Caramelos

You feel guilty taking that pause, stepping out of your flip-flops and rolling your bare soles onto the sugary white sand. You pull off your tight sweaty shirt and let the bright Venezuelan sun wash over your rich dark flesh as you continue to stroll along the quiet beach next to your new guy friend. Renzo, the bodybuilder, the one with the muscles so huge, so robust that is actually stretches his skin, isn’t really your friend. You met the bulky god less than an hour ago hopping into your friend’s car outside of his apartment. As far as you can tell, like you, he isn’t a regular player in this social fold. He is, at best, a fair acquaintance your friend got his other friend to scrounge up for you because he too is also fluent in English, so you don’t feel like a complete dunce for being monoglot in this foreign place.

You are from the States, the US of A, Home of the Brave. You are The American, the one that represents the epitome of Western Civilization. Be it good or bad. The American, a strange new burden on your shoulders considering back home in the fishbowl you’re often treated as anything but. Here, you are forced to carry the weight of your homeland. All foreigners are. Your friend and his friends are from around here, from Maracaibo, a leap south of Hispaniola. Renzo is from here, too. Though, he calls Southern California home whenever he isn’t back here checking on family affairs. Your friend’s friends think the two of you should be the best of friends because of this. They have a hard time getting that he lives on one side of the country while you live on the other, as you explain the wilderness slightly north of the concrete jungle they’re familiar with from films; two different worlds. Amazingly, with the help of your excellent translator, you share a ton of interests with the group. That is, everybody except for your translator. You two strangely have much in common but nothing to talk about, as the two of you continue to babble in your native tongue because there isn’t much else to do tramping along the shore. Not when you’re surrounded by a handful of good-looking, brown men to the left while to the back of you with lustful tensions brewing between you and your translating bodybuilder.

Renzo is the stuff fuck dreams are made of. So you’re very much into him—even his receding hairline. It isn’t everyday you come across a guy like this, one that isn’t just a fantasy on your computer screen. One that is blessed with those toned, massive thighs and those big, tight glutes that petrifies your dick without mercy. Plus, he’s got this nice stubble that is begging to bud into a thick, comely beard and a striking mustache. Renzo would be damn near perfect if not for his height. You’re not tall, but he is so short that you almost have to bend double just to look at him. He doesn’t mind looking up at you, of course. He has a happy-go-lucky smile on his face and in his celadon eyes that says so. Everybody around feels the connection. Your friend tries to slide you his spare key to his car and to the apartment so you can slip back to his place with the bodybuilder so you can “take care” of him. You want to go. This is what vacation sex is all about, right?

Everything in you says yes. You try to find a way not to say to your new friend let’s go somewhere and fuck, though that is your intent. You ponder and think. You finally pin down the right words, the right phrase, that is both raunchily seductive and gentlemanly-like.

Then, like a paralyzing headache, as you’re about to utter these very words, the guilt rolls over you. Those pair of eyes burn against your broad, dark back and the weight of everything behind those laser beams get the best of you.

Don’t you fucking try it, bastard! You feel his very words slap the back of your head like a heavy sack of nickels, even though your ever-handsome shadow is a few paces behind you, and, as far as you can tell, he hasn’t parted his mouth to say anything sneering.

Moises. You glance back to see if he is looking. He is, of course, but he lets on indirectly taking in the vast lake alongside his walking buddy.

Moises is your friend’s longtime best friend and current roommate. He is the one that visited you guys when you and your friend were paired fraternity brothers shared a room. Your jaws dropped, your tongue wagged, your eyes watered, and your dick dripped a steady transparent stream in your briefs, which three washes couldn’t get the weight out of. How in the hell did you not know about a place, a country, that gave birth to such phyne-ness? You still remember the day like it was yesterday. He came into your room with his thick sexy accent and helped himself to your bed while you were still in it, falling asleep clutching onto you like you were his favorite teddy bear. Everything happened so fast. You thought it was a dream. You said nothing. Went along with the program and drifted off to sleep with him under you. He tried to be slick though, massaging your dick through your sweats when he thought you were knocked out. The look on his face when you cracked open your eyes. Man, you scared the shit out of him! Moises jumped, trying to flee. You pulled him back, giggling at his maladroit lure. Moises, the most beautiful man you ever laid eyes on, looked at you like he wanted you to kiss him real bad. You went through with it nervously, but even still you couldn’t believe that shit. That this was happening to you!

