Lavish Didi Stories - Heat in the Resort - Chapter 2
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Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.
Chapter 2
Next night. We’d eaten in town. I came back early. The path from the lobby cut along the glass of the resort restaurant. That was why I saw him.
Hank had changed.
Floral shirt. Short sleeves. The kind of print American dads bought to vacation. Beige shorts. Glasses on. The white in the beard catching the restaurant light. He was cutting something on a child’s plate into smaller pieces and talking with his mouth half-full, nodding, doing the work of two parents because the other one wasn’t at the table.
His wife stood three meters away with the phone to her ear, facing the pool, laughing at a screen. She came back, sat, stood again two minutes later. Another call. He didn’t watch her go. He watched the plates.
Then he watched me.
The dining room was doing that resort thing where everything is too bright and nobody is really together. Cutlery. A playlist that thought it was jazz. Kids at other tables crying into fries and ketchup. Hank’s table was a small island of competence. He had one boy asking for more bread and the other one sliding down the chair and he handled both without raising his voice. He wiped a mouth. He moved a glass inland. He did it like a man who had decided that if the marriage was already a costume, the dinner didn’t have to be.
His wife came back, sat, filmed the plate instead of the children, stood up again. “Two minutes,” I saw her mouth. It was not two minutes. Hank said something to the empty chair that was probably it’s fine. It did not look fine. It looked like a man keeping a room in the air with both hands.
I stood at the glass like a creep and hated the word and stayed anyway. When he lifted his head the third time, he found me looking. The wink hadn’t happened yet. This was just the look. The locker-room look in a room full of families. I felt it in my stomach. I felt it lower. I walked toward the desserts because standing there was going to get me caught.
I should have kept walking. I didn’t. I stopped at the dessert buffet like a person who wanted gelatin, which I did not.
He said something to the kids I couldn’t hear. Wiped his hands on a napkin. Came up beside me with two small bowls.
“They like the red one,” he said, normal volume, father volume. Then, lower, not looking at me: “I can’t stop thinking about what happened.”
The serving spoon clicked against glass.
“Can you go to the beach. Around midnight. Far end. Past the rocks. If you don’t want to, don’t. I’ll understand.”
“Yes,” I said.
Just that. Yes. He put gelatin in both bowls like that was the whole conversation and went back to the table. Before he sat he looked over the kids’ heads and winked. A small and discreet wink. It went through me harder than the locker room.
I took a piece of chocolate cake I wasn’t going to eat and walked to my room with my face hot.
My parents were watching a show with the volume up. I said I was tired and needed a hot shower. I locked the bathroom.
I showered. I cleaned myself the way you clean yourself when you have decided, in a hotel room in the Algarve, that you are going to offer your ass to a married man who came on your face in one minute. It wasn’t glamorous. It was practical. I wanted him to be able to put it in without a conversation about logistics. I wanted him to stop shaking long enough to feel it.
I lay on the bed in a t-shirt and waited. Ten. Eleven. Eleven-forty. I thought about not going. I thought about his hands on the kids’ plates. I thought about the wink. At ten to twelve I put on shorts and flip-flops and went out, my parents were already sleeping in their room.
The path lights were those low ones hotels use so drunk people don’t sue. My flip-flops slapped. I could still taste dinner, I was nervous. I thought about turning around at the end of the wooden walk. I thought about his voice at the buffet, the way he’d said if you don’t want to, don’t like he was offering me an exit he hoped I wouldn’t take. Of course I wanted it.
A couple passed me going back toward the lobby, shoes in their hands, laughing. I waited until they were gone and stepped onto the sand. It was cold already. The Atlantic made the only real noise. Behind me the resort was a cake of windows. Somebody’s balcony TV. Somebody’s kid still awake. In front of me the beach went black.
I walked in the wet part so I wouldn’t leave a tourist trail of prints in the dry. Halfway I almost talked myself out of it. He had children. He had a wife. He had come on my face and run. I was eighteen and I had cleaned my ass in a hotel bathroom for a man who couldn’t last a minute. The sentence sounded insane.
I kept walking anyway. The rocks got bigger. The light got smaller. My pulse was stupid. I wanted him to be there.
