Saltwater Confessions #2
“We can’t wait to have you in our mouths,” I continue softly, my lips hovering just beside his ear. “Buried deep. Taking every thrust.”
His breathing shifts.
“You so fucking fine,” I whisper. “And you love us so fucking good.”
Zaria shifts in her seat across from him. Her legs cross slowly. Her arousal evident between her thighs and her gaze is dark with want.
“Look at your Z Baby,” I say, letting my fingers trail lower across his abdomen. “Her arousal for you is showing.”
His jaw tightens.
I lean closer.
“I’m not sure we can wait to land,” I murmur, glancing down at his lap before lifting my eyes back to his face. “And I don’t think you can either.”
His hand comes up, gripping my wrist—not to stop me, but to anchor himself.
“Y’all playing dangerous,” he says, voice thick but steady.
I smile faintly. “Maybe. Maybe we’re just showing our appreciation.”
Zaria rises and makes her way in front of him.
“We’ve got hours in the sky,” she says smoothly. “And privacy.”
Calil’s gaze flicks between us. It’s measured and hungry.
“You two think you running me in this cabin?” he asks quietly.
I lean down again as my lips brush just beneath his ear.
“No,” I whisper, “we know you are.”
The tension between us tightens like a wire pulled so tightly that it’s teetering on the edge of snapping. Outside the windows clouds drift peacefully. Inside the cabin—heat climbs with intensity. Our five days in Costa Rica haven’t even started. And already, none of us are pretending to behave.
Calil’s hand is still wrapped around my wrist, his thumb slowly circling the inside like he’s deciding whether to let me continue or pull me into his lap.
“You know what you’re doing?” his eyes lift to meet mine as he challenges me quietly.
I tilt my head. “Do I?”
His gaze flicks briefly toward the closed curtain separating us from the front of the jet.
“You asking for trouble at thirty thousand feet.”
Zaria leans against the side of his seat. “You love trouble when it’s dressed up pretty,” her voice smooth.
His jaw tightens visibly as he exhales.
“When I pull every ounce of pleasure from your bodies—make sure you remember who I am.”
I slide around the side of his seat and sit on the armrest. I let one hand rest lightly against his chest.
“Oh, we know exactly who you are,” I reply softly. His eyes go darker.
“And who’s that?” he challenges.
“Mr. Black. Or should we call you Professor? We love to be taught a lesson.” Zaria replies with fire in her eyes.
“A man who refuses to hide,” I answer.
Zaria nods. “A man who said he doesn’t love in whispers.”
The weight of that statement settles between us and Calil’s posture shifts. It’s less teasing. More serious.
“You trying to test that?” he asks.
I hold his gaze steadily. “I’m willing to let you prove that you’re a man of your word.”
The low buzz of the jet engine fills the brief silence. He studies me carefully in this moment.
“I’m aware of what’s at stake. I’m also man who gets shit done.”
“You talk about responsibility,” I say. “About priority. About standing in front of the world.”
Zaria crosses her arms lightly, eyes sharp. “But we’re still in private.”
Calil’s brow lifts.
“Are we? Because y’all are all over my social media.
Have access to my money. Come to the university to have lunch.
Nothing about this,” he points between us.
“Is a secret. The world also doesn’t need every detail of how I control your orgasms and make your hearts skip a beat,” he smirks as he finishes the statement.
“True, but…” I answer immediately. “I’m questioning the world.”
His expression softens slightly.
“That’s different.”
I lean closer and lower my voice.
“You love us boldly. You defend us. You claim us. But the real test isn’t a social media post.”
Zaria’s voice cuts in smoothly. “It’s brunch with your business partners.”
His eyes roll at that. Not in fear. In a “I’m a grown ass man” way.
“You think I’m embarrassed?” he asks.
“I think,” I say carefully, “that society loves progressive language until it has to sit next to it.”
Silence.
Then he laughs once—both amused and impressed.
“This is what we doing on the way to Costa Rica? Social commentary and seduction?”
Zaria smirks. “We multitask.”
Calil leans back slowly, dragging me with him so I’m half in his lap now.
“You wanna know something?” his voice low but steady.
“What?”
“I didn’t book Costa Rica because it’s private.”
He looks at Zaria now.
