Water Jets
His Tinder ad said: “Hot days call for strong water jets and stronger laughter. I’m the one at the pool pressing every button just to see which fountain hits hardest. Looking for someone who doesn’t mind getting caught in the splash.”
The first sight of Adrian was enough to put me at ease. He was leaning against the park’s entrance rail, one foot propped on the lower bar, the loose sleeves of his linen shirt rolled high to the forearms. The fabric fluttered faintly in the breeze, and the sun caught in his chestnut hair as though it had been waiting for him to arrive. He waved, and an effortless smile spread across his face — unhurried, open, friendly and cheerful. For a moment the day ahead felt wide and weightless, as if everything ordinary had been momentarily set aside. He carried two bottles of iced tea, condensation glistening down the sides, and with a small, conspiratorial tilt of his head, he offered me one of the two bottles and pointed toward the pool gates.
Inside, the world was alive with brightness. The sunlight hit the blue water in quick flashes, throwing reflections up onto the walls. The air was heavy with the smell of chlorine and sunscreen, the kind of smell that clings to summers since childhood. Adrian led the way to the tallest slides, his towel slung over his shoulder, bare feet slapping lightly against the tiles. We left our few clothing items in a locker, and padded barefoot to the stairs taking us up high.
When we stood at the wide opening of the long blue tube, he turned to grin at me before pushing off, vanishing into the tunnel with a whoop that cut clean through the chatter and splashes.
When I followed, the rush hit me like wind, all sound swallowed until the burst of daylight at the end — and then I was airborne for half a breath before landing in the pool, laughing, sputtering, feeling more alive than any time before in years. We raced from slide to slide, daring each other to go faster, finding new excuses to climb the steps again.
Between runs, we sprawled on the warm tanning chairs, breathing hard, sharing iced strawberries we bought from a jolly grandma strolling around with her thermos bag full of delicious frozen fruit “from Grandma’s own garden” she said. Droplets of water sparkled on Adrian’s forearms like a scatter of tiny jewels. Around us, the echoes of laughter, the rhythm of splashes, the high sun — everything hummed with the simple, noisy joy of youth and good time.
After the slides, we found a bench in the shadow and shared a lunch tray we purchased from a mobile kiosk – two huge subs on crispy baguette and two ice-cold refreshingly bitter beers. Adrian told me about his daily rounds through the water park, which he enjoyed during his university break, and laughed, his beautiful teeth shining in the sunlight.
In the early afternoon he took me kayaking. The water on the seemingly endless lake stretched smooth and unbroken, reflecting the sky like a sheet of dull glass. The kayaks, bright orange and waiting at the shore, looked almost too bright against the muted blue, gray and brown tones around them. He jumped in smoothly; I climbed in awkwardly after him, both of us laughing as the boats rocked and the paddles clattered. The first few minutes were chaos — splashes, small corrections, a near collision that almost capsized us. Then, slowly, rhythm arrived. Paddle, glide, breathe. The water parted in thin silver arcs, closing behind us without a sound. Adrian pointed out a heron coasting close to the surface, its wings catching in the reflection. We fell silent, watching it disappear beyond the reeds.
After all the laughter and talk, talk, talk, like we were afraid to stop, being silent with Adrian also felt wonderful. The breeze pushed faint ripples toward us, and I felt time loosen its grip. The banks blurred into a line of green and gold, shadows of leaves trembling on the water. For a while, it seemed the day itself was rowing with us, unhurried and perfectly content to drift.
The sun slanted lower when we returned to the water park. A few people had gathered around small tables under striped umbrellas, and the faint beat of a playlist floated in the air — cheerful, forgettable, perfectly suited to the hour. A guy stood in the shadow with an array of cold bottles in his ice bag. A splash of alcohol, a spray of soda water, a dash or two or three of syrup, and you had your unique cocktail. We gave him some good business, downing four ice-cold glasses with lemony tequila and dark sugar syrup vodka until our heads gave us a small spin.
