The Debt I Paid with My Body That Night

My name is Rodrigo, I’m thirty-two years old, and I’m married. Until that night I had never been with a man, not even thought about it. I wasn’t looking for it, I didn’t want it, it didn’t fit into any idea I had of myself. But there are situations that put you up against a wall and the exits you once imagined no longer exist.

It all started when my employer sent me for several months to a rural area far from the city. A small, quiet town, the kind where nothing happens and time moves more slowly. I arranged lodging with Lorenzo, the owner of an old but clean boarding house in the center of town. A man of about fifty-five, broad, with graying hair and those big hands of someone who has worked outdoors all his life. We agreed I would pay him when the assignment was over, once I got my full salary. He had no problem with that.

The months passed without incident. Lorenzo was reserved but fair. He made me breakfast, left clean towels, and never asked anything about my work. The town was small and the rumors spread on their own: that Lorenzo had certain tastes, that he sometimes offered money to certain men in exchange for particular favors. I heard it, shrugged, and went on with my business. None of it was my concern. Or so I thought.

***

On my last day of work I got paid everything I was owed. I signed the papers, shook hands, put the bills in the envelope, and headed back to the boarding house. It wasn’t far. I’d had an exhausting week and my mind was elsewhere: on my wife, on my bed at home, on the long shower I’d owed myself for days.

When I got to the boarding house and put my hand in the inside pocket of my coat, the envelope was gone.

I froze in the doorway. I searched every pocket. I emptied them one by one onto the bed. Nothing. It had fallen somewhere along the way, three months of work in an envelope that was now in some ditch or had been picked up by someone else. I ran back out. I retraced the entire route to the offices. I asked at the only open warehouse and at the gas station. No one had seen anything.

I went back to the boarding house empty-handed, and Lorenzo was waiting for me in the sitting room, arms crossed.

I explained what had happened. I saw him tense up. I took out my phone and laptop and put them on the table.

“They’re yours if you want them. Cover yourself with that and give me something for the trip back,” I told him.

He looked at them for a moment and shook his head.

“They’re no use to me. I have everything I need.”

He told me he’d think about it and let me know. I went up to my room. It was eight-thirty. I tried calling my wife but the signal was weak and the call dropped twice. I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to think of some possible way out. I called three work colleagues. Two didn’t answer. The third said he’d send me something as soon as he could, but that could take days. Without money I couldn’t take any transport or find anywhere else to stay that night.

At nine I got a message from Lorenzo.

***

“Look, I’ll be straight with you,” he wrote. “You’ve got a good presence and I have certain tastes you’ve probably already heard people talk about. If you want to settle what you owe, there’s a way. Think about it. You’ve got until ten.”

I stared at the screen for a long while. My hands were sweating. I knew exactly what he meant. I had known it since I entered the town.

I replied that I was married, that I had never been with a man.

“That’s not a no,” he wrote.

He was right. It wasn’t a no. I didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t that.

I tried to imagine some alternative. I called my contacts once more. Nothing. I looked at the clock: nine forty. I looked at the ceiling. I listened to the silence of the town outside.

At ten sharp, someone knocked on the door.

***

Lorenzo came in with two beers and a plastic bag. He was wearing only shorts, no shirt. His bare torso showed a body that had once been very strong and still retained some of that, with the modest belly big men get when they don’t fully take care of themselves. He sat on the sofa without asking and opened the beers. He handed me one.

“No rush,” he said.

I sat as far away as I could. I took a long drink. He pulled a box from the bag and hooked something up to the TV. He put on a video. It was gay porn, two young men in an apartment, one blond guy kneeling in front of the other with his mouth wide open around his cock, saliva running down his chin.

We didn’t say anything. We just watched the screen. The silence had a particular weight, the kind of silence that isn’t the absence of noise but the presence of something no one has named yet. The second beer went down faster than the first. On the TV, the blond guy was already on all fours on the bed and the other man was shoving his whole cock deep into his ass, with no visible lube, with that brutality of scenes designed to get you hot.

At some point I realized I was hard. My cock was pressed tight inside my pants, rock-hard, throbbing against the seam. I hadn’t understood when it happened. He noticed it before I did and gave something like a smile.

“That’s normal,” he said. “Relax.”

He lowered his shorts without ceremony and took out his cock. He grabbed it and started stroking it with his hand, slowly, showing it to me without shame. It wasn’t as big as I’d imagined, maybe seventeen or eighteen centimeters, thick at the base, with his balls hanging heavy between his open legs. But there was something about the situation — the beer, the screen, that dense silence, the casual way he was jerking himself off in front of me — that had me paralyzed and breathing more shallowly than usual.

“Show me yours,” he said.

I don’t know why I did it. I stood up, yanked down my pants and underwear in one pull. My cock sprang out, hard, marked, the tip already wet with the fluid leaking out of me on its own. He looked at it with an expression that was not surprise but satisfaction, like someone confirming something he already knew.