The resort lights died about two hundred meters down the sand. After that it was the moon and the white of the foam. The far end was a scatter of dark rock. Nobody from the pool deck could see it. That was the point.
He was already there.
Same shirt. Same shorts. Barefoot, like he’d told himself this was a walk. He had his arms crossed and he was rocking on his heels. When he saw me he let out a breath he’d been holding since dessert.
“Eli! You came.”
“You asked.”
“I know. I still didn’t think—” He laughed once, nervous, and looked back toward the lights. “I created a fight with her so I could leave mad. That’s the story. It’s a bad story.”
“Hank.”
“I haven’t stopped,” he said. Fast. The locker-room speed. “Since the locker rooms. I went back to my life and I thought about your mouth the whole time. I jerked off in the bathroom after dinner. I jerked off again this morning. I came thinking about your face and I still walked here hard. That’s not— I don’t know how to be a person about this.”
I stepped in. The shirt was nice linen. I opened the first button. He looked down at my hands like they were doing surgery.
“You don’t have to talk.”
“I talk when I’m nervous…” he told me.
“I know.”
Second button. Third. The trimmed hair on his chest, still the same as the pool, a little salt on the skin. I put both palms on him. Heat. The hard muscle jumping. I rubbed my thumbs over his nipples and he said fuck at the sky and tipped his head back like I’d hit a switch.
“Eli—”
“Breathe.”
“I am trying so hard to breathe.”
I leaned in and put my mouth on his chest. Sea-salt breeze. Hot skin. Cologne fading. I sucked one nipple, slow, and his hand found my hair and didn’t pull. It just sat there. I switched sides. He made a noise he swallowed. The shirt hung open. The married guy from the restaurant was a torso on a dark beach, glasses fogging in the sea air, shaking under a gay boy’s mouth.
I popped the button on the beige shorts. Zipper. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath again. His cock came out hard as fuck, the same long uncut fact from the stall. I wrapped my hand around it and stroked him slow. He braced a hand on my shoulder.
“Stop. You have to stop. I’m going to cum like that. I’m not joking. I’m going to cum in your hand like...”
I slowed. I didn’t take my hand off. I put my mouth next to his ear.
“Do you want to fuck me?”
He made a sound that was almost a laugh.
“What?”
“Against the rocks. My ass. That’s why I came. I cleaned up for you. I want you to, Hank.”
He stared at me. The glasses. The open shirt. The cock in my fist.
“That’s all I wanted,” he said. “That’s the sentence I wasn’t going to say. Yes. God. Yes. I don’t know if I can last. I’m telling you now.”
“Then we go behind the rocks.”
We went. The sand got coarser. The rocks cut the wind and the line of sight. I put my hands on the stone, shorts down, ass out. The night air on skin that had never done this outside. He stood behind me and didn’t move.
“Hank.”
“Give me a second. You’re— you’re actually doing this.”
“I’m doing this.”
He went to his knees in the sand. I felt his breath first. Then his hands opening me. Then his mouth.
He licked. Unsure. Then not. His tongue flat, then pointed, then inside, wet, hungry in a way that didn’t match the polite smile from the shallow end. He made a noise into me.
“Sweet,” he muttered. “Fuck. That’s a sweet boy pussy.”
I laughed into the rock, shocked, turned on, both.
“Sorry. I don’t— it came out. You taste clean. You taste like you did this for me.” He licked again, deeper, his beard scraping the inside of my ass, and I moaned against the stone like the resort wasn’t two hundred meters away. He held my hips and ate me like a man who had been starving on a family vacation. His tongue. His lips. A wet sound that belonged in a room, not on a beach. I pushed back on his face and he groaned and kept going until my thighs shook.
“If you don’t put it in I’m going to lose my mind,” I said.
He stood. Sand on his knees. I went down on all fours on the beach. He spat on his hand, on me, on himself. The head of him pressed where his tongue had been. Big. The same stretch I had only imagined.
“Tell me if—”
“Fuck me, Hank.”
He pushed. The head went in and my mouth opened on nothing. He sank two strokes — two, that was all — deep enough that I felt the thickness open me, and then his whole body locked.
“No. No no no—”
He came.
