Hector stood on the balcony of his Island of Madeira rented vacation flat high on the hill, below the Regional Estrada 101 road, on the south side of Porto Moniz, and gazed down the red-tile roofs of the houses below him to the studio of the artist. There, as Hector had observed the previous day, the French doors to the artist's balcony were open and Hector was able to see that the artist's model--a handsome, perfectly formed Nordic young man with blond hair--had returned and had positioned himself, nude, on the blue-velvet-covered dais.
Hector had come onto the scene as the young man was stripping off his T-shirt and athletic shorts. He smiled at what the model couldn't see--the old artist in the background giving the model a look of pure lust. What struck Hector about the model this time that he hadn't seen the last because the body was pretty well painted when he saw him the first time, was that the model was tanned berry brown from the sun except for the whiteness of what a Speedo had covered during the tanning process. Hector found this contrast of light and dark skin color, highlighting the young man's pelvis and privates, particularly arousing. As had occurred the previous day, the artist painted the young man's nude body with swirling paints in green, blue, red, and yellow, as the young man stretched out in a provocative pose.
The painting done, the artist pulled out of the scene to return with a hand-held camera. Seeing that he had reached that stage, Hector withdrew into his room and returned with his own professional photographer's Canon EOS Rebel T7 camera with a telephoto lens. As the artist moved around the young, nude-but-painted male model, Hector snapped off photos as well.
The photo session having ended in the artist's studio, the artist, a gray-haired, somewhat paunchy bearded man, withdrew again, but he returned quickly. Now he was nude as well and in erection. This was why Hector was playing the voyeur here. The scene Hector had seen played out the previous day was repeated this day. In a ruse of removing the paint from the young model's body, the artist was fondling and trying to arouse the handsome blond. His hands were moving everywhere with a washcloth. He briefly had the young man in his embrace, and one hand on the young man's cock, stroking it, and the other on his own, when the model pushed him away, rolled off the dais, and disappeared from view. The model must not have taken too badly to the fondling, though, as it had brought him an erection as well. The gray-haired, hirsute old artist remained, sprawled out on the dais, and stroked his cock to completion.
Hector had stopped taking photos from afar when the model had rather gently pushed the artist away and disappeared from view, but he lingered, one hand holding the camera and the other handing the shaft he'd freed from the fly in the sleeping shorts he'd been wearing. As he continued to look down the slope into the artist's studio, the artist looked up and saw Hector. He smiled, but he didn't stop masturbating himself. For a few moments, there was a connection between the two men, their attention linked and their hands working their own shaft. Hector had a notion to time his hand-stroked ejaculation with that of the artist, but he thought better of it and stopped short of coming. The old artist finished without him, rose from the dais, and closed the French doors--not without pausing and looking up at Hector, though, to establish that Hector had been seen responding to him.
Just to make Hector sure he had been seen, the artist gave him a smile and a salute.
There had been a time when Hector had been a male model and had given himself to old artists such as that to cover his room and board in Barcelona. But now, at thirty-eight but still in tip-top shape, dark, a bit foxy, and sexily hirsute, he was more inclined to pursue young men such as the Nordic-blond male model. That didn't mean, however, that he would not go under a man like the old artist if he suited him to do so at any given moment. Old men often had the best technique. And the artist showed that he was hung.
Hector easily understood how the young man enflamed the older artist. He was equally--and perhaps more so--enflamed himself not just by the young man's luscious body but also by his somewhat teasing rejection of the artist's attention. When the rejection came, it was in the vein of "maybe not a forever rejection."
Hector ached to be with the young, nude model himself and to explore beyond that teasing rejection. Could it be that, despite the willingness to model in the nude and to be painted and photographed, the young man remained totally undebauched--untouched internally--by another man? If so, Hector ached to be the man who first had the model. He equally, and maybe more so, ached to observe the young man having penetrative love with another man and to photograph that. Hector did well, financially, from the male nudes in sexual congruous he sold on the Internet. He'd been told that Maderia was a good source of subjects--a good destination for vacationing gay men. He'd found young men willing to pose for him in this remote seaside village on the northwest tip of the island, but none as enticing or arousing as Nordic beauty in the artist's studio lower on the hill.
