No Pressure

The Pinot Noir graced my tongue via a small ceramic mug and tinted my smile as I looked at him. Freckles texturized his skin, the curves of his muscles peaked out from beneath his tank, and with everything he said, he smiled.

“You have such a cute, awkward laugh,” he said.

Not sure if that was supposed to be a compliment or not, which happened to be how I felt about most of the things he had said since I boarded the live-aboard boat. He excelled in the creation of awkward moments, and every time he casually mocked me, it seemed as though the strangest words would escape from my mouth, if any words at all.

Freshly showered and rinsed of the salt we’d spent the day in, him and I were now the only ones still awake on the boat, with only the gentle crashing of the waves and the sound of our voices filling the empty spaces of the room. We shared a blanket, and as he shared about personal triumphs and struggles, I did too. The wine and the adrenaline high of our conversation had left me feeling just uneasy enough to say “ok” when he asked if I’d join him for a “lay” in his room. How could I resist?

We made our way to his room with him having claimed that there was “no pressure.” However, I was quite sure that the sexual tension wasn’t just radiating from my skin—blush flourished in my cheeks, and I could feel the warmth in my face and soft twisting of my stomach as I softly climbed and placed myself at the far corner of his bed. He made me nervous, but I couldn’t explain why.

We talked for ages, asking deep and drawn out questions, and surprising one another with answers full of liveliness and passion. The idea of walking out of that room, away from this unexpected connection and curiosity, seemed entirely impossible—like avoiding a desire that seemed entirely natural and severely worthy.

And that’s when he kissed me—gently, while his fingertips brushed the bit of space between my hips and my ribcage. I was consumed by his touch—our legs entangled, bodies pressed together, hands gentle and then gripping every which way—as if my body felt commanded to be close to him. He went on to explore me with his hands and his lips. He kissed up and down my stomach and beneath my breasts.

The shock of what was happening made me feel as if I hadn’t been touched in ages—as if the intensified conversations we’d had that night had given light to a kind of sexual experience I hadn’t quite had before. The spontaneity of fucking my dive instructor aboard a boat filled with international students and divers in the midst of the Great Barrier Reef seemed the exact justification for every touch of his fingertips to my waist, lips to my breasts, and push inside of me. He never hesitated to pleasure me, and when I moaned far too loud for the circumstances, he gripped my shoulder, covered my mouth, and plunged deep into me as I held his hair and tugged at the sheets.

Afterwards, I cuddled him and let my fingertips trace the outline of the Australian flag that colored his chest. I imagined I would regret staying up all night just before a 7:30 am dive, but the adrenaline of him, this night, and the incredible reef surrounding us fulfilled me with genuine appreciation and unimaginable thrill.


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