Butlins Redcoat
"Family holiday, nothing to do. The redcoat running the evening entertainment is fit, friendly, and looking at him like he's the entertainment."
Butlins Skegness. Family holiday. Kill me now.
Mum's idea—cheap week away, arcade tokens included. I'm twenty-two years old, sitting in a holiday camp with my parents like I'm twelve again.
"Cheer up," Mum says. "Go have a drink. Meet people."
Fine. Anything to escape the chalet.
The bar's heaving.
Families, couples, pensioners—all crammed in for the evening entertainment. A band's setting up, and redcoats are everywhere, keeping the energy up.
One catches my eye.
She's athletic—you can tell even in the red uniform.
Toned arms, strong legs, the kind of body that comes from dancing five shows a day. Brown hair in a bouncy ponytail, face full of stage makeup, smile that's probably fake but looks real.
She's working the crowd, but she keeps glancing my way.
"Alright?" She appears beside me. "You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."
"That obvious?"
"Bit, yeah." She grins. "I'm Kayla. You?"
"Matt."
"Nice to meet you, Matt who doesn't want to be here." She leans closer. "Between us? Neither do I tonight."
"Bad day?"
"Long season." She rolls her shoulders. "Same songs, same games, same drunk uncles trying to grab my arse."
"Sounds rough."
"It's work." She shrugs. "But the nights are mine. After the show, I mean."
"What do you do with them?"
She looks at me. Really looks.
"Depends who's asking."
I watch her perform.
She's incredible—all energy and smiles, leading singalongs and dance routines, making everyone feel like they're having the best night of their lives.
Even me. Despite myself.
When it ends, she catches my eye across the room and tilts her head toward the exit.
Outside, the holiday camp is quiet.
Fairy lights strung between chalets, the distant sound of the arcade, the smell of chips and sea air.
"Staff quarters are this way." She takes my hand. "If you're interested."
"I'm interested."
"Good." She pulls me along. "Because I've had my eye on you since you walked in looking like a moody teenager."
"I'm not a teenager."
"No." She grins over her shoulder. "You're definitely not."
Her room is tiny.
Single bed, shared bathroom down the hall, posters of previous shows on the walls. It's cramped and temporary and she doesn't care.
"Door locks," she says, clicking it shut. "And the walls are thick enough. Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"Don't scream too loud and we'll be fine."
She strips off the red jacket first.
Underneath she's wearing a sports bra, and her body is exactly what I'd imagined—toned, tight, built for movement. Small tits, defined abs, legs that could wrap around me twice.
"Like what you see?"
"Fuck yes."
"Good answer." She pulls me toward the bed. "Because I've been thinking about this since the second set."
We fuck like we're both escaping something.
Her body's strong, athletic—she moves with me, rides me, matches every thrust with her hips. The tiny bed creaks but holds.
"Right there—fuck—harder—"
I give her harder. She takes it, demands more.
When she comes, her whole body tenses, muscles defined, and she bites her lip to keep quiet.
I follow her seconds later.
After, we lie tangled in the single bed.
"How long are you here?" she asks.
"Rest of the week."
"Good." She traces patterns on my chest. "I finish at eleven every night. This can be a thing. If you want."
"I want."
"Perfect." She kisses me. "Now get back before your mum notices you're gone."
The rest of the week is a blur.
Days spent pretending to have family fun—crazy golf, arcade games, the swimming pool. Nights spent in Kayla's tiny room, making the bed creak and the walls shake.
"Last night," she says on day seven. "Make it count."
I make it count. Twice.
At checkout, Mum asks if I enjoyed myself.
"More than I expected."
"See? Butlins isn't that bad."
"No," I agree, watching Kayla wave from across the reception area, secret smile on her face. "It's not bad at all."
She texts me a month later.
Season's over. Coming back to Manchester. Drink?
I pick her up from the station.
Without the red jacket and stage makeup, she's different—softer, more real. Still athletic, still fit, still looking at me like I'm the only entertainment she needs.
"So," she says. "Your place or mine?"
"Mine's closer."
"Perfect." She grins. "Because I've been thinking about that tiny bed. And I reckon we can do better with more space."
We do better.
Much, much better.
The holiday's over.
But whatever this is? It's just getting started.