“I booked it because I want you both relaxed and free enough to believe me when I say I don’t care who’s watching.”
He grips my hips firmly.
“I’ve spent the last however many months of my life dismantling the rules of a dead man that was afraid to live in his own truth,” he continues. “You think I’m about to let strangers dictate who I love?”
Zaria’s breath shifts.
“You sure about that?” she asks quietly. “Because loving a transwoman out loud is a different level of owning your truth.”
His gaze locks onto hers.
“No different than you two loving a man who’s famously wealthy father was killed by his second wife after putting with so much abuse she was afraid to eat in front of him,” the pain in his voice is evident.
“I’m the one grateful that two women as beautiful as you both would take a chance on me when the world knows my family’s dirty laundry. ”
The tension thickens—not sexual this time, but societal. Real. Understanding that the outside world is cruel.
“People stare,” she says. “They ask questions. They make assumptions.”
“Let them,” he replies.
“And Lena’s father?” she presses gently.
I laugh before responding. “The Pastor knows about everything. He and my mama said I was hiding in a closet that never had doors. The adore both you and Calil.”
I expect to see relief written on his face but there is none. He was never worried about making his intentions known to those it mattered to.
“I will still look that man in his eye and tell him I love his daughter and I love you. And I’m not ashamed of either.”
My heart rate speeds up at his admission.
“That simple?” I ask.
“No,” he says honestly. “Not simple.”
He shifts forward slightly, intensity rising.
“But purposeful.”
Zaria studies him carefully.
“You understand,” she says slowly, “that loving me means loving every part of me.”
“I know exactly what it means,” he replies.
“And you still—”
“Yes,” he responds firm and unwavering.
I swallow as the energy in the cabin shifts again—deeper now. More than just arousal. Conviction. He looks between us.
“You don’t get hidden,” he says to Zaria.
Then to me—
“And you don’t get half.”
The confidence in his tone makes my pulse spike. I brush my fingers along his jaw.
“Okay, Professor,” I murmur softly. “You’re passing our test so far.”
His hand tightens at my waist.
“Don’t get comfortable,” he says low. “I still like to be challenged.”
Zaria leans in close to his ear. “Good,” she whispers. “Because loving us is going to require stamina.”
He smirks.
“In every category,” I add.
The clouds roll peacefully around us and the tension inside isn’t just physical anymore. It’s layered. Nuanced. A mixture of love and power. Visibility and vulnerability. Nut most importantly—choice and autonomy.
Instead of shrinking and trying to fit in everyone’s neat little box of expectations. We’re expanding—together.
I slide down from the armrest and step fully in front of Calil. He watches me like he already knows what I’m about to do.
With slow deliberation I slide my dress up my thighs just enough to hook my fingers beneath the thin strip of lace hugging my hips.
I stare into his eyes as they ignite with lust. I drag my thong down my legs inch by inch. He shifts slightly as he exhales a deep breath. When the lace pools at my ankles—I step out of them and lean forward to pick them up—pushing the panties into the pocket of his linen shirt.
“For later,” I murmur.
Then I drop to my knees. He swallows. I untie the drawstring of his shorts with a slow tease of my fingers. He lifts his hips just enough for me to slide them down along with his boxer briefs.
He’s hard. Ready. Waiting. My hands trail up his thighs first, palms slow and intentional, before settling where my mouth is already craving.
“Don’t just be a tourist,” he voice thick with passion warns. “Enjoy a hands-and-mouth-on experience.”
I smile faintly. Never want to skip an invite for a sweet treat. I lick the precum pooling at the head before it can leak down his shaft.
“Mmmm. So salty and sweet.”
I take him into my mouth inch by inch. My body is humming when he taps the back of my throat—realizing there’s no tonsils back there to trigger a gag reflex.
I smirk with a mouth full of him. His body jerks slightly as he groans at the first real contact.
His head tips back against the seat in bliss.
Zaria comes up behind him, leaning close to his ear.
“Take all that pleasure like a good boy,” she whispers. “And don’t be loud. They can hear us.”
Zaria reaches into his pocket to retrieve my panties. She inhales deeply as her eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction. She presses the lace to his lips.
“Seat first,” she instructs softly.
He opens his mouth just enough for Zaria to stuff my lacy panties in there.
