Part 1
Pol stepped off the train in Sitges just as the golden sun began to dip into the sea. The heat clung to his skin, sticky and sweet, making his tight white tank top all the more revealing. The Spanish blogger was in town for a weekend—ostensibly to write about the beach town’s nightlife for his travel blog, but he knew he was looking for more than just good cocktails and music.
After dropping his backpack in a modest but stylish hotel by the promenade, he stripped down, admired his bronzed, muscular body in the mirror, and slipped into a short pair of denim cut-offs. No underwear. He liked the freedom—and he liked knowing he might catch someone’s eye if the night went right.
Sitges was alive with heat, sound, and bodies. By midnight, he was dancing shirtless in a packed club, bathed in pink and blue lights. That’s when he saw them—two young Italian guys grinding against each other near the bar. One was lean with tousled dark hair and olive skin. The other was broader, shirtless, with tight abs and a bold, hungry stare. When they spotted Pol, they exchanged a glance and approached.
“You’re not from here,” the lean one said, his accent thick and warm.
“Barcelona. Just visiting,” Pol replied with a grin. “You two?”
“Rome. We came to play,” said the broader one, eyes trailing down to Pol’s exposed V-line.
They didn’t waste time.
Minutes later, the three of them stumbled into Pol’s hotel room, half undressed and drunk on sweat, sea air, and lust. The moment the door closed, mouths crashed. Hands grabbed. Clothes disappeared. Pol dropped to his knees between them, hands stroking both cocks as they hardened—one long and smooth, the other thick with a slight curve. He alternated between them, licking, sucking, moaning as he tasted salt and pre-cum. One Italian grabbed his head, guiding him deeper, while the other pulled Pol’s shorts down and started fingering him, spit-slick and rough.
Pol groaned around a cock in his mouth as fingers pressed into his tight hole. Soon he was on all fours on the bed, one Italian behind him, teasing his ass with the head of his cock, while the other fed Pol his dick from the front. They took turns fucking him—deep, fast, slow—making him whimper and writhe with pleasure.
They flipped him onto his back, legs held high. One boy pounded him, hips slapping against his ass, while the other jerked off over his chest, moaning in Italian as his cum splashed across Pol’s abs. The thrusts got harder, deeper, until the one inside him cried out and filled him up, panting and kissing his lips.
Pol came last, untouched, moaning loud as his own cum painted his stomach, mixing with theirs.
They collapsed together in a pile of sweat and skin, laughing in different languages but understanding each other perfectly.
Sure they found their hotel in Pol's blog 😉
Part 2
Pol woke late, sprawled across tangled sheets that still smelled like sweat and cum. The Italian boys were gone, leaving only a scribbled note with an Instagram handle and a heart. He grinned, his ass sore and body satisfied, but his head pounding from too many cocktails and too little water. He spent some time taking pictures and creating an entry for his blog Gayglobaltravel.
By noon, he dragged himself down to the hotel pool, sunglasses shielding his bloodshot eyes. He lay back on a sun lounger, sipping ice-cold water and letting the sun sweat the toxins out of him. His tan was deeper now, his muscles still pumped from the night’s exertion.
That’s when he saw him.
The poolside waiter.
Tall, caramel-skinned, short dark curls, with arms that strained the sleeves of his white shirt. His smile was easy, but his eyes were sharp—and they lingered on Pol just a moment too long as he approached with a tray of cocktails for another table.
Pol smirked behind his shades. He knew that look.
When the waiter passed again, Pol caught his eye and murmured, “Hot day.”
“Very,” the guy replied, accent smooth, maybe Andalusian. “But you don’t seem to mind the heat.”
“I like it wet,” Pol said, voice low.
The waiter’s eyebrow lifted slightly. “Come find me in fifteen minutes,” he whispered quickly. “Back service door, by the bar.”
Pol waited ten.
He found the door cracked open, the hallway dim, cool. The waiter was waiting in the storage room, leaning against a shelf of towels and unopened wine boxes. As soon as Pol stepped in, the door slammed shut, and the waiter was on him—grabbing him by the hips, pushing him back against the wall, kissing him hard.
Clothes went flying—Pol’s swim shorts hit the floor, his cock already half-hard. The waiter dropped to his knees, sucking him deep, tongue swirling, hands gripping his thighs. Pol moaned, fingers in the man’s curls, head tilting back as he felt himself grow harder with each warm, wet stroke.
Then the waiter stood, turned Pol around, and bent him over a low table stacked with pool towels. He spit on his cock and teased the tip against Pol’s hole—slow, thick, deliberate. Pol gasped as he was slowly filled, the waiter’s hands gripping his waist tight, holding him in place as he began to thrust.
The sound of skin on skin echoed through the storage room. Pol moaned shamelessly, the slight danger only making it hotter. The waiter leaned over him, whispering filth in Spanish, fucking him deeper, harder, as Pol’s cock rubbed against the towels.
“Te gusta, eh?” he growled. “Little tourist slut.”
Pol cried out as the waiter grabbed his hair and fucked him harder, until he couldn’t hold back—his cum splashing messily across the white towels. Moments later, the waiter groaned and slammed deep inside him, spilling himself with a guttural moan.
They stayed like that for a moment—sweaty, panting, wrecked—before the waiter pulled out, grabbed a clean towel, and wiped Pol down with a grin.
“You ever write about hotel service on your blog?” he asked, zipping up.
Pol just laughed. “I will now...haha I need to go on writing new entries for my blog".
You can also find gay hotels in Pol's blog Gayglobaltravel 😉
