Bali Morning
A Morning Thick with Josalyn
⚠️ Content warning: explicit sexual content (consenting adults), workplace romance, strong language.
Josalyn crept up to my desk like she always does, her perfume arriving a heartbeat before the tap of manicured nails—pointer to pinky—on the faux wood.
“I hear you’re going on vacation. Bali.”
“Mmhm,” I said, eyes never leaving my screen as I tried to stay focused on the report due by end of day—not on the short, thick distraction prowling my personal space.
“I hate the cold,” she said, as if I’d asked.
“Me too. That’s why I’m going.” I double-checked the figures—hers could wait.
“I want to go.”
“All it takes is a ticket.”
“Take me and I’ll be your in-house entertainment. No limits.”
That yanked my attention from the screen. “Say that again.”
Josalyn leaned in—close enough to make HR worry. “Take me… and I’ll be your in-house entertainment. No limits.”
“It’s a villa.”
“House, villa, beach, hot tub—whenever, whatever.”
I looked her up, then down, then up again. “Don’t play.”
“I already emailed my information for the ticket. Your move.”
I stared at my inbox like it might bite.
There it was—an email from “Josalyn A. (Accounts)” with a tidy PDF titled Traveler Info and a note that simply read: Clock’s ticking, Derrick.
Josalyn works two rows over from me, one of the other account managers who never misses a quota and never misses a chance to make the office feel like a runway. Petite, soft-spoken until she wants something, always smelling like warm flowers after rain. HR has a file with her name on it and at least three Slack channels have threads about her shoes. She’s the one you send to a client when the contract is wobbling—steady smile, steady eye contact, and a closer’s instincts that should be illegal.
Also—she’s the woman from that photo on my phone, the one I scroll past and then scroll back to, pretending I didn’t.
I sent the flight confirmation before I could overthink it. She replied within a minute: Pack light. Pack wrong. I’ll fix it.
We didn’t sit together on the first leg—some mix-up at the gate—but she found me during the layover and hooked her arm through mine like we’d been doing that for years. On the long haul to Denpasar, she knocked out with her head on my shoulder, a silk mask over her eyes, my hoodie draped over her like we were a thing. Every so often, her perfume slipped past the recycled air, and I had to pretend to be deeply invested in the in-flight movie just to keep my brain from inventing scenes.
We weren’t reckless. On the ground rules talk, she went first.
“No mess at work,” she said, quiet, thumb circling the rim of a plastic cup of ginger ale. “No weird power games. We’re two adults going on vacation where the ocean is warm and nobody knows us.”
“Deal,” I said. “No expectations.”
“Except good coffee, sunsets, and me always getting the window seat.”
She held out her hand and I shook it, trying not to notice the way her nails—short, glossy—were made for tapping out verdicts on desks.
Bali hit us like a damp, friendly hug. Night air heavy with green, scooters humming, the kind of moon that makes you say dumb things. Our driver grinned in the rearview and asked if we were honeymooners. Josalyn answered for us: “Not yet.” Then she winked at me like we were running a con together.
The villa was everything the listing promised and then a few things it didn’t: high thatched ceilings, a pool so still it looked photoshopped, and the kind of bed that made vows. Someone had left frangipani in a bowl by the door. Crickets stitched the darkness together.
We were both fried. Twelve hours of travel makes even flirting feel like manual labor. I carried our bags in—hers light, mine heavier because apparently I think denim belongs on an island—and did a quick perimeter sweep like I always do: doors, windows, where the light switches hide. She padded barefoot behind me, taking it all in with a soft “Mmm” that wasn’t meant for me but still landed.
“Shower?” I offered.
“Take it,” she said, already flipping open a suitcase that looked like a boutique collapsed into it. “I’ll set up.”
I let the water beat the plane out of me. When I came out, towel around my waist, she’d turned the villa into a mood board: curtains cracked for the breeze, low playlist, two glasses sweating on the nightstand. She’d changed into an oversized T-shirt that wasn’t mine but might as well have been, and she looked… not office. Not even close.
She climbed onto the bed on her knees and tilted her head. “Come on, work husband. Sleep. Tomorrow we play.”
No argument here. We slipped under the linen and the island breathed through the windows. I felt the mattress dip as she rolled toward me, her palm warm against my chest. Nothing more. We let the room rock us like a boat.
Morning threaded in slow, pale gold. I woke to a smell I knew before I opened my eyes—her perfume, like citrus and rain and something that makes you say yes. I blinked at the ceiling fan, then turned, ready to reach for the glass of water I’d left on the nightstand.
