I booked the Magaluf trip on a whim after a week of late nights chasing a story that went nowhere. Cheap package, last minute, apartment with a balcony that looked over a car park and a strip of bars that never really slept. Two weeks of sun, cheap beer and no emails felt like the reset I needed. I packed the usual. Shorts, vests, the hoodie for the plane, blue nails already chipped from typing. Glasses in the case because contacts and sea salt do not mix. I landed in the heat that hits you like a wall the second the cabin door opens. The transfer bus smelled of suncream and last night’s vodka. I found the apartment, dumped the bag, and went straight out because sitting alone on the first night felt like admitting I had no plan
The bar was one of those places with sticky floors and a DJ who thought volume made up for taste. I stood at the edge with a drink that tasted of pineapple and regret. He appeared next to me holding two bottles. Asked if I wanted one. I said yes because the alternative was standing there looking like I was waiting for someone who was not coming. He was tall enough, tanned from days already spent here, smile that showed he knew it worked on most people. Called me babe before he even asked my name. I told him Emma. He repeated it like he was trying it on. We talked about nothing. Where I was from. What I did. I gave the short version. Journalist. He said that sounded posh. I laughed and said not even close.
We stayed until the place started emptying. He walked me back toward the apartments. The air was still warm. Music leaked from every doorway. At my door he leaned in. The kiss was fine. Wet but not desperate. Then his hand landed on my arse and stayed there. Not a squeeze. A slap. Sharp enough that I jumped. He grinned like he had just done something clever. I should have sent him away then. Instead I let him in because the night was already half gone and I was tired of being the one who always left first.
Inside the apartment the lights stayed off. He said it was nicer that way. We ended up on the bed that sagged in the middle. Clothes came off in the dark. He slapped again when I was on my front for a second. The sound cracked in the small room. I turned over. He moved on top. Missionary. That was it. No variation. His hands stayed on my hips or my arse, slapping every few thrusts like it was the only move he had practised. I made the noises I thought he wanted. High enough to sound real. He finished quick and rolled off breathing like he had run a mile. I lay there feeling the sting fade and the wetness that had nothing to do with him.
The next morning he was still there. Made coffee that tasted of the cheap granules from the cupboard. Called me babe again while I sat on the balcony in yesterday’s vest. We went to the beach. He bought drinks from the hut and slapped my arse when I bent to put the towel down. I told him to pack it in. He laughed and did it anyway. The day passed in heat and salt. We ate something greasy from a place with plastic chairs. Back at the apartment the pattern repeated. Lights off. Him on top. Slaps that landed when I was not expecting them. I started timing my moans so they matched the rhythm he liked. My face ached from holding the expression that said this was good.
Days blurred after that. Beach in the morning. Bars in the afternoon. Clubs that all played the same songs. He stayed most nights. The slapping became background noise. Once on the walk back from a club he did it in the street. A group of lads cheered. I pulled away and told him enough. He said it was just a bit of fun babe. I let it go because arguing in the street at two in the morning felt like more effort than it was worth. In bed the lights stayed off. Always. He never asked what I wanted. Never changed position. I tried once. Turned onto my side and reached for him. He moved me back and carried on. The slaps kept coming. Some landed on skin that was already tender from the sun. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from telling him to stop.
One night it went further than the others. We had been drinking since the afternoon. The apartment was hot even with the balcony door open. He pushed in and started the usual. Slaps on the upstroke. I faked harder than before because I wanted it over. The moan I let out was too big. My cheek muscle twitched and then locked. Pain shot across my face like I had been punched from the inside. I kept going anyway. Sounds coming out wrong. He did not notice. Finished and asked if it was good. I said yes through teeth that would not unclench. After he left for his own place I sat on the bathroom floor with a wet cloth on my face. The muscle stayed tight for an hour. I laughed at myself in the mirror. Proper idiot. Pulling a face muscle from pretending to enjoy being treated like a piece of meat.
The rest of the week followed the same loop. Breakfast that was never breakfast. Beach where he slapped when I stood up from the towel. Nights that started with drinks and ended with the same position and the same hand. I stopped suggesting anything else. It was easier to let it happen and get it done. My body still reacted sometimes. Traitor that it is. Heat that built even while I was counting the slaps and waiting for him to be finished. I hated that part. The way I could be annoyed and still wet. I never told him. Never gave him the satisfaction of knowing any of it landed.
On the last night we went to a different bar. He bought shots and called me babe every other sentence. Back at the apartment I knew what was coming. Lights off again. I lay there and let him. The slaps felt automatic now. Like he had forgotten there were other ways to touch someone. I faked one last time. Smaller this time. Face still sore from the night before. He rolled off and fell asleep within minutes. I stayed awake listening to the music from the street and thinking about the flight in the morning.
I packed while he snored. Left a note that said thanks for the two weeks. Nothing else. Caught the transfer at dawn. The airport was full of people who looked as rough as I felt. On the plane I sat by the window and watched the island shrink. My arse still carried the faint outline of his hand from the night before. I shifted in the seat and felt it. Did not miss it. Did not miss him. When the plane landed I turned my phone on and deleted the number before I even collected the bag. The story sat in my head the whole way home. Not because it was good. Because it was so exactly what I should have walked away from on the first night and did not. I told no one the details. Just that I had a holiday fling that was all slap and no substance. People laughed. I let them. The muscle in my face healed. The rest of it I filed away with the other nights that taught me nothing I did not already know.