Holiday in the Sun

by It's Only Me from Across the Sea

This story contains explicit descriptions of sexual acts between the characters in it. Although the characters are teenagers who may be below the age of consent in the country or state where this is read, nothing written here should be taken as approval of, or encouragement for, sexual liaisons between people where such liaisons are either illegal, or objectionable for moral reasons. Although this story does not include safe sex practices, it is everyone's own responsibility to themselves and to each other to engage only in PROTECTED SEX. It is a story. Any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Nothing represented here is based on any fact known to the author.

The story is copyright 1999 by "It's Only Me from Across the Sea". If you copy the story, please leave the credits, and the web address of present, and also the email address of I'd love to receive feedback.

There is a mailing list here for news, among other things, of new stories. To join it or to leave it, please fill out this form

Subscribe Unsubscribe

It was beautiful by the pool. Not just a square pool, and nothing really special, but it was nice. It felt good. On holiday at last, and somewhere hot. Hot was important.

We hadn't had a holiday away from England since I was six. Now, nine years later, we were away from the bracing winds and cold seas of Yorkshire. Don't get me wrong, I like Yorkshire. I do. But bright white, with absolutely no tan lines from two weeks in cold, wind and rain with flashes of sunshine is not exactly sexy. OK, I'm exaggerating. But it's my story.

I hadn't believed it when Mum and Dad had said, one Saturday about three weeks ago "Come on, John, we're going to the travel agent's to book a holiday in the sun." I mean, that was so 'not us'. But we did. We went into town and spent ages in the shop trying to find a holiday.

And we did it!

A whole week. And in the Canary Islands, too. Wherever the Canary Islands are. On an island called Lanzarote. Volcanic, apparently.

And three weeks later, a four hour flight later, a 4am start to drive to the airport later, here we were. In an apartment complex, with four pools, with good food, and with hot, hot sun.

It was beautiful by the pool.

I relaxed and was just grade A happy.

I was covered in suncream. Knowing better than Mum, I had used a low protection factor. Only 8. Well, it was only a week and I wanted a tan fast! I'd had my first swim in the pool and now I was on the sun lounger, under the shade of the parasol, feeling a little conspicuous in luminous white, and looking around to see if I would be able to make friends. Usually I can find someone to muck around with. In England I always made friends pretty easily on holiday.

At fifteen you also check out the talent. Well, I did! I was pretty conventional. Preferences are a cute face, nice legs, tight bum. Personality? I've never got close enough to find out. But on the flight out I'd spotted a sweet face with a mane of blond hair. Probably a couple of years younger than me. The family was on the same coach from Arrecife airport, and were in the same apartment complex as we were.

So I was looking out for that face around the pool. Looking from the ground up!

Well, legs really turn me on. Always have and always will. More than anything else except the face. They do. Always. It's a fact.

I had my shades on, and I was scanning round the pool, and I saw a gorgeous pair of legs. Just standing by the edge of the water. Not long, but slim, strong and somehow 'perfect'. Lightly tanned, smooth, and sort of 'balanced'. And my gaze moved upwards.

I'd kind of expected a tight bum. Lovely. And the bum was in close fitting lycra. Blue lycra. Gorgeous. And up to the chest, the face, the hair. Bright blond mane of hair. And the face from the flight.

I couldn't move. I was tongue tied, gawky, shy. She was beautiful.

But I can't start a conversation with a girl. I can't. I just can't.

So I looked

And looked.

As I looked another pair of legs came into view. Lithe. Tanned golden. Slim and strong. And just as sexy as hers. Sexier. I couldn't help myself. My loyalty, or was it lust, transferred in a nanosecond.

Lycra clad again. Tight bum. Tanned lower back. No bikini top - wow! Soft blond hair. Sunblond. Worn short, a boyish style.

She turned to face me.


Oh no!

She was beautiful. But she wasn't a she. She was a he.

But he was beautiful. And I didn't stop looking. Couldn't stop looking. Shocked at myself for finding another boy attractive, but I wanted, well, er, him. I just knew it. Suddenly, like a flash. I wanted him completely, totally, utterly. I wanted to walk over to him and put my arms around him, even kiss him.

I saw myself stand up, take off my shades, saw myself walk over to him. Felt his pleasure at being.....

In my mind I saw it.

In reality I just stared. Stared and did nothing and said nothing. A big, fat nothing. I mean how could I have? I could hear the conversation in my head.

'Hi, I'm John'


'I want to have sex with you.'

'Fuck off you fucking queer!'

Yeah, that would work well, I thought. That would work really well.

"John?" Somewhere a familiar voice was knocking on the door of my daydream. "John?" louder, breaking into the nightmare part of it. "John!" Closer, the voice was coming closer and closer. "John!!"

"Uhh, yes Mum?"

"You were miles away."

"I guess so...."

"You're beginning to burn in the sun."

"Oh. I was in the shade a while ago?" It wasn't so much a question as surprise.

"You were. But you moved a bit. And the sun moved a bit. And I'm not sure you have the right suncream on from the look of you, and...."

"Yeah, I know, with my fair skin I burn quickly." I had no real idea, but I did remember the holiday rep on the coach saying 'It's an African sun here, very hot." So I supposed she was right. I didn't normally take much notice.

"So, stop staring at that pretty girl and come and put some of this on," she ordered, waving the factor 35 bottle at me.

Hmm. 'Pretty girl'. Er. Oh yes. There she was. Still there. Just past my young god. Phew. "I'm not staring!"

"James," she turned to my Dad, "James? John's found a girl to go and be friends with!"

"About time," my dad laughed. "We don't want him batting for the other side, now, do we? Eh, son? Eh? Eh?"

Oh boy was I in the mood to hear that! I knew what 'Batting for the other side' meant. I'd watched Julian Clary intimidate David Gower on some stupid celebrity TV quiz game. I mean, Julian may be camp as you like, but as if he would fancy David anyway!

"Er, Dad!"

"Shh, James, don't embarrass the boy!"

Oh great. I wasn't even here now. They were having a conversation about me as though I wasn't old enough to join into a secret joke. And worse, my young god had gone. The girl was there. I forced myself to look. To cure myself. I am not queer. I am not. Not queer. Not. I'm not. Please don't let me be queer.

She was pretty. Small face, tight features, nice smile, freckles, lovely figure. Yesterday she would have been my ideal girl. Not yesterday. Thirty minutes ago!

I tried for positively sexual thoughts. But I couldn't. Odd things came into my mind. You know, really odd things. Like a pair of brown walking boots! Well, I said 'odd'. I was trying to undress her in my head. I'd seen girls changing on the beach often enough. Little girls. About half her age.

And it struck me.

There is nothing to see. A sort of crease. A vertical crease. But nothing else. All a mystery. I guess you just kind of fumble about a bit and hope. But nothing obvious. No road map. Well you know what I mean. Or maybe you don't. Now a boy.....

