Bath House

Bath House

I’d had plans for my eighteenth birthday. Big plans. The first of them – travel to a country I’d never been to before – had been executed with military precision. My sky diving trip was booked well in advance, as was the water skiing one, and the scuba diving one, too.

The only thing that hadn’t been planned six months in advance was my travelling companions. As much as I valued my friends, I hadn’t wanted them to come with me. I’d wanted to do this alone, to see something of the world through my eyes and my eyes only. To have my thoughts and opinions uninfluenced by someone else’s reactions or behaviours.

But I’d walked into the departure lounge at 5am to a rousing chorus of happy birthday you wanker. Three of them had booked up without my knowledge. It was probably my mother who had given them the flight and hotel details. She was shitting herself at the thought of me travelling abroad all alone.

Yeah, they’d come with me. We were all here, and less than twenty four hours into the two week holiday my carefully constructed itinerary had already suffered its first casualty. Popular vote had gone against me and although I was supposed to be sitting on the back of a horse and trotting through the mountains right about now, I wasn’t.

I was sitting buck naked on a stone tiled floor in the middle of a steamy building. A domed ceiling towered over me, rows of balconies with arched openings spiralled down around the room, making me feel like I was in an arena. People peered down from behind wooden screens, water splashed, and men moaned.

I couldn’t even bring myself to lower my eyes from the spectators on the balconies. Didn’t have the guts to look at what was going on all around me. I’d planned to take in a bath house while I was here, but the one I was in? My imagination hadn’t offered up anything even close to this.

Someone came to a stop beside me. Muscled calves covered in black wiry hair that thinned out as it moved up the legs to the toned thighs. The guy that had stopped was wearing a towel that stopped a few inches above the knee. I was grateful for the steamy atmosphere, because I knew for a fact my cheeks had flamed the brightest red. As long as that towel was, it wasn’t quite long enough to conceal the tip of his cock.

I kept my eyes on my own knees as he lowered himself to his beside me. His hand pressed against my shoulder, pushing me gently back. I gave him no resistance. My eyes were closed before my back hit the uneven tiles. They were warm on my skin, but rough.

Noises carried on around me, but I still heard the slapping of wet feet approaching. Someone else stopped, making me cry out when they slapped something off my skin. I didn’t open my eyes though, because I knew what it was. They were covering me with water and soapy bubbles with a rag mop.

I could feel my own hot breaths blowing over my closed lips, my cheeks getting warmer every time the mop swished over my quickly stiffening cock. Then hands were turning me over, the mop washing up and down my back, my legs. A deep chuckle preceded a wet smack right over my butt cheeks, and then the mop wielder’s feet padded away again.

Nothing happened. Opening my eyes, I stared at the slicked down blonde hairs that dampness had darkened to brown. My gaze fixed on a little cluster of moles on my right wrist and I stared, feeling my ribs pressing a little harder into the floor, expanding deeper due to my breathing getting heavier.

Minutes passed, but still nothing. Bubbles popped on my skin, water cooled, making me shiver as bumps rose all over me. I licked my lips, wondering what the guy who sat so silently to my left was going to do. My cock twitched against the floor, and I pressed my groin down in response, tightening my ass muscles until I thought they might snap.

Almost as if that’s what he’d been waiting for, the guy placed his hands at the centre of my back. They were warm. Hot even, as though he’d had his hands in not quite boiling water. The heat felt so good on my chilly skin.

Keeping his hands side by side, he stroked down the length of my spine. Pressing hard, parting his hands to smooth firm circles around my cheeks before stroking back up again. Up and down, kneading, rubbing, giving me what felt like all of his weight one minute and tickling with just the tips of his fingers the next.

Down my thighs, massaging my calves, feet, then shifting back up again. This time when he passed over my ass his hand turned to the side. I parted my thighs, just a little, gasping as the length of his little finger and the side of his palm stroked right over my twitching hole. He did it over and over, rubbing my entrance as his other hand turned my head and pushed my cheek against the rough stone.

Shifting my arm, I glanced at the person opposite me. It wasn’t one of my friends, and good thing too. I’d never seen sex from this angle before. Even when the guy doing my massage flipped my back over, I didn’t take my eyes off the other two. The sight of one pair of balls clashing against another while a long cock sank down into an eager ass was too fascinating to look away from.

It wasn’t just fascinating, either. It was fucking hot.

I knew my own cock was bouncing around like it was on a spring, but the masseuse didn’t pay it any mind. He just carried on as he had been before, moving from my shoulders to my feet and back in long, powerful strokes. Each time his hands skimmed my thighs I twitched, almost as if I was trying to put my cock in his path.

It wasn’t until I was literally humping humid air that he finally got my full attention. The second his long calloused fingers wrapped around my cock, my eyes were on him. Surprise widened my eyes when I looked at his face. He was a much older man than I would have chosen for myself. Deep olive skin, black hair and beard with a long moustache, he looked to be in his 50s.

He smiled at me, winking quickly. I realised then that he hadn’t moved his hand. All he’d done was take hold of my cock, and now he was letting it go again. My disappointment made him laugh, and the sound was deep and hearty. Dipping his hands into a bucket I didn’t even realise he had, he began massaging my thighs. He cupped my balls, pulling them away from my body, running his thumbs over the hairless skin. Rising up, he looked down. I followed his gaze, laughing breathlessly when his cock pretty much pushed the towel off his hips.

Uncertainty was the name of the day when I reached out. My finger grazed the tip and the guy shuffled closer, letting my wrap my hand around it. Thrusting into my palm, he took hold of my cock and began to stroke. He did it in a counter rhythm to his thrusts, making me feel like I was a cog in a hot wet fucking machine.

Each stroke made me gasp and soon my eyes were flicking around the room, my sight blurring. He stroked faster, rolling his palm over my aching tip, spreading the mountains of precum I always leaked over the whole length of me.

And then his cock was splattering my leg with thick rivulets of cum. His lips closed around my cock. My wild gaze settled on the ceiling above me. Holes had been cut away to allow in light, and at the moment I came they looked for all the world like stars to me.

The masseuse kept on sucking, using his hands on my shaft, his fingers in my ass. He was trying to make my deflating cock hard again, and as I turned my gaze to one of my friends riding one of the biggest dicks I’d ever seen, I knew he’s succeed.

My friends had pissed me off when they came and took over my holiday, but now I was glad they had. As my cock started to swell once more, I grinned. I had plenty of riding left in me, and I was so pleased it I wasn’t doing it on the back of a horse.

Week 129

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