After two hours of heavy petting, Moises made you reach for that dusty off the nightstand. You never had a dude put a condom on you before. You never had a guy with such a vice-grip hole that ever felt so good. You never had sex in a room with a guy and his best friend over there tossing in the other bed looking real pissed.

You never forgot about Moises and that hot, sweaty wonderful weekend. You asked about your dorm fuck buddy every time you spoke to your friend over the years. When your friend said that they were roomies now, in this place off of Lago Maracaibo, it was the only place stuck on your mind. Moises. Your driving force for coming down here. If the boy was phyne back then, and Instagram pics showed he got better with age, and you had a little extra money and time to spare in the sun…whew! Really, what do a guy like you know about South America outside of general stuff? What do you know about it other than what your frat brother hipped you to? Aside from the fact that thirteen years ago, it delivered the finest piece of caramel tail you ever had in your life!

The feeling must’ve been mutual. Your friend picks you up from the airport, drives you back to his place in the boondocks, only for him to tell you that he will be back in a couple of hours. You’re more than a little pissed after toting your suitcase up four flights of humid stairs, keyless, and unsure if you got the right apartment number. You ring the doorbell, praying that there is someone on the other side. You’re greeted at the door by a familiar mug—that is better than ever in person—pulling you inside by your waist. A pair of hungry lips mauls you, fingers undo your shirt; he kneels in front of you, and undoes your belt. He is so fucking hungry for your dick he takes you down to the base, gurgling and choking on it, flossing his teeth with your pubes. You try to ease his fear. You’re not going anywhere for two weeks. Shit, you stopped jerking off for a good three weeks just so that when you saw his ass and it happened to go down like it did back then, you could shoot the mother load wherever he wanted it.

You should’ve known after six hours and four condoms something was up. He wasn’t letting you nowhere near that front door. You didn’t mind. You were with Moises, the willing sex carnival that haunted your fantasies for years.

You didn’t know when you rolled out of bed the next day, sometime after noon, and looked out at the communal pool of their apartment complex. There were more guys out there like him. You had no way of knowing that while his gorgeous handsomeness was like a rare jewel visiting you back then, on his home turf, he was just average—average. You weren’t complaining. Moises was still phyne as hell. You weren’t being greedy looking around. You were just curious to see if you could sample a few more sweet caramel pieces before hopping on an eight-hour flight and a two-hour drive back home at the end of next week.

****

“Moises and Renzo are sort of competitors in the same department, if you get my drift,” your friend of seventeen years warns in his whimsical accent at the end of the breezy afternoon. This after your friend graciously pulls you aside from the crashing waves. “My roommate is far choosier whereas muscle boy here is more inclined to take anything that comes along.”

“Meaning?” You have to ask. You know you’re more than something that comes along.

“You’re planning on stuffing your sausage in his tight little bun, right?”

Your cheesy smiles give away your intent. Especially now since your friend incidentally confirms those buns are tight for your hard-on.

“Well, my friend, that’s all power bottoms requires. Ask anyone, including Moises, and every one of them can attest to that. I bet if we ask Renzo to take us all back to his apartment, he just might—again.”

You shake your head. You like freaky-deaky stuff. Half your porn collection is a shrine to gangbangs and stuff like that. You also know that you go to bathhouses and sex parties for that; San Francisco or Atlanta or Milwaukee for that kind of action. You don’t vie for a position in the middle of paradise. “No. No.”

“I’ll tell you what then, my friend. Make good with Renzo tight and head back with him home, so you don’t have to endure the pestering wrath of our salty friend.”

You sigh. “Won’t it just fester?”

Your friend chuckles knowingly. “Renzo do have a spare bedroom. If you can make him grunt like you do Moises most days, he might keep you if you weasel your way in good enough.”

“And if I meet someone else?” You find the hole in his logic.

“Even better,” your friend says to your surprise. “He probably hopes you luck up on a mistake that works in his favor where to two of you share him.”

You have a light bulb moment.

“Why can’t I have the two of them?” You ask yourself more than him.

Your friend laughs.

“I’m on vacation, right? Anything is possible on vacation, right? I have a boatload of condoms.”

“You’re crazy, my friend.”

“I’m a fucking genius! Moises can’t feel like I’m choosing Renzo over him if he’s the one throwing in the towel.”

Your friend starts to chuckle. That light switch turns on in his head and he understands your self-promoted genius. It maybe a long shot for you to get your wish sure, but if you do then it will be a fantastic thing. If not, you might lose out on both love affairs tonight, but you’re free to scout out other guys for the rest of your trip.