All on the outside. Familiar. Sort of obvious. There is nothing subtle about an erect cock. Mind you, I'd only seen mine! Oh yes and Derek's when he was eight and changing after swimming, saying 'It always does that, must be the cold water'. I wonder what happened to Derek. And I knew how a cock worked. And I found I wanted to see my young god naked. To see if he was perfection all though. To.... Well, I wasn't rightly sure what I wanted to do.

But I was scared.

I spent the time until supper being scared. Scared and very excited and aroused by the idea. Aroused even though I was sure that nothing would come of it.

But I wished it could.

Oh I wished it would, too.

Supper was one of those buffet affairs. Loads of food. Unexpectedly good. Mum, Dad and I all shared a litre of Sangria.

He wasn't there.

She was.

Mum pointed her out to me.

"Yeah, Mum. I know. Could we leave it, please?"

The rest of supper was standard family stuff. Then, because we'd been up since 4am, travelling, we had showers and headed for bed. I didn't really look sunburnt, I thought as I examined a little reddening of the skin in the bathroom mirror.

Bed was OK. Half comfy. As soon as it was private my thoughts went to him. To his face. To his body. To kissing him. To his body again. To touching him. To kissing his body. To kissing and touching him all over. And my hands went to my own body, replicating what I wanted to do with him - easy because it was so hot I was lying on top of the covers, and since I wear a night-shirt to sleep in.

And I tried to imagine that my hands were his hands as I stroked myself. As I stroked my chest, touched and tweaked my nipples, and moved slowly but inexorably to my cock, virgin, but in nightly use! And for the first time I held a real person in my thoughts as I pulled back my foreskin and stroked the tip, sometimes with my thumb, sometimes with the palm of my hand, sometimes against my belly, with precum weeping from the slit. And it all got too much, and I started to pump madly, skin in right hand, thumb of left hand on cockhead, until I came hard, buttocks clenched, back arched, cum spraying up to my chin.

Out of breath, I subsided into dreamless sleep. Hot. Still all messy, and happy. I would see him tomorrow. And he was in my mind when I went to sleep.

Today is a changeover day. Some of the British are leaving. When the new ones arrive, I may find the friend I need, the friend I want. I should explain. It will be brief, I think, because my English is OK, but not so good as I wish. My first language is German, and my name is Otto. I am from a small village near Munich. We have been here for a week, and have another week to stay. I like it here, but I am lonely. So lonely. You see I do not like girls, and boys do not like me. I like boys, though. Too much, I think.

I am gay. I have known this since I was zehn Jahre. Also I am a virgin. I have never even touched another boy. Aber im Urlaub.... vielleicht im Urlaub....

So, here in reception I am. Looking, hoping, praying. And there is a boy I like the look of. He is pale, and blond, and perhaps older than I am. But he is schoen, er, beautiful is the word I want. And maybe, just maybe....

But, of course, it is not likely. And he takes no notice of me. So I follow at a distance to find out which apartment is the one that they stay in. Ach, same side of the hotel as mine. Next door to mine. My heart jumps. I will see him each day at least.

So, time passes, and I see him by the pool. Oh so English. Bright white. Alabaster. Blond hair. Eyes behind sunglasses. He is looking at a girl. A pretty girl. Yes I can see beauty in girls, I just do not wish for a girl. She is pretty. The boys I like always look at girls.

Wait. I think it is me at whom he looks. Perhaps it is me. He is so schoen. All white. Slim. He is pretty. Ahh, if only I can talk to him. Today this is unmoeglich. I am shy. He is with his parents. Tomorrow. I will find an excuse to speak to him tomorrow. Somehow. Even if I trip over and fall in front of him.


It cannot be tonight. For tonight we go to the town for a meal in a restaurant by the harbour. But tonight I will think of him. Yes. Tonight I will think of him.

Oh boy was that bed hard and uncomfortable. It had seemed OK when I got into it, but this morning, oh ouch! And I hadn't had such an early night since I was a little kid. But I slept. Apart from getting up for a pee a couple of times. Each of those times I could see him so clearly as I drifted back to sleep.

But I don't think I dreamt of him. I don't remember any dreams at all. Maybe I did, and just didn't remember them. But I dreamt of him while I was awake. It wasn't just a full bladder than had me at attention in the morning. It was an urgent need to.... "John?" Damn. An unfulfilled need!

"Yes, Mum?"

"Are you awake?"

"No, Mum, of course not!"

"Oh good. Time to get ready for breakfast. Cheeky brat," she laughed. "Now get ready. Then we can grab some sun loungers with a parasol. Oh," she added as I stripped my night-shirt off, "you're burnt. Sunblock for you today."

I was burnt. What had seemed just a little pink yesterday was now an angry red colour. Oh embarrassing. Glowing white surrounded by bright, bright red sunburn. Oh. Well I supposed bright lobster red was better than milky white. I hoped it wouldn't make me look so stupid that he stopped talking to me. If he would talk to me, that was. Heck, his tan had to start somewhere. "Yeah, I suppose so. This sunblock isn't a sort of white coating is it? Something to make me look sadder than I look now?"

"No idea. Let's all wait and see. Now, breakfast!"

I was dressed in a flash. Wondering. Hoping. Anticipating. Would he be at breakfast? Maybe. Would I recognise him? How would I not recognise him?

Breakfast was a buffet, just like supper. Odd food, but OK. Well, OK-ish! And I did spot him. While I was queuing for toast. He was in front of me in the queue. Literally in front. I could almost smell him. I recognised his hair first.

I looked at how it fell down the back of his head to stop on his neck above where a school collar would be. And as his head tilted forwards, his neck, strong, curved, full. You know some people have those two powerful muscles like a pair of ropes up the back of their necks? His was not like that. Soft power, rounded, tanned. His right jaw line had three small round patches of pigment in a short line. A beautiful imperfection.

He was wearing a yellow baggy T-shirt and long grey and white camouflage pattern shorts down to his knees, with his golden calves, smooth, perfect, with a down of light hair, between the shorts and his beach sandals. He even had cute toes!

He turned away from the toasting machine, an industrial device shimmering with heat, and his eyes met mine. Briefly. Grey-blue, like steel, yet soft. I was staring at him.

I will not describe family things, I think. It is too difficult for my English. But perhaps my tutor would be proud of me. Of what I am doing. Mostly the English words I am correct with. Words are in sometimes the wrong order, but I understood can be. Which is everything, I think.

When I was awakened by my mother calling me to breakfast, my first thoughts were for this beautiful English boy. A fantasy perhaps. But I went to breakfast in the hope of seeing him.

I did not see him.

Not while I was getting my cold meats and cheese. Not while I was getting my coffee. Not while I was getting butter and preserves. Nor did I see him as I went to the machine which prepared the bread as, ach I do not know the word, The machine which makes slices of bread hot and brown on both sides.

