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Your eyes lock, and you see him. He smiles. You look up at him up and down and smirk. He’s local, his Portuguese is beautiful and accented. His body invites your eyes roam over its curves and hills. You flirt, he flirts. His English is decent enough. He asks if you’re a fag, but he’s licking his lips as he asks it. You invite him back to your hotel room to find out.
“Guess I will have to,” he says with a resigned shrug.

You both have a rinse off near the beach exit to dispose of sand, and by the time you get back to the hotel you’re both dry. You track sand into the hotel room with your feet anyway. You push him to the wall and kiss him hard, cupping his bulge. He arches into your hand, hot and eager.

You take things to the bed. Speedos go flying. He pins you down and your bodies slide together with desperate desire. You’re lucky you brought condoms. There’s not a lot of time to prep for sex, but he seems eager. He keeps asking for something in Portuguese, and eventually he pulls some English out of his headfog and says, “put in put in”. Oh, that makes sense. You roll him onto his stomach and guide him so he’s on his knees. Perfect. God his ass is a sight. Still as tan as the rest of him, but his hole is pink and tight. You sink into him in one go, nearly losing it from him tensing up around you. The lube helps, but it takes time to get every inch of yourself in his body. A few tender caresses and strokes gets him to relax, but god you almost come about five times in the process.

Once you’re in, he’s ready, and you give him the fuck you promised him on the beach. Neither of you last particularly long, not with the way his ass is a velvet vice around you. He’s pushing back against your hips, mewling filthy words in a language you cannot understand. 

Between the sweat and sunscreen and lube, you can barely hold onto him, so you throw your whole body on top of his for the climax. You shove it in hard; he shudders and he cries out in a way that pushes you right over the edge. You explode in him, and it’s like that condom isn’t even there. For a moment you see little white dots. When the hysterical fever is over, you do the polite thing and reach down and stroke him to finish. His cock fills your hand and it’s searing hot. It goes off like a gun; the amount of cum in your hand is amazing. You roll off of him. The sheets feel like they came out of the washing machine mid way through.

Meu deus,” he says when he catches his breath. You don’t need a translator to know what that means. You give him a tired satisfied smile. He wipes his face with his hand.

You gesture to the bathroom. He goes first. He showers. He gets out. The TV is on and you gesture to the fridge.

You shower. You come out. He’s gone.

So is the cash out of your wallet and your phone.

You’re so shocked you just sit on the bed for a minute and think. You’re relieved you put the passport in your hotel room safe. You turn pale and check your suitcase. He didn’t find your tablet hidden in the inner pocket behind some magazines  You walk to the balcony of your hotel room and glance down but you cannot see him.

It occurs to you that maybe you should file a police report, but you never got his name. Wait, you have his DNA. Like, all over the sheets. What good will that do you? You’ll get laughed out of the station. You curse. Was he faking the whole thing? Did he plan the whole thing? You feel rocked by the breach of trust.

Eventually you go down to the lobby to ask someone to track your phone. It’s off. Shit.

You change the sheets, but barely sleep. It’s complicated hating someone who was a great fuck.

The next day there’s a knock at your hotel room the next morning. You’re not expecting it. It’s him. And to your shock, he holds out your phone.

You take your phone back. There’s some terse words. You smack him across the face. He stammers out an apology. He looks so guilty you almost feel bad for him. You ask him why he brought it back. He scuffs his sandal on the ground and tells you it’s because of the sex. He mutters, “It was good.” He doesn’t say much more. His English isn’t great.

You stare at him. The urge to throw him out is strong. All this stress cause of one hot lay! But you know why he came back, and why he’s still standing at your hotel doorstep: not because he liked the sex, but because he wants it again. And you want sex like that too. You want that tight ass and that slick body writhing under you, crying out in foreign words.

You tell him to come back later than night. You know, after you’ve had a chance to lock up your valuables. You also want time to figure out how you’re gonna tie him to the bed.

To your surprise, he does show up. And he brings some of the cash. You take him inside to absolve him off his sin. It will involve a spanking though. You didn’t pack a whip for his trip.

Captions are fictional.


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