The Wet T-Shirt Competition

What a wonderful fucking way to start the holiday. Used, robbed, kicked out of the hotel. Broke, betrayed, nowhere to sleep tonight.

I'd been looking forward to a week in the sunshine with a hot lover. We'd met at home, while he was working a short job. "Come visit my island!" he said, and I was unable to resist his large soulful eyes. Nor his strong hands or his soft lips. Or his cock.

Well, perhaps I might have, and several friends warned me not to do anything stupid. But he really was pretty, and it was a good excuse to make the summer last a little longer on the small Mediterranean island where he lived. So he arranged a hotel in one of the resort towns, I booked a plane ticket and I flew out to meet him.

"My beautiful!" he exclaimed when he met me at the airport. We went straight to the hotel and had passionate sex, and then spent the evening walking along the beach promenade and exploring the maze of streets behind it. That night we fucked twice more -- see why I was unable to resist? -- and I slept the sleep of the exhausted and deeply sated.

When I woke he was gone. So was my purse, and with it my passport, my jewellery and just about everything else of value. The bastard had left me my phone, but probably only because I'd tucked it beneath my pillow. I had my clothes, my toiletries and thirty euros that I kept stashed in my phone case, but that was all.

I spent hours calling my insurance company, the police, my bank, the insurance company again. When I took a break and went down to breakfast, there was another surprise waiting.

"Please remember that check-out is at eleven o'clock," the helpful assistant manager told me in the lobby.

"Check-out? I'm supposed to be staying a whole week!" But I said it with a sinking feeling in my stomach. Why would my Romeo have booked longer than he needed to fuck me and then fuck me over?

So here I was, sitting on the low wall that separated the promenade from the beach. I had my weekend bag with my meagre possessions, a stomach crammed full of as much breakfast as I could manage, and an aching jaw from gritting my teeth.

The kind gentleman from the insurance company had promised to arrange an advance on my claim. But, he warned me, it might take a day. Even two, if he couldn't get the right approvals straight away. He'd do his best, but for now I was on my own.

And even so, I didn't have a bank card and the app on my phone wasn't set up for payments abroad. That, too, would take a while to approve. The fact that I was trying to arrange it from another country, without my passport, complicated the matter.

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

I looked at my two banknotes again, hoping that somehow I'd overlooked one. No, there they were. Thirty euros. Barely enough for dinner, never mind a hotel. I needed to get some cash quickly.

Heaving myself to my feet, I surveyed the promenade left and right. There were the usual restaurants and bars, and further along a short row of clubs looking hungover in the midday sun. I recalled a friend telling me how she'd earned a bit of cash one summer handing out flyers to entice tourists into a bar.

It was as good a place to start as any. But fuck! it wasn't how I'd planned to spend the week. And the pay was bound to be awful.

Still, I put on my prettiest smile and stepped into the first empty club. A minute later I was outside in the sunshine again. No, there were rules about harassing passersby. Try somewhere else.

Feeling my hope melting like an ice-cream that had been dropped on the ground, I tried the next one. This time I just inquired about work, any work, as long as it paid cash. A regretful shake of the lone barman's head, and I left.

One more to go. I tried to look on the bright side. Assuming I struck out again here, at least I could move on to the next plan, whatever that was. I wouldn't have to force myself to keep going even though I knew it was hopeless.

I was surprised to see some activity inside. Half a dozen men and women in black jeans and T-shirts stood on a podium, busy with lights and sound gear. Clearly they were preparing for a gig or show of some kind.

One of the women jumped down and crossed to the bar. I moved to intercept her. "Excuse me--" I began, but broke off when she stopped and looked me up and down. Not that I didn't expect her to, but it was more than a casual glance. She seemed to be stripping me with her eyes. Not taking my measure so much as taking my measurements.

"You're here for the contest, love?" Her accent was British, not local. "Head on backstage. The other girls are getting ready."

She was about to move on when she must have caught the look of dumb incomprehension I expect was plastered all over my face. "The wet T-shirt contest? Isn't that why you're here? Because you look like you might do well."

"I..." I stammered eloquently, then glanced down at the crumpled flyer she pulled from a pocket and pressed into my hand.

