To Marbella

The sun was shining with a special light, fiercely rivaling the November cold and the wind whipped up by the waves. He woke up early, happy for the first time in a long while, and left his house around 8. On the way, he drove the BMW with excitement, blasting songs at full volume from Madonna, Lady Gaga, Tate McRae, Renée Rapp, and Olivia Rodrigo. He was so pumped that on some stretches of the highway he went faster than the legal limit. And that’s not even mentioning how he had to prove to some guy that, even though his BMW had the most basic diesel engine, it could still smoke a Volkswagen.

After parking and glancing around to confirm his car was probably the cheapest one in the area, he walked toward the first shop—a Rolex boutique. Before going in, he looked down to check he was dressed appropriately for the occasion: a red sweater over a white polo, light jeans, a dark navy blazer, and his Longines. He was happy with the outfit.

He stepped inside and waited to be served, standing out sharply among the local posh crowd and the influencers pretending to be important. He was looking at a yellow-gold Daytona with a green bezel when a woman in her forties—who had clearly had some work done—approached him with a catalog-perfect smile.

“Good morning, sir. Are you looking for something specific, or just browsing?” she asked politely. Fiti couldn’t tell if the politeness was genuine or fake.

“I was thinking of buying a watch,” he said, as casually as if he were picking up a T-shirt. “I came into some money, and what better way to spend it than on something that lasts as long as diamonds?” he added with a little joke at the end.

She smiled elegantly. “Did you have any particular model in mind?” she asked. Young guys usually came in after studying the website.

He tilted his head, nodded, and gave a half-smile. “I’ve got two in mind—let’s see if you have them in stock.”

She gestured with her right hand, flashing that same catalog smile again. “Follow me, please,” was all she said before starting to walk.

They went to her desk. He told her what he wanted: a steel Datejust with a blue dial and a Day-Date like Tony Soprano’s, full yellow gold—though he also asked for the bezel to have baguette diamonds and for it to be 40 mm instead of the standard 36. Luckily, the Datejust was available, so he bought it on the spot and put a deposit on the Day-Date.

Back on the street, he returned to the car to stash the Longines in the glovebox and put on the Rolex. Even though it was one of the cheapest models and made of the same steel as the Longines, something about it made him feel important. Sure, in this city that watch would be what the servants and the “poorer” class wore, but that didn’t diminish the feeling.

He strolled along the seafront, enjoying the ocean. It was funny—he’d lived on the coast for years and had never done this, never walked so close to the water. He didn’t like the beach and still didn’t, but today felt like the right day for it, even with the biting cold exaggerated by the sea wind and humidity.

After about twenty minutes he reached his next stop: the Aston Martin dealership. It might seem an odd choice for an exotic car—everyone thought Ferrari, Lamborghini, Bugatti first—but that wasn’t what he wanted. He just wanted a proper GT with a big engine and the comforts of a Rolls-Royce or Bentley, and only the British brand offered that.

He walked in and looked at the models while waiting to be served. This time the wait was less boring than at the boutique. He liked watches, but his real passion—aside from his predictions and fetishes—was cars.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a young man in a classic three-piece suit hurry over. “Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you with anything?” he asked directly.

Fiti stopped staring at the carbon-trimmed DB12. “Yes, I want to buy a DBS,” he replied just as directly. He liked the guy’s no-nonsense attitude. “Do I look like I’m joking?” he added when the salesman looked at him in disbelief.

The salesman grinned and let out a small huff. “Sorry, it’s just that people your age usually go for something flashier than an Aston Martin.”

Fiti smiled back. “That’s because people my age don’t know shit about cars,” he said matter-of-factly, without sounding aggressive.

The salesman laughed quietly and pointed at him. “You and I are going to get along just fine. Come with me.” It came out naturally.

They went to a room full of paint samples and upholstery swatches. Fiti didn’t overcomplicate things—he didn’t want anything extravagant or vulgar. He chose a Volante in dark British racing green with silver/chrome accents, cream-brown leather interior, and wood inserts. He loaded it with every luxury option the brand offered but none of the performance ones. It was a convertible grand tourer, not a race car.

When the configuration was done and he’d paid the deposit, he also arranged to pick the car up in person at the Aston Martin factory and do some test runs before driving it out into the world. Under normal circumstances he’d have thought it a waste of time, but the moment the salesman mentioned Fernando Alonso would be there, he couldn’t sign the check fast enough.