Dusk came slowly, turning the heat of the day into something softer, fragrant. For early dinner Adrian chose a small restaurant tucked behind flowering hedges, where candles flickered inside glass holders on rickety tables around the cobblestone patio. The food was rustic — grilled vegetables, roasted potatoes, puffy grilled sausages, crusty bread, and olive oil in small earthen bowls. It was there that he (finally!) leaned over and let his lips brush the side of my neck; the shadows hid us, the busy clatter of forks against plates and the chatter shielded us, and so I kissed him back. His large lips felt soft and sweet. I swear I heard his heartbeat, and he muttered a short “mmmmm” in my lips, and a fountain of hungry want rose in me as if out of nowhere. “Let’s get to my parents’ villa,” he said breathlessly. “I’ll get us a cab.”
***
We stepped onto the warm tiles of the large shower cabin together, and the glass doors hissed shut behind us. By pressing a few buttons, Adrian turned on the tropical rain. Steam curled around our bare shoulders like multiple impatient hands; water drummed on the wide overhead panel, and then oozed down in the soft patter of a languid tropical rain. Adrian—sun-bronzed, taller by a head—kept his gaze on me, his fingers hooking under the final clinging waistband. One nod, and we both dropped the last barrier between us. Two pairs of wet shorts were kicked aside, and there we stood, our cocks rising—symmetrically, as in a choreographed show—mine, fat, relatively short with the long hood of foreskin covering the glans, and his, seemingly tiny on his large body, hard as stone, with uneven cavernous bodies and three veins snaking down the shaft, with a small pink cut head over a dark sack of two smallish balls. Adrian grinned at me; it was that smile that felt like half challenge, half permission. Then he tilted his head back, letting the first streams sluice down his chest, then reached out with his long arms to draw me under the rain—skin to skin, breath to breath, anticipation crackling louder than water.
The side jets hit like thin needles, stinging my shoulder blades, but Adrian’s chest blocked most of the blast as he pressed me closer and tighter to him. Our cocks nudged against each other, hot skin on skin; each time either of us breathed they rolled, slick with condensing steam, heads kissing then sliding apart in a slow, wet glide that sent sparks up my spine.
He nuzzled my neck, lips brushing pulse points, and the tenderness of that contact made the water’s bite feel almost welcome—pain outside, soft heat between us. Palms travelled the length of my back, thumbs tracing vertebrae, then closed on my butt cheeks, kneading them slowly but firmly, spreading me slightly so the jet spray caught the cleft and made me gasp. Cock against cock, pulse against pulse, we rocked as if dancing in tiny waves—gentle friction building a low, sweet ache while the harsh jets hammered skin that wasn’t touching him, turning every tender rub into a louder promise inside me.
I dropped slowly, water drumming on my shoulders, and took him in my hand. What had looked modest sprang to full attention—slim, straight, perfectly fitted to the curve of my tongue. I sealed my lips just behind the crown and sucked lightly, tasting warm skin and chlorinated mist; the jet overhead hammered my back, but inside my mouth everything was soft, enclosed, his pulse beating against my palate like a second heart.
I started with slow circles, swirling my tongue around the head, easing forward millimetre by millimetre, letting water slick the shaft so my lips glided without drag. Adrian’s hands hovered, polite, until I nudged them to my hair; then he guided—not forced—fingers tightening only when I paused.
Then I switched to shallow pulses. I kept just the first third of his shaft in my mouth, cheeks hollowing on gentle draws, releasing, drawing again, matching the patter of water so each pull felt like a receding wave. His hips started answering, tiny rocks, never breaching my throat, only rocking the silky shaft across my tongue’s cradle.
Then I opened wider, took him until my nose met his trimmed pubic hair, held, swallowed once so muscles fluttered around the tip; withdrew slowly, repeated—never fast enough to choke, always enough to feel him swell harder. My own cock jutted beneath the spray, untouched but twitching, a sweet anticipatory tickle starting at the slit and radiating outward every time his crown nudged the back of my mouth.
On the fifth slow bury Adrian’s restraint snapped; he kept my head steady and delivered short, careful thrusts—facefucking without cruelty, just enough to feel his glans slide across my tongue, my palate, then almost to my throat before retreating. Water sheeted down my face, mingling with the salt taste of him; my erection bobbed, leaking, the tickle now a persistent throb that begged for friction. I moaned around his shaft—vibration traveled straight into his hips and he gasped, fingers tightening, but I eased back, prolonging, keeping us both on the bright edge where every heartbeat echoed inside my mouth and his cock answered in kind.