"We pay all the girls fifty euros, and the winner is chosen by the crowd. Two hundred and fifty euros, all cash." She waved to a door beside the stage. "If you want in, you'd better hurry up. We open the doors in ten minutes, and the afternoon show begins half an hour later."

Fifty euros just to dance and show off my tits? I barely managed to thank the woman before I dashed off to the door. Fifty euros would give me enough for a cheap hotel for the night, with a bit left to get myself a basic dinner somewhere.

And I'd back my boobs against anybody's. Even in my late twenties, they were firm and well-shaped, and they'd got a bit fuller with age too. They were nice, and I could dance well enough -- even in the sandals I was wearing -- not to disgrace myself. Maybe I could even jiggle enticingly for the crowd.

Backstage I found a group of girls gathered around a pair of tables and sitting at makeup mirrors. Two women in the club's uniform black were going around with clipboards. I gave my name as Debs -- no way I was using my real name -- and signed up. The brief formalities completed, I took my precious fifty euros and stashed the notes in a locker with my phone and my weekend bag.

Then I looked around to see who else was there. There were sixteen of us, and I soon saw that they fell into two groups. Some of the girls were clearly doing this for the first time: they looked shy and a little nervous, with the occasional flush on their neck. The others, seven of them, seemed to be veterans. They knew each other, and had a hard set to their mouths.

The women in black -- Jenny and Maria -- handed out oversized but flimsy white T-shirts. "It helps if your undies are a bit naughty," Jenny told us. The other girls had apparently anticipated this. I was lucky because most of the knickers I'd packed were the kind you wore to meet a lover. The pair I was wearing were pink and lacy. Flimsy in the front, nothing but a thong in the back.

While we changed I took the chance to size up the competition, as it were. There were boobs of all shapes and sizes, but I felt pretty confident that mine were up there with the prettiest. I was older than the others -- the amateurs, as I thought of them, were mostly in their early twenties, and the pros a handful of years older. At almost thirty, I was something of an oddity.

One of the pros seemed to think so too. She wandered over to me, handing me a bottle of water. "Is your first time?" she asked. Her accent was generic Eastern Europe.

Zorni, as she introduced herself, gave me a quick run-down. We'd all go on stage and dance. The host -- a man called Tommie, with a fat belly and grey sideburns -- would turn on the sprinklers so our T-shirts became wet and see-through. "Some girls, they think is enough." She gave the amateurs a sidelong look. "Pretty tits is nice, but it is all about how you show off."

Right. I could have guessed that, but I appreciated the tip. "You've done this before then?"

"Tommie pays us so the stage is filled. The regulars, they know us. Those new girls bring their friends, lot of drama." She shrugged and drank from her own bottle. "They're pretty, and young, but we make money for Tommie."

One or two shows a day, at fifty euros a go. Not fuck-you money, but it could go a long way here, particularly if you shared a long-stay rental with a few of the other girls. "Me and Paula and Juana," she said with a small wave at a couple of the other pros.

They came and joined us. "You change your hair," Juana said in accented English. "And wear big necklace, yes?" She and Paula were both from Portugal.

Zorni and Paula nodded. "Big jewellery, big hair." Because then people didn't pay attention to your face, they explained. They continued as I borrowed a bottle of hair gel and made myself look like I fronted an eighties alternative band. "No cameras on the stage. Tommie wanted them, maybe sell films online. We say no." There was a hint of smug hardness in the words. "But the tourists, they have phones. And they see you outside after. Like this, they don't know you."

I noticed that the other pros were giving the rest of us amateurs the same treatment. Jenny and Maria helped, handing out gel and big garish necklaces and bracelets. Clearly these women looked out for each other. I began to feel a sense of camaraderie with them. In a world of bastard men who used us and stole our money, we were sisters putting our bodies on show for entertainment.

There was an awkward wait before we were sent in. I heard the noise from the bar as it filled up. Even this early in the afternoon, the promise of sexy women in see-through T-shirts was clearly enough to draw a crowd. It wasn't a bad business plan, either: get people inside, give them a show, get them drinking, and hope they stuck around.

