He stood under the shower at the Seaspray Surf and Lifesaving Club, just north of Sydney. And he really was beautiful. The refracted sunlight through the beer glass tiles added to the luster of his tan. His impossibly perfect torso was caressed by the cascading water, his hair limp and dark over his softly chiseled face. He had a nipple ring that looked comfortably at home on his luscious chest, and a dragon tattoo that hugged his back like a proprietorial lover. But my attention was attracted by his muscular hand pumping his slim, tanned cock with such force the veins stood out on his forearms.
Without glancing my way, he knew I was watching. He was performing for me, so I felt like holding up a placard with a bold 10 on it like they do at diving competitions. Instead, I just said, “Put it away, son. I know who you are.”
He glanced over through his mop of straggly hair matted with sun and saltwater, uncertain whether to continue.
“You’re one of Eric Layton’s sons, aren’t you? Not sure which one but…”
“Todd,” he muttered sheepishly as his cock began deflating. “You don’t like?” he asked, meaning himself.
“Oh, I like a lot,” I said and meant it. “But I’m not a complete fool.”
I was hoping to read disappointment in his features, but if it was there, I missed it. “Why don’t you dry off and I’ll see you outside,” I said. He nodded and began to spray the salt from his body. I took one last appreciative glance and he caught me. He smiled at the compliment.