And yet I felt something. Some tension perhaps as I waited for the bread to emerge from the machine.

It felt as though my mind was being explored

I turned from the machine and I was face to face with him. Mein Gott ist er schoen! Entschuldigung, bitte, aeh, I apologise. He is beautiful.

Describing him is unmoeglich, impossible. Blond hair combed simply across his forehead. Small face, oval, with a smile. Slim, with broadening shoulders. No time to see more. No time, except for his eyes. His eyes. Sky-blue eyes. I am drowning in the sky for his eyes draw me into his soul. I am drowning. I am staring at him.

Staring at the most beautiful boy I have ever seen. And my English deserts me. No, of all times.

"Wie gehts?" Scheisse. Ich hab mein ganzes Englisch vergessen!

'He's caught me looking at him. Perhaps it will be all right. Perhaps he won't notice. I wish I could fade away' That was rushing through my mind.


I couldn't

Especially as he was blushing under his tan and speaking to me. Speaking to me. What did he say? It sounded like 'Vee gates?'. It sounded German. And we didn't do German at school. Oh God. If he couldn't speak English.... I wondered, so I tried it out.

"Do you speak English?" Oh no, he looked uncomfortable.

"A little. Yes I do"

"I only speak English." This was like a school language lesson. Next we would be asking for directions to the post office!

"My name is Otto," he held out his hand as he spoke. I had a plate in one hand and bread in the other. No way of shaking hands. Damn this was awkward.

"I am John." I wasn't usually shy with boys, just with girls. But I felt really odd around him. Needing to talk, but not knowing how.

"Will you be at the pool after breakfast?"

"I think we will spend the day at the pool today."

"I will see you later then. I hope I will." And with that Otto turned and went to his table.

Oh wow! But I couldn't work out my feelings. Excited? Certainly. Happy? Not sure. Scared? Of my thoughts, yes, of Otto, no. He 'hoped' he would see me.

He is nice. I like his voice. The feeling as his eyes meet mine is like life itself. It flows through me and makes me feel good. I feel so stupid for forgetting all my English when I speak to him first. 'Wie gehts?' Stupid, stupid fool. All I had to do was to say 'Hello'. But we are talking. And we will meet at the pool.

But which pool? There are four pools. Ach, Otto, das ist nicht schwer. We are neighbours. It will be the same pool as yesterday.

A little scared. No, not scared. Nervous. Not as bad as scared. A little nervous is what I am feeling as I sit eating - yes, I have the word now for the hot bread - toast with my parents.

Nervous of two things.

The first thing: if I tell him my feelings, that he is beautiful, how will he react?

The second thing: if, just if, he even half has the same feelings for me, what becomes of us at the end of the holiday.

But both things are too fast. First to see if we can be friends. To be together, if he will be. To play - no that is a childish word - together in the pool. To talk, to laugh and to joke a little.

Maybe I never tell him. But, he looked into my eyes. And I drowned in his. There was something. Surely something. We each stared for too long. It is not just me? Please let it be true. But this will be too good. It is not likely. He will reject me like the others. Perhaps he will not even be there.

At least we have apartments next to each other. I will see him anyway. Even if we do not become friends I will see him.

So, breakfast is completed. And we are back to our apartment. And I am now in swimming shorts and with our towels, and finding a parasol and sun loungers. I do not dare to look for him. But I hope for him

Time passes

It passes langsam. Sehr langsam.

Breakfast was difficult. Emotions running high, coupled with peculiar food. I was already desperate for a bit of bacon, and I never usually eat a cooked breakfast!

I was trying to get to grips with my feelings. I mean, being so, well, so attracted to a boy. It wasn't, er, well it was, er, damn it, it was gay. And I'm not gay. I've even had a girlfriend. Well, sort of. We went out a couple of times. We kissed. It felt soppy. Oh I don't know anything anymore.

"You look miles away, John." Dad's voice broke into my thoughts. "You've been buttering that piece of toast for at least five minutes."

"Don't tease him," my Mum interrupted before I could be rude to him. Then she blew it. "He's probably mooning over that girl he was looking at yesterday."

"Need any tips, son?" Dad was a real pain sometimes. I mean he's a great Dad, but he isn't exactly sensitive. Sensitive as a brick!

It was either be rude and spoil the day, or ride the blow and let the anger go quietly.

"No, Dad. No, Mum, I'm not. Just still tired, I think. Nothing like that at all." I was used to staying out of trouble. You can't win a fight in a hotel restaurant. It's pretty rare to win one in private, too. Mum is always right. Especially when she isn't. I know she doesn't mean any harm. But dammit, today. Not today... Well, she wasn't to know. At least I hoped she wasn't!

After breakfast we had the 'Meet the holiday rep and buy an excursion' meeting for an hour. I was itching to get to the poolside. We'd bagged three sun loungers before going to the meeting, but Otto hadn't been there yet, so I hadn't seen him to tell him I would be later than he thought.

It was about ten thirty when we escaped. I could see Otto on my way back to the apartment. Almost right outside it. I wondered if it was a coincidence. I wanted to get outside to see if I was imagining all this stuff, but no.

"Wait! Sunblock!" Mum has a way of saying this so that you just can't argue.

"OK, Mum." Resigned to my fate, I plastered on the sunblock. Not too bad. It didn't do anything to disguise the redness - some hope - but it left my skin looking like skin, at least! No white coating.

And then finally outside. Trying to look cool. Well, at least trying not to run!

Of course, you can't run with a li-lo, a bag of sunhats, and a spare beach towel. But it was only twenty paces or so to our 'camp'. And when I got there I couldn't see him.

Wait he minute. Facing the pool. Wet hair, wet red floppy swim shorts, not lycra today. Droplets of water, individual diamonds shining, sparkling against the silk sheen of his tan, enhanced by a suncream to make it, not oily, but glistening under the droplets. And more sparkling drops fell from his hair onto his back, filling and refilling the gaps, changing the pattern of the diamonds, hypnotising me.

I was finding a boy beautiful. I felt very strange. But he fascinated me. I felt drawn towards him. Just like in the restaurant an hour or more earlier. I wanted to touch one of the diamonds, to see if it was real. To touch the silky sheen of his skin to see if he was real. I wanted to see his eyes again. To see if they were truly steel blue. Cold, yet so warm and smiling at the same time.

But I felt shy. Almost too shy to go and talk to him. And yet.... And yet I needed to. In the pool, I thought. So I dropped all I was carrying by our family camp, and launched the li-lo onto the water, dived onto it, bounced off it, and ended up looking totally naff in the water beside it, half the water from the pool up my nose, and spluttering.

In front of me a seal surfaced. "Did you mean to do that?" Otto's voice came damply from beneath the seal's nose. Oh, I blushed then. Deep crimson.

"Not exactly."