This morning he’d been a postcard—long tan limbs draped over a lounger, an easy smile, an actor’s voice carrying across the pool like a tennis volley: polite, effortless, untouchable. I’d watched the water bead on his shoulders and thought, beautiful scenery, nothing more. Now the same skin is under my tongue, saltier than pool chlorine, a faint sunscreen coconut lingering at the root; the poised ambassador of small talk has dissolved into quick, hitched breaths that grazed my wet hair. Earlier his eyes hid behind mirrored shades; now—when I lifted my head—they were wide, dark, fixed on me—vulnerable, demanding, asking without words how deep I’ll let him go. The measured laugh that skipped over the cocktails we downed has become a low rumble I felt in my sternum each time his crown nudged my throat. Even his hands, once lazily folded across his chest, now trembled against my scalp, guiding with tremulous urgency. I tasted that miraculous transition: public charm to private need, cool water to hot pulse, casual distance to the intimate throb of his heartbeat on my tongue—and my own cock answered, jealous of the attention I’m giving him, drooling approval onto the shower floor.
Adrian’s arms then snapped around me like sprung steel, compressing my ribs, crushing my breath in a single grateful wheeze. The world tilted—tiles skidded under wet feet—and we crashed on the floor in a tangle of limbs and scattered droplets. In an instant the easygoing pool boy was gone: his muscles corded his large shoulders, he pinned me down flat, knees bracketing my hips, water dripping from his hair onto my chest like tiny hot needles.
He bent down, and his mouth found my sternum first—his open-mouthed kisses then slid sideways until his teeth closed gently around my left nipple. I arched; he circled the bud with his tongue, flicked, sucked, then dragged his tongue to the other, leaving a slow wet trail across my chest. All the while his cock glided in phantom strokes along my inner thighs—never quite lining up, with just the silky underside brushing my skin, teasing nerve endings until my legs spread wider on their own accord. Each lick lifted a fresh shiver; each ghost-pass of his head nudged higher, closer, promising entry but withholding, until I started breathing in time with the wet laps at my chest and the taunting glide of his cock between my legs.
Water needled my cheeks, throat, shins—sharp little pins wherever Adrian’s torso didn’t cover me—while the rest of me lay cocooned in the humid furnace of his weight. His mouth drifted lower: sternum, upper abs, tongue tracing each ridge as if reading braille. Between my thighs his cock slid, his soft cock head skimming my sack, nudging the sensitive strip behind it, then retreating to paint wet lines along my inner thigh. Every near-miss made my hole flutter on emptiness, but the hunger stayed delicious, and it was an ache I didn’t want to end. I rocked up just enough to feel his heat graze my entrance, then eased back, prolonging this sweet sensation, letting the anticipation pool hotter than any jet of his state-of-the art shower. More kisses, more ghost-strokes, more breathy licks across my nipples—each second stretched like taffy, and I savored the sweet torture, whispering nothing, asking for everything without words.
Adrian’s crown finally settled, pressed, slipped through—just the head, snug but not stretching, the fit so precise I felt the rim catch on my ring before it slid home. He was smaller than I’d expected, and the odd intimacy of that emptiness around him made every millimeter matter; space left, yet no space wasted. His first thrust grazed a shallow patch of nerves, and sweet tension flared like a violin string drawn too tight. The second angle dipped lower, it begot a quick, bright itch that had me arching off the tiles. On the third drive he tilted his hips, and his cockhead kissed a hidden pocket deep left; a sharp electric shot zipped up to the root of my dick and burst behind my eyes in violet sparks. With the next stroke he stayed deep, grinding; now there was a dull, delicious pressure against the wall of my gut that felt like a thumb holding a bruise I didn’t know I wanted. Over and over he shifted—tiny rotations, minute withdrawals—each new vector lighting a different filament inside me: gold, green, white. Colored spots bloomed across my vision as if I were staring at the sun through closed lids, every spark syncing with the wet slap of his balls against my ass and the low grunt he couldn’t hold back.
