His shorts are down. It's the heat, he tells himself. Confined, the sudden uncoiling tightness threatens to burst the seams on its own. Released, it feels even hotter than the midday Mediterranean steam into which it thrusts, broad and solid as a Moorish column, primed for conquest. Astringent swallows of tempranillo evaporate in a fruity warmth of enablement along his throat, and loosened inhibitions mingle with elevated pheromones and sweat.

As he adjusts into position on the bed, the delirium of arousal blunts the sunburn's residual pinch over his shoulder blades. His head swivels and stirs last night's scents from the pillow: sunscreen, cologne, salt, all sifted through housekeeping's antiseptic tinge. Through closed windows, traffic noises from the motorway flow easily as ghosts and blare a bullying counterpoint to the elevator's timid chime.

Just for a few minutes, he promises himself. For the first time in two weeks, he's alone in the holiday room. In conditioned response to the clicked door and faded sounds of merriment, an impulsive tingle balloons within his balls and shoots up his shaft like a high-pressure hose. The others have gone out; he has time. His fingers flick a quick message into his phone and a squirm of anticipation inches ruched cotton a little farther from the imposing tusk.

Not too far, he warns himself. What necessary but treacherous item might be forgotten -- sunglasses, billfold, lipstick -- to cause untimely interruption with its retrieval? He's switched off the air conditioner so its counterfeit thunder won't conceal the muffled approach of voices or the premature rattle of a latch. Obeying the demands of his Gibraltar-hard precipice, he begins to scroll for things he knows he shouldn't.

One quick peek, he tempts himself. It's still not enough to have had his libido goaded daily by a parade of nubile breasts kissed with every edible hue from bisque to persimmon to wheat and bared to the Balearic sun. His back, despite attentive dollops of Natura Bisse and aloe, smarts rosily from having to spend much of his seaside time face-down, erection jammed awkwardly against the chaise's canvas in a hidden salute to each fetching senorita who swayed into view.

Even now, visions of tanned topless mounds still bob and beckon to be tasted. His mouth hurts from the want. His cock hurts harder. If he touches it, he's sure it will splash the headboard like the fountains at Montjuic.

It's been eleven minutes since the urgent email to the busty cam milf he sometimes gets off with, but nothing new bolds the feed. Perhaps she's offline and shopping, as is his wife. Or she's being harpooned with relish by a well-endowed lover, fistfuls of flesh uninhibitedly bouncing across cum-glazed sheets. More likely, another user is already rock-hard and about to spurt over the slickly gashed inspiration of so much of his own furtive jacking. A still image of her flash-bleached tits fills the screen and his hand readies itself to grasp in tribute.

The audio, he reminds himself. The other girl. His invisible cumslut who can't keep her dirty thoughts out of his pants. His time-zone unavailable whore whose filthy mind teases rigid wanderings into real-time eruptions. His unpredictable prick-tease whose clit has the shortest fuse he's ever encountered, and who's young enough to be...

Fuck. He's addicted to hearing his name fill her throat like a second cock in whispers betraying intimate touches, groans pitch-shifted to acknowledge gradients of desire, flamenco shrieks ripped from soul-shattering comes.

His hijacked imagination transplants the lustful, more refined vowels of still another playmate into the firm-fruited blonde who caught his eye a few afternoons ago when she shed her Sorbonne t-shirt in the poolside's shimmering light. He'd bent his knees to conceal her effect on him but polarized shades allowed his eyes the freedom to unwrap the Eslami halter and ravish those supple, pomegranate-tipped curves. How he'd longed for her to spy him on his lounge and kneel at his side, glide questing fingertips over his lotioned chest and drag away his swim trunks far enough to overwhelm his inflamed tip with the dizzying friction of her mouth.

She's breached his solitude and now watches him from the foot of the bed. Her curious eyes never leave the stiff pride that roars above the lowered shorts while she eases down the rest of her bikini and prowls toward him with obscene hunger. The taut elastic becomes a cradle for her chin, the easier for a gentle tongue to dart the congealed, heavy mass of his balls. Simultaneously, her swollen folds mount and ride a slippery canter over his forested shin bone.

His firebrand suddenly needs to be wrapped in the therapeutic pressure of a grip masquerading as hers; his distended crown craves to be probed at its sensitive edges with the quaver in her cries. He defers self-administered bliss a little longer, swiping characters to spell his lust and express how achingly good this forbidden longing feels.

His shorts are down and he seizes himself. Stroking. Tugging. Faster. His thighs, restrained by the shifted waistband, tense against its reciprocal bites of outrage. His thick spike of flame hovers on the verge of consuming everything within its radius with the subtlety of a thermonuclear blast.

Even identities sizzle, then vaporize. Is she the blonde lapping between his legs? The cam milf and her cock-cushioning, bountiful tits? The enthusiastic minx who accidentally fondled it into shooting off on their first date? Countless lightning-etched memories of stolen glances and secret touches converge into a single sucking sheath awaiting his balls-deep plunge -- and he'll see to it that she's fucked into exquisite obliteration with every engorged inch.

He hits ‘send’ as he ignites, too immersed in the sun to recall how many recipients are on the list, his convulsing cock wickedly anticipating an inbox full of glistening, aroused petals in macro closeup once he’s back home… to fuel his random fancies all over again.