Since time is passing so slowly I will get into the pool. It will make it seem sooner until he comes. If he comes. He must. I have not felt like this before. I know nothing about him, but I feel a great need for him. As a friend, even. But to be so much more, if he will be. It is hard to talk of love. We have a few words only spoken. How can I love him?

But I feel a pulling. He pulls me to him.

I need to swim. To dive in and climb out a few times. Many times. To take my mind off him and off waiting for him.

So I do that.

As I stand ready to dive in again, I see a huge splash as some idiot dives onto his airbed, hits it and falls off it. Stupid fool!

No, wait. This fool is John! He is here.

And before my brain can take control of my actions I dive in to where he is.

"Did you mean to do that?" Oh, he is blushing. I have surprised him. No, surprise is not the word. Ach it does not matter what is the word.

"Not exactly."

And he laughed. Spluttering, choking and laughing.

But so sunburnt. It must hurt. Oh, poor John. So English, with no sense in the sun.

"Du bist ganz rot - Ach I am sorry. You are so red from the sun. Does it hurt?"

"A little, but I'm going to take it easy today. Your English is awesome, Otto"

"'Awesome' means what, please?"

"Awesome means better than good!"

"Oh, thank you. I like to use my English. It needs to be used, or I forget it." How to become friends? Perhaps we are friends jetzt. Ask John about himself. "From where in England do you come?"

"We live near London, in a place called Ascot. It is about 30 miles west of London. Very close to Heathrow airport."

"What is 30 miles in kilometres?"

"About 50 kilometres, I think. That makes us about 30 kilometres away from Heathrow."

"I have flown to the USA through Heathrow. It is busy."

"Yeah, we are often under the flightpath"

"'Flightpath'? This means what?"

"Where the aircraft come in to land. Also we have Concorde fly over very often."

"I should like to see that, I think."

I thought he had come to laugh at me. I was mortified. I'd been trying to show off, and I'd failed miserably. But now we were talking, standing up to our necks in the water in the pool. Just talking about, well, stuff.

It wasn't what we were talking about, exactly. It was the way we were talking. We were already old friends. I felt closer in no minutes to Otto than I had felt in a lifetime of knowing my friends at home. I think it was because we were actually looking at each other and talking to each other, not talking past each other, or waiting for our turn to speak. We were interested in even the mundane stuff.

For a while, we mucked about with the li-lo. I watched Otto after he had dived onto it. The wet, light fabric of his shorts was moulded to his body. I couldn't help look at the rise of his bum with the soaking wet fabric clinging to it. I couldn't help it. And imagining that sight with no fabric there at all. And imagining stroking it, stroking him, feeling his muscles, his skin. It looked so firm and so soft.

OK, I could touch him while we were mucking about in the pool, but accidental touch wasn't the same. I wanted to caress, to make him happy, to make him feel good. To make me feel good. But how do you do that with another boy? How? And would it make him feel happy? And why did I want to do it?

All I knew was that he was magnetic. I had to be with him. He filled all parts of my mind. And something told me that it was right to feel like this. It almost told me that I could talk to him about it. Almost. If I dared.


I didn't even know how or where to start.

Or if I should.

Or if I could.

And the whole morning had passed by in an instant.

"John! Lunchtime!"

"Coming, Dad. Five minutes!"

"What will you do for lunch, John?" Otto was looking at me from the li-lo.

I have not felt these things before. With other boys it was not the same. Sure, some things felt the same, but not the need to protect him. I feel I want to keep John safe. To look after him. The more I speak with him the more I feel this.

But at the most we a week together have. Und if I tell him of my feelings, perhaps we no time at all have. Perhaps he will shout at me, or be not very pleasant.

I so want to be with him alone. Not in private, but alone. Not even touching, but talking, immer talking.

I am so in love with him. I even love his sunburn!

But to speak of love is sehr schwer. If I speak of it and he does not feel anything at all for me, I will make him hate me, I think. I am afraid of this. If I do not speak of it, I may never know. I am afraid too of this.

I do not know what to do.

I think I must just live for today. Even if he feels something for me, I will lose him in a week.

So, we talk. All morning we talk. And now I hear his father calling his name, and calling him for Mittagessen, for lunch.

"What will you do for lunch, John?" I look at him over the li-lo pillow.


"There is a burger bar. If your parents do not need you, we could eat together. It is not expensive."

"I'll ask them. How much does it cost?"

"Less than 1,000 pesetas."

"Be right back!"

And he is. I think I must imagine this for I think he looks excited to be back - he is almost jumping as he runs. And he smiles.

As I dry myself he waves a 1,000 pesetas note. "Good idea, Otto. They want to eat in the bar, and they are happy that I have a friend already." John laughs as he speaks. "We are friends, aren't we?"

"I hope so, John." I dare a little more. "I hope we are very good friends." His expression does not change. Perhaps he does not notice. Perhaps he thinks what I am thinking. Or perhaps he believes it is my English.

Then he smiles. "I hope we are very good friends, too. I never liked someone so much before."

"Dad, Otto says there is a burger bar for lunch. Can I eat with him?"

"Who is Otto?" Dad didn't have his brain in gear.

"Oh, James," said Mum, "he must be the boy John has been mucking about with all morning. Blond haired lad on John's li-lo over there. About his age."

"Yeah, that's him, Mum. Look, do you have something planned for lunch, or can I have some money and go?"

"How much do you need, son?" Dad asked.

"There'll be some change from 1,000 pesetas, Otto says." I wasn't going to plead, but I wanted to.

"Just let me get my wallet out of the room safe," Dad said. "Of course you can. It's your holiday too, you know."

And I had a skip in my step as I waved the 1,000 pesetas note at Otto. 'Damn, he'll think I'm stupid. I look like a puppy!' was going through my brain. I was babbling as I arrived back at where he was getting dry. Something about being friends.

I heard Otto say "I hope so, John. I hope we are very good friends" and I felt my heart jump. I knew, or thought I knew, that I was getting signals from him. Only I've never had signals from anyone before. If he was sending out signals, then I had to answer him.

But what if it was just his very careful use of English? I could frighten him, put him off me. I looked into his eyes trying to guess what was in his heart. It was useless.

"I could only answer the same way and hope that I was right. "I hope we are very good friends, too. I never liked someone so much before." And I couldn't help the stupid smile that crept onto my face.

Nor could I help the blush of embarrassment in case I was wrong. Or in case I was right. I hoped I was right. I ached to be right. This was crazy, but it felt good.

He smiled. His eyes smiled. "We will spend the week together, yes?"

"On Wednesday we've booked an excursion. But, yes. Except Wednesday. Yes please, Otto." There was something odd happening to my breathing and to my heartbeat. I felt all breathless and trembly. It was horrible and wonderful and electric. I didn't want it to stop, but I needed it to stop.

"You are cold? You are shivering!" Otto looked concerned.

"Yeah, it must be that." It was stopping. Once it finished I missed it. Wanted it back.