Back outside the dealership with the reservation papers for his new car, he returned to the BMW. On the drive he gazed at the scenery with a goofy grin and hummed a song to himself. This was what being a millionaire felt like, and he had to admit—it felt fucking amazing. Though, truth be told, not all of his joy came from his new lifestyle.

While driving toward Marbella, he called an escort agency in the area. He didn’t want to lose his virginity, but he did want to try things he couldn’t do alone. The idea of a woman humiliating and insulting him while he paid her an obscene amount of money made his dick hard. Hard to notice, though, since he still had it set to a maximum of 2.5 cm.

Before meeting the girl they’d assigned him, he decided to stop at the L’Ore shopping center. He didn’t want to go home without a gift for his mother, and what could be better than a Birkin? He went straight into the Hermès boutique and started looking, finally settling on a light-brown one because it was his mom’s favorite color. He waited behind an elderly couple until it was his turn to pay.

At the register it took him a few seconds to recognize the girl behind the counter. “Nila, is that you?” he asked, realizing it was his old childhood friend. Apparently she worked there now.

Her eyes lit up and her mouth fell slightly open. “Fiti?” She beamed the same way. They both smiled—it had been years. “What the hell are you doing buying a 30,000-euro Birkin?” she asked, still shocked and confused. He hadn’t come from money; he’d been raised by a single mom.

He laughed nervously and scratched his head. “Long story. I think I’m holding up the line,” he said when he heard someone behind him grumbling—some guy who looked like a Llados fan.

She raised her left hand. “Hold on a sec.” She stepped away from the register, spoke to a colleague, then disappeared into the back room. Her colleague finished ringing up the bag and gift-wrapped it. Just as she finished, Nila came out dressed in her usual alternative, aesthetic style.

They left the shop and went to a nearby restaurant. She hadn’t changed a bit—still the same girl at war with her parents, trying to make it in music, just as direct and stubborn as when they met at age six. In a quick glance he also noticed her body was still as voluptuous and curvy as it had been in more than a few of his fantasies.

At the restaurant they caught up. It had been almost four years since they’d seen each other in person, and a lot had happened. They talked about university, her boyfriend, how he’d won the lottery, and everything else. It felt like no time had passed at all.

They were reminiscing about old stories—specifically the goodbye party his friends threw him before he moved. They were cracking up about something that had happened to Mario, a mutual friend. “What I still don’t get,” Nila said in her velvety voice, grabbing her glass of passionfruit Fuze Tea, “is how much you had to drink to end up licking Isabel’s boots in the middle of the living room.” She laughed quietly. Isabel had been his “girlfriend” when they were kids.

He took a sip of his Coke Zero, blushing and getting hard at the same time. Truth was he hadn’t drunk much—just one vodka-lemon—but he and Isabel had argued, and somehow he’d ended up licking the soles of her boots while she insulted him. It was the first time he’d brought one of his fantasies into real life, and he’d loved it so much he nearly came on the spot.

He gave a nervous half-smile. “We’ll never know,” he said with the glass still at his lips, closing the subject. They ate in silence for a bit. “So, still making music?” he asked to change the topic.

She clicked her tongue. “Yeah, my boyfriend and I have a band with some friends—Sheila’s in it too, remember her?” He nodded. “But it’s tough. At the end of the day we’re a Spanish heavy-metal band; the audience just isn’t there.” She sounded frustrated.

He leaned forward. “Is that why you’re working at the shop?” She tilted her head yes. “Well, now that I’ve got money I could finance you guys,” he offered casually.

She raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you listen to anything that isn’t Madonna or Lady Gaga?”

He smirked. “I’ve broadened my musical tastes these past four years.” According to his mom—who’d apparently heard them—Nila’s band was pretty good.

They finished dessert and debated whether he should become their producer. In the end they agreed he’d come down to Benalmádena soon and they’d talk about it properly. They left the restaurant, said goodbye, and went their separate ways.

On the way to the hotel where the escort was waiting, Fiti started remembering the old days in Benalmádena—though his mind quickly zeroed in on one night in particular. At that same goodbye party, much later and without quite knowing how he’d ended up there, he found himself hiding in a bedroom closet just as María—his crush at the time—and Jackson, the Black American exchange student who honestly annoyed him a bit, stumbled in making out. Anyone else would have come out of the closet, but they were eighteen-year-old , so Fiti, with his pants already unbuttoned, decided to stay and watch.