The bed was empty beside me.
Across the room, the doors to the terrace were open, the jungle green and loud beyond them. Between that and me: Josalyn—naked—on her knees at the foot of the bed, facing the open air, breathing like the ocean was teaching her. She was doing yoga right there on the mattress, unbothered, all sunlit skin and intention—spine long, chin tipped to the sky, hair loosened from sleep. Her palms pressed into the sheets for balance, shoulders rolled back, hips hovering over her heels so the soft dimples above them caught the light. A clean line from the nape of her neck down the small of her back curved into the round of her hips; the soles of her feet pressed into the linen. Not the strict studio version—more island improv. The sunlight made sculpture out of her—something you could pretend was about form and light.
I cleared my throat and checked in anyway, palm skimming the small of her back. “Good?” I asked, low.
Her nod was a slow yes I felt more than saw, the kind that invites you to move but not to rush.
She inhaled, slow. Exhaled slower.
I matched her breathing—slower in than out—so I wouldn’t sprint through a moment I wanted to remember.
For a beat, disbelief sparked into want—two rows over in Accounts to this, like we’d found a trapdoor under the office and dropped straight into us. A few stray strands fell across her neck. The sheet pooled around her calves. The villa smelled like strong coffee and her.
I sat up without meaning to, elbows on my knees, which made the bed whisper. She heard it, of course. She always does.
Without looking back, she smiled—the kind of smile you can hear—and said, “You’re awake, finally.”
“Trying to be,” I said, voice still gravel.
“You should see this view.” She glanced over one shoulder then, lazy and lethal, eyes half-lidded, a question tucked at the corner of her mouth. “Come here, Derrick.”
I swung my legs out of the covers, the floor cool under my feet, and the air between us changed—the distance closing, the hum in my chest climbing. Outside, a bird started up like a bad alarm clock and then thought better of it.
She shifted to make room, palms flattening into the linen. The jungle breathed. The villa watched.
Then, for a beat, it was as if the jungle held its breath and the villa politely looked away.
That’s where Bali found us: me stepping closer, her waiting, the morning whispering invitation—the air between us thick enough to sip. The jungle breathed; the villa watched.
I closed the distance between us, my bare feet silent on the cool tile floor. My shadow fell over her first, stretching across the sun-warmed linen and the smooth, exposed curve of her back. She didn’t turn. She just pressed her palms deeper into the mattress, arching her spine a fraction more, offering herself up like a sacrament.
I knelt behind her on the bed, the frame giving a soft, wooden groan. My hands found the soft flare of her hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples just above her ass. Her skin was impossibly warm, smooth as the salt-licked rocks outside. I bent forward, my mouth hovering just above the small of her back. I could smell her—that perfume, yes, but underneath it, something richer, something that was just her: sleep and warmth and a clean, musky sweetness.
My tongue touched her skin just at the top of her ass crack. A soft, wet stripe from the base of her spine downward. She made a sound—a sharp intake of air that ended in a sigh. I did it again, slower this time, tracing the deep groove between her cheeks. I tasted linen and warm skin and Josalyn. I licked a broad, firm path down, over the tight furl of her asshole, a quick, circling flick that made her shudder, and then further down, through the damp, swollen folds of her pussy.
Fuck. She was already wet. Soaking. My tongue dove into her, flat and firm, dragging through her slick heat from her ass back to her clit. Her taste exploded on my tongue—bitter, sweet, primal. Her whole body went rigid, then melted, a low, hungry moan tearing from her throat.
“Derrick,” she breathed, her voice frayed at the edges.
I gripped her hips harder, holding her in place as I ate her from behind. My tongue fucked into her, then lapped at her clit, then traced back up to that tight, forbidden pucker. I was relentless, messy, claiming every inch of her with my mouth. Her thighs began to tremble. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the sheets.
Then, over the sound of my own rough breaths and her broken moans, I heard it—the low, rhythmic rush and pull of the ocean against the shore below the villa. A constant, hypnotic drumbeat.
Josalyn heard it too. Her head lifted slightly. Her voice, when it came, was a raw, wanting thing. “Do you hear that?”
I lifted my mouth from her, my chin slick with her. “Hear what?”
“The ocean.” She pushed her ass back against my face, a silent demand. “I want you to fuck me in time with the waves, Derrick. Fuck me with the ocean.”
A current of pure, dark heat shot through me. My dick, already hard and aching, throbbed against my thigh.
