The First Time I Knelt in Front of Another Man

For more than a year, I had been going into that bar wearing one of my wife's thongs beneath my jeans. It started by chance, one afternoon when I was walking home from the bank and decided to take a street I didn't usually use. The establishment's facade was austere, almost anonymous, and curiosity got the better of prudence.

Inside, there was warm lighting, soft music, and pairs of men talking at the tables. Nobody looked at me strangely. I ordered a beer at the bar, watched for a while, and went home with the feeling that I had discovered a world I had been avoiding for far too long.

I came back on other afternoons, spaced out, always following the same routine: one beer, my gaze lost on my phone, my ears tuned in to other people's conversations. One day, without really knowing why, I opened the laundry basket before going out and took out a black thong belonging to my wife. I put it on, covered it with my jeans, and walked to the bar with my heart pounding.

The rubbing of the fabric against my skin turned me into another person. Every step reminded me that I was wearing something forbidden pressed against my body, something no man there could guess. The thread seam worked its way between my buttocks and rubbed against my asshole with every step, and that constant friction had my cock half-hard before I even went inside. That night I ordered two beers instead of one. I started going every other Friday, on the days my wife had dinner with her friends and didn't come home until late.

Over time I got to know some faces. Some greeted me with a gesture; others came over to invite me for a drink. I was polite, but curt. Brief conversations, lukewarm smiles, and back to the ritual. I liked feeling desired without having to give in to anything. It was enough to know that possibility existed, hanging in the air.

The only person I stopped to talk to for longer was Ramiro. He must have been about forty-two, with a noticeable belly beneath his shirt, very short beard, and round glasses that gave him the air of a distracted professor. I was thirty-three then, and by contrast he seemed like a settled man to me, one of those men who no longer need to prove anything. We talked about soccer, old records, trips neither of us ever quite managed to take.

—Another one? —he always asked, pointing at my empty bottle.

—One more and that's it —I'd answer, and it always ended up being two.

That particular night, it was raining lightly outside. The bar was emptier than usual. Ramiro arrived with his jacket wet across the shoulders and sat on the stool beside me without asking permission. He ordered a beer, another for me, and we started talking about a band that would be playing the following Saturday.

We'd been there an hour when I got up to go to the bathroom. He said he was just about to go too. He said it without malice and I heard it without malice, but something in my stomach tightened when we pushed through the door together.

The urinals were a single continuous trough attached to the wall, with no dividers. There was nowhere to hide in those bathrooms. I positioned myself at one end, he stood beside me, and, unable to stop myself, my eyes wandered. What he pulled from his pants left me breathless. A broad, long, thick cock, as thick as a child's wrist, still at rest, which seemed not to belong to that round, shy body. His balls hung heavily inside a dark, wrinkled sack. He held it by the base for a couple of seconds longer than necessary, shook it with his thumb and forefinger so I could get a good look, then began to piss in a thick stream that splashed against the porcelain.

—I learned a long time ago not to be ashamed —he said quietly, without looking at me.

I didn't know what to say. My mouth had gone dry. I finished as best I could, with my half-swollen cock pointing crookedly, shook it, and yanked up my zipper. When we returned to the bar, my ears felt hot and there was a different kind of itch in my crotch. The thong was pressing against me differently, and a thick drop of pre-cum had already dampened the fabric.

—I made you uncomfortable —Ramiro said when he sat down. It wasn't a question.

—It's not that.

—Look at me for a second.

I looked at him. His eyes were small and calm, almost tired, but inside them something more determined shone than he appeared to possess. He placed his hand on the bar very close to mine, without touching it.

—I've been thinking for months that one day we'd talk about this.

—About what? —I asked, even though I already knew.

—About how you come here without being sure what you're coming for. About how you like being watched. About how one day you're going to want a cock in your mouth and won't know how to ask for it.

I swallowed. The beer tasted like metal.

—I've never been with a man —I said, almost as if I were apologizing.

—I know. It's obvious from a mile away. I'm not offering you the world. Just going up to a hotel nearby for a while. You can suck me slowly, if you feel like it. Let me touch you through that thong you're surely wearing. Whatever happens, happens.