I felt it. Hot. Sudden. A lot. The same rush as the shower, except now it was inside me, pulsing, his fingers digging into my hips, his forehead dropping onto my back. He kept saying sorry while he was still coming, which would have been funny if I hadn’t been so full of him.
He pulled out too fast. I felt the leak immediately, down my balls, onto the sand. He was already stepping back, shorts half up, shirt hanging, glasses crooked, the most embarrassed man on the Atlantic.
“I’m sorry. Eli. I’m so sorry. I told you. I told you I couldn’t. That was two seconds. That was nothing for you. I used you like a— I should go. I’m going to go.”
I stood up with my shorts still around my thighs and I did the only thing that made sense. I put my arms around him.
He went stiff. Then he didn’t. His chest against mine. The open floral shirt. The smell of sex and sea and man cologne. He was still shaking.
“Stop apologizing,” I said into his shoulder. “You’re the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my life.”
He laughed. Real. Wet around the edges.
“Nobody’s ever said that to me.”
“I’m saying it. It’s real.”
“Women don’t— my wife doesn’t. She never said that. I think she’s got someone.” He said it into my hair, quiet, like the rocks were a confessional. “Twenty-something. Model. Influencer. I found the DMs and I closed the phone. I didn’t ask. This trip is glue. I’m the glue. You’re eighteen and you just let me last two strokes in you and I am going to think about that until I die.”
“Don’t talk about her.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t think about her. Not here.”
“Okay.” He pulled back enough to see my face. His hands were on my waist. Careful.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
He kissed me like he thought I might break, or like he might. Closed mouth. Polite. The restaurant wink turned into lips. I opened. I put my tongue in his mouth. He made a noise I felt in his chest and his whole body trembled, the same tremble as the stall, except now it was in my mouth. I held the back of his neck. He learned the kiss in pieces — my lip, my tongue, the taste of him still on me — and he kept shaking through it, a grown man on a dark beach kissing a boy and coming apart about it.
We didn’t stop clean. We broke apart and came back. His glasses knocked my cheekbone. He laughed into the kiss, embarrassed, and I took the glasses off and hooked them in his open shirt so I could do it again without an object in the way. His mouth was careful and then it wasn’t. A year of not being touched lived in the way he held my jaw, like he might be told no in the next second and was going to get this sentence finished first.
I felt him getting hard again against my hip, useless, too soon, the body trying to apologize with a second round it couldn’t deliver. He noticed and pulled his hips back.
“Ignore that.”
“I’m not ignoring anything.”
“Eli. If you touch me I will come on your shorts and I will walk into the ocean.”
“Then I won’t touch you…for now.”
I kissed him instead. Slower. He made a small broken sound that did not belong to a man who cut food into bites. His beard scratched. His hand on the small of my back pressed like he wanted me closer and also like he was afraid of the leak he had left in me, the evidence, the fact of it. I didn’t let him make it ugly. I just kissed him until his shaking went from panic into something quieter. Want. That was the word. A hot married guy on a beach in a linen floral shirt, wanting.
When his mouth finally rested against mine, open, not moving, we stayed like that and listened to the water like it was covering for us.
When we stopped he rested his forehead on mine.
“I came inside you.”
“I know.”
“I should have asked.”
“I wanted it.”
“I’m still sorry it was two strokes.”
“Then we do it again. Not tonight. You’ll last even less tonight.”
He laughed against my mouth.
“You’re mean.”
“You like it.”
“I like you,” he said, and then looked terrified he’d said it. “I mean. This. I like this. I don’t have a sentence for you that’s legal in my life.”
“You don’t need a sentence. I like you too, Hank.”
We pulled our clothes up. The leak was a fact I was going to walk to the resort with. I buttoned two of his buttons for him so he could walk through the lobby looking like a regular family guy who’d gone for air.
At the edge of the dark he stopped.
“Same time tomorrow. If you want. If you don’t, wave at breakfast and I’ll never ask again.”
“I’ll be here.”
He nodded too many times. Started to say sorry. Stopped. Mouth the word thanks the way he had across the pool, except this time I was close enough to hear it.
I walked back along the wet sand with him inside me and the kiss still on my tongue and the floral shirt in my head every time a restaurant light hit the water.
Tomorrow.
He would shake. I would unbutton him. We would see if two strokes could become three. And I was not lying when I said he was the hottest man ever.
Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.
Chapter 2
Next night. We’d eaten in town. I came back early. The path from the lobby cut along the glass of the resort restaurant. That was why I saw him.
Hank had changed.
Floral shirt. Short sleeves. The kind of print American dads bought to vacation. Beige shorts. Glasses on. The white in the beard catching the restaurant light. He was cutting something on a child’s plate into smaller pieces and talking with his mouth half-full, nodding, doing the work of two parents because the other one wasn’t at the table.
His wife stood three meters away with the phone to her ear, facing the pool, laughing at a screen. She came back, sat, stood again two minutes later. Another call. He didn’t watch her go. He watched the plates.
Then he watched me.
The dining room was doing that resort thing where everything is too bright and nobody is really together. Cutlery. A playlist that thought it was jazz. Kids at other tables crying into fries and ketchup. Hank’s table was a small island of competence. He had one boy asking for more bread and the other one sliding down the chair and he handled both without raising his voice. He wiped a mouth. He moved a glass inland. He did it like a man who had decided that if the marriage was already a costume, the dinner didn’t have to be.
His wife came back, sat, filmed the plate instead of the children, stood up again. “Two minutes,” I saw her mouth. It was not two minutes. Hank said something to the empty chair that was probably it’s fine. It did not look fine. It looked like a man keeping a room in the air with both hands.
I stood at the glass like a creep and hated the word and stayed anyway. When he lifted his head the third time, he found me looking. The wink hadn’t happened yet. This was just the look. The locker-room look in a room full of families. I felt it in my stomach. I felt it lower. I walked toward the desserts because standing there was going to get me caught.
I should have kept walking. I didn’t. I stopped at the dessert buffet like a person who wanted gelatin, which I did not.
He said something to the kids I couldn’t hear. Wiped his hands on a napkin. Came up beside me with two small bowls.
“They like the red one,” he said, normal volume, father volume. Then, lower, not looking at me: “I can’t stop thinking about what happened.”
The serving spoon clicked against glass.
“Can you go to the beach. Around midnight. Far end. Past the rocks. If you don’t want to, don’t. I’ll understand.”
“Yes,” I said.
Just that. Yes. He put gelatin in both bowls like that was the whole conversation and went back to the table. Before he sat he looked over the kids’ heads and winked. A small and discreet wink. It went through me harder than the locker room.
I took a piece of chocolate cake I wasn’t going to eat and walked to my room with my face hot.
My parents were watching a show with the volume up. I said I was tired and needed a hot shower. I locked the bathroom.
I showered. I cleaned myself the way you clean yourself when you have decided, in a hotel room in the Algarve, that you are going to offer your ass to a married man who came on your face in one minute. It wasn’t glamorous. It was practical. I wanted him to be able to put it in without a conversation about logistics. I wanted him to stop shaking long enough to feel it.
I lay on the bed in a t-shirt and waited. Ten. Eleven. Eleven-forty. I thought about not going. I thought about his hands on the kids’ plates. I thought about the wink. At ten to twelve I put on shorts and flip-flops and went out, my parents were already sleeping in their room.
The path lights were those low ones hotels use so drunk people don’t sue. My flip-flops slapped. I could still taste dinner, I was nervous. I thought about turning around at the end of the wooden walk. I thought about his voice at the buffet, the way he’d said if you don’t want to, don’t like he was offering me an exit he hoped I wouldn’t take. Of course I wanted it.
A couple passed me going back toward the lobby, shoes in their hands, laughing. I waited until they were gone and stepped onto the sand. It was cold already. The Atlantic made the only real noise. Behind me the resort was a cake of windows. Somebody’s balcony TV. Somebody’s kid still awake. In front of me the beach went black.
I walked in the wet part so I wouldn’t leave a tourist trail of prints in the dry. Halfway I almost talked myself out of it. He had children. He had a wife. He had come on my face and run. I was eighteen and I had cleaned my ass in a hotel bathroom for a man who couldn’t last a minute. The sentence sounded insane.
I kept walking anyway. The rocks got bigger. The light got smaller. My pulse was stupid. I wanted him to be there.
The resort lights died about two hundred meters down the sand. After that it was the moon and the white of the foam. The far end was a scatter of dark rock. Nobody from the pool deck could see it. That was the point.