"Put on your shirt. You need to keep that sunburn covered, I think. Then we should go and eat." He sounded like Mum, then. But I liked it.

We walked over and took a seat at one of the tables under the large canopy of the burger bar. And we ordered our food. Otto ordered a beer. "Do you want one too?"

"Er, sure. I didn't know if they would serve me a beer."

"Two beers, please," he said to the waiter.

They were wonderfully cold when they came. Almost ice cold. As I ate and drank and talked to this very unusual boy, I found my smile getting wider. Perhaps it was the beer. I wasn't used to beer. And I was also intoxicated by Otto. By just being with him.

"I like it here," I said, "I'm glad I met you."

There are things that I dare to think with John that I have never dared to think before. I have said that I have known that I am gay since I am zehn Jahre. But I have always just had the desire for physical contact. I have not had this, but I just wanted it. Boys attract me sexually. But John is more than a beautiful body. John is a person. John is someone I care about. It matters to me what he thinks of me. I need him to approve of me.

I love him.

And now he says 'yes please' when I ask if we will spend the week together.

Can he know what I am feeling about him? Is it possible that he feels it too?

Wait. He is shivering. And I get him to put on his shirt to keep warm. I feel like his father, almost. It is a good feeling.

So, over to the burger bar we go. I take hold of my courage and order a beer. The waiter takes my order without asking my age. So I ask John if he wants one.

I do not want either of us to be drunk. That would be stupid. But I think I need my mouth to work without my brain. And I need something to blame if I am wrong about the messages I think he is sending to me.

John also has a beer.

As we eat I look at him and we talk. There is something I cannot define about him. He seems to be looking at me often, also. It may be the beer, only half a litre, but I feel a little drunk. Perhaps it is too much sun. Perhaps I imagine it.

"I like it here," John says. "I'm glad I met you."

These two things are linked? I do not know. I wonder if they are. I hope they are. It feels so dangerous not knowing. I have no right to expect this beautiful boy to want me the way I want him. I have nothing to make me believe that he does. Yet I wish it with all my heart. I want to put my hand on his. I want to put my arm around his shoulders and pull him close to me. I want to kiss and hold him and to tell him that I love him.

But I do not do these things.

I am scared.

"I wish you had been here last week, John."


"Last week I was on holiday, but alone. I am often alone. Now I do not feel alone."

"Why are you often alone?"

Oh I cannot tell him. I want to say 'John, I am gay. All the boys and girls at my school know because I was stupid enough to tell someone that I thought I could trust. They told everyone. They all avoid me. They make fun of me 'Otto is a queer!' is what they write in my schoolbooks and call after me at school. No-one ever looks at me as just Otto. Just as a queer. And you, John, you see me as Otto. As a person' That is what I wish to say to him.

I cannot tell him, but the thoughts make my eyes fill suddenly with tears. I feel like a baby.

He sees my discomfort. "It doesn't matter, Otto. Forget that I asked." And just briefly he touches my hand with his. Just long enough.

I recover with a struggle. Two struggles. His touch is soft, delicate. Unconscious. Electric. His touch nearly makes me sob the ache I have in my heart out all over him. It feels safe to do this. I do not know why. But I cannot. If I start I do not think I can stop. And I do not want him to see the hurt. I want him to see the love.

"We must pay, and then swim," I tell him.

It takes time to pay. I do not wish to upset the Spanish, but they do not have the same attitude to work as we do in Germany. Vielleicht it is the hot sun. They may be right!

Then we head back to the side of the pool. And he gets his towel and brings it to where my family has set up camp. I am in a torment of pain of possible discovery and pleasure at being with him.

I think we spent an hour or more having lunch. Otto told me a lot about where he lived near Munich, about his school and about his life. Oddly he never told me about his friends. And I didn't ask. That part of his life seemed private, and questions an intrusion, somehow.

But then the conversation went a bit weird. It was almost as though he wanted me to know something without knowing it. It started when he said that he wished that I could have 'been here last week.'

He said he was often alone. I suppose I shouldn't have asked him why. But I did. And I watched his eyes fill with tears. Something difficult was going through his mind. I've never been accused of being sensitive. Quite the reverse. But today I could sense pain and sadness.

"It doesn't matter, Otto." I reached over to where his hand was, on the table, and placed mine on his. Just briefly, and without thinking. I needed to comfort him somehow, urgently and desperately. "Forget that I asked." And I had enough sense to look away and let him recover with dignity.

Something happened at that moment. If you wanted me to describe it, I couldn't. But something happened.

It made me want to take him in my arms and crush him to me, to hold him and to wipe away his pain along with the tears that had so nearly fallen, that he was holding back so hard. It was scary. I have never felt that about anyone else. Not ever.

We were suddenly busy sorting out payment. It took for ever. It shouldn't be difficult paying two separate bills, but it was. Even though the bills were identical. Finally we were done, and went back to the pool. We went to our towels on his sun loungers. And I remembered my sunburn.

"I've got to put some more sunblock on. Wait a minute." And I went and got the bottle of factor 35 sunscreen from Mum's bag.

Damn, it was sticky stuff. I squeezed out some lines of it down my arms, legs and chest, and rubbed them in, but I needed some help. "Can you do my back, please?" And I gave him the bottle.

"This is sticky," he said as he squeezed some onto my back. "You are so red. I must do this well for you." And he started to massage it in so gently. Mum was efficient with sunscreen. Otto was soft and gentle. So soft and so gentle. I could feel each fingertip and not feel any fingers at all.

It wasn't a sexual feeling. It was spiritual. Almost as if a healing of some sort was flowing from his fingers into my body. I felt at peace and wholly alert at the same time. I never realised how much could be conveyed in pure touch. If I wasn't in love with Otto before, I fell in love with him then. It was as though he was transferring some of himself to me with his fingertips.

This was hugely scary stuff. Many reasons why, and all the same, in a way. Every so often my mind said to me 'I am not gay. This is not happening'. But it was. I wanted it to. I remembered dimly hearing somewhere that love does not respect your wishes, nor is it conventional, except by coincidence. That love hits you when you least expect it, and that you just need to be brave and recognise it. I was recognising it, all right, but I wasn't sure that I was ready for it. I wasn't sure I was ready to be in love. And in love with someone who was to leave my life after a week? How could we solve that? Did I dare to accept what was happening, or seemed to be happening? I wanted to accept it. But if I did, was it being offered? If one of us, either of us, were not a boy, then this would have been so easy. I think it would. Or probably it wouldn't. How could I tell?

And if he felt for me what I felt for him, what then? What then?

"I think that you are now protected completely. I do not think that you will burn any more today," Otto announced. "Your skin is so fair, and I think it has not seen strong sun before."

"It was too much fun just being here to be careful yesterday. And we have only really had holidays in England before. I didn't know what to expect. And I didn't believe the tour rep!"