The more you think about it, the more it seems real and doable for someone that has never engaged in a threesome, much less one where both men will bottom for you.

“That you maybe, my friend. That you maybe.” Your friend agrees with your brilliance.

****

“Alonzo,” your friend interjects late into the evening right before you find your nerve to pull both men aside at your request. “Can I holler at you for a moment?”

You pull away from the two souls that can make your night to speak with a friend that has nothing else better to do.

“I was thinking maybe you’re biting off more than you can chew.” Your friend cautions.

You want to strangle him. He is attempting to derail your plans, though deep down you know he is looking out for you. He knows of your conundrum, both here and abroad.

You’re running away from your problems as is, back there. No running to gather more here.

The satire of both stories, you laugh.

Here you are trying to engage a couple of guys to be with you at once and back home you have two guys that already want to be with you.

Here it boils down to Renzo and Moises, a hit or miss opportunity. At home, it is like walking a tightrope with little room for error.

Back home, you are madly in love with one man. You share a deep connection with him that is certainly unexplainable. You never had sex with him. You never even kisses or hugged without a roomful of partygoers, and yet there is something undeniable there, between the two of you. You don’t believe in the hogwash of soulmates or “the one,” but if you did, he resembles everything you believe in.

Then, in the other corner, you have your best friend. You get along with your best friend, obviously. You have a deep connection with him, too. You can spend hours on the phone with him talking about anything and you hang up feeling inspired by your connection. So what if you didn’t meet in a traditional manner. So what if you hooked up using Yahoo Messenger when it was the thing, looking to get your dick sucked. So what he gave you the best blowjob of your life time and time again and sucked you bone-dry and left you wanting more. Even outside of that and the memories, there is a powerful tie, and still waters run deep.

Your brain says there is a lifetime of contentment here. You can be happy here, with him—just him. Your heart says he isn’t the one.

You want them both. Scarily enough both men want what you want and aren’t afraid to compromise in your favor. Both men are open for you to have a relationship with both. Fulfill the needs not met by the other.

Your best friend should be your lover. You doubt yourself after the biggest hurdle has been cleared. Love isn’t twenty-four-hour bliss. Love isn’t passion. So what, your best friend is also a big dick bottom, total bottom. You don’t have thoughts of getting fucked often, but when you do you those needs need to be met…

You second guess yourself. The man you’re obsessed with should be just that. He hasn’t been tried and proven true. He can stay the unbridled fantasy of your mind. Sure, he’s a total top with a double-digit dick. He is so big that size queens turn on their heels and run off. There are so many other things to do, he says to you.

You take a deep breath. There are so many other things you can do.

“Look, I’ll be fine,” you find the nerve to say to your friend. “I’ll deal with home stuff when I get back home. Now, I’m on vacation mode. I’m going to do what vacationers do—have my freakin’ fun!”

You make your way back over to your two prospects. You think your exit might have been more dramatic, much cooler had you had some shade to throw on as you walk into the tropical night. You recover nicely by buying one of those fruity cocktails with the umbrella and the straw that you wouldn’t dare be caught with back at home.

You take a sip. You offer the muscled shorty a sip from your cup. He is more than delighted to show his rival he’s got you. Is it worth buying him one, too? His fish mouth over the straw suggests certainly. Oh, that fucking fish mouth! You surprise your hosts by offering Moises a sip from the same cup, too. It is easy for him to be difficult after he sees what his competition has done. You ease the tension by taking another sip more and implore him to do the same after you. You ask the same question again: Is it worth buying him one as well? He flirts with his mouth and eyes.

If you’re not sure about your intent before, you sure are now.

You agree to buy both a drink each with the condition both hold your drink—make sure it is safe. This seems to work. A little tension lingers, but this seems to work. You get the drinks and come back. There is a change in the air. Trouble’s a brewing. You get a little scared. You get fearful. Abort! Abort!

Something washes over you. A calm, a peace. Something quiets the screaming in your head. You’re mildly nervous as you approach the two guys. You remember if they show their asses out here, there are other fish out there in that vast sea. You’re on vacation, right. Curacao and Aruba are a plane ride away. You catch your breath at this thought. Then you see them share a giggle.

What the hell is going on?

“While you were off, we came to this brilliant conclusion.” Renzo smirks taking a sip out of your old cup with puckered lips. “If you can’t beat them—

“Join them.” Moises completes in sync.