Then there was a cheer, and a man's voice over the sound system. I couldn't make out everything he said, but the gist was clear: Are you ready to see some pretty titties?

His announcement was greeted by another raucous cheer, and the music came on. Maria opened the door, looked out, then gestured us forward. We lined up, in our thin white T-shirts over our fancy knickers. I exchanged grins with a few of the other girls, and then Zorni put on a big fake smile and led us out.

The roar was deafening. I followed one of the other amateurs up the steps and blinked in the bright spotlights that were trained on the stage. Big smile, wave at the crowd, a sea of faces and raised glasses and phones. The amateurs were pointing and laughing at small groups of presumably their friends, and received cries and whistles of encouragement. Others -- both men and women, I noticed -- were quieter. I figured they were the regulars, more interested in what the show would bring than sharing an experience with a friend.

We marched across the stage, sashaying our hips, then came round to form a line at the back. A man who I assumed was Tommie, judging by what Zorni had said, was standing to the side, microphone in hand and one eye on the girls.

When we were all lined up he called out, "Are you ready to see our beauties dance?" The crowd cheered, and Zorni and the other pros began to gyrate to the music. After an instant, the amateurs followed suit, me included.

As the noise from the crowd rose, a fine mist descended. It settled on my face, my shoulders, my arms, my legs. It wasn't enough yet to soak through even the thin material of the T-shirts, but mine began to cling to my chest and thighs in places.

Suddenly it came to me what I was doing. I'm on a stage before perhaps a hundred strangers, letting them see my tits in exchange for a bit of money! It was... I didn't know what it was. Embarrassing? Shameful? Exploitation? Did it make me a sex worker?

If so, it was a very safe kind of sex work. Half a dozen staff in black were lined up in front of the podium to keep the crowd away. Most of them were women. I recalled the sense of protective togetherness among the girls backstage. It was a far cry from walking the streets or even doing an online cam show.

No, I decided, it was fun. More than fun, in fact. I leaned forward to show off my cleavage, and a group nearby applauded. I turned round and wiggled my arse at them and got even more cheers.

This was hot.

It wasn't perhaps one of my fantasies, but I realised that it was a thrill. I enjoyed being watched and admired, and here I was, surrounded by a dozen beautiful women, and we were driving all those strangers wild.

I could understand it. All of us were attractive, if very different. One of the amateurs was small and a bit plump, but she had a look of intense fun as she twerked, then turn round and shook her ample bosom. Zorni had that lean, beautiful look that so many Polish women have, and the body of a trained dancer. Short bodies, tall bodies, lean and curvy bodies, pale skin and dark skin and everything in between, big tits, small tits, fake ones and naturals.

If I'd been in the crowd, I'd be cheering too. And imprinting it all on my memory for a nice wank later on. As it was, I knew I'd be replaying this in my mind for a long time to come --as soon as I found a hotel, for a start.

As the mist began to soak through our T-shirts, Tommie took up the microphone again. "Now it's time to see them all one by one. What do you think, folks?" At the crowd's approving roar we moved to the rear of the stage and lined up. The pros still danced and gyrated, and seeing this the amateurs did too.

One by one we were called forward. The amateurs were greeted by loud cheers from their small groups, and with varying degrees of response from the regulars, depending on how sexy they seemed. The pros all appeared to have their own fans, and they waved and blew kisses as they paraded up and down.

I was number eleven. "Here is Debs!" Tommie called, and I stepped forward. Arms over my head, a radiant smile like I was a candidate for Miss Universe, I strutted along the stage. There were catcalls and whistles, and I let my walk morph into a sexy dance. More whistles. A glance down told me that my T-shirt was fully transparent now. The material clung to my boobs, revealing my nipples as two hard dark spots.

A hundred people are getting horny over my tits and arse. I began to pick out faces. Almost everyone was gazing at me. One guy had his drink halfway to his mouth, apparently forgotten. Two girls had their arms around each other's shoulders and were shouting and whistling. A voice cut through the noise: "Show us your tits!"

I halted and turned to where the call had come from. Putting on a faux-innocent expression, one finger pulling down my lower lip and my other hand pointing to my chest, I basked in the cheers.