When Hector turned and moved back inside his bedroom, he gave a little laugh. Filipe had waited for him. Hector had picked up the young man at a café overlooking the marina just that morning. Filipe had readily agreed to pose for him--and more--and didn't mind to be shown nude on the Internet for what Hector paid him. Hector had inherited almost unlimited funds, so he never second guessed what he would have to pay for sex or a photo shoot. He didn't mind spreading the wealth at a price high enough to strip the model of his clothes--and more.
Filipe lay on the bed, on his back, legs splayed, knees bent, and pelvis rolled up, showing his gaping hole. His shoulder blades pressed into the brass headboard, and his arms were raised, his hands gripping the top rail of the headboard's brass rails. He was small and bronze-bodied. He was willowy, only lightly muscled. His body was young and fresh. Hector had already fucked him twice during the photo session. The young man's face was set in a slight, "well-taken" smile, his eyes glazed, swimming in cum, and his mouth slightly parted.
"
Volte para a cama, papai. Me ferre de novo
--Come back to bed, Daddy. Screw me again," Filipe murmured.
"In a moment," Hector said. "Arch your back, please. Make love to my camera with your eyes."
Felipe complied and Hector took the telephoto lens off his camera and took a few minutes to move around the bed firing off shots of the young man. He was in almost painful erection, however, having chosen not to come with the old artist down the hill.
The young man laughed as Hector put the camera aside and mounted the bed, running an arm under Felipe's waist and turning him over on his belly.
"On your knees," he growled.
Felipe's amusement turned to a cry of surprise, though, when Hector immediately threw a leg over the young man's hip, grasped Felipe's hips between his hand, mounted him high and from behind, plunged inside him, and vigorously fucked him for the third time. The first two times his mind had been consumed by the lithe, berry-brown body of the smiling Felipe, but this third time he was thinking of the Nordic blond who had teased and then turned away the old artist down the hill.
Filipe clearly believed the shaft was all for him. "
Oh, papai, papai. Você é um touro. Você é tão grande. Oh, papai!
--Oh, Daddy, Daddy. You're a bull. You're so big," he cried out.
* * * *
"
Você não terminou comigo
." Hector had been sitting at an outdoor café next to the Aqua Natura Bay Hotel above the Porto Moniz harbor, watching the young man from the old artist's photo shoot work on a sleek sailing boat and hadn't seen the man approach. He knew who it was when he saw him--the old artist. But Hector didn't understand what the man said and looked confused. Catching onto that, the artist said, "Oh, excuse me. Do you only speak English? I said that you didn't finish with me the other day."
"I speak Spanish as well as English," Hector answered. "My mother was English; my father Spanish. I don't speak Portuguese. That was Portuguese, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"You speak English so well, we can use that language. Will you please sit with me and have a coffee?"
"We will need another chair," the old artist said. "I have brought Bruno with me." Bruno was a good name for the man standing behind the artist. He was body-builder muscular, and it was evident that he didn't speak or understand a word of English but that he'd be here as long as the old artist wanted him to be. He was not the greatest looking in the face and was bald, but he had a magnificent body poured into athletic shorts and a red-mesh muscle shirt. His feet were in open-toed sandals, showing meaty toes. The artist was dressed like an artist--a sailor's tunic over peddle-pusher cotton pants and espadrilles without socks on his feet. The graybeard looked good other than having a slight paunch. Hector knew from observation that the older man was hung and still was able to get it up at his age.
"My name is Pedro. Pedro Costas," the old artist said "And, as you observed, I am a photography artist. I think maybe you are too, as you were using your camera."
"Yes I am. I am Hector Fernandez. And, please, you and your friend are welcome to sit and drink coffee with me. Is Bruno here one of your male models?"
"Yes, he is. Isn't he gorgeous? I shouldn't accept a coffee from you, as you would not come with me. I should pout. But I will take the coffee." With that, he sat in the chair across from Hector and Bruno pulled up a chair from another table and sat beside and somewhat behind the old artist.
"I apologize," said Hector. "I had a young man in my bed I was neglecting. I didn't want to waste what I meant for him."
"Ah, then, you are forgiven--but only to another time."
