Night out

The night air was thick with salt and sweat, the streets of Tenerife glowing neon. Music bled from every doorway, bass lines pulsing through the cobbles. Tourists staggered between bars with cocktails in plastic cups, voices loud, laughter louder.

Emma pulled at the hem of her dress or what passed for one. The scrap of satin clung to her body like a second skin, riding high on her thighs, low on her tits. Every step made it crawl upward until she was tugging constantly, fighting a battle she couldn’t win. No bra. No panties. Nothing but thin straps biting into her shoulders and the hot press of night against her bare skin.

Mark stumbled at her side, his arm heavy around her waist. Too heavy. He’d been drinking since the pool, pint after pint, rum after rum, until his words slurred and his eyes glazed. She smelled beer on his breath every time he leaned close.

“Loosen up,” he muttered, his hand clumsy on her hip. “We’re on holiday.”

Emma gritted her teeth. “You can barely walk, Mark. You’re drunk.”

He laughed, sharp and ugly. “So what? You love attention, don’t you? Look at you, tits out, arse hanging. Whole bloody island watching you. Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”

Her stomach twisted. The words hit harder than she expected. Because part of her knew he was right. And part of her hated him for saying it.

They stopped outside a bar glowing with red light. Music thundered from inside, men spilling out with drinks, eyes raking her body. Mark leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “Let’s go in.”

She shoved his chest. Hard. “I’m not your fucking doll, Mark. If you can’t even stand, go back to the hotel.”

His face darkened. For a second she thought he might argue, might push back. But instead, he sneered. “Fine. Do what you want.” He turned, weaving into the crowd, nearly tripping over a curb. Within moments he was gone, swallowed by neon and noise.

Emma stood alone, chest rising and falling, anger burning under her skin. She should’ve gone after him. Should’ve dragged him back. But she didn’t.

Instead, she pushed through the doorway.

Inside, the club was darker, hotter. Men packed the tables, their voices a low murmur under the pounding bass. A single pole gleamed under a spotlight in the centre of the room. Her breath caught. Not a nightclub. A strip joint.

She froze, her heart hammering. She didn’t belong here. She should turn and leave.

But then a hand clamped around her arm.

A man. tanned, mid-forties, gold chain glittering at his throat pressed a crisp fifty euro note into her palm. His eyes were sharp, hungry. His voice cut through the music. “Give me a dance.”

Emma’s mouth opened, but no words came. The note burned in her hand. Fifty euros. Just like that. For her. Holding his hand she walked through a curtain, she had no idea what to do then he sat down, legs spread, expectant.

Emma’s throat went dry. She looked around. No one stopped her. No one said she couldn’t. And God help her, part of her wanted to.

She turned slowly, heels clicking on the sticky floor, She’d never done this. Never even thought of it. But the music throbbed, her blood pulsed, and the fifty burned against her skin.

At first awkward, swaying her hips, running her hands down her sides. But the man’s eyes locked onto her body, devouring every inch. Heat bloomed inside her. She arched her back, pushed her tits forward, let the thin straps slip down her shoulders. The dress clung to her nipples, hard and obvious, before she peeled it lower, inch by inch.

The man’s breath grew heavy. His hand shifted to his lap.

Emma turned, bent slowly, her arse high, the hem of her dress riding over her cheeks showing off her shaven pussy. The crowd noise faded until there was only the bass, the heat, and his eyes.

When she faced him again, the man had undone his trousers. His cock jutted out, thick and veined, glistening under the lights.

Emma froze. A bolt of fear shot through her, but it melted into something else. Something hotter.

She dropped to her knees between his legs.

Her fingers wrapped around his dick, stroking slow at first, then faster, her thumb teasing the slick head. The man groaned, his hand tangling in her hair. Emma’s lips parted, her tongue flicking out, tasting salt and musk. She took him into her mouth, her throat tightening, gagging slightly, but she pushed deeper, hungrier.

The man bucked. His groans grew louder, his hips rising to meet her mouth. Emma’s clit throbbed, and her hand darted between her thighs.

And then, he came. Hot, thick spurts across her tongue, down her throat. She swallowed, gasping, spit and cum glistening on her lips.

The man slumped back, panting. Emma rose, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She slipped the fifty into her dress and smiled.

For the first time all night, she felt alive.

She left the club with her head high, the note burning against her skin.

The streets were quieter now, though still alive with drunken voices. Emma walked fast, her legs trembling, her cunt still wet. The hotel loomed ahead, tall and gleaming under the moon.

She got to her room door and swiped her card at the door. Nothing. She tried again. Red light.

Her stomach sank. Locked.

Mark.

She banged once, twice. No answer. He was inside, passed out, door double-bolted.

Emma leaned against the wall, frustration bubbling. No clothes, no phone, nowhere to go.

And then, voices. Loud, laughing, familiar.

Gary.

The stag horde stumbled into the lobby, shirts plastered to their chests, still wearing their swimming trunks from earlier. Gary’s ginger beard caught the light as he spotted her. His grin widened.

“Well, well. Look who we’ve got here.”

Emma’s heart skipped. She straightened, the fifty still hidden in her palm, her dress clinging like a second skin.

Gary stepped closer, his bulk filling her space. “Locked out?”

She nodded, breath shallow.

“Stay with us,” he said easily. “We’ve got room. Lads won’t mind.”

The men behind him laughed, muttered agreements. Eyes raked her body, devoured the sweat sheen on her tits, the hem barely covering her cunt.

Emma’s stomach flipped. She should’ve said no. Should’ve run. But her pussy clenched, her nipples ached, and the thought of walking into that room with them made her whole body burn.

She followed.

The suite was chaos, empty bottles, damp towels, the smell of sweat and booze. Thirty men had already collapsed into beds, onto sofas, sprawled across the floor. But Gary’s room was cleaner, quieter. He shut the door, grinning.

They sat. Talked. About the photos. The video on the plane. The balcony. Every filthy memory replayed in laughter and jeers, in details that made Emma’s cunt drip onto the seat.

Her hands trembled as she stood. The dress slid off her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She stood in nothing but strings and straps, nipples stiff, pussy swollen.

The men’s eyes locked onto her.

Emma smiled.

And she began to dance.

Slow. Sultry. Stripping herself for them, her tits bouncing, her arse swaying, every inch of her body on display. The air thickened with hunger, with anticipation, with the promise of more.

And then—