Then I ran my hands up and down my sides, squeezed my boobs together and leaned forward. When I turned back to my place along the wall, the cheers were louder than they'd been for any of the other girls.

This move sealed my place in the next round. Six girls were dismissed, including one of the pros. Not that she hadn't put on a good show, but two of the amateurs had huge tits and one had a loud group of supporters. With pats on her shoulder from the other pros she waved goodbye. She didn't seem too upset about it.

The ten of us who were left all danced together again. But there was a difference now, at least in the pros: it wasn't just sultry anymore, it was smutty. They weren't seducing the audience with their bodies. They were saying, "Come and get it!"

It took Paula only a few moments to tear at her T-shirt. It came apart in handfuls. She knew what she was doing: there were holes that made a promise, but enough of the material remained to cover up the goodies.

Zorni was baring more and more of her thighs, standing close to the crowd with her feet apart. Suddenly she spun round, bent forward from her waist and pulled the T-shirt up over her arse. Cue whistles and cheers.

The other pros had similar moves. And they became more and more explicit. Tits were flashed. Knickers appeared -- and were pulled aside for a split second. Fingers slipped beneath the material and rubbed suggestively. The regulars clearly expected it, judging by the calls for more.

The amateurs seemed a bit lost. They were young and hadn't anticipated being part of a sex show. They did their best, dancing and twerking and showing off their legs, but they weren't going to go anywhere near as far as the pros. It was a bit of fun for them, a bit of a thrill. They might want to win, but this wasn't a beautiful boobies contest anymore.

I wasn't that shy. My extra years gave me extra confidence. Besides, I was enjoying myself. Dancing before these strangers helped to keep away the memory of the morning's events. I could let myself go -- was determined to, in fact. A small act of defiance, perhaps. Fuck you, if you don't want me there are a hundred people here who do.

So I pulled down the neck of my T-shirt and pushed my boobs up through it. I drew the flimsy material up my thighs until my knickers almost appeared. I found one of the pros and grabbed her boobs from behind. She squealed in surprise, then laughed as the crowd yelled for more.

She pressed her hand into my back, and I bent forward obediently. My boobs hung down, visible to all eyes through the ruined T-shirt, and she made a big show of spanking me twice. Her hand barely touched me, but the audience bought into the fiction.

When the music stopped, she and I were through to the next round. So were Zorni and Paula. Juana and the other pro shrugged, but I thought I saw a hint of bitterness. The amateurs seemed mostly relieved that it was over.

"We'll let these beauties take a short break!" Tommie called. "Get your drinks while you wait, and we'll continue in half an hour." The cheers as we trotted from the stage and through the door were mixed with a few good-natured boos.

"You are good," Zorni said, before breaking off to give Juana a commiserating hug. Turning back to me she continued, "You dance very sexy."

"You too." I replayed some of the images in my mind. "How far do you have to go to win?"

She shrugged. "What we feel in the mood for. Sometimes a girl needs the money, she does more than the rest. Shows more." Another shrug. "The audience likes it. But then maybe next time, if she shows less, they get angry. Is a risk."

"I can imagine." I thought about my small stash of money. It might be two more days before I had any more to spend. The eighty euros in my phone case wouldn't cover two nights in a hotel, plus meals. An extra two-fifty in prize money would go a long way towards giving me peace of mind.

So how far was I willing to go? It was clear that pretty boobs and some suggestive moves weren't enough to win this thing. Not when Zorni and Paula and the other pros were showing off their pussies just to get out of the second round. The final round was going to be... more. Much more.

Realisation came to me. The winner would be whoever the crowd thought was the horniest. Not the sexiest, not the prettiest. It was about convincing them that you were so hot that you were gagging for it. That the entire reason you were on the podium was because you were a sexual creature and you wanted everybody to know.

It was a fantasy, of course, and probably nobody who really thought about it would admit it. But when a nearly-naked woman is pretending, it can be hard for anyone to keep their mind straight and remember it's all a show.

And I could win this. I knew how.

"Excuse me," I said to Zorni. "I need the toilet." But I went to my locker first, and dug around in my bag. My weekend bag, with everything I had left after my misadventure, including my toiletries case.

