers?

I push the door open.

She is on all fours, nude, the white t-shirt wrapped around her neck while Ziggy rides her mercilessly from behind. My

beautiful wife’s face is red as he chokes and fucks her. At her front side, Damian waits with his throbbing erection right in her face, waits until she’s under control enough to suck him. Not one of them has realized the door is open.

“White girl is tiiiight,” Ziggy grunts. “Not surprising!”

“Suck it again bitch,” Damian nonchalantly slides his chocolate stick back into her mouth. “Drunk white girls give the best head!”

My knees go weak and I crumple. The sound alerts the trio on the bed and they look as one as I sink to my knees and start to blubber. Ziggy and Damian laugh heartily, but ultimately my wife’s body is just too enticing to be substituted so they turn their full attention back to her. Tiffany is so cross eyed drunk she only spares me a smile and giggle – with Damian’s cock in her mouth – before returning in full adamancy to the task at hand.

“Tiffany...no...” I can’t find the words.

A hand comes to my shoulder. Amanda’s hot breath in my ear: “Uh-oh. Looks like she found your secret, Sammy. I may or

may not have told her exactly what happened while you were busy running around in my panties.”

The world is crashing in. The ship is sinking. I don’t know what to do, broken as I am, and then with the crushing weight of reality I realize this is what I masturbated to so many times. I am in the screen now. I am the pornography.

Cell deep.

And because I am here and I am just an illusion of myself I can only put up so much fight when Ziggy pulls out of Tiffany’s gaped pink pussy and demands I come taste her. Amanda shoves my face between Tiffany’s thighs, and Tiffany squeezes my head between her legs like she’s angry with me. And I know she is. I lick. I taste man cum and black musk. It greases my face and my lips.

They tell me to open and I open. I push away with my hands off of Ziggy’s strong thighs but the taste of my wife and his cock flood my mouth anyway. My fighting ceases, my burning desire to

deny extinguishes. I have become my own weaknesses and impulses. Something both bigger and much, much smaller than I.

“Pretty white bitch,” Ziggy laughs, fucking my mouth. “So very pretty.”

Amanda gets completely naked and offers herself to Damian. Ziggy pulls out of my mouth and pushes back inside Tiffany. He palms me by the top of my head, turning my gaze this way and that, making sure I saw firsthand what he was doing to Tiffany’s pussy. Tiffany forgot I was there. Came in my face. So did Ziggy – eventually.

“Uuughhh!” Ziggy groaned. “Looook girl!” He implored. “Loooook!”

His manhood tensed and tightened like a muscle and then released. Over and over again I saw the flex of his cum as he pumped my wife full of it. Oh how fast I have fallen. How quickly my wife was turned.

But then again, it hasn’t been quick. It’s been ten months, building to this, building to some sort of outlet for her dissatisfaction. An outlet for me, too.

My makeup smears as I’m thrust between her legs once more, this time to clean up the whole mess of it. My mind races. My wife is connected to me at the mouth and yet she feels so far away. I taste it. I taste him.

The taste of man.
And my own failure at being one.

7.
On the last night of the cruise I am standing at the high top

with Tiffany and Amanda. The three of us are drinking matching Cosmos. The girls are loose and are having a good time. I’m stiff and off balance.

Mainly due to the four-inch heels I’m wearing.

It’s not such a bad deal that Tiffany has cut me. It sure beats a divorce. We had a long talk and worked through some things the morning after the contests. I was forced to face some truths I don’t know if I’m ready even now to face.

“You can’t satisfy me in the bedroom and that is your fault, not mine,” Tiffany said. “So we need to find a way to restructure things. For now.”

For now. That’s the light at the end of the tunnel. For Now.

A group of three that got on at one of the island stops makes their way over to us. Both Tiffany and I are sans wedding rings this evening because we don’t want to confuse anyone. As if I wasn’t confusing enough to begin with. But these three are awfully

masculine and quite rough and I don’t think the one slobbering all over me really cares to know the truth.

“I like your hair,” he clicked in a foreign tongue, booze breath in my face. “It will look good from the back.”

My hair is a blonde bob, a wig Amanda was able to locate down in the theatre portion of the ship. I wear a purple and black sparkly dress, the cups of my bra stuffed with whole melons we ordered at room service that day. My makeup is extra special because tonight, Tiffany was the one that applied it.

“We can indulge your fantasies,” she said, applying the bush. “And fulfill my own needs at the same time.”

Telling her no was not an option. Even trying to deny that I liked this was futile. Tiffany through the D word around like she did Ziggy and Damian’s dicks. And forget about blaming Amanda for any of this – as far as Tiffany was concerned, this was all my fault.

Me and my perversions.

“Let’s go back to the cabin,” Tiffany purrs after last call. “See what kind of trouble we can get into there.”

I try to tell them I’m not tired, that I’m not ready to go back yet, but the big hulking Jamaican won’t let me go. We all go back to the cabin together, where I try not to see the men coming on to my wife.

“Deeper,” the Jamaican growls later, his girth blocking my throat. “DEEPER!”

Not enough spitting and gagging in the whole world is enough for me to get him down. And this angers him. Angers him enough to flip me over, spread my cheeks, and spit on my virgin hole. I tell him I’ve never done this before but I don’t tell him no.

I don’t think he hears me anyway.

And at some point, in my own screaming and moaning, the pitch of it matches my wife’s next door, and for one brief moment we are in harmony.

THE END