“Yours is bigger than mine,” he murmured, licking his lower lip. “Turn around.”

I turned around. He stood up in one leap. I felt him press against my back, his chest against my shoulder blades, his warm belly against the lower part of my spine. His hard cock pressed between my ass cheeks, still outside, tracing the crease. His hand circled my hip and found my cock. He gripped it firmly and started giving me a slow handjob, deliberately slow, spitting into his palm first so it would slide better over the head. He stroked the foreskin up and down, twisted his wrist over the tip, squeezed my balls with his other hand. Every time I felt close to cumming, he noticed and let go, waited a few seconds with his fingers just barely brushing me, then started again. He kept me on the edge three or four times, tense, with my knees slightly weak and a string of my spit hanging from my chin without my noticing.

He turned me around slowly and pushed firmly on my shoulders. I knelt down.

“Like the guy in the video,” he said, pointing at the screen without looking me in the eyes.

***

I started with my tongue because I didn’t know what else to do and I copied what I was seeing. I licked his balls first, one and then the other, taking them into my mouth one at a time, sucking them softly while he breathed deeper above me. I moved up the shaft with the tip of my tongue, slowly, following the thick vein running underneath. I got to the head and circled it with my lips, barely squeezing. The taste was strange but not unpleasant, salty and warm, with that note of sweaty male skin I had never tasted before. Something in that moment, kneeling in front of that man in that boarding-house room, with his cock in my mouth for the first time in my life, shut off in my head. I wasn’t thinking about the debt anymore or the lost envelope or my wife. I was just there, present in a way I’d rarely been in a long time.

I took him at the base with my hand and started sucking for real. I opened my mouth, relaxed my jaw, and took him in until he reached the back of my throat and I felt the gag reflex rising. I pulled him out with a string of spit and shoved him back in whole. Again. And again. I got used to the impact quickly, controlled my breathing through my nose, and started pumping his cock with my lips sealed around it. He rested his palm on my head without forcing, just keeping time, threading his fingers through my hair.

“Good,” he said. “Very good. Suck that cock like you owe it.”

And I did owe it to him. I licked his balls again with my hand sliding up and down the shaft slick with my spit, rinsed them with my tongue, kissed them, went back up to the head and buried it down my throat. Spit ran down my chin and onto his balls and he smeared it with his fingers over my neck. The room smelled like semen before anyone had even finished.

When he told me to get on all fours on the sofa I felt the first real flash of fear. But I didn’t say anything. I got into position, knees on the cushion and hands on the backrest, ass lifted and open for him. I saw him take out a bottle of lubricant and apply it to his fingers calmly, then pour a generous stream between my ass cheeks. The cold liquid made me flinch. I felt it running down the crease to my hole and he pushed it in with the pad of his thumb, massaging the rim in slow circles before putting anything in.

What came next was not violent. He started with one finger, slowly, sinking it in to the knuckle and twisting it inside me. He told me to breathe, to relax, not to strain. The finger went in and out and I felt the muscle surrender, felt a ring that had never yielded for anything like this give way. He added the second finger with more lube. He spread them open inside me, stretching me, and pulled a short moan out of me that I couldn’t hold back. His other hand moved over my back, my sides, raising my temperature without my fully understanding how. When his fingers brushed my nipples and pinched them, I felt a jolt I hadn’t expected, something that dropped straight into my stomach and made my jaw tighten. The fingers inside my ass found a spot and pressed, and I let out a deep, almost animal sound that I didn’t recognize as my own.

“You’re going to ask me for it soon,” he said, and there was a certainty in his voice that irritated and excited me at the same time.

I’m not going to ask for it.

But I asked for it.

***

“Go on, now,” I told him, and my own voice sounded different, lower, almost hoarse. “Put it in me. I can’t take it anymore.”

He laughed, without cruelty. He pulled out his fingers and I heard the wet sound of lubricant as he smeared his whole cock. He positioned himself behind me. I felt the round head press against my open hole, probing, finding the angle. Then the pressure, slow and insistent. First just the tip, barely a centimeter, pushing against the resistance. He stopped. Waited for me to breathe. Then a little more, another pause. When he shoved all the way in one thrust, I let out a cry that he cut off by covering my mouth with his open palm.

“Stay still,” he murmured against my neck, voice tight. “Let it adjust. Feel it in there.”

And I felt it. All of it. Throbbing inside me, filling a place that had never been filled. The pain was real but it wasn’t the kind that made me want to run. It was the pain of opening to something that has its own rhythm. A minute passed, maybe two, with him motionless inside me, breathing deeply over my nape, one hand holding my waist and the other pinching my nipple. And then he started moving.

Slowly at first. He pulled almost all the way out, to the head, and went back in to the hilt, until his balls struck mine. Each stroke was smoother than the last and the pain dissolved into something that had no exact name: a pressure filling a space and, every time it withdrew, leaving a void that wanted it back. I can’t explain it any other way. His cock going in and out made me gasp every time, and I started pushing my ass back to take it, without thinking, seeking it out.