"It will be fine. Your sunscreen is water resistant. The bottle says so. We will be here and in the pool. Or we could go for a walk to the beach."

It's too hot to move. Let's stay here for a while."

So we did. I told Otto about me. About my home, my school. About my guinea pigs and the funny noises they made when they heard me come near. About how I loved to play football, even though I wasn't very good at it.

We were either talking or diving into the pool or just mucking about all afternoon. And the sun blazed down from a cloudless blue sky all that time. I had never seen such sun before. It was so hot you could fry eggs on the pool surround. I wondered what the famous black sand beaches would have been like underfoot, and decided I didn't want to find out. At some point my parents came back from the bar and Otto introduced them to his own. It seemed that Dad and Otto's father had something in common. They went off talking about the oil industry for the rest of the day. I just about noticed. Well not really.

I only paid any attention to Otto all that day. It was as though I hadn't existed before I met him.

As he runs off to get the sunblock that he has left behind I try to put the difficult bits out of my thoughts. The worst thing that discovery can do to me is that he stops being with me and calls me names. So I will enjoy being with him. It is possible that I will find a method to tell him what I feel.

He looks so cute, even all red - a colour which does not suit him - squeezing sunblock all over himself. He is athletic. Not muscular, but with controlled power beneath his skin. In a week his skin will be golden, not red. He will be god-like. It will be a beautiful sight. Mein Gott, he is asking me to rub cream onto his back! I do not believe that I can do this. He wants me to touch him. I want to touch him. I do not dare to touch him. But I take the bottle.

"This is sticky, and you are so red. I must do this well for you." And I start to massage the cream I have put into my fingers onto his back. I am gentle. I put my thoughts to spiritual things. I massage with the tips of my fingers and I am soft with them. I tell him through my fingers that I love him.

I move gently across the top of his shoulders, feeling the muscles across there, large and strong. I feel his shoulder blades and the gap between them and his spine. I see his spine and feel each part as I moved down it, and I touch so gently the long muscles beside his spine, and massage down to those two little indentations at his waist. And as I massage I tell him how I love him. How I will be his for ever. How I want to be with no-one except him. How I will spend my life with him. If he wants me to.

But I use no words. I tell him all this with my fingers and I feel him relax under their gentle pressure. I tell him with my thoughts. I do not want to stop telling him. I feel I must be making contact with his mind, but I am not certain of this. Unless I speak and he answers me, I cannot know for certain. Vielleicht heute abend. If I am brave.

I cannot keep rubbing this cream in. He will think I am crazy. So I stop, and we talk about what we will do for the afternoon.

I listen as John tells me all about himself. I do not understand what is a 'guinea pig', and he knows no German. He explains that it is large a large rat with no tail, and a fatter body. That it moves slowly. No, that it moves more slowly than a rat. That it is a friendly animal that likes to be stroked, and that it squeaks loudly when it wants food. It always wants food!

John loves his guinea pigs. His grandmother is feeding them while he is on holiday. From the way he talks of them I learn how well he can love another creature. It would be wonderful to be one of his guinea pigs. If I cannot spend this life with him, I want to die and to be reborn as one of them and be loved by him in that manner, I think.

Ah, these must be John's mother and father. Yes. He introduces them to me. I feel nervous. A gay boyfriend cannot be what they want for John. Nor, I think a gay son for my parents was wanted. Yet my parents know. They found out when all my school found out. They hope that I will grow out of being gay. They do not say so. Not in words. But I know this. I fear that they may tell John's parents. But I trust them not to.

I introduce my father to John's father. It seems that they both work in the oil industry. At once they are old friends, and have gone to sit at the poolside bar, talking oil things.

John and I are also old friends. I love his smile, and those sky-blue eyes. And how his voice makes me feel all hot and cold at the same time.

Everything I learn about him makes me love him more. I will even learn to like football if it helps me to win his heart. But it is so schwer not knowing how to start this conversation about love. I have been through it so often in my head. I can complete it, but I cannot find the words to start it.

We spend the whole afternoon either on sun loungers or in the swimming pool. There are other kids of our age there, but we do not notice them. We are busy chasing each other, throwing a tennis ball, splashing each other. I feel that I am a child again. It is a good feeling. I am alive. I am not alive before I meet John.

It is a sudden thing. The pool empties of people. Because I am here for some days I know that it is time for the evening meal.

"I think my parents will want to go to eat now," I say to him. "Can we meet after we eat?"

"Yes. Shall we explore the town and the harbour?" John asks me.

But before I can reply my father arrives. "Otto," he says, "we will show John's parents the town after we eat. Will you boys come with us?"

"I will speak to John and ask him, Father" And I turn to John. Obviously he does not understand what my Father has said because my Father speaks to me in German. "My Father says that he and my Mother will be showing your parents the town after supper. He asks if we will go with them. I think perhaps we should do so, at least for a while. And then I would like to show you the beach, if you would like."

"That sounds good. Yes, I'd like that. I would like to see the beach. Yes. Without our parents. Yes. Definitely. Especially the beach. Perhaps we can swim?"

"I did not think of swimming. Yes. I will tell my father that we will join them. And I turn to my father and say yes, that we will come, but that John and I will part from them at some point in the evening.

I've never enjoyed myself as much as I did that afternoon. No, 'enjoyed' is the wrong word. I was certainly having fun. I think I felt ten years old again. I felt fantastic.

The afternoon flew past. We were suddenly almost alone in the pool.

Otto asked me if I wanted to meet after eating. Oh boy, did I want to! Oh yes! But I wanted to meet in peace and quiet. I was starting to pluck up the courage to tell him what I was feeling. I was as near certain as I could be that he was trying to tell me the same thing. Except I wasn't certain.

"Yes," I said, "Shall we explore the town and the harbour?"

Before he could reply, Otto's father cam and caught his attention. Otto translated for me. It seemed that we were to go to town anyway as a group, my parents and Otto's. Otto thought that we should go with them, and then separate form them during the evening.

"I would like to show you the beach" is part of what he said. I suggested that we might have a swim in the sea in the darkness. It was in the darkness that I wanted to try to tell him.

"I did not think of swimming. Yes. I will tell my father that we will join them." Otto was smiling a kind of secret smile. I wondered as he turned to talk to his father if he was thinking what I was thinking, or of he knew what I was thinking. I didn't dare believe it, but I so wished it to be true.

And while I was wishing, all was arranged. We were to meet in an hour, at half past seven, and walk down to the beach, and then into town along the sea front.

Mum decided she didn't like Sangria. Dad and I shared the jug this time. It didn't seem to have any alcohol in it. We drank it like coke. The food was good again. Barbecue night. A bit burnt at the edges, but still good.

"You get on well with Otto's dad," I said to Dad.

"We're pretty much colleagues. We do much the same job, but for different companies. Except I'm a pure geologist and he's a geophysicist."