“That is, if you’re up for the challenge.”

Your mouth drops. Is he—they—saying what you think they’re saying?

“Well, that something you have to ask Moises, here, about,” is your glorious comeback.

You see a spectacular sparkle in his eye. Moises bites his lips and eyes the prize he has grown fond over. Renzo beams…and beams…and beams.

****

Everybody this concerns is onboard, and the lightened mood is quite noticeable amongst the men. What changed? A lot, you want to tell them with pride. You have one guy laughing and groping you under the table to your left, another guy laughing and groping you to your right. Behind, twisting your neck to give your attention you have another problem, your good friend and his friends planned a full night. You can’t up and leave, even if you wanted to. You and Moises and Renzo were picked up by your friend. So, the three of you are stuck.

You keep your cool nevertheless, though your dick is revved to go. You surprise yourself. You don’t try to weasel your way out of leaving early, though the later you stay out the more tired you will become. You’re halfway tempted to pull some telepathic shit. (You honestly think two mortal enemies came up with the idea of joining forces on their own?) You could tap out. Ask your friend for his car and let him ride back with his other friend. No. You don’t do that. Though, it might be beneficial to you both. You take his roommate off his hands, freeing him up to bring someone else home without any interruptions from roommate or visiting friend.

Why are you cool then? You’re cool because you have everything else figured out. Renzo has the space and lives close to where you are and where you want to go. It does make sense however for you to go back home with Moises. You have two condoms on you now, but you also have an unopened variety pack back at the apartment. Moises has his car there. He can drive the two of you back to Renzo’s place, giving him time to spruce up for company.

Even with this coolness, you’re still antsy. What can go wrong? You start to let those bothersome fears wash away as you try to hold back your laughter. This, when you find out that the “infamous” disco that your friend is dragging you to is located in the basement of some shopping center. You want to laugh even harder, be The American, when it seems that you’re the only guys in the place. What kind of country bumpkin shit is this? If you were back home….Your snickers die off the more the place fills to the brim with more gorgeous brown men at once. It is like watching a balloon fill with helium. It goes from nothing to something in a matter of seconds. Now it is ready to pop. Music blaring. Strobe lights flashing. If you didn’t know this before, you know damn well now. The male modeling game in America is totally rigged. These fancy caramelo motherfuckers up in here!

You look. You don’t sample. Damn, you want to sample—really want to sample—but you don’t sample. Caramel is your favorite sweet, too. So you know how hard it is! You have guys left and right grinding the big beautiful caramel rears on your dick and some daringly bold to hump your leg with their caramel sticks right there on the dance floor. You fight hard to go with the flow. You already got two in the pocket. You fight…and you fight…and eventually you give in—in a major way. You’re about five seconds from whipping out your dick, possibly throwing back some ass on this bald, bearded, six-foot-three piece of solid brown beef.

Then your cavalry rides back in to reclaim their prize. You lost them awhile ago because they got etched out by the onslaught. That doesn’t matter now. They’re back in your corner. You’re back at home, encased like hardened chocolate to silky smooth caramel, just the reverse. You love this crazy-ass feeling. Two bodies pressed against your sweaty frame. Moises blowing warm breath in your ear, kissing you on your neck far more sensual than you ever remember. Your dick is on brick at the innocent gesture. Renzo got you covered. His hand is behind the waist of your shorts stroking your dick with his incredibly heated hand. You can’t get enough. You feel the pre-cum boil out. Drip. Drop. Drip, drippity, drop. He pulls his hand out and tastes your salty cream.

Another hand invites its way into your pants. You close your eyes and ride the feeling.

You open your eyes a few moments later, still indulged in the same wonderful caramelo flavors. Except this time you have another light bulb moment when you see your friend over there conversing with this willing participant he is making it with. You run it by Moises, then Renzo, and they smile in agreement. You go over to your friend. You know he has met someone that he can take home tonight. Your friend can either go back to his apartment or escort this guy back to his place. You don’t care. You want him to drop the three of you off at Renzo’s place with the catch that he picks to the two of you up sometime tomorrow.

He agrees.

Before you know it, you’re piled in the back of his car. You got both guys making out with you back there. Your friend is the chauffeur. His future one-night stand ogles in the rearview mirror. You can’t say you don’t care. You do. You give him a show to remember. You give him something that gets his engine revved up so by sometime tomorrow over breakfast or lunch you and friend can really swap some freaky-deaky stories.