—How do you know about the…?

—It shows from behind when you bend over the bar. I've been watching it for weeks.

—I don't… —I began.

—You decide. If you say no, I'll pay the bill and we'll say goodbye like always.

***

We went out onto the street fifteen minutes later. I hadn't said yes in words; I simply stood up when he did, and that was enough. We walked in silence for two blocks. The hotel was hidden behind a closed haberdashery, with a discreet sign and a dimly lit reception area. He paid. I stayed at the back of the lobby, staring at my shoes, my cock hard and pushing against my wife's thong.

The room smelled of disinfectant with a touch of lavender. A double bed, a nightstand, a chair, a television turned off. Ramiro locked the door, took off his jacket, and hung it over the back of the chair. I remained standing, not knowing what to do with my hands.

—Come here —he said, patting the bed beside him—. We'll start slowly.

I sat down. He placed his open hand on the back of my neck, without pulling me closer, simply leaving it there, like someone gauging the temperature of a frightened animal. Then he slid his palm down my neck to my chest, over my T-shirt. The fabric gave me away: my skin was goosefleshed all the way to my shoulders, and my nipples stood out like two hard buttons.

—Take it off.

I obeyed. The shirt fell to the floor. Ramiro looked at me for a long moment and began running his tongue over one nipple, barely brushing it at first, then sucking it harder, nibbling it between his teeth until he tore a short moan from me. I closed my eyes. It was a sensation I knew and didn't know at the same time. A woman had done the same thing to me dozens of times; with him, with that beard scraping against my chest and that wet mouth knowing exactly where to squeeze, it felt like a complete first time.

He moved down my side and bit the curve of my shoulder. I lay back almost without realizing it. My jeans were tight around my crotch, and beneath them, my wife's black thong was soaked, the dark stain of pre-cum spreading across the front.

—What do you have on under there? —he asked, amused.

—Don't laugh.

—I'm not laughing.

He undid my pants, opened them, and discovered the fabric. He gave a low laugh, surprised, almost tender.

—You're a chest full of surprises. Look at that thong, soaked with drool, little one.

—It's hers. She has no idea.

—She doesn't need to know. Tonight you're mine.

He pulled my jeans down to my knees and left the thong on. The wet fabric showed through, revealing the outline of my cock, with the swollen head pushing against the edge of the elastic. He ran his fingers over it without squeezing, and a shiver traveled all the way up my spine. Then he lowered his hand, wrapped it around me over the silk, and squeezed me from base to tip, forcing a harsh moan from me. With another finger he searched beneath it, found the string buried between my buttocks, and ran it from side to side, rubbing my clenched asshole. A gasp escaped me that I didn't recognize.

—You've already got that hole dilating on its own, slut —he murmured—. I hardly have to touch you.

He sat up and took off his shirt, pants, and underwear.

His body was exactly as I remembered it: soft, pale, with his belly hanging slightly over his thighs. And in the middle of it all, that impossible cock, now wider, longer, standing upright, thick as a tool handle, with veins running up to a shiny purple head. His balls hung taut beneath it, and a clear thread already dangled from the tip. He gripped it at the base and shook it slowly, pointing it at my face.

—Come closer —he said, reclining against the headboard—. No pressure. If you can't, you can't.

I knelt at the edge of the bed, between his spread legs. Any strategy I had rehearsed in my head evaporated as soon as I had it a foot from my mouth. It smelled of clean soap and something more intimate, salty, the skin of a warmed-up man. I extended my tongue and ran it from base to tip, slowly, as I'd seen done in a thousand videos without daring to imagine it in my own mouth. I collected the thread of pre-cum with my tongue and swallowed it. It tasted bitter, metallic, and I liked it. I ran my tongue over it again, this time pressing it flat against the thick vein on the underside, moving up from his balls to the head. I licked his balls one at a time, taking each into my mouth in turn, feeling the weight of each one against my palate.

—Slowly —he murmured—. It's not a race.