He was already there.
Same shirt. Same shorts. Barefoot, like he’d told himself this was a walk. He had his arms crossed and he was rocking on his heels. When he saw me he let out a breath he’d been holding since dessert.
“Eli! You came.”
“You asked.”
“I know. I still didn’t think—” He laughed once, nervous, and looked back toward the lights. “I created a fight with her so I could leave mad. That’s the story. It’s a bad story.”
“Hank.”
“I haven’t stopped,” he said. Fast. The locker-room speed. “Since the locker rooms. I went back to my life and I thought about your mouth the whole time. I jerked off in the bathroom after dinner. I jerked off again this morning. I came thinking about your face and I still walked here hard. That’s not— I don’t know how to be a person about this.”
I stepped in. The shirt was nice linen. I opened the first button. He looked down at my hands like they were doing surgery.
“You don’t have to talk.”
“I talk when I’m nervous…” he told me.
“I know.”
Second button. Third. The trimmed hair on his chest, still the same as the pool, a little salt on the skin. I put both palms on him. Heat. The hard muscle jumping. I rubbed my thumbs over his nipples and he said fuck at the sky and tipped his head back like I’d hit a switch.
“Eli—”
“Breathe.”
“I am trying so hard to breathe.”
I leaned in and put my mouth on his chest. Sea-salt breeze. Hot skin. Cologne fading. I sucked one nipple, slow, and his hand found my hair and didn’t pull. It just sat there. I switched sides. He made a noise he swallowed. The shirt hung open. The married guy from the restaurant was a torso on a dark beach, glasses fogging in the sea air, shaking under a gay boy’s mouth.
I popped the button on the beige shorts. Zipper. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath again. His cock came out hard as fuck, the same long uncut fact from the stall. I wrapped my hand around it and stroked him slow. He braced a hand on my shoulder.
“Stop. You have to stop. I’m going to cum like that. I’m not joking. I’m going to cum in your hand like...”
I slowed. I didn’t take my hand off. I put my mouth next to his ear.
“Do you want to fuck me?”
He made a sound that was almost a laugh.
“What?”
“Against the rocks. My ass. That’s why I came. I cleaned up for you. I want you to, Hank.”
He stared at me. The glasses. The open shirt. The cock in my fist.
“That’s all I wanted,” he said. “That’s the sentence I wasn’t going to say. Yes. God. Yes. I don’t know if I can last. I’m telling you now.”
“Then we go behind the rocks.”
We went. The sand got coarser. The rocks cut the wind and the line of sight. I put my hands on the stone, shorts down, ass out. The night air on skin that had never done this outside. He stood behind me and didn’t move.
“Hank.”
“Give me a second. You’re— you’re actually doing this.”
“I’m doing this.”
He went to his knees in the sand. I felt his breath first. Then his hands opening me. Then his mouth.
He licked. Unsure. Then not. His tongue flat, then pointed, then inside, wet, hungry in a way that didn’t match the polite smile from the shallow end. He made a noise into me.
“Sweet,” he muttered. “Fuck. That’s a sweet boy pussy.”
I laughed into the rock, shocked, turned on, both.
“Sorry. I don’t— it came out. You taste clean. You taste like you did this for me.” He licked again, deeper, his beard scraping the inside of my ass, and I moaned against the stone like the resort wasn’t two hundred meters away. He held my hips and ate me like a man who had been starving on a family vacation. His tongue. His lips. A wet sound that belonged in a room, not on a beach. I pushed back on his face and he groaned and kept going until my thighs shook.
“If you don’t put it in I’m going to lose my mind,” I said.
He stood. Sand on his knees. I went down on all fours on the beach. He spat on his hand, on me, on himself. The head of him pressed where his tongue had been. Big. The same stretch I had only imagined.
“Tell me if—”
“Fuck me, Hank.”
He pushed. The head went in and my mouth opened on nothing. He sank two strokes — two, that was all — deep enough that I felt the thickness open me, and then his whole body locked.
“No. No no no—”
He came.
I felt it. Hot. Sudden. A lot. The same rush as the shower, except now it was inside me, pulsing, his fingers digging into my hips, his forehead dropping onto my back. He kept saying sorry while he was still coming, which would have been funny if I hadn’t been so full of him.