The sex wasn’t particularly wild—Jackson went down on María, then she got on all fours—but the very obvious size difference and the way she moaned like a porn star had him on the edge the whole time, almost coming prematurely several times. In the end he finished at the same time as Jackson, though his load ended up in his own hand instead of inside the girl he liked.

At the hotel he went to room 13 in section A1. He was greeted by a petite but slender blonde wearing lace-and-leather lingerie and a genuinely charming smile. After letting him in, he sat on the bed. “All right, Mr. English, what’ll it be?” she asked cheerfully in a high, bright voice, using the alias he’d given.

He frowned curiously. “You seem awfully chipper,” he said respectfully, not accusingly.

She smiled briefly. “I’m pretty new to this whole ‘companion’ thing. I think I’m about your age.” He didn’t seem very experienced either—not like her usual clients.

He pursed his lips and nodded. Interesting. “Well, let’s not waste time,” he suggested. She gave him her full attention. He cleared his throat, trying to control his nervous excitement. “I want to smell, lick, and fuck your armpits, and I want you to teach me how to give proper oral.”

She looked at him strangely, her big blue eyes wide. “You don’t want to have normal sex?”

“I’m into more… niche stuff,” he answered smoothly.

“Well, damn—same as my boyfriend. Though he also likes it when I cheat on him; it’s one reason I took this job.” She sounded surprised and almost pleased. “You’re right, let’s not waste time—I’ve got a date later and I don’t want to charge you overtime.”

She sat in the middle of the bed. Fiti got on all fours as she raised her arms, revealing her armpits. They were snow-white and smooth as silk sheets—no creases, no irritation, and up close he saw not a single hair to ruin the view. The most perfect armpits he’d ever seen.

He slowly smelled the right one, letting the scent fill his nose. A little sweaty, but even that smelled like nectar from the gods. Hypnotized, he brought his right hand to his crotch and started rubbing the frenulum with his middle finger. He lost himself in the smell and reached the edge incredibly fast—even though he hadn’t set himself to come prematurely this time.

He went for it and started licking like it was the finest delicacy on earth. Every time his tongue swept across her soft skin, tasting the mix of his saliva and her sweat, a new wave of pleasure crashed over him so hard he thought he’d come right then. The waves grew stronger every time he remembered how tiny his dick was and what a special kind of perverted fetishist you had to be to pay an escort and focus only on her armpits. He could lose his virginity right now if he wanted—but he didn’t want to.

With his boxers already soaked from pre-cum, he stood up, yanked his pants down, and started fucking her armpit. He could see her discreetly laughing at his little friend, which only made him hornier. He thrust fast—like a rabbit—moaning louder as an intense orgasm built in his small cock.

He didn’t know exactly how long it lasted, but it was less than a minute. And he was right—it was one of the big ones; he left her armpit dripping. Before she could react, he dropped back to all fours and cleaned her with even more passion than before.

When she was spotless again, they looked at each other and smiled. “That was… a good experience,” she admitted.

He nodded. “And now I’m going to eat your pussy,” he remembered. “Guide me if I do it wrong.”

“I will,” she said, a little touched. Not many guys bothered to learn. “With that tiny thing you’re going to have to satisfy women some other way,” she added, making the universal small-dick gesture and teasing him. He clearly enjoyed humiliation too.

His now-soft cock twitched wildly and started growing again. Down between her legs, he was a little shocked by her pussy. He’d seen plenty in porn, but in person it hit different. He exhaled through his nose and brought his mouth to her.He moved his tongue rhythmically and slowly, focusing on the top where the clit was, giving little kisses and gentle suction—just like he’d seen in videos and read on forums. He must have been doing it right because she only corrected small things, and soon she was letting out a symphony of harmonious moans.

He lost track of time again. All he knew was that her pussy was soaked with a mix of her juices and his saliva, and his cock was rock-hard and throbbing, begging to be touched. He was in a trance he never wanted to end. But she interrupted to say she needed the bathroom.

Letting his basest desires take over, he practically begged her to use him as a toilet instead. She agreed. He knelt on the carpeted floor; she sat lightly on his mouth, aiming the stream. The moment he felt the sour liquid on his tongue, he jerked himself furiously with thumb and forefinger.Fiti felt like he was dreaming—a dream he never wanted to wake from. Mouth and throat flooded with piss, swallowing as fast as he could while she pressed his head against her so he couldn’t move, he came violently, smiling in pure bliss. He had found his place in life.