My First Time with a Man Was on a Work Trip

I’m forty-nine years old, I’ve been married for twenty-two years, and for the last five my marriage has been losing whatever little spark it had left in bed. My wife still loves me and I still love her, but sex turned into a formality. She lies there very still, almost absent, and I end up finishing more out of habit than desire.

Maybe that’s why, some time ago, I started noticing other things when I watched porn. I stopped looking only at women and began getting hooked on cocks, balls, those close-ups where some guy comes all over his stomach with his hand marked by veins.

I’m straight, I’ve been straight my whole life, but I discovered that I’d get hard as a rock watching a man with a stiff cock. I went from straight porn to bisexual porn, and from there to fantasizing about what it would be like to have a dick in my mouth. That fantasy stayed locked away for months, until the trip came.

For internal audit reasons, my company sent me to the Costa del Sol for two weeks to inspect three branches we have spread between Málaga, Fuengirola, and Marbella. I’d gone more than three weeks without touching my wife and, to be honest, she didn’t seem to be missing me either. She’d only asked me to come back with gifts.

The hotel room was one of those big ones, with a giant bed and a narrow balcony facing the seafront promenade. As soon as I walked in and set down my suitcase, I said out loud what I’d been keeping to myself for months: “here, with another guy, something serious would happen.” And for once I wasn’t embarrassed to think it.

I opened my laptop that very night.

I didn’t want just any guy. I had my conditions, clear as if they’d been written down for me. No gym-honed muscle guys plastered in tattoos; they seem like a caricature to me. No exaggerated cocks either: I preferred something average, neither big nor small, mainly because I imagined being afraid it would hurt me if things went wrong. No hairy men: the very idea of having hair on my tongue killed the mood.

After three days answering messages calmly, I stopped at one. A man from Córdoba who was also in the area for work, married, and, above all, just as inexperienced as I was. The fact that he was married was what finally convinced me: those of us who are married know how to keep things discreet better than anyone. We arranged to meet on Thursday at eight in the evening in a small bar near the cathedral.

That afternoon I got off work at six-thirty. I went straight back to the hotel and took care of myself with a care I hadn’t given myself since the honeymoon. Long shower, soap in places I normally barely touch, a quick trim of the bare minimum, just the right amount of cologne. I tried on three shirts until I found the one that hid the belly I’ve been dragging around since I was forty-two.

I left the hotel with my legs a little shaky. Not so much because of what was going to happen as because of what I was about to prove to myself.

***

The bar was half empty. An older couple eating sandwiches, two girls laughing at the counter, and nobody at the tables in the back. I sat at one by the window, ordered a beer, and waited.

At ten minutes to eight, he walked in. Taller than me —I’m five foot nine, he’d be around six foot—, chubby, looking like he hadn’t slept well, with small eyes that scanned the place before settling on the wrong table. He sat at the other end, facing the wall, gripping his phone like a lifeline. I thought it was him, but I wanted to make sure.

Two minutes later my phone buzzed. “I’m at the bar.”

I looked up, saw him check his screen, and wrote back: “Look to your left. The one at the window table, alone, that’s me.”

His face changed. He let out a small, almost shy laugh, picked up his drink, and sat down across from me.

—I thought you weren’t going to come —he said, still not looking me in the eye.

—I thought the same about you.

I suggested we relax a bit before talking about anything, just chat like two ordinary guys. He agreed instantly. He told me it would be his first time with a man, that he’d been turning it over in his head for months, that he was really turned on by touching a cock, holding it in his hand, feeling its weight. He talked without looking at me, twisting the coaster around, and I could feel my temperature rising inside. I adjusted my package without much attempt at hiding it.

—Are you getting hard? —he asked me. He said it quietly, almost under his breath, as if he were as scared of the answer as I was of giving it.

—Yes.

He smiled. This time he did look me in the eye.

—Me too. And I really want to see what you’ve got there.

I asked for the check. I left an absurdly generous tip, not because I liked the waiter but because I didn’t want to stop and count coins. We left the bar walking quickly, without saying anything, both of us with that feeling that any interruption might break the spell.

***

In the hotel elevator I made my first bold move. I put my right hand over his bulge and squeezed, gently, testing it. He was hard beneath his trousers. He let out a breath through his nose and leaned in to kiss me. His mouth tasted like beer and a last-minute mint gum. His tongue came in without asking, and I answered with everything I’d been holding back for months.

We reached the floor without really separating. It took him three tries to get the card into the lock.

Inside the room, I closed the door and went for his mouth again. My hands found his belt and undid it while he unbuttoned my shirt one button at a time with fingers that weren’t obeying him. His trousers dropped to the floor all at once. He was wearing white briefs with a wet stain over the head, a round darkened stain that made me even hornier.

—You’re leaking —I told him.

—I’ve been like this for two hours, since before the bar.

He took care of me in silence. He pulled my boxers down, grabbed my dick with his left hand, and with his right started feeling my balls. I’d been hard since the moment we crossed the door. I pulled down his briefs and, at last, saw what I’d been imagining for weeks. His balls were big, hanging low, completely shaved; his cock was a little shorter than mine. Mine measures about six and a half inches; his would be around five and a half. The shaft curved slightly upward and the head was reddish, shiny from the fluid it kept releasing.