The floor wasn’t cold ceramic any more—it felt like warm, polished marble, almost padded, cradling my shoulder-blades and hips as if the villa itself wanted us comfortable while we fucked. Each thrust sent us sliding an inch or two, Adrian’s knees squeaking across wet tile, my back riding a thin film of water and soap. That glide changed the geometry every time: one stroke he hit shallow and teasing, the next slide pushed him deeper, the next angled sideways and scraped a fresh ribbon of nerves I didn’t know existed. The micro-movements kept my prostate guessing—pleasure fracturing into variants: a soft bloom, a sudden jolt, a slow warm swell. I stopped bracing, letting the slick ferry us wherever physics wanted, and every new position lit another spark cluster behind my eyes while his steady rhythm stayed the dependable metronome in this chaos.
I felt the climb of my orgasm start low in my stomach; it was a slow coil winding tighter with every nudge Adrian gave my gland—then his belly began to grind my shaft on each inward push, squishing trapped skin against my own wet abdomen. Pressure built from both sides: inside the electric rub of his cockhead, outside the steady press-and-release on my trapped cock. The dual assault twisted pleasure into something almost cruel—balls drawing up, thighs quivering, breath frozen mid-gasp. I hovered on the edge, muscles locked, vision tunneling to a white pinhole while colored flecks danced at the edges.
Then the coil snapped. I came without touch—first spurt shot straight up, splashing my collarbone; the second arced higher, landing under the water jets where it was instantly whisked into rivulets across my chest. Pulse after pulse followed, each timed to Adrian’s relentless thrusts that kept milking the gland, prolonging the contractions until six, seven shots emptied me and the tiles turned slick with my release. Through the haze I felt Adrian’s rhythm falter, heard his breath catch, but I stayed floating on the after-swell, letting him ride the waves I’d set in motion, my body twitching around him while the last tremors rippled outward like drops in a still pond.
Adrian’s voice cracked into chopped-up breaths. “Oh wow—” thrust, “so cool, so much—” another slap of hips, “fuck, give me a minute…” Each phrase rode a downward stroke that landed lower now, nudging the tender root of my balls. “Ah, not much longer…” he panted, elbows planting either side of my ribs as he rose, angling his chest away.
From my dazed after-glow I watched: his slim shaft appeared—glistening, pinkish-brown—then vanished to the hilt on every push, pubic hair flattening against my slick pirenium. The sight looped like a private film: emerge, disappear, emerge, disappear, timed to his ragged breathing. Water drummed on his back, coursed off his sides onto me, while my spent cock lay twitching, each low-level thud of his tip keeping the embers inside me glowing, stretching the final act long past my own fireworks.
I’d never begged anyone to stay on the rack before, but this slow grind was a brand-new kink: each thrust felt like a soft, blunt finger scratching an unreachable itch behind my spent prostate. Adrian’s cock slid through the swamp of his pre-come inside me, gliding, twisting, nudging walls that felt raw and electric—no longer chasing climax, just teasing the after-shocks awake. The head brushed something tiny and hypersensitive; a ticklish spasm shot up my urethra, made my slit flutter empty, longing for more friction it couldn’t have. I shook from head to toe, moans tearing out raw and shameless: “Keep going—don’t stop—right there…” My hips rocked up to meet him, chasing the sweet torture, storing every micro-jolt in memory under a mental neon sign: DO THIS AGAIN.
The world softened—in my mind the hard tiles melted into down, water fading to a distant lullaby. Under a phantom blanket I floated, springs buoying each lazy rock while Adrian’s cock kept tracing that sweet, slow itch inside me. I watched through half-lidded haze as his eyes rolled back, mouth stretching in a silent, victorious scream—face beautiful and grotesque with release. I felt the pulse of him inside me more than the wetness, there was a distant throb against my root, and then nothing—his withdrawal didn’t register, only the rocking continued, mattress-gentle, until reality crashed back: hard ceramic under shoulder-blades, spray needling skin, Adrian’s heaving weight collapsing onto my chest, breath ragged in my ear. I blinked, water in my lashes, and the soft bed was gone—just two men spent on slick tiles, steam rising around us like evaporating dreams.
Then we washed each other; still lying down, too lazy to get up, the tropical rain pounding our chests and backs. Adrian’s hand moved first, slow as if the soap might bruise. He cupped my chest, thumb circling through suds, then slid down the midline—over my ribs, my belly—until fingers cradled my spent cock with the same care he’d shown to each utensil at dinner. He rolled each ball gently, rinsing away streaks of come, water beading on the fine hairs of my thighs. When he finished he traded the washcloth for me.