I took my time, and the other contestants who still remained were getting ready to go back on stage. I gave my hair a bit of attention, then joined them. The amateurs had all disappeared, presumably to join their friends in the audience and giggle about their daring. The pros had lingered, and I got a couple of looks that I chose to ignore. If you resent me now, I thought, you're going to hate me by the time this is over.

We listened through the closed door as Tommie got the crowd going again. "Are you ready?" he kept asking, and each time they roared back. "All right, girls, come on out! Give them a big hand!" And we trouped out and onto the stage while a hundred slightly drunk mouths cheered us.

For a reason that was probably pure coincidence, I was called to dance first. That was fine with me. While the other girls stood in a line, twisting their hips and jiggling their tits in their ripped shirts, I stepped forward. The crowd applauded, the lights swung across the stage, and I waved and blew a kiss.

I placed my feet apart and thrust my pelvis forward. My wet T-shirt clung to my thighs, and I ran my hands over my skin. A few grinding motions, then I pushed my arse back and leaned forward. The ripped material fell free from my chest, and the sight of my boobs drew another roar.

The faces before me had enraptured looks. I was genuinely feeling the excitement, and they could tell. I let them enjoy the view for a moment, then I straightened up to calls of disappointment.

Turning my back to them, I danced a bit more, then looked over my shoulder. My hands went up and seized hold of the T-shirt. I made jerking gestures and looked the question at the sea of faces. "Yes!" they cried. "Tear it off!"

The flimsy thing tore like damp kitchen towel. I pulled it loose, danced a bit more, then turned back to the crowd. My hands were clutched to my chest, but they knew it was only a matter of time. The anticipation rose up from them. I could see the desire on the faces.

For another moment I teased them, then I placed my feet apart again, leaning forward. This time there was nothing for them to see, not with my hands covering my boobs. But they knew what was coming. They cheered me, they willed me.

And I gave it to them. I rose and spread my arms. The T-shirt fell away, and I stood with my boobs bared before a hundred horny people. I felt mighty, mighty! as the roar of approval swept over me. How many of them will be thinking of me tonight? How much sex am I inspiring here?

But I wasn't done. This alone wasn't going to win me that prize money. The pros would show their boobs too. Could show more, could do more both on their own and together.

But there was one thing they couldn't do. I pulled the remains of the T-shirt off and tossed them aside. Now I was naked apart from my sandals and my lacy pink undies. The spray misted over me again, and I began to dance. I let my boobs jiggle, I shook my hips, I turned, I bent forward. I reached back and pulled aside the thong of my knickers...

It took half a breath, but then the roar that followed was almost loud enough to bring down the roof. They'd seen, and they knew what it meant.

Because between my bum cheeks was an enamel heart. The external bit of my butt plug.

I mean, if you're going to see your hot lover for a sex-filled holiday, you bring a bit of extra fun for after the initial excitement wears off, don't you? The plug had been with my toiletries, waiting to be brought out as a special surprise.

Well, now my false lover could suck it, because it was a special surprise for a hundred drunk holidaymakers. They cheered and roared and whistled, and I let them have a good look before I straightened my back and spun round to face them.

They pressed forward, and the black-outfitted staff had a hard time holding them back. I sank down on my heels, knees apart. One hand behind me, the other sliding across my boobs, squeezing and stroking, then gliding lower, across my stomach and further down until it met the lace and slipped underneath.

The curly hairs on my mound -- neatly trimmed, thank fuck! -- were damp from the misting water. But beneath that I could feel the slickness between my folds, and my clit was hard and swollen under my fingers.

I had about enough time for a little more, I decided. Heedless of the condition of my knickers I pulled them aside. The crowd roared again, and practically exploded when I reached down to jiggle the gleaming heart. The sensations were almost too much -- I could just about have orgasmed there and then. The whole idea of where I was, what I was doing, how I'd seized control after being fucked over, that just added to the excitement.

Even so, a public climax wasn't my plan. I rolled over onto hands and knees, shook my arse a few more times to great approval, then I jumped up and straightened my knickers. A bit more gyrating, then I was blowing kisses and waving as I made my way back to the other girls.