She slides around to join me—lifting her dress just enough to reveal smooth skin and the unmistakable evidence of her own arousal.
He groans around the fabric in his mouth. Zaria kneels beside me sends blood rushing south as he swells ever slightly more on my tongue. Zaria and I exchange a look before we lean in.
I tongue kiss Zaria with the head of his dick in the middle of our explicit make out session.
His fingers curl into the seat. His breathing grows uneven.
His thighs clinch. The jet remains steadily despite what’s happening in the cabin.
Zaria murmurs praise against him. I follow her lead.
We don’t rush. We work him like a team should.
I take his length—Zaria takes his balls.
I slurp his perineum. Z slurps his dick.
We build the climax we want from our man.
Until—
We succeed. Every thick drip spills all over our waiting tongues. What doesn’t make it to us—oozes down his pole.
Greedy and eager we lick that up too as he grunts tumble from his panty-filled mouth.
He exhales hard, body tense, then slack.
For a second, he looks ready to pull us both up, ready to return the favor. But I shake my head slowly.
“Save it,” I whisper.
Zaria smirks. “Costa Rica.”
He pulls the lace from his mouth. Adornment hooded eyes stare back at us.
“You two are dangerous.”
We lick our lips as we stand slowly to smooth our dresses like nothing happened.
I return to my seat first. Zaria follows.
He adjusts himself carefully before excusing himself to the back to clean up.
The cabin is calm by the time he returns.
I’m curled into my seat with my Kindle open.
I’m lost in a Lily S. Flowers novel like I haven’t just destabilized a man mid-flight. Zaria is dozing softly beside me.
Calil pauses in the aisle, looking between us. His lips curve slowly at the two women who can bring him to his knees before sitting down like saints.
Costa Rica is going to be interesting.
The Oxygen Jungle Villas do not look real.
It looks rendered. Like someone painted paradise and then decided to let us live inside it.
The villa sits high in the rainforest, glass walls stretching from floor to ceiling, so nothing separates us from the green canopy spilling down toward the ocean.
The infinity pool disappears into the horizon where jungle melts into blue water.
The air smells like salt and wet earth and flowers I’ve never seen before.
Birds call in the distance. Wind moves through palm leaves like a whisper.
This experience makes me feel small in a way that isn’t about illness.
It’s about awe. Zaria stands beside me on the terrace with her hair blowing around her shoulders.
Calil steps up behind us, wrapping an arm around each of our waists.
“You like it?” he asks.
I laugh softly. “Like it?” I breathe. “I’ve never had the privilege of being this carefree,” I answer honestly.
My body has always required planning. Monitoring.
Hydration. Medication. Caution. Even here, in paradise, I feel it.
That subtle ache behind my ribs. The warning hum in my bones.
A flare trying to whisper its arrival. I swallow two pills quietly before bed that first night.
Increase my fluids. Rest when the fatigue creeps in.
I don’t tell them immediately. I don’t want this trip defined by my body.
Not now, I tell myself. Just give me five days.
The days are magic in paradise. We tour the land with a local guide who shows us hidden waterfalls and trees older than history. We shop in native markets where handmade jewelry and woven bags line colorful stalls. We eat fresh ceviche with rice and beans seasoned in ways I’ve never tasted before.
Zaria haggles playfully in Spanish she insists she barely remembers. Calil buys too much and doesn’t care. We frolic in the ocean like we’re children. I run—actually run. Water crashing against my thighs with laughter pouring from my chest.
My body protests quietly later—but in the moment? The freedom I’ve always prayed for is within my grasp in this moment.
The final two days, we stay in. We didn’t plan any tours or excursions. No marketplaces to shop. No waterfalls to climb.
It was just us.
On the third night, we had the pleasure of Calil arranging a private chef.
The villa is transformed into a Costa Rican oasis before sunset.
The dining table is set on the terrace overlooking the ocean.
Crisp white linen underlays scattered native Costa Rican blooms bright hibiscus, bird of paradise, orchids woven delicately through greenery.
Candlelight flickers in hurricane glass lanterns.
Zaria inhales slowly. “This man is a walking breath of fresh air and romance.”
I hum my agreement softly.
The chef, a warm woman named Catalina, greets us with a soft smile and begins the five-course experience. By the time dessert arrives, the sky has melted into indigo.