I knelt between his knees, spray glancing off my back. His dick—minutes ago rigid—now lay against his thigh: a slim, pale ribbon, almost boyish on such a broad frame. I lifted it with two fingers, felt the velvet weight, traced the faint blue vein running down its length. Soap foamed white over the pink skin; I tugged the shaft once, twice, watching water chase suds down to the delicate fold of his foreskin. I peeled it back just enough to expose the soft crown, rinsed, then let it slide closed again, protective. The contrast—grown man’s body, teenager’s proportions—made me handle him even more tenderly, as if gentleness itself might coax life back into the quiet manhood resting in my palm.
When we rose—he helped me up—and stumbled into the ante-chambre, I slowly toweled him dry. It felt like polishing a statue that had just come to life, and he did the same for me—soft cotton tracing every hollow where water hid. Tinder roulette, I thought: morning stranger, afternoon tour-guide, evening wildcat, midnight gentle giant—four faces in one day, all real, all his. We padded across the terracotta, climbed the four-poster steps, and the mattress of the luxurious bed took us the way surf takes a body—slow collapse, cool sheets, soft breathing pillows. Adrian’s arm slid under my neck, the other across my chest, palm open over my heart; the fan’s breeze drifted across our cooling skin like a lullaby made of air. His heartbeat thudded against my back, steady as metronome. I never felt my head land on the pillow—sleep swallowed me mid-breath, wrapped in the huge, quiet circle of his embrace.
***
… Sunlight striped the room through half-shut shutters when I opened my eyes to the soft clatter of china. Adrian stood barefoot at the foot of the bed, a fresh asphalt-gray T-shirt hugging his frame. I could hear the rumble of the washer in the distance.
He then lifted a bamboo breakfast tray from a side table: thick toast already freckled with raspberry jam, a small bowl of glossy prunes glistening like jewels, two steaming cups sending up pine-and-cinnamon scent—black tea heavy enough to feel like December in June.
We sat cross-legged, sheets pooled at our waists, trading bites. He tore a corner of toast, smeared extra jam, fed it to me; I returned a prune, its skin bursting between our lips. Steam from the tea fogged my glasses; he laughed, wiped them with his thumb, then sipped and passed the cup over, fingers brushing mine—small electric aftershocks of last night still jumping from skin to skin.
When the plates were empty he disappeared, returning with my swim shorts warm from the dryer. They smelled of summer rain and fresh cotton. I lifted one foot, then the other; he knelt, eased the elastic over ankles, up calves, past knees, letting the heated fabric kiss every inch before settling the waistband gently against my hips. His palms smoothed the seams, lingered a second at the drawstring, then tied a neat bow—he was a pool-boy again, polite, radiant, as if the wild stranger who’d drilled me into soft tile had never existed.
***
…The cab rolled almost noiselessly through mid-morning glare, Adrian’s knee touching mine, his city blurring outside like credits on a screen. At the hotel awning he cupped my face—sun-warmed thumbs stroking jawbones. We kissed, slow, almost chaste, yet something twisted sharp behind my ribs: a tug I almost never feel after Tinder nights. He tasted of raspberry residue and the faint mint he’d chewed for the ride, and for a second I thought stay, ask, trade numbers. But the words that came were only “I’ve had a great time,” and he answered, “Have a good flight tonight,” in a steady voice. He smiled—those perfect teeth flashing once—then folded back into the cab. When I entered the hotel, the lobby felt colder, corridors wider. Inside the room my suitcase waited, bed untouched, air sterile.
For a while I stood at the window, watching the street where the cab had vanished, and then I told myself: it was just a date, a one-night spark. No promises, no love words—only sweat, laughter, perfect fit. Still, the picture clung: Adrian folding laundry, knotting my drawstring, pouring tea that smelled like Christmas. I pictured husbands, shared wardrobes, future stamps in passports—then remembered his easy grin sliding toward every stranger at the pool bar, the charm that probably parked him in someone else’s shower tonight. Faithful? The word felt too heavy for a breeze of a man. I sighed, drew the curtain, and pocketed the ache like a ticket stub—proof I’d felt it, proof I’d let him walk away.
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