“How are you doing?” he asked, voice ragged.

“Good,” I answered. “Fuck me hard.”

It was true. And it was a command I didn’t know how I’d said.

He grabbed my waist with both hands and increased the pace. It wasn’t slow anymore. Every thrust pushed me forward against the sofa back and I took him open, without tension, ass lifted and cheeks trembling. He was burying it to the hilt with dry, hard thrusts that made me suck in air sharply. I heard myself making sounds I had never made before, a low moan that came out on its own every time he drove in deep, a broken “ah” escaping me with each hip stroke.

He grabbed my hair, yanked my head back, and fucked me harder, the slaps of his pelvis against my ass sounding loud. My cock was rock hard, hanging between my legs and shaking with every thrust, leaking a thread of pre-cum onto the sofa. He lowered one hand and took it, started pumping it in the same rhythm he was using to fuck my ass. Fucking and handjob at the same time, synchronized, until I felt I was going to explode from both ends at once.

“Daddy,” I said at some point, without thinking. The word came out on its own, without my choosing it. “Daddy, don’t stop.”

That sped him up. He growled something through his teeth and buried himself deeper, with shorter and faster thrusts. He leaned forward over me, crushing me against the backrest, and increased the rhythm until the slaps of his hips against mine filled the room and drowned out the sound of the video. He fucked me for a good while longer, long enough for me to lose track of how much time had passed, with that cock going in and out of my ass as if that had always been its place, before yanking it out and telling me to turn around.

***

I sat on the sofa with my legs still trembling, feeling my ass open and throbbing, empty. He stood in front of me, his cock shining with lube and with me, the vein swollen, his balls tight against his body. He took my head with both hands and shoved me onto it without warning. He thrust with short, precise strokes, using my mouth as he had used my body before, going in to the throat and pulling out, each thrust faster than the last. He hit the back of my throat and made me cough and he didn’t ease up, kept my head fixed and drove it in. I felt him tense, heard his breathing break, felt his balls shrink against my chin. What came out was a hot stream that hit my throat directly and nearly made me cough. Then another, and another, four or five thick spurts that filled my mouth with warm, salty cum. He didn’t let me go until he was completely done, until he got the last drops out by rubbing the head against my tongue.

I swallowed. I felt it going down, dense, sticky, leaving his taste in my mouth.

He collapsed beside me on the sofa, exhausted, his breathing slowly recovering. His cock was still semi-erect, shiny with saliva and jizz, resting against his thigh. I took it in my hand, almost by instinct, and kissed it once, lips closed, resting on the wet head. Even today I don’t know why I did that.

The video was still on the screen. The two guys were already coming on each other’s faces, the scene built for the ending. I grabbed my own cock, still hard, throbbing, without having finished yet. I jerked off while he watched, with no attempt to hide it, my hand tight and fast, spitting into my palm to lubricate. I pumped my cock looking him in the eyes, with my ass still warm from his cock, until I felt the orgasm rising from my balls, tightening me all over and exploding in thick jets that shot out and landed on the wooden floor. Five, six spurts. A white, thick puddle shining between us.

He pointed at the puddle with his chin.

“Clean it up.”

I did. I knelt down and ran my tongue over the cold wood without anyone forcing me to do it. I gathered my own cum with my tongue, pulled it together in my mouth, swallowed it. The taste was different from his, more metallic, more mine. At that moment I felt him harden again, felt the sofa creak, and just like that, still bent over with my ass in the air, he speared me again in a single thrust. I screamed against the wood. He grabbed my hips and drove it in to the hilt without ceremony, taking advantage of the fact that I was already open and still slick with lube. He fucked my ass with the force of someone who already knows he can, without the patience of the first time, going in and out with hard thrusts that made my forehead hit the floor. Until he was filled. He gave my ass a sharp smack and pulled away in one jerk.

“Debt settled,” he said, grabbing his shirt from the back of the sofa. “And this isn’t over.”

***

He wasn’t wrong.

Two days later, when I returned to the city and stopped by the offices to pick up my things, I saw Lorenzo on the other side of the room. He was talking to my boss. He looked at me from there with that same calm smile of someone who knows more than he shows. My boss introduced him as his cousin. Lorenzo extended his hand as if it were the first time we’d met.

I stayed in that town three more weeks, with an extended contract that no one asked me to sign. During that time there were other nights, other beers, and other men who showed up without my inviting them. My boss’s cousin had friends, and they all seemed to like the same kind of arrangement.

I never asked them to stop.

I’m not exactly sure what changed in me that first night in that boarding-house room. I don’t know whether it was desperation, alcohol, or simply something that had already been living inside me and was waiting for the exact circumstance to surface. What I do know is that when I finally went home and my wife asked how work had gone, I told her it was fine, nothing new, that I was tired and needed to sleep.

That was a lie in almost every way. But some things aren’t told.