The Swiss Boy and the Midnight Sun

The Australian sun is a brutal, unforlying bastard. It bleaches everything, cracks the earth, and bakes the brain. That’s my excuse, anyway, for why I did it. Why I, a thirty-five-year-old woman who’s been around more blocks than the local postie, ended up on my knees for a boy who probably still had his high school textbooks lying around. I work at this resort in the Whitsundays, all white sand and blue water that looks photoshopped. It’s a paradise for tourists and a grind for us. I manage the front desk, which means I smile, I check people in, I solve problems, and I see a constant stream of people living their best lives while I’m just… working.

Then he walked in. Christ. He was like something from a different planet. Not in a flashy way, but in a way that made the whole sun-bleached lobby seem to sharpen into focus. Lean, not like our surfers who are all wiry muscle, but with a sort of elegant leanness. He had that messy, sun-lightened brown hair that fell into his eyes, and eyes so blue they almost didn’t look real. He was tall, lanky, and he had that quiet, slightly awkward confidence of a kid who’s still growing into his body. His accent, when he spoke to book in, was pure Europe. German, maybe? Or Dutch. Something that clipped the words short and made my name, “Princes,” sound like a foreign film.

He was nineteen. I saw it on his passport when he handed it over. Nineteen. A fact that should have had me mentally categorising him with the other kids his age. But it didn’t. It just sat there, a dangerous, thrilling little piece of information.

I saw him around the pool for the next couple of days. He kept to himself, reading or just staring out at the water. There was a stillness to him that was captivating. Most guys his age are all loud banter and showing off. Not him. I’d catch his eye sometimes when I was on a break, and he’d give me a small, shy smile that didn’t quite match the intensity in his gaze. It was that gaze that did it. It wasn’t the look of a boy checking out an older woman. It was the look of a man who knew exactly what he was looking at, and he liked it.

The third night, my shift ended late. The resort was quiet, just the hum of the insects and the distant crash of the waves. I was heading to the staff parking lot when I saw him sitting on a bench near the pool, a lone figure in the dim light. He had a bottle of beer in his hand. He saw me and raised it in a silent toast.

“Could not sleep?” I asked, my voice sounding rougher than usual in the quiet.

“The heat is different here,” he said, his accent making the simple sentence sound profound. “It sticks to you.”

I walked over, my heels clicking on the pavement. I sat down next to him, not too close, but not far away either. The air between us was thick, charged with something I hadn’t felt in years. We talked. He told me he was travelling before university, that he was from a small town in Switzerland, that everything here was bigger, wilder. I told him a bit about my life, the edited version. The conversation wasn’t the point. It was just the noise we made while our bodies had a completely different, silent conversation.

“Your room has a better view than this,” I said finally, my heart hammering against my ribs. It wasn’t a question. It was an offer.

He just looked at me, those blue eyes dark in the low light, and nodded. “It does.”

We didn’t speak in the elevator. We didn’t speak as we walked down the plush hallway. The only sound was the jingle of his keycard and the heavy thud of my heart. The door clicked shut behind us, and the world outside ceased to exist.

He turned to me, and the shyness was gone, burned away by a raw, primal hunger. He kissed me, and it wasn’t the kiss of a boy. It was demanding, confident, all tongue and heat and a faint taste of beer. His hands were on my hips, pulling me against him, and I could feel the hard ridge of his cock through his shorts, pressing into my stomach. Fuck. He was big. The thought sent a jolt of pure, liquid fire straight to my core.

I pushed him back, just a little. “Let me look at you,” I whispered, my voice husky.

I undressed him slowly, peeling his shirt off to reveal a chest that was smooth and firm. He was beautifully made, all long lines and taut skin. Then I pushed his shorts and boxers down, and my breath caught in my throat. His cock sprang free, thick and hard and standing straight up against his stomach. It was perfect. Veiny and pale, with a smooth, flushed head that was already leaking a single, clear pearl of pre-cum. His balls were tight and heavy-looking, drawn up close to his body.

I looked up at him, and he was watching me, his chest rising and falling rapidly. There was no hesitation in me now. Just a deep, throbbing need. I got on my knees right there on the hotel room floor.

“Princes…” he breathed, his voice a strangled gasp.

I didn’t answer with words. I leaned forward and started at the very base of his shaft, planting a soft, open-mouthed kiss. I felt him shudder. I licked a long, slow stripe from the root all the way to the tip, swirling my tongue around the broad head, tasting his salt and his musk. I took him into my mouth, not all at once, but slowly, inch by exquisite inch, feeling him stretch my lips and fill my mouth. I set a rhythm, deep and slow, using my tongue to press and circle the sensitive spot just beneath his head.

My hands weren’t idle. One cupped and gently squeezed his balls, feeling their weight, rolling them in my palm. The other hand stroked what my mouth couldn’t take, my thumb rubbing over the damp tip with every downward movement of my head. I lost myself in it. In the sounds he was making, these guttural, helpless groans. In the way his hands tangled in my hair, not forcing, but guiding, pleading.

I pulled back, letting his wet cock slap against his stomach. I wanted all of him. I ducked my head lower, nuzzling his sac, taking one of his balls into my mouth and sucking gently, then the other. He was trembling, his thighs tense. I could smell his pure, masculine scent here, musky and intense. And I went further. I pressed my face into the hot, sensitive skin behind his balls, licking and kissing my way down to his tight, hidden hole.

The sound he made when my tongue first made contact was half-shout, half-sob. His whole body jolted. “Oh, Gott… what are you…?” I didn’t stop. I pressed the flat of my tongue against him, then focused the tip, circling that clenched, forbidden little pucker. I probed gently, tasting this most intimate part of him, feeling it quiver and twitch under my assault. It was filthy. It was divine. I was a thirty-five-year-old woman on her knees, eating out a teenage boy’s arsehole like it was my last meal, and I had never been more turned on in my life.

I could feel him losing control. His hips were starting to buck erratically. His breathing was a ragged mess. “I’m… I’m going to…” he choked out.

I immediately moved back up, taking his cock deep into my throat again. I wanted it. I wanted all of it. I looked up at him, meeting his wild, desperate eyes as I sucked him hard and fast, my head bobbing furiously. I plunged my face down, taking him as deep as I could, my nose buried in the coarse hair at his base. I hummed around his shaft, the vibration sending him over the edge.

With a broken cry, he came. It wasn’t a little spurt. It was a torrent, a hot, bitter flood that hit the back of my throat. I swallowed it all, milking him with my mouth and hand until he was soft and spent, until his legs gave way and he collapsed back onto the edge of the bed, pulling me up with him.

He was breathing like he’d just run a marathon, his body slick with sweat. He looked at me, dazed, wrecked, a look of pure, unadulterated awe on his face. “That was… I have never…” he stammered.

I just smiled, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, the taste of him still on my lips. The mature hotel worker had completely dismantled the young European traveller, and we both knew it. And the night, I knew, was far from over.