"Too long to explain the difference over dinner. I'll tell you another day, if you remind me," he said. "You and Otto seem to get on like long lost brothers."

"Yeah, he's nice. It's a shame we'll only be together for the holiday."

The rest of the meal passed in general chit-chat. Finally we were free. Dad paid for the drinks at the till, and we spent a few moments in the apartment getting tidy to go out. Well, Mum did! I grabbed my swimming trunks and stuffed them into my pocket. Did I think of a towel? And we met the others in the lobby and went beachwards. We sort of teamed up, both men, both women and Otto and me.

Mum found an Aloe Vera plant. Then she found another. Then loads more. Suddenly Aloe Vera wasn't as interesting as it was when we got two plants for the kitchen.

The parents talked a lot. Otto and I hung back a little. And we walked about twenty yards behind the main group. Not talking about much, but in comfortable half silence. Except for a giggle or two at nothing at all. The air was full of a weird smell. Well, it wasn't weird. It was sewage.

"This place stinks!" Otto was wrinkling his nose, too.

"I asked what was this smell when we arrived," he said. "They tell me it is green water."

"Green water?"

"Ja. The water from the lavatories goes to a building over there and is made safe to use for the plants. It still smells bad though."

"I can put up with the smell. I like it here. Even if it smells of shit!" I laughed.

"I like it here, too. Now." And Otto smiled at me. "Last week I was lonely. There was no-one I wanted to talk to. This week is different. We are friends. I do not have friends at home."

I didn't know how to answer him. I wanted to take hold of his hand and hold it. To squeeze it. To let him know that I understood. I think I understood. No I was sure I did. I just couldn't put it into words. Not with parents so near. Not in public. If we had been two girls we could have been holding hands. Girls can do what boys can't. It is one of the unfair things in life.

"I think I understand, Otto. I do. There is something special about today. I think I understand." I tried to look reassuring, just in case I really didn't, and just succeeded in making a stupid face. I so wanted to take hold of his hand. I did manage to brush his knuckles with mine. I wasn't sure that I was getting the messages correct. I was scared that I was translating what I heard into what I wanted to hear. "I am having a wonderful time." I added.

I wonder if John is feeling about me the same as I feel about him. I like very much the idea of a swim in the sea. It will be private. If I tell him there, then it will seem so correct, so perfect. The beach is a romantisch place I think. I feel romantisch.

Our meal seems to pass so slowly. Our table is not near John's. My father smokes cigarettes during his meal. John's parents are sitting in the area for those who do not smoke. And we leave the restaurant before him.

My Mother spends at least five times as much time as normal getting ready to go out. Even my Father notices this and asks her to be quick! She is not pleased! My Father is suddenly quiet. It is best to be quiet when my Mother is not pleased.

Even so, it did not matter. We were in the lobby before John. They arrived after five minutes, and we left our keys in the box at reception. And then walked down towards the sea. The two men were talking oil and beer. John's father can speak some German, and mine more English. The women were managing with a bit of sign language. John's mother speaks accent with some German. Mine speaks a little English. They seem to be talking about plants.

John notices the horrible smell from the green water for the plants, and I explain it to him. I nearly tell him what I am bursting to say to him. "Last week, I was lonely," I tell him. "There was no-one I wanted to talk to. This week is different. We are friends. I do not have friends at home." I am suddenly afraid that I am wrong about him. That I am about to be hated......

I see him sigh. "I think I understand, Otto," John says to me. He has a very silly look on his face. "I do. There is something special about today. I think I understand." I think he understands. I am uncertain, but it is possible that he does understand. But if he understands, what does he feel? "I am having a wonderful time," he says. "I think it is partly the place, and partly because you are my friend, Otto. Mostly because of the friendship."

My heart leaps again. He is sending me strong messages. At least I may hope that he will listen when I speak.

The beach is beautiful, and it is still light. But it gets dark fast here. We are only just north of the tropics. As we walk into town, along the sea front we are almost silent. It is time to leave the adults, I think. "John, shall we explore on our own?"

"Yes. I'll tell Dad." And he turns. "Dad?"

"Yes, John?"

"Otto and I are going to explore on our own."

"OK, You remember what we arranged about the room key? And you will both take care?"


"Yeah, OK. But I worry."

"OK, Dad. We'll be fine!"

So John and I walk away from the group, and back towards the bright lights of the bars on the sea front. I am starting to be comfortable about telling him. We walk very close together. Sharing silence, sharing space. We walk as it becomes completely dark.

It isn't in the past anymore. This is now. I am suddenly in the present. It was all history up until now. Now we are in the real world of decisions. I've almost made my decision.

We've been walking for a while, and the light has been going fast. The bars and restaurants have bright lights, and they're full of holidaymakers having a good time. Families, kids, Brits wearing football strip - why do we do that? I mean I support a team myself, but I don't wear their uniform - and we are walking back to the beach. And I am in love. And I am walking with the boy I love. And wondering if he just might return my love.

I walk with John back towards the beach. I have to make my decision soon. I am almost reaching it. I love him. My heart is full with joy, yet I am nervous. I have not told someone that I love them before.

We walk in silence, and yet to me the silence says everything..

We reach the beach. Carefully we climb down the rocks.

It is time. I follow Otto down onto the sand. I'm so scared. So completely scared. I am about to make the biggest fool of myself that I've ever made in my life.

John follows me down to the beach. We have our shoes off. We have sand between our toes.



We speak at once. In chorus. "I love you, John." "I love you Otto."

We are in each other's arms. He kisses me. I kiss him. We are crying and laughing. We move as one. I cannot tell which is me and which is him. Language doesn't matter. Our language is touch. It is whispered love. It is nothing. It is tongues meeting, fighting for space. It is breath mingling, desperate holding, fighting to bring him close to me. Who am I? I am he. He is me. We are one person. A whole person. The gay German boy and the blond English boy. The one whose parents know he is gay and the other whose parents are sure he is not. And we kiss. All risk is gone. I love him. He loves me. We are together, on a warm sandy beach in a holiday resort in Lanzarote.

"Oh Otto. You love me? I thought, I hoped, I wanted, Oh Otto I love you. I can't believe it. I am so happy." And I am in tears. I am crying my heart out and holding him so tight. And he strokes my hair. And he is crying too.

"I loved you as soon as I met you, John. I dared to hope. I am gay, John. I have been gay as long as I have known myself. Are you willing to be known as gay? I love you, John. I love you so much." I am crying, tears are streaming down my face. He is holding me tight, and I am stroking his hair. He is so schoen. My boyfriend John.

I have never felt this feeling. It's wonderful. "Otto?"

"Yes, my Liebling?"

"Otto, it almost seems wrong but I want to learn how to make love to you. I don't know how to please you. I don't know what to do. I don't want to get it wrong...."

He is asking me how to make love to me. And I do not know. It almost feels wrong to break the spell. But I want him. I have wanted him since I met him. It is love, now, not sex.

