Things go wrong!

The wheels screeched against hot tarmac and Emma’s stomach churned, but not from the landing. She met up with Mark and almost pulled him through the Airport, grabbing their cases quickly

Eventually she was sat at the back of the coach that would take them to the hotel, the experience on the plane was over and she could now relax and enjoy her holiday in Tenerife.

And then she froze.

They were there.

Gary. His ginger beard flashing in the sun. The bald bull of a man from her left. And behind them, a whole fucking horde. Thirty lads, shirts still plastered with filth, voices already tearing through the warm air.

They saw her.

The noise doubled. Wolf whistles. Shouts of “Oi oi, it’s her!” and “Video girl!” Phones were out, screens glowing, and Emma heard it, her own breathless moans spilling from tinny speakers. The video. The fucking video. Shared. Watched. Replayed already.

Her face burned scarlet. Every seat on the coach felt like it belonged to them. Mark’s hand found hers and squeezed hard, but his cock throbbed against her hip even through his jeans.

“Well,” he muttered, low in her ear, voice shaking with something between panic and hunger. “They won’t be in our hotel. We’re five-star.”

But fate laughed at him.

The coach pulled up in front of their gleaming resort, glass doors wide, palms swaying. Emma stared in disbelief as Gary’s bulk pushed past her, suitcase in one hand, phone in the other. The stag horde thundered after him, filling the lobby, crowding the polished marble.

Mark swore under his breath. Emma’s cunt pulsed so hard she had to clench her thighs together.

Check-in was a blur, her name scrawled on papers, a keycard shoved into Mark’s hand. Their room, stunning. Balcony overlooking the blue pool, sun hammering off the tiles, champagne chilling in a bucket. A king-size bed big enough for six.

For a moment she could breathe.

Until she opened her suitcase.

Her throat closed.

It wasn’t hers, in her haste she grabbed the wrong one.

Neat piles of clothes, yes, but not hers. Not even close. Lace. Satin. Strings. Outfits that would barely cover a teenager, let alone Emma’s full tits and wide hips. Micro bikinis no bigger than an eye-patch. Tiny dresses that looked sewn for dolls.

She dug through every corner, frantic, sweat breaking on her back. No escape. No mistake.

The airline confirmed it when she called, nothing they could do. She had to keep what she’d got until they sorted the mess.

Emma hung up slowly, the phone heavy in her hand. Her black dress clung damp to her, the seat sweat and her own arousal still soaking it. She peeled it up from her thighs. No spare bra. No panties. No nothing. Just damp fabric, and now a suitcase full of clothes made for a girl half her size.

Mark sat on the bed, watching her. His eyes devoured the pile of strings and slivers. His cock pushed hard against his shorts.

Emma lifted the first bikini. A wisp of fabric, pink and wet-looking. The triangle top wouldn’t even cover one nipple. The bottoms were just strings with a scrap of cloth no bigger than her palm.

Her laugh was hollow. “I can’t wear this. I’ll look ridiculous.”

But her pussy clenched at the thought of walking past that pack of thirty men by the pool, nothing to hide behind, tits bouncing, cunt barely covered, their phones catching every angle.

Mark’s voice cracked low, thick with lust. “You’ve got ****.”

Emma stared at the bikini in her hands, chest rising and falling. She knew he was right. She knew every man down there was waiting. And she knew with shame burning and excitement dripping down her thighs.

“Go on,” he said, voice thick. “Put it on.”

Her stomach swooped. She turned, slowly, fingers trembling as she pulled the damp black dress over her head. Naked. Every inch of her bare for him. Her nipples were already stiff, swollen dark pink, aching. Her thighs shone with a sheen of slick she couldn’t hide.

Mark’s breath hissed between his teeth.

Emma tied the bikini top. The triangles didn’t cover — not really. Her nipples bulged around the edges, darker flesh peeking out, hard points cutting the thin fabric. The bottoms were worse — two strings riding high on her hips, a scrap of pink lost between her swollen lips. She turned sideways to the mirror and gasped — her cunt ate the fabric whole, wetness darkening it already.

Mark groaned, fist squeezing his cock through his shorts.

Emma’s face burned crimson, shame searing her, but she couldn’t stop. She pulled the straps tight and looked at herself. She was indecent. Pornographic. Like a slut dressed up for strangers.

And then the voices hit her.

From the balcony she heard them — thirty men by the pool, already drunk, already roaring. Laughter, chants, songs, the scrape of chairs. One voice rose above:

“Oi, where’s the video girl?”

The pack howled.

Emma’s legs buckled. She had to grip the balcony rail. She knew they’d seen it. Knew Gary had shared it with every one of them. Knew they were down there with phones ready.

Mark came up behind her, pressed his cock against her bare ass, his breath hot at her ear. “You wanted this,” he whispered. “And now you’ve got it.”

Her thighs quivered. Her pussy gushed. She couldn’t even deny it.

Minutes later they walked down together, Mark carrying towels like nothing was wrong, Emma trembling in her string bikini, every step making her tits bounce, every sway of her hips exposing her cunt through the wet scrap. The air was hot, heavy with chlorine and sweat and beer.

And then silence.

Every male voice cut off the second they saw her. Thirty pairs of eyes locked on her body. Phones rose. Screens glowed.

“Holy. Fucking. Shit.”

“Lads, it’s her!”

Wolf whistles tore through the air, shouts of her name though they didn’t know it, chairs scraping closer to get a better view. Gary stood at the edge of the pool, his ginger beard wet, his cock a thick outline in his clinging shorts. He grinned when he saw her.

Emma’s skin prickled like fire. She felt naked. She was naked, every secret curve and soft inch displayed, her nipples swollen under see-through pink, her pussy lips swallowing her bikini.

And still, she walked. Head down, legs shaking, but she walked.

Mark spread their towels two loungers down from Gary. Her heart was beating so loud she could hardly hear. She sat, thighs pressed tight, but it made no difference, the strings cut into her flesh, the pink fabric pulled aside, and she knew they could see everything.

She glanced up once. Thirty men. Phones out. Mouths open. Hands in laps. Gary staring straight at her, his tongue sliding slow over his lip.

And Emma’s cunt pulsed, hotter, wetter, until she thought she might soak the lounger itself.