"That was Debs!" called Tommie. "Let's hear it for Debs, folks!"

Paula was called forward next. I found myself next to Zorni. "You want to win bad!" she said, her mouth close to my ear to make herself heard over the noise.

"Sorry!" I replied. Her neck was very close to my lips, and I realised how fucking horny I was. "I just really need the cash today!"

"I think you win!" There wasn't any resentment on her face though. Sadness, admiration, encouragement. "Now we have to go further too, if we try to win. Or maybe just for fun. But wait for final dance, when we are all together!"

All together? The words sent a thrill down my spine. Or maybe it was feeling Zorni so close, her breath and her hair tickling at my neck, her arm almost touching my naked boobs.

And the plug that was still in my arse, and the sensations that rippled through me every time I ground my hips to the music. My body felt as if it was on fire, and my fingers twitched to rub between my legs. Just turn round, they seemed to say. No-one will see. Just a quick stroke.

But I resisted. It was one thing to excite a bar full of strangers with my horniness. It was quite another to let myself go before them, to lose control.

Besides, I knew it would be ten times better later, when I could take my time and remember the whole thing. The details, the beautiful girls, the sexy dances, the quick flashes that the pros had shared in the second round. The moment when I realised what I needed to do to win.

The moment when I revealed my secret weapon.

I dragged my mind away. Save it for later, I told myself. Now just enjoy the show.

Paula was making a good effort. Her dark eyes and olive skin would have attracted attention anywhere, never mind standing in just a white thong and twisting this way and that. Her boobs were nice and plump, with large nipples that she pinched and pulled as she leaned forward towards the audience.

They enjoyed it, that was clear. But she didn't get the roars of approval I had. Nor did the two next girls, who didn't hesitate to rip off their T-shirts, nor even Zorni, who went so far as to pull her undies down and stick two fingers inside herself and lick them clean before stroking herself some more.

"Those were our finalists!" called Tommie. He sounded happy. Probably expected to sell lots of drinks this afternoon. "Let's see them all dance together for a few minutes, then you get to pick the winner!"

The crowd cheered again, and we stepped forward to join Zorni. Paula and another girl stood close together and began to kiss and run their hands over each other's bodies. The fourth girl moved to the front of the stage, lay on her back and raised her leg in a wide V.

Zorni grinned at me. I grabbed her hand, and it wasn't entirely to seal the win that I brought her fingers to my mouth and sucked them inside. She wiggled her eyebrows at me and pulled me close. Our lips met and her tongue slipped into my mouth. I felt her hand squeeze my arse, and I slid my own hand between us to stroke her breast. Her skin was hot beneath my palm.

She broke off the kiss and dropped to her heels. Her lips brushed over my breasts, then my stomach -- like my hand had done earlier -- and at last my knickers. I could feel her hot breath as she pulled them aside, and a hand on my thigh, and I tore my eyes away from her and turned my head to the audience, and grinned and leered suggestively.

Zorni licked me twice, then she was on her feet and we were kissing again. I caught a hint of my scent on her face, my taste on her lips. The plug in my arse felt like a bar of fire lighting up my spine, and I clutched her face in my hands and pressed my mouth against hers with a hunger and desire.

But she was pulling away, taking my hand and leading me to the back of the stage, and I heard Tommie's voice on the sound system. The crowd cheered and roared and whistled as Paula took a turn on the stage, then the two other girls. Then it was Zorni's turn, and my eyes followed that lithe body that suddenly was all I really cared about.

Then Tommie was calling "Debs! Come on, Debs, give your fans one last look at you!"

I knew what was expected. I marched to the middle of the stage, then turned and bent forward so that my arse stuck out, and the enamel heart of my plug was clearly visible. The stage shook and trembled with the noise as a hundred people shouted, clapped, whistled, stamped their feet, banged on tables.

"Well folks," Tommie's voice said as I straightened up and waved, "it seems we have a winner. Give it up for Debs!"

An hour later I was closing the blinds of my new hotel room. Zorni had recommended it to me, in exchange for a promise to have dinner later. "And tonight maybe we finish our dance?" We sealed the deal with a kiss that I could still feel on my lips.