It feels like forever in getting there. At most, it is like a twenty-minute ride, if that long. It isn’t until we step into the coolness of his apartment that it hits us how sticky the three of us are from the club, from the car. Renzo offers we take a shower. Threesome in the shower? Anyone? Damn South Americans and their little-ass bathrooms! Renzo hops in the shower first, then Moises after he comes out; both unabashed in their birthday suits. You hop in next. Cleaning off and planning your delicate balance of not giving one more attention than the other. You hop out squeaky clean with the fantasy of your two caramelos making nice and you joining in. You find your two promises pieces of booty sound asleep.

You should be furious at this, waiting all night for this. You smile instead. It has been a long day and you’re not as young as you used to be. You’re a little tired yourself, and they left just enough room for you on top of the bed to squeeze your damp frame in between theirs and call it a fucking night.

****

You aren’t sure how long you’ve been out. You presume it hadn’t been terribly long. The window suggests it is still dark outside with the room cast under a steel blue glow. You feel well rested nonetheless, as if you just broke the spell of deep sleep. You stir a little out of habit. Your legs have nowhere to go, and then you remember. You lie back down. You try not to wake either soul to the side of you. You look to the left. You turn and skim the right. You caress the naked contours of each taut casing with your eyes kept to explore more. You hold off. You glance up at the ceiling. You try not to think about what you’re thinking about. Moises and Renzo are sound asleep now. You know this is about go to go down soon. You’re antsy still. You think about your friend, his nerve come dawn. You will be deep into your groove and he’ll show up first thing to pick the two of you up. Out of spite? Maybe. You’re here unnerved yet again by this strange place. Your friend is over there in the comforts of home. You feel a little jealousy stir within you. You’re almost certain your friend is finishing up his thing with his guy right now, if not in it for a second round or three. Lucky son of a bitch! You take a deep breath—one more for good measure—and let it all go in one cleansing exhale. You think about other things: the guys, the scenes, the day, your vacation, getting here, being here; right here. There are two fine-ass caramel chews to either side of you and are yours, without opening your mouth, pledging their bodies to you—and only you—their many carnal delights for the night. And, both are setting aside their petty feud, jealousies—whatever you might call it—just for you, and only you.

You chuckle. If you thought this worked in your favor before imaging their fueled competition with one another! Your dick, your very pleasure is at stake.

You can’t help it. Your dick shoots up like an old car antenna. You want to touch it. If you do, you know you’re doomed to waste your first load of the night in your hands, across your stomach. You unwittingly stretch your arms to the side of you and onto them. A hand finds a kneecap. Another grasps a bulging calf. You should pull your hands back. You don’t. You’re not trying to wake them up, but having your hands there bring you comfort that this is real. You lay there—hands on them. Your thumb strokes the odd flesh. You yawn. Soon enough you drift back into a cozy sleep.

You aren’t out long. This you know for sure. Your hands barely slip from their places onto your sides when the all-too-familiar stretch of an arm falls across your chest, the one that begins to clutch you tight like a teddy bear. Moises and his staple move? Yes, but not. Not him. This time it is Renzo. You try to lean into it, into him, because if you do you might stir him awake, and the other one after that. You bring your head to his, opened eyes aligned with closed eyes, licking your lips to tease sleeping muscle beauty with a kiss. You are just about to go for the kill. Then, a palm falls flat on your shoulder. You assume it is a total fluke. That is until you start to feel fingertips drum on the rounds of your shoulders. You slowly turn to find a face wide awake sexily grinning back at you. You don’t hesitate. You reach for him, for Moises. Moises brushes his lips across your lips again and again before you give in and roll on top of him with his legs slightly parted to fit you.

Several minutes in, you are heavy into it, deep into making out. You forget about your translating bodybuilder sleeping to the side of you, the one whose apartment you’re making out in with another guy. You are here in this moment with your original fantasy man, with Moises. He looks at you with that look. You see he’s ready, but with a slight reserve. You know why, without him cluing you in. You remember. You have a couple of condoms in your pocket in your pants on the floor, there on the other side of the bed. It isn’t like the bed is huge. It is almost a wonder that your sleeping friend hasn’t arose already. You slide off of Moises, slide off the bed, and tiptoe over to your pants where you retrieve the condoms and sit them on the nightstand next to you. Your hand hits something there, a transparent jug with clear gook inside. You chuckle, once you figure out what it is: a gallon-size jug of lube with a squirt pump, two-thirds empty. You squirt some generously into your hands. You are ready to spread some on your dick when you feel something pleasurable and wet already in its place. Moises is sitting up taking care of you.

