Heat in the Resort - Chapter 1 (Patreon)

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.

Chapter 1

We’d been at the resort three days before I learned his name.

Hank. American. His wife said it into the phone like she was talking to a secretary. She sat under the umbrella with AirPods in and a cocktail glass that never emptied the same way twice. The two kids were in the shallow end with water wings. He was in the water with them.

Late thirties. Glasses with no frames on the sides. Short dark hair going silver at the temples. Beard more white at the chin than on the cheeks. Thick through the chest and arms the way some guys stay thick after they stop playing sports and start doing hotel gyms on work trips. Super short and trimmed hair on his pecs going down into the swim shorts. Not a model. Better. A real body that still worked. A perfect ripped daddy body.

I was English, eighteen and on vacation with my parents in the Algarve and I spent the first morning pretending I was looking at the sea.

I was looking at him.

He caught me the second day.

I was on a lounger with a fantasy book I wasn’t reading. He was lifting one of the kids onto the edge of the pool and when he turned to grab a towel his eyes went over the deck and stopped on me. He smiled. Polite. The kind of smile you give a stranger’s kid when the ball rolls to your chair. I looked at the book, ashamed.

Third day he smiled again. Longer. I smiled back before I could stop it. After that I didn’t pretend as hard.

He played with the kids like it was the only part of the trip he wasn’t faking. Threw them. Caught them. Let them hang off his neck. The wife filmed almost none of it. She filmed herself and took selfies. Once I watched him look at her while she laughed at a screen and then look at his own hands under the water, like he didn’t know where to put them.

Fourth day I saw him adjust himself.

We were both in the pool. Kids screaming. He was standing in chest-deep water and his hand went under and fixed the shorts and when he looked up I was right there. He didn’t look away first. His mouth opened a little. Then he gave that same polite smile and turned back to the boy who was yelling daddy.

I got hard in the water and hated myself for it and stayed in until it went down.

Fifth day I followed him.

He got out around six. Wife still on a call. Kids with a resort monitor doing some activities like throwing foam balls. He walked toward the pool bathrooms with a towel over his shoulder and water running off the hair on his stomach. I waited thirty seconds and went after him with my own towel like I needed a shower before dinner, like I didn’t have a bathroom in my room.

The locker room was empty. Wet tile. The smell of chlorine and soap. One row of showers with plastic curtains.

He was at a sink, glasses off, splashing his face. He put the glasses back on and saw me in the mirror.

“Hey, I’m Hank.” he said. English. American. The polite smile was gone. He looked nervous in a way that didn’t match the chest or the arms.

“Hey. Eli.” I introduced myself, feeling shy and probably blushing against my pale English skin.

He dried his hands on the towel and glanced at the door.

“Nice to meet you, man. I’ve seen you looking,” he said. Fast. Like he’d been holding it and it came out wrong. “At the pool. I didn’t want to— I mean I noticed. You noticed I noticed. This is already a mess.”

I stayed silent, admiring his perfect body.

“Eli. Okay. Eli.” He laughed once, without humor. “I’m going to say this, and if you tell me to fuck off, I’ll walk back to the pool and we never talk about this again. You’re over eighteen, right?”

“Almost nineteen.” I told him.

He nodded, apparently satisfied with my answer.

“So, Eli. My wife and I are done. We’ve been done for a long time. This trip is just for appearances, so the boys don’t have to watch us pack up our lives into boxes. We don’t sleep in the same bed. We don’t— she doesn’t. I haven’t been touched in almost a year. I’m not saying that to get a prize. I’m saying it because I am standing in a locker room asking an eighteen-year-old boy if he would—”

He stopped. His neck was red. Water still on his collarbones.

“If you’d blow me,” he said. “Christ. I hear it. You can go. Please go if you want to go. I’m so sorry, I sound like a pervert.”

His hands were shaking.

I stepped in close enough to smell the pool on him. Chlorine. Skin. A nice cologne. A little sunscreen he’d missed on his shoulder.

“Breathe,” I said.

“I am breathing.”

“You’re not.” I put my palm on his chest. Short prickly hair. Heat. The muscle jumped under my hand. “You’re fine. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

He shut his eyes. His whole torso went tight and then, slowly, not.

“Okay.”

I moved my hand. Down the middle of him. Over the stomach. The shorts were already tented. Big. Like I imagined it from his bulge at pool.

“Can I,” I said.

“Yes. Please. The stall. I can’t do this at a sink.”

He didn’t move at first. He just stood there with my hand on his stomach and his shorts tented and the glasses a little crooked.

“If someone comes in—”

“Then we stop,” I said. “You’re allowed to stop. I’m not going to make you do anything.”

He nodded too many times. “Okay. Okay. I haven’t done this. With a guy. I thought about it in college and then I got married and I told myself that was the end of the sentence.”