I didn't bother to shower yet. I just stripped and threw myself onto the bed with my body covered with the smells from the bar: sweat and booze and perfume, and the excitement of naked women and a hundred horny watchers.

The plug was still up my bum. It had been a constant presence, a naughty reminder as I made my way through the streets, stood in the hotel lobby, shared the lift with another guest. It represented my win on the stage, and my triumph over the scumbag who'd betrayed me.

Now, lying naked on the hotel bed with my legs spread wide, I could feel it inside me. My body had become accustomed to it, but when I reached down and softly jiggled the enamel heart it sent a fresh wave of shivers through me. A moan escaped my lips -- a moan that I'd been bottling up for the past two hours, it seemed.

I played with the plug some more, and with my other hand I brushed across my nipples. I was proud of my boobs today. Even if they hadn't won me the contest, they'd been the reason why I entered in the first place. They deserved a bit of attention.

So I brushed them with the fingers of both hands, gliding softly across the skin until I felt goosepimples. It didn't take much for them to become swollen and sensitive. The arousal that had been lingering under the surface came to the fore in an ache, a throbbing ache that made me pinch my nipples, kill it with a sharp pain, a delicious pain.

Images flooded my mind. A crowd of faces, floating in blackness. Flashing spotlights. The girls dancing under the misting spray with the thin white material clinging to their bodies. Shapes and curves showing through it. Dark nipples and pink nipples, and smooth skin shiny from the drizzling water. Sexy movements, and bare flesh shaking on breast and thigh, and Paula seducing the watchers with her arse. Zorni ripping off her T-shirt, and her perfect breasts, two fingers sucked between her lips, and her eyes looking up at me from between my thighs...

It was too much, I couldn't stand it anymore and my fingers slid down, to stroke along my folds, find my clit, find the plug, pull it until I felt my arse stretch and let it go again, press a finger inside me and rub, with my palm hard on my clit and my other hand pulling the plug again, pulling it and pushing it back again in time with the finger in my pussy, pulling and pushing and fucking myself while the images flew across my mind, where I was on the stage, lying with my legs spread wide while a hundred strangers watched and cheered and Zorni's face close to mine, and everyone screamed encouragement as I fucked myself closer, closer and the explosion built inside me, closer, closer still until I couldn't hold it back anymore and my climax swept over me, over and through me while the crowd cheered and Zorni's lips parted, and I remembered kissing her and another wave of ecstasy flowed through me, and then I drew my finger out and rubbed at my clit, hard and fierce while I pulled the plug all the way out, felt the stretching and the hollow emptiness inside and then I filled up again as I forced it back in and I climaxed, crying out over the music thumping in my head, twisting my body this way and that, and it was delicious, so delicious and I never wanted it to end, but it had to, my body was shattered and my throat was raw, my fingers were cramped and the sheet had come loose and twisted around my foot, and at last I let it go, let myself breathe again, let the bliss ebb away in shuddering waves, and I lay on the bed gasping, drained, weak, with sweat on my face and my fingers all sticky and my arse starting to feel abused.

It took some effort, but I managed to drag myself to the bathroom for a shower. The hot water felt good on my head and shoulders as I washed the gel from my hair. I didn't linger, though. I wanted to have a nap before meeting Zorni.

Naked except for a towel wrapped around my hair I climbed into bed. I figured I had a few hours, but I decided to set the alarm on my phone just in case.

"Huh." I said the word aloud. My screen showed several notifications. Messages from the bank and the insurance company. The arrangements were sorted out. I could access my money.

Was it all for nothing? If I'd just waited -- maybe sitting along the promenade with a glass or two of wine -- I could have booked this same hotel without dancing for it. Without stripping, without exciting all those strangers with the sight of a plug up my bum.

My mind was already turning fuzzy with sleep. No, I decided, it was worth it. I needed this. This morning I was lost, alone, abused. A victim. Now...

My last thought before I drifted off was the memory of standing on the podium, naked except for my sandals and my knickers, waving at the cheering audience with one hand while in the other I held my winnings. Not a victim but a champion.