He pulled out too fast. I felt the leak immediately, down my balls, onto the sand. He was already stepping back, shorts half up, shirt hanging, glasses crooked, the most embarrassed man on the Atlantic.
“I’m sorry. Eli. I’m so sorry. I told you. I told you I couldn’t. That was two seconds. That was nothing for you. I used you like a— I should go. I’m going to go.”
I stood up with my shorts still around my thighs and I did the only thing that made sense. I put my arms around him.
He went stiff. Then he didn’t. His chest against mine. The open floral shirt. The smell of sex and sea and man cologne. He was still shaking.
“Stop apologizing,” I said into his shoulder. “You’re the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my life.”
He laughed. Real. Wet around the edges.
“Nobody’s ever said that to me.”
“I’m saying it. It’s real.”
“Women don’t— my wife doesn’t. She never said that. I think she’s got someone.” He said it into my hair, quiet, like the rocks were a confessional. “Twenty-something. Model. Influencer. I found the DMs and I closed the phone. I didn’t ask. This trip is glue. I’m the glue. You’re eighteen and you just let me last two strokes in you and I am going to think about that until I die.”
“Don’t talk about her.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t think about her. Not here.”
“Okay.” He pulled back enough to see my face. His hands were on my waist. Careful.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
He kissed me like he thought I might break, or like he might. Closed mouth. Polite. The restaurant wink turned into lips. I opened. I put my tongue in his mouth. He made a noise I felt in his chest and his whole body trembled, the same tremble as the stall, except now it was in my mouth. I held the back of his neck. He learned the kiss in pieces — my lip, my tongue, the taste of him still on me — and he kept shaking through it, a grown man on a dark beach kissing a boy and coming apart about it.
We didn’t stop clean. We broke apart and came back. His glasses knocked my cheekbone. He laughed into the kiss, embarrassed, and I took the glasses off and hooked them in his open shirt so I could do it again without an object in the way. His mouth was careful and then it wasn’t. A year of not being touched lived in the way he held my jaw, like he might be told no in the next second and was going to get this sentence finished first.
I felt him getting hard again against my hip, useless, too soon, the body trying to apologize with a second round it couldn’t deliver. He noticed and pulled his hips back.
“Ignore that.”
“I’m not ignoring anything.”
“Eli. If you touch me I will come on your shorts and I will walk into the ocean.”
“Then I won’t touch you…for now.”
I kissed him instead. Slower. He made a small broken sound that did not belong to a man who cut food into bites. His beard scratched. His hand on the small of my back pressed like he wanted me closer and also like he was afraid of the leak he had left in me, the evidence, the fact of it. I didn’t let him make it ugly. I just kissed him until his shaking went from panic into something quieter. Want. That was the word. A hot married guy on a beach in a linen floral shirt, wanting.
When his mouth finally rested against mine, open, not moving, we stayed like that and listened to the water like it was covering for us.
When we stopped he rested his forehead on mine.
“I came inside you.”
“I know.”
“I should have asked.”
“I wanted it.”
“I’m still sorry it was two strokes.”
“Then we do it again. Not tonight. You’ll last even less tonight.”
He laughed against my mouth.
“You’re mean.”
“You like it.”
“I like you,” he said, and then looked terrified he’d said it. “I mean. This. I like this. I don’t have a sentence for you that’s legal in my life.”
“You don’t need a sentence. I like you too, Hank.”
We pulled our clothes up. The leak was a fact I was going to walk to the resort with. I buttoned two of his buttons for him so he could walk through the lobby looking like a regular family guy who’d gone for air.
At the edge of the dark he stopped.
“Same time tomorrow. If you want. If you don’t, wave at breakfast and I’ll never ask again.”
“I’ll be here.”
He nodded too many times. Started to say sorry. Stopped. Mouth the word thanks the way he had across the pool, except this time I was close enough to hear it.
I walked back along the wet sand with him inside me and the kiss still on my tongue and the floral shirt in my head every time a restaurant light hit the water.
Tomorrow.
He would shake. I would unbutton him. We would see if two strokes could become three. And I was not lying when I said he was the hottest man ever.
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