Mediterranean sun broiled them on the Costa Garraf. Paul Lowery didn't find this sun as wearying as that under the Rockies. There, on the Western Slope, rarefied daylight hammered skin.
Now in Spain on the beach smothering clamminess sapped him. Surprisingly enough, especially during midday, Lowery had more trouble breathing at sea level than he'd initially encountered at mountainous heights.
Accustomed to heat, he blamed the humidity.
Lowery never stated his discomfort to his companions. Two women, nude as himself, substantially younger, flanked him. All reclined in their own chaises. The women firm, invulnerable, existed in some impervious condition Lowery remembered better than he could actually summon. Immunized by vigor the pair might sympathize with his plight but wouldn't understand for at least another 15 years.
Probably his same response at their age.
The trio lay on resort town sand west of Barcelona. One of the more obscure refuges, it drew few Americans. Of straight stripe at least. Perhaps it was the disproportionate percentage of gays who thronged the town's lanes and filled the cribs ramping up the hills that repulsed and fascinated their starkly hetero sun-worshipping fellow countrymen. Most of them anyway.
Occasional trainloads of looky-lous detrained long enough to gawk at the environ's lively color then venture near water's edge to gaze and drool over the taut browning flesh casually offered beneath this sun.
Having attended many pro golf tournaments, Lowery needed to visit Spain before hearing his first-ever discreet camera click. To his ear in the States such sneaked photography reminded him of loading cartridges into rifle chambers. Here the same was muffled. As if all those bated breaths somehow diminished the tattling clacks.
Another condition he ascribed to the humidity.
Lowery pulled his lean form upright. His feet landed on dense warm grain. Sweat had glued his scrotum inside his thighs. One tug and the boys joined his dong in freedom.
The walk to the Mediterranean was short. Lowery waded into the lukewarm sea until buoyant. He swam out several dozen yards then returned to shore. Dripping on the beach, the effort failed reinvigorating him.
Every dip in the sea seemed as though he'd only immersed himself in a big pool of perspiration. Large as it was, this water was nowhere near as bracing as any Western stream. And Lowery knew cold water. Aside from swimming pools, his balls had shrunk, breathing seized and limbs tightened in many a winter run-off fed lake or trace.
Those things kept beer real cold, too.
He trudged back to his companions. Along the way two hairless skinny Spanish boys, darkening towards mahogany, walked across his sightline. For him a glance sufficed. They slowed, sizing him up.
One of Lowery's admirers had the telltale bent anteater indicative of tight cock ring overdependence. This beach had exhibited penises in myriad shapes, lengths and conditions. Not that Lowery was any kind of penile expert, but the last time he'd seen a tool veering 90 degrees had been in his college dorm's communal showers.
Some things one never forgot. After dicey inquiry, he and his dormmates found out the prick's owner straightened it out and drove it into mujeres and muchachas. Lowery thought almost 30 years between bent-dick sightings a good thing.
To the naked brown beachcombers Lowery called out: "Sorry, boys! All this is for ladies only!"
He stopped between the two women. Lowery's panderers, pouting, disappointed, moved on. He snickered to himself then reached down to pluck his towel from the chaise and wipe off the sweaty sea mixture.
Nancy Kirkwood, a sharp-featured brunette, still dozed. Stretched level further flattened her small chest. Upright at least she benefited from minor tugs of gravity. The chaise exaggerated her belly's plain. This way she could've been mistaken for emaciated. Following the trend, Nancy had shaven her mons bare. No forest. No patch. Just a slit leading into passion delivering folds.
Their sorrel-tressed sidekick, pro-golfer Kathy Peck, might've been regarded as sunny if calm intelligence hadn't won out over enigmatic beauty. Until this social detour, Kathy had little appreciation of how a well-trained prick could expand her outlook on life. Awake now, she idly stared between his legs. While he toweled off, Lowery made sure his steam and nuts jiggled.
Not only had his trick let Kathy whimper in guilty joy, but his ball sac fascinated her. All aspects of it. The hair. Its texture. The weight of his nuts in her palms or hanging off her chin or against her ass. Then again a man in his entirety came as one late revelation to Kathy.
The boys who'd sexually indoctrinated her let the male side down. Hardwired as Kathy was towards her own fair sex, those spare early spearing experiences offered little laudable about the alternative. Whatever curiosity Kathy had for dick died through lousy lays. Given the unexpected opportunity in Spain, Lowery did what he could to fix that.
Her late discovery of the male member's capabilities was an unintended benefit of their trip. Initially all Spain involved was brief escape.
Kathy Peck had been the wild card in the relationship between Lowery and Nancy. A more substantial woman than slinky Nancy, Kathy's bosom was comparatively voluptuous. Firm as her 20-something tits were, each nipple still gravitated towards its respective side.
A minor rim of healthy fat circled Kathy's belly button. After pure smooth flesh a slim proud "V" of roughage hid her sex. Kathy's rounder thighs made Nancy's muscular ones look stringy. Given their respective professions, Lowery thought the opposite would've been true.
Contemporaries, Kathy Peck was Nancy Kirkwood's other lover. Paul Lowery was one of the very few men he knew who upon learning his girl shared pillows, sheets and sighs with another woman never felt his manhood assaulted. Nor did he ever beg to watch them together. Nancy wasn't a type. She preferred a sexual smorgasbord. That Nancy seemed an almost insatiable sexual dervish helped him accept her voracity.
Having gone around the block several times, Lowery was sure enough of himself not to occupy his vanity about which of them sated Nancy best. Besides, Kathy was getting more and more comfortable with his new insertion into their arrangement. Since women were prone to blab he'd hear the good stuff soon enough.
Lowery met Kathy through Nancy. He met Nancy at his place of employment, a resort.
A summer earlier, Paul Lowery gloried in another morning in his dream job. He served as facilities manager at a year-round recreational venue. In winter, nearby deep powder lured skiers. During spring and summer, the golf course attracted occasional second-tier tournaments and always attracted well-heeled Intermountain duffers. Year-round tennis was available either on open-air courts or inside bubbles.
Nestled in a valley, the main hostelry loomed manor-like.
A more ideal job Lowery couldn't have designed for himself. He'd grown up skiing, golfing and playing tennis. Now in his late 40s, he retained the lean supple build vital in order to perform each endeavor gracefully.
While he never considered himself a ladykiller in the looks department, a constant presence outdoors etched ennobling character lines in his face. Ease at demonstrating athletic prowess rounded off his demeanor. He had an easy smile people often mistook as being genuine. Brown eyes men found trustworthy swallowed women. These days far more salt than pepper flavored his hair. During the colder months he wore a brush cut and swore by butch wax; otherwise buzz cuts sufficed.