—You’re winning points —I told him without thinking—. I love your cock. Let’s get everything off, I want to see you completely.

We finished undressing. He’d shaved from neck to toes. Not a single hair left on him, neither on his chest nor on his legs, and seeing him naked made me want to bite his skin.

—I wanted to tell you something —he murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed—. I still can’t quite wrap my head around you putting it inside me. Even though I’ve shaved everything, tonight I’d rather not.

I ran my hand over his thigh.

—Don’t worry. It’s my first time too. I don’t need that.

—And what do you feel like?

—Whatever you want. Blowjobs? Hand jobs?

—The second one —he said, almost before I could finish—. I want your cock in my mouth.

***

We were sitting on the bed, shoulder to shoulder. I took his cock in my left hand and leaned over his crotch. He held me by the nape, not pressing, just guiding me. He smelled like soap and something else, something metallic and hot I’d never smelled so close before. He smelled like a man.

I opened my mouth and took his head in. The first thing I noticed was the taste; the second was the weight, the way my tongue settled around the crown. I began moving slowly, rubbing my tongue against the frenulum, while my free hand went for his balls. I lowered my mouth down the shaft until I reached his balls and sucked them one by one; he let out air in short moans, getting more frequent.

I wanted to see his face. I pulled his cock from my mouth and made him lie back, legs open in the middle of the bed. His dick pointed at the ceiling and his balls were swollen, almost tight.

—Don’t stop, please —he begged, his voice breaking—. Don’t stop.

I went back to his cock, this time with more rhythm, my hand closed around the base. My other hand slid down the inside of his thigh, without warning, looking for his hole. I put my index finger in front of his mouth and he understood right away: he licked it like it was a cock, covered it in saliva from end to end, all the way to the knuckles. I brought it down to his ass and, as soon as I found the spot, he lifted his hips and sat himself down on my finger.

—Fuck, fuck, fuck —he kept repeating—. Fuck, that’s good.

His cock started giving little contractions against my tongue. I knew that signal: he was about to come. I sped up with my hand on what my mouth could no longer take and pushed my finger faster, setting a rhythm of small thrusts inside him.

—Give me more, you bastard, give me more! —he shouted, in a hoarse whisper—. Fuck me with your finger! I’m going to come!

And he came. The first spurt shot out hard and hit my forehead, hot, thick. The rest landed on his navel, on his shaved chest, in streaks crossing over each other. My finger was still inside, feeling the spasms of each contraction. When he finally stopped, I pulled my finger out slowly and he collapsed backward, breathing so fast that his chest rose and fell at a frightening pace.

I leaned in to ask if he was okay. He grabbed me by the nape, pulled me down to his mouth, and kissed me long and deep, not caring about what he had on my forehead.

—I’m not going to stop seeing you —he said when he let me go—. That was, by far, the best fuck of my life. And now it’s your turn.

***

He sat up in one motion and took my cock in his mouth without warning, without hesitation. For a first time, he knew exactly what he was doing. His tongue worked the frenulum like he’d been practicing for years, and when he went down to suck my balls he did it looking up at me from below, those small eyes fixed on mine.

—Don’t stop —I told him.

He didn’t stop. He went lower, much lower than I expected, and his tongue started looking for my ass. No one had ever done that to me before. When I felt the first lick at my hole, I crossed my hands behind my head and let him do it. He was eating my ass while jerking me off, and I could feel bigger and bigger drops of precum escaping from the head, drops he licked afterward, going back up to the shaft.

He came back to my cock and I knew I wouldn’t last much longer.

—Faster —I told him—. I’m going to come.

He took his mouth off and looked up at me from below.

—No, wait, not yet. Don’t come inside. I want you to shoot it on my ass, without putting it in. I want to feel you hot on my cheeks, on my hole.

I made him get on all fours on the bed. I grabbed his hips with one hand, got behind him, and with the other hand gave three hard strokes to my cock, pressing the head against his opening. The first blast shot out so hard it ran up his tailbone; the rest spilled over his buttocks, slid over his hole, stained his thighs. He was jerking himself off meanwhile and soon he came again, weaker, with a long groan.

I fell on top of him and the two of us rolled to one side, laughing without really knowing why. The sheets were a mess. We stayed like that for a while, without talking, wrapped around each other like two twenty-year-olds in a borrowed room.

***

Afterward he got up, went to the bathroom, came back half cleaned up, and sat on the edge of the bed to call his wife. It was almost midnight. In a calm, almost bored voice, he told her he’d had dinner alone at the hotel and was going to sleep. While he talked, I leaned over him and ran my tongue over the head, collecting what was left. He looked at me with a panicked face and made a grimace, pointing at the phone, but I noticed how his thigh tightened every time my mouth moved up.

When he hung up, he let out a sharp breath.

—You’re an asshole —he said, smiling.

—I am.

—Tomorrow?

—Tomorrow.

There were eleven days left on the trip. What happened tomorrow, and what happened over the nine days after that, will be for another story.