“You don’t have to give me your life.”

“I know. I talk when I’m nervous. My wife hates it.” He laughed, small, ashamed. “Don’t tell her I said that. Don’t tell her any of this.”

“Relax, Hank. Shower.” I was the one acting mature, despite our significant age difference.

We took the last stall. He pulled the curtain with a hand that still shook. His shoulders took up the space. Water from the pool was still on him — chest, stomach, the line of hair going down. I put both hands on him this time. Pecs. The thick muscle jumping. I rubbed my thumbs over his nipples and he hissed like I’d burned him.

“That’s— I didn’t know I— do that again.”

I did. His cock kicked in the shorts. I dragged my palms down his stomach and hooked my fingers in the waistband and waited.

“Can I take these off.”

“Yes. God. Yes, please.”

I peeled the shorts down. His cock sprang up, heavy, slapping his stomach once. Long. Thick. Uncut. Head already shiny. Shaved. Balls sitting full against his thigh. He looked down at himself and then at me like he couldn’t believe both things were in the same stall.

“Don’t stare. I know it’s— I keep it trimmed because the wife used to— never mind. Sorry.”

“It’s an amazing cock, Hank, just chill.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m gonna be on my knees for you. I’m going to say it.”

I held him in my hand. Warm. The skin sliding. I stroked him slow and he braced both palms on the tile and dropped his head.

“Dude. That’s already too much.”

“I haven’t put it in my mouth.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

I licked the head. Just the head. He made a noise into his own arm. I took him in halfway and sucked easy, not deep, and his hips jerked forward like he couldn’t help it.

“Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean to fuck your mouth. I just—”

I pulled off and jerked him with the spit.

“You will last a minute when I go deep. So I won’t. Not yet.”

“You’re mean.” He said laughing nervously.

“I’m eighteen and you’re the one who asked.”

That got a real laugh out of him, shaky. I went back on him. Halfway. Tongue under the head, playing. His balls in my other hand, heavy, tight. He started talking again, broken.

“Almost a year without any of this, just my lame hand. Do you understand? I jerked off in the hotel bathroom this morning thinking about your mouth, and I still— pull out, pull out.”

I pulled out. He stood there dripping, cock throbbing, a string of spit from my lip to him that I wiped with my thumb.

“Breathe.”

“I am trying.” He looked at the curtain. “If I come on you I am going to apologize for a week.”

“You don’t need to, just breathe. I’m doing this because I think you’re super hot and your cock is fucking amazing… daddy.”

I took him deep that time. All the way. Nose in the shaved skin. He grabbed my hair and didn’t pull, just held, and the minute started whether he wanted it or not.

“Stop. Eli. I’m serious. I’m going to— you have to pull off— I can’t— I have to get back. Someone’s going to look for me.—”

I didn’t pull off. I sucked. Wet. Simple. My hand on the part I couldn’t fit. His thighs shook. The polite man from the shallow end was gone. What was left was a daddy with glasses fogging up, biting his own lip so he wouldn’t shout.

“Please,” he said. “I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum. Take it out. Take it—”

Too late.

He yanked back like he’d remembered his own warning a second after his body stopped listening. His cock left my mouth and the first pulse hit my cheek, thick, a lot. The second went across my mouth, my pink lips, all over it. The third and fourth kept coming, striping my face, running into my eye, dripping off my chin onto my chest. He kept stroking like he couldn’t stop his hand, apologizing the whole time.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Fuck. I told you. I told you I couldn’t. I’m so sorry. Don’t— that’s on your eye. I’m sorry.”

It was a lot. A year without real action. It kept twitching after he thought he was done and another streak landed on my lower lip.

He stood there with his shorts around his thighs and his chest heaving and his glasses crooked.

“I have to go,” he said. “My wife is going to look for me. I— thank you. That was— I can’t talk. I’m sorry.”

He pulled the shorts up. Almost slipped on the tile. Looked at my face one more time like he wanted to wipe it and didn’t know if he was allowed.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Then he was through the curtain and gone. The locker room door. Back to the deck.

I sat on my heels.

I wiped a stripe off my cheek with two fingers and put it in my mouth. Warm. Bitter. His. I did the rest the same way, slow, because nobody was coming in and because I wanted it on my tongue when I walked back out there. I rinsed my eye. I didn’t rinse my mouth.

When I got to the pool he was back in the water. His wife still on the phone. He looked like nothing had happened except the color on his neck. He looked like a husband. A family dad.

He found me.

He didn’t smile the polite smile.

He mouthed it, careful, so only I would catch it.

Thanks, man.

I sat down on my lounger with the taste of him still on my tongue and my book still unopened and I knew I was going to follow him again.

Tomorrow. Or the day after.

Whenever he made a signal.