Chapter 6

The sun was already high above Playa del Inglés by the time they stirred. Birdsong, cicadas, and the rustle of trees filled the air beyond the closed shutters. Inside, the villa was dim, cool, and soaked in the musky perfume of sex. Damp sheets tangled at their ankles. Limbs sprawled over each other like vines. There were no alarms, no plans, only the warm pulse of three bodies breathing slow and full.

When they finally emerged, it was noon.

Max brewed coffee while Anke leaned against the fridge in nothing but a loosely tied sarong around her hips. Her hair was a mess of sun-kissed gold, her skin still flushed from the night. She had washed her face and teeth, but dried streaks of cum still lingered faintly on her chest and thighs, a wild watermark from the night before.

Dante joined them barefoot, his own sarong slung low around his hips. The fabric did nothing to hide the impressive morning bulge pressing against it. His chest glistened faintly, his eyes lazy and amused.

They took their mugs and cigarettes out to the deck. The sea glinted in the distance. The air was thick with salt, smoke, and something far more primal.

Dante reclined on a lounge chair, his strong legs stretched out, his cock visibly hard beneath the sarong. Anke lit a cigarette, her mischievous blue eyes pinned to the tent between his thighs. Her breath hitched. She took a slow drag, exhaling toward the sky.

“That sarong is lying for you, baby,” she said, voice husky.

Max chuckled from the corner of the deck. He was already hard too, just from watching Dante—and from watching his stunningly beautiful wife fall under that spell again. He took a sip of his coffee. “Should we start to oil each other up?”

Anke gave a wicked little smile. Dante adjusted himself, his cock twitching visibly beneath the thin fabric.

“Massage table?” Max suggested casually.

“Absolutely,” Dante said.

They moved into the garden, shaded by palms and heavy blossoms. The massage table was set up beside the daybed. Towels were spread. Oil was uncapped. They undressed. Sarongs slipped off hips. Cocks stood tall and proud in the golden light.

Max lay down first, groaning with satisfaction as his back hit the clean white sheet.

Anke and Dante poured oil into their palms and began to work it into his skin. Shoulders. Chest. Arms. Dante moved down Max’s torso, spreading oil with smooth, confident strokes. Anke stood beside him, lovingly rubbing oil into his thighs.

Then, lower.

Anke glanced up. “Don’t forget his perineum. Go deep in his asshole. He needs sunscreen, even where the sun doesn’t shine.”

Dante laughed, but his hands didn’t hesitate. He oiled Max’s balls first, tenderly. Then his thick cock, stroking it thoroughly and firmly—click-click-click, the sound of oil and arousal slick in his fist. Max’s breath came short, his chest rising. Dante grinned mischievously, his strokes slowing just enough to build heat.

Then he slid his slick fingers between Max’s ass cheeks, finding the tight ring of muscle and massaging with gentle, rhythmic pressure. One finger first, circling. Then another. Pushing deeper. Hooked. Firm. Patient. The older man let out a ragged moan.

Max groaned. His hips flexed. His cock twitched, pulsing in time with Dante’s strokes.

“Stroke him,” Anke breathed. “Firm. Fast.”

Dante obeyed, wrapping his slick hand around Max’s cock and jerking him with practiced ease.

Anke bent over the table, watching, her face only inches from her husband’s leaking tip, ready to take his load in her face.

Max came with a grunt, thick ropes of cum painting his wife’s chest, her neck, her lips. The first hot splash hit her open mouth. The next sprayed her breasts. One jet struck her collarbone and trailed down between her tits. She laughed, licking her lips, glowing with delight.

Now it was Dante’s turn.

Anke and Max switched places. They began at his shoulders, slowly oiling every inch of his flawless dark skin. Anke focused on his abs, his hips. Max lowered his face down to his legs and kissed the head of his cock, now glistening with oil. Then he started to suck—slow, reverent.

Dante groaned, deep and low. His hips shifted. His hands clenched the edge of the table.

Anke leaned in, stroking his thighs, whispering, “Not yet. We want to watch you last.”

“Stop,” she said softly to her husband. “Don’t make him cum.”

She lay down on the daybed, her legs open, golden thighs trembling.

“It’s my turn now.”

Dante approached like a panther, slow and reverent.

They oiled her together. Every inch. Breasts, belly, thighs. Max whispered to her as he stroked her nipples. Dante leaned in as he rubbed her swollen pussy lips, his breath hot.