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Don't write any name in the sand

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Alessandro has never asked the Heavens for a taste of Paolo's lips - he's pretty sure all he could have obtained for such a plea is a lightning struck to him  - and, obviously, neither has he asked Paolo for it. Paolo's half-sleeping on his beach towel, his sons making sandcastles on the shore, watched by both Adriana and Gabriela as Sofia is sleeping in her stroller; he lies on his back, a folded cap on his eyes and a small red speedo on, barely restraining his bulge.

Alessandro would mouth at him through the lycra, if he could. Better: if he could have had an opportunity, he would have knelt down when they shared the bathing-hut and they were naked and close enough he could feel the warmth of Paolo's body. Or he would have harassed him one of the countless times they were alone in the locker room, the last ones to leave the training center. In vain. There is just one Paolo buckling under his unsuppressible desire: the one paying his visits after midnight, in Alessandro's mind.

One night, Alessandro can feel the warm, throbbing flesh of Paolo's cock inside his mouth, and he licks and sucks and even bites the sensitive skin covering it, making Paolo come on his own lips and face, not even troubled by how much Alessandro would look like a whore in such a case. (Could I be your whore, Paolo? I can be anything for you. Just ask me - command me, force me to.) And the next one, Alessandro pictures about Paolo fucking him relentelessly, one thrust harder and deeper after another, and yet more exciting and pleasant than any fingers of his sticked inside him, more than the cold inches of the dildo he secretly held in a hidden pocket of his travel bag. (He wouldn't even try to justify if someone found about it: he didn't buy it when he was eighteen and dealing with hormones turmoil. Actually, he was twenty-six. And hormones still make a mess of him, when Paolo is around.) He never dreamt of his ass, although: for how much he could indulge with fantasizing on the growing bulge before his eyes, he wouldn't even try to imagine that. Unless asked by Paolo in person, of course.

"... no need to stare at a hardon like you never saw one before", Paolo says in a tired whisper.

Alessandro stifles a laughter, regaining some kind of consciousness and closing his legs as he feels his swimsuit sticky of precum. "I was just wondering what you were dreaming about. It looked interesting... the dream, I meant."

"If you found my cock interesting, I would have asked you to lend a hand."

"You're the captain", he reluctantly jokes, and Paolo giggles, turning on his belly and trying to fall asleep again.

Alessandro can hear him breathing, a few inches away: he's warmer than the sun, and yet more distant and inaccessible than it.