His mouth is wonderful like always. He knows how to fellate without a hand on his head, though he thoroughly encourages it always. If it wasn’t for the lube. You let him have his fun for awhile, his way, then pull out. You smear the lube still in your hand over your dick. He opens up one of the condoms for you and stretches it over you. He lies back down and rolls his buttcheeks up in the air. He looks for you to reach over him and push for another squirt of lube, to make him slick. You pin his legs back instead. Eating his cakes just like he likes, burying your face deep inside his pristine crack, motorizing your cheeks against his cheeks, and snake your tongue around his sensitive center. You smack his ass. He yelps. You dart your tongue and add your lips. He twists his back and rolls his caramel butt back onto you.

His English has always been broken, very broken. That has always been part of his charm. You hear him curse in Spanish and Portuguese, as you also here “Daddy” and “fuck me now” rather clearly in English.

You tease his hole with your dick. He gasps at the sensation—winces at the coolness of the lube spreading over him. You remind him tenderly to breathe, to calm down. You aim your dick at the spot and graciously spoon it in, little by little, before there is a good shove and a quarter of your dick is left hanging out of his hole.

Grunt, hiss, gasps, motherfucker! You let him savor the invasion. Moises soon catches his breath. His hole sucks you in like a vortex. You get ahead of this. You bury yourself into him before he gets the chance. Your balls are kissing fleshly crack. You hold it there for a minute or two and take your position, grinding deeper until he gives in and his throat gives the call. That tight hole gives completely away just like that, before you pull back and push back in. It has nothing to do with size, as it does familiarity. His hole knows your dick and what it can do. It gives up the fight for the ride.

You stroke, he strokes back. You roll him on his side. His leg is somewhere to the side of yours with you holding the other one off somewhere over there. You get him to hold his own leg and feel his hole in a different light. That light that drives you crazy and makes you want to give him your first load, the way it clasps over you.

He cries a little, pushing his hand against you. You weren’t lying about this feeling; his ass feels really good to you this way. You’re going strong, though, almost to the point of no return. You flip him back onto is back to ease the whimpers.

You build him up slow grabbing him by his ankles, so when you see his toes curl and the soles of his feet flushed when he really starts to call your name you truly know you’re working him over into a daze. You push down on his thighs, underneath his knees and go for it. You have the bed shaking, him speaking in tongues, and then you offer a brief interlude of you leaning over to kiss him, letting him know he is more than a fuck sleeve to you. You ride him still, stud to mare, like nature intended, legs parted with a nervous chuckle on his end. Moises throws his hand behind his head, whimpering and groaning, grabbing his dick and stroking vigorously against the other stroke, your stroke, until he explodes all over himself.

You admire the white pool you helped extract out of him. This, out of courtesy, as you and he both know you don’t give a damn about his relief. It is your relief that you want. You stop though, after you started again, with him working on his second load, as you feel a pair of hand massage your broad back.

You let Renzo nibble on your ear, massage your chest, thumb your nipples. You want to stay inside of this hole forever, but you don’t. You greet the new mouth with a kiss, and a roll him back onto the bed. 

Renzo pulls the condom off of you without missing a beat. He wipes you down with a warm rag he pulls from somewhere almost in the same stride. You’re too into making out with him to pay him any mind.

He goes down on you. He licks your chest and sucks your nipples. He tongues around your bellybutton and coils around your dick and teabags your balls.

Moises refuses to be excluded from this fun. He kisses and sucks your nipples, too.

This feels good. This feels beyond good. This is spiritual. Especially when you got mouths kissing, slurping, and sucking on your dick as if it is the only thing in the world.

You drift, with your eyes closed. It is all good. You feel all good. You don’t even miss the second mouth until it finds itself on your nipples again and disappears from your chest.

You open your eyes. You no longer feel a mouth tugging on your balls separately anymore. You feel a hand stroking your dick with lube and another condom being slapped on.

You slip back over into the bed, onto the pillows for support.