"I want only what you want. I do not know how to please you either. If I offend you, you will tell me, yes?

"Nothing you do will offend me, Otto. I am yours completely. Teach me what you want me to do, and I will do anything for you.

And he kisses me again, and I look to see that we are on a very dark part of the beach, and I guide his hands to my back, and to the bottom of my shirt. I move his hands under my shirt, and feel him on my skin. At the same time I lift his shirt, and I feel his chest against mine, hot skin against skin. I love him. I will give him a present. I lie him down onto the sand, still warm after the heat of the day, and I kiss his chest, ands kiss down to his belly and lower the waistband of his shorts. I see his skin in the starlight, for there is no moon, and we are in the shadows from the lights of the hotel nearby. I kiss down to where my face meets the hard, hot tip of his boyhood, and I open my lips to take it into my mouth. I have always wanted to do this. It tastes of John. Salt, and yet sweet. He smells of soap, and of John. My nose is full of the smell of him, and my ears hear him gasp as I move his foreskin back over the head. I hear him gasp my name as I move my head ever faster up and down the shaft, tasting him against my tongue, holding the shaft with both hands, now moving one to his behind, pulling him into me, almost making me gag, and yet not, and I feel him tense and say "I am going to cum, Otto. I am going to cum." And his back arches and his cheeks tighten and I place a hand over his mouth - he must not cry out, we must not be heard here - and his cock starts to spurt into my mouth like a fountain, once, twice three times, more, more, more, and I swallow often to take it all. And it tastes of John. It tastes of the boy I love.

"Oh Otto. I never knew it could feel like that. I never knew," he says as I take my hand from his mouth. "I never knew."

And still out of breath he kisses me and moves down on my body. "I'll show you how it feels," he says, and is doing the same for me. I feel his breath on my chest, and his lips as he kisses me. I am so hard, his orgasm was so strong, so erotic, I am almost cumming with anticipation, and I feel him lower my shorts and his lips as they tough the tip of my foreskin are like the kiss of a butterfly, and I know, now, why he gasped. "Oh John, I love you," I tell him, to be rewarded with his lips gripping my foreskin and his hand gripping the shaft of my cock, and his tongue licking just under the tip at the point where I am the most sensitive, and I feel his mouth moving up and down and the hard ridge inside the roof of his mouth rubbing against the sensitive cockhead, and I am driven to cry out, but his hand, too, touches my mouth as mine was on his. And I feel a huge tingling in my legs and belly, and a sensation bigger than I have ever felt before from my knees to my waist and I feel his hands, one working the shaft and the other forcing itself between my buttocks, and I hear him working hard, and I suddenly fire into his mouth with no warning, so hard, so violently, so often, and I am breathless, drained.

And he takes his hand from my mouth. "I love you, John. I love you so very, very much." And he kisses my mouth, and I learn what I taste like, and it is like him, yet different.

Otto is kissing me on my chest. He has made me lie down on my back. I have an idea what is about to happen, and I'm in heaven. I feel him moving down to my waist, kissing me as he does so, and I feel him ease the shirts down, exposing my virginity to his gaze. And he kisses my cock. He kisses my cock! Before today I had never dreamed it might happen, and I can only gasp his name as his lips touch it. No-one has touched my cock before. It feels so different from anything I could imagine, especially as his pulls my foreskin back and touches me all over with his tongue. His hand is on the shaft and he is starting to move up and down, fucking his o, I'm face with my cock. Oh, it is wonderful, and I am so excited it will not take long to make me, "I'm going to cum, Otto. I am going to cum!" But all he does is puts his hand gently over my mouth. I know we must not be heard, and yet I almost want to scream out my love for him. I bite the sound back as a huge pressure builds deep inside me, and tearing sensation and the seed pulsing, its way to the tip of my cock, into his mouth. Oh, I have never felt like this, it is so good, he isn't stopping. He must stop. I can't stand it. Ahhhhhhhhh! I gasp silently as I can.

"Oh Otto. I never knew it could feel like that. I never knew," I whisper as he took his and from my mouth. "I never knew." And breathless as I was, and still feeling drained I want to return the feeling to him at once.

And I move down onto his chest and try to do for him exactly as he just did for me. It is so new. I never dreamed of doing this for a boy. He smells of sweat, and sun cream, and soap. He is Otto. He is my love, and the one thing I want is to please him. I am a good learner. I hope I am a good learner. I can feel his cock through his shorts. I am torn between giving him a fast, hard orgasm, or with a slower, longer, lingering one. But it is settled for me. I see his cock, it is beautiful, straining at my mouth, and I touch the tip with my lips, disturbing a drop of salt-sweet pre-cum. I never imagined it would taste like this. It is disturbing and wonderful. I pull back his foreskin and the scent of his cock invades my nose. Odd, stronger, pure sex. Pure Otto. And I lick it all over, and pull it into my mouth with suction alone, moving the hard ridge of my palate with some force on the upper side and licking the arrow of skin where it joins the head with my tongue. I hear him gasp "Oh John, I love you", and I work hard at the task, his scent filling my being, and I place my hand on my mouth, just briefly, as a signal for silence. It feels as though I need three hands. I move the one from the shaft to between his butt cheeks and grip hard as I feel him tense and clench hard in my fingers, and then his seed is spraying into my mouth. He will never stop, and I want it all. I pull and suck and lick and make him squirm in agonies of orgasm, and I have him all.

And I remove my hand from his mouth, and he whispers to me "I love you, John. I love you so very, very much." And I move up to his mouth and kiss him, and our tongues find each other's taste and we become one again. We are one.

Which am I? John or Otto? Does it matter. I am the boy on holiday in Lanzarote who has found love. I am on the warm sand of the beach in Playa Blanca, just shaded from the hotel and promenade lights. I am holding my love tight, and I will not let him go. Not ever. At the end of this holiday we will find a way to be together. One of our sets of parents understands already. The other has yet to understand. But I, we, will make them understand, for I love him, and I will not be parted from him.

But, for now, we are together, as one person, on the beach at the end where the jet skis are hired out. And we are holding each other. And I am him and he is me. And he loves me.

And we are one, now.

Talk about this story on our forum

Authors deserve your feedback. It's the only payment they get. If you go to the top of the page you will find the author's name. Click that and you can email the author easily.* Please take a few moments, if you liked the story, to say so.

[For those who use webmail, or whose regular email client opens when they want to use webmail instead: Please right click the author's name. A menu will open in which you can copy the email address (it goes directly to your clipboard without having the courtesy of mentioning that to you) to paste into your webmail system (Hotmail, Gmail, Yahoo etc). Each browser is subtly different, each Webmail system is different, or we'd give fuller instructions here. We trust you to know how to use your own system. Note: If the email address pastes or arrives with %40 in the middle, replace that weird set of characters with an @ sign.]

* Some browsers may require a right click instead