I moved. I positioned myself behind her, kneeling up, my knees outside of hers. One hand wrapped around my shaft, guiding the broad, flushed head of my dick to her entrance. The other hand stayed planted on her hip, feeling the muscle jump under my palm.
The wave crashed outside. A distant roar, then a long, withdrawing hiss.
I pushed into her on the crash.
Oh, god. She was so fucking tight, a velvet-hot vise that yielded to me with a slow, exquisite burn. I sank into her inch by agonizing inch, my eyes locked on where we joined, on the beautiful, stretched fullness of her taking me in. A ragged groan was torn from my chest. Her head dropped between her shoulders, a choked cry muffled by the sheets.
I waited, buried to the hilt inside her, until the next wave began to build. I heard its approach in the rising sound. As it crested and broke, I pulled out almost all the way, then drove back in on the crash, setting a deep, dragging, oceanic rhythm.
In… with the crash. A long, slow, complete possession. Out… with the retreat. A sweet, empty agony.
“Yes,” she hissed, the word long and drawn out. “Just like that. Fuck.”
My thrusts were long and deep, each one a deliberate conquest. The bed rocked with us, a gentle, creaking counter-rhythm to the sea. Sweat beaded on my chest, on her spine. The room filled with the sounds of us—skin slapping skin, her wet, sucking sounds, our mingled, desperate breaths.
I leaned over her, my chest to her back, my mouth at her ear. “You feel like heaven, Jos. Like my own personal fucking paradise.”
She whimpered, pushing back against me, meeting every thrust. One of her hands slid from the sheet, cupping her own breast. I watched her fingers pinch and roll her nipple, hard and dark. The other hand slid down her stomach, through the damp thatch of curls, and found her clit.
“That’s it,” I growled. “Play with yourself. Get yourself ready.”
I straightened up, resuming my deep, wave-timed strokes. My thumb found my mouth, I licked it, wetting it thoroughly. I brought it down, past where we were joined, through her slick folds, and pressed it firmly against the tight, wrinkled ring of her asshole.
Her whole body seized. “Derrick.”
“I know,” I muttered, my voice thick. “I know.” I applied steady, insistent pressure. Her body resisted for a heartbeat, two, then yielded. My thumb sank into the incredible, clenching heat of her ass, just the first knuckle.
She screamed—a short, sharp sound of shock and overwhelming pleasure. Her cunt clamped down on my cock like a fist, milking me. Her fingers on her clit became a frantic blur.
“I’m close,” she panted, her words coming in time with the waves, with my thrusts. “So close. Don’t stop. Please, don’t fucking stop.”
I didn’t. I fucked her with the relentless, patient rhythm of the tide. My thumb worked in her ass in a shallow, counter-rhythm. I watched her hand on her breast, on her clit, and the sight of her pleasing herself while I filled her up was the most erotic thing I’d ever seen.
“Come for me, Jos,” I commanded, my own control fraying. The pressure in my balls was a white-hot coil. “Come with the next big one. Let me feel you.”
A massive wave gathered outside. We both heard it, a growing roar that filled the world.
It broke.
I slammed into her, burying myself to the root. My thumb pressed deeper into her ass. Her back arched violently, her body bowing like a drawn weapon. A silent scream tore through her, her inside pulsating around my thickness in rapid, fluttering contractions that ripped my own orgasm from me.
I came with a shout, my hips hammering into her as I emptied myself deep inside her in hot, pulsing jets. The world blurred at the edges, reduced to the feeling of her tight heat milking my dick dry and the sound of the ocean claiming the shore, over and over.
We didn’t collapse; we settled. Breath by breath, our bodies found the same slow tide—my weight draped over her, chest to back, still joined, still humming. The ocean kept its indifferent rhythm while ours softened, aftershocks easing into warmth. I kissed the damp nape of her neck and we stayed there, held and quiet, letting the morning gather around us.
A thought flickered—how easily my usual armor had slipped, how fast I’d gone from measured to wanting. I let it pass and stayed with her breathing.
Her voice was a slurred, satisfied murmur against the sheet. “So good, Derrick.”
I nuzzled the damp at her nape. “Vacation’s just getting started,” I murmured. “Hell of a Bali morning.”
Outside, a gecko clicked like a tiny metronome and a scooter whined somewhere far off, the world resuming on its own schedule. The day would pretend nothing had happened; the linen would remember.
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Two rows over to Bali—desk banter to villa breath, consent and heat folded into one morning that changed everything. #Dblkrose #BSPDarkWeb #DarkErotica #Fiction #BaliMorning #WorkplaceRomance #BlackLove #IslandImprov