Renzo doesn’t waste time with pageantry. He doesn’t even want you to get him warmed up. He slaps his muscled rear down on you with one hooting howl, one you’re sure burst through some windows and some walls and perhaps turned on a few lights in the surrounding apartments nearby. You try to tell him not to hurt himself, that you aren’t in any rush. He tells you he is okay. He is sadistic that way, Renzo beams. And he is on you, riding you like a cowboy riding a mechanical bull. He won’t be defeated. He will hang on bouncing up and down until he gets his money’s worth. Every. Last. Drop. You don’t mind him using you this way, a dick for his hole. God knows you mirrored his fucking many times over the other way around. You don’t mind that. You do mind that he believes he is in control, of this, of you, and you can’t have that.

You instruct him to turn around on you.

He takes delight in this. Renzo twirls on your dick without getting off of it. He makes you feel every angle of his hole that is still so amazingly tight that if he goes any faster you swear you’re going to lose it in the condom inside of him.

He gets in place. If he wasn’t getting off on this before, he is now. Whorishly leaning back, taunting you with his nipples and his lips slightly out of kiss, riding you for every bottom bitch that ever had your good dick up inside of them. Renzo, the bastard, the bodybuilder, still thinks he is in control. You pick him up. You put him on his knees, somewhere over across the room on his wide dresser without pulling out. Somewhere between here and the bed, Renzo has gone from extremely tight to well stretched with his first and second rings gone away somewhere. You pull out, push back in. You can’t help but to chuckle. His hole is like fucking Jell-O now, as he groans to the penetration trying to get back that vice grip he had on me before.

Renzo isn’t in control anymore. Moises laughs at this. Moises snickers at the bulky body writhing underneath yours. Resistant to surrender, resistant to giving in with your hands tight on your thick shoulders and your foot propped up somewhere next to his elbows.

You’re really fucking him now. You’re out to show him how a real man really puts his whore in his place. You work your dick in and out and round. You pound and impale, thrust and stroke, plough and dig. You force him to beg, plea, and bawl over your dick. You are deep in his soft guts. Each time you slam in hard you swear your ball is next to follow suit. You are plowing the hell out of him. It isn’t about you and your pleasure anymore. It is about making his glorious night. About making him feel that he wasn’t getting any less than you were giving your other lay. In fact, you’re giving him three times more. Moises you can’t do like that. Moises you have to deal with again for a few more days, Renzo not so much after daybreak.

The squishing of me fucking his worn hole is deafening. It is all you hear throughout the room, these loud slurping sounds like water in a washing machine tossing around clothes. Renzo is owned. You know it. He knows it. Moises knows it. So, his moaning and groaning and whimpering and whining aren’t anything new. It is a part of the package. But this wheezing breath and these sniffles following that are. Your instinct is to slow down, assess what is going on. He begs you not to. He implores you to go, keep going, and go harder. You do. Harder and harder you go. That wheezing turns into lingering grunts and a yell that doesn’t quite make it out of his mouth and he heaves and heaves and heaves.

Moises laughs, looking at something underneath your propped leg. “Slut!”

You look at him strange. He looks back at you.

You quickly get that your bottom has come, and he did so without even grabbing himself as he needs his arms to support himself on the dresser or risk going into the wall.

That doesn’t matter now. His hole is tightening up. It is milking you good.

You can’t hold back any longer! You can’t hold back…you can’t…

You pull out and snatch off the condom, giving both time to get on their knees in front of you and you wield out the mother load. You shoot ribbons and ribbons of cum out over their faces, so white and thick and long that it looks like misplace icing.

You heave like you heard before. This is unreal. It feels like your balls are wrung dry and yet there is more coming out…and out…and out.

You close your eyes. You feel a mouth and another mouth on your balls and this overwhelming synchronicity that your dick and balls aren’t ever without a mouth.

And then, everything turns to black.

****

Five days after this magnificent rendezvous, you lay awake on your place on the couch in this apartment in this strange land. You reflect on past events and chuckle at your new daily routine. Somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, just before Moises heads off to work as a bartender at one of the hotels, he pulls you off your place on the couch and escorts you to his room. Nights when he is gone, after dinner and conversation with your friend, Renzo comes by to scoop you up so you can indulge him in another escapade, bringing you back to the apartment just in time for him to watch you and Moises go at it. And, in between, as whorish as it may sound, you sometimes make your way down to the pool where you meet some other pieces of caramel delight that you sometimes tend to go off with.

You reach down in your suitcase and shake the newly opened condom variety pack you just bought a few hours ago, minus two condoms. You don’t feel guilty anymore. You’re on vacation after all. Rest will come soon enough at this going rate.