I licked the head, encircled it with my lips, sucked it as if it were a large candy. I ran the tip of my tongue over the opening and drew out another thick drop. I tried to take it all in and immediately knew I wouldn't be able to; not even half of it fit without making me gag. It struck the back of my throat and I coughed, my eyes watering. I pulled back, breathed, spat a thread of saliva onto the head, and used it to slide my lips more easily. My right hand at the base, my lips focused above, my tongue moving as if it were a conversation. I began doing to him what I liked done to me: a long suck, rising with pressure, squeezing the head between my lips, lowering again as far as my reflex allowed.

It worked. Ramiro let out a deep sigh that rose through his entire chest. He rested his hand on the back of my neck without pushing, simply letting it lie there. I picked up the pace. His cock splashed inside my mouth, saliva ran down my chin and dripped onto his balls. With my free hand I squeezed myself over the soaked thong, rubbing myself in the same rhythm I sucked him. I went from caution to surrender in a matter of seconds. I realized I was enjoying it, that the tight thong against my own erection was the detail that finally set me ablaze, that feeling myself kneeling, half-naked, wearing my wife's underwear, sucking another man's cock, was exactly what I'd been waiting for over the past year without knowing it.

He began moving his hips slowly, fucking my mouth with short thrusts. Every time the head struck the back of my throat, a muffled moan escaped me and vibrated through his flesh.

—That's it, little one, suck me like that, hungry.

He pulled his cock from my mouth for a moment, gripped it himself, and ran it over my lips, cheek, and chin, marking my face with his saliva and mine. Then he opened my mouth with his thumb and put it back inside, deeper, until my eyes filled with tears.

—I'm going to come soon —he warned, his voice breaking.

I didn't pull away. I didn't stop either. I wanted to know what it was like. I wanted it to happen. I closed my lips tightly around the head and worked the base with my fist, moving up and down quickly, feeling his entire body tense. His balls contracted against his skin. I felt the first wave fill my mouth with a force I hadn't expected, a hot, thick jet striking the roof of my mouth, then another, and another, and one more that no longer fit. I swallowed what I could, feeling it slide viscously down my throat. The rest ran down my chin, over my fingers, along the base that continued throbbing against my hand, until it dripped over his balls and belly.

I kept the tip in my mouth, sucking his last spasms, drawing out every last drop. When I released him, his cock fell against his thigh, wet and gleaming. My face was smeared, my chin dripping, and I hadn't even come; mine was still trapped against the thong, throbbing with pure restrained desire.

Ramiro looked at me, breathing hard, and smiled. He ran his thumb along the corner of my lips, gathered a white thread, and put it in my mouth. I sucked it without thinking.

—Good boy —he said softly—. Now you.

He made me lie on my back on the bed. He moved the thong aside without pulling it down, leaving my hard cock against my belly, red and wet with pre-cum. He took it in his whole hand, wrapped it, and began masturbating me slowly, his thumb circling the head. Then he lowered his head and sucked me in a single motion, taking me all the way to the base. I felt his throat close around the tip and nearly came right there.

—Hold on —he murmured, releasing me for a second—. Don't come yet.

He sucked me again, cheeks hollowed, moving up and down with a technique that spoke of years of practice. His beard scraped my groin. With his free hand he reached beneath the thong, felt my balls, squeezed them gently, and continued lower until he brushed my asshole with a fingertip wet with saliva. He pressed just slightly, making little circles without entering, and that pressure alone drew a long moan from me.

—Has anyone ever touched you there? —he asked, without really asking.

—Just me. With my finger.

—I can tell. You're relaxed.

He pushed his finger in an inch. I tensed, breathed, and opened myself. It entered to the knuckle. His mouth kept working my cock at the same time. The combination clouded everything. I reached for his head and buried my fingers in his hair, not knowing whether to push him away or ask him to stop.

—I'm going to come —I managed to say.

He didn't take his mouth off me. On the contrary, he swallowed me deeper, pressed his finger inside against exactly the right spot, and everything exploded. I came in jets inside his mouth, my back arched and my wife's black thong marking my waist. I felt every pulse discharge against his tongue. He swallowed it all, sucking slowly through the last contraction, until I had to push his head away because the head could no longer bear the friction.

He pulled out his finger, sat up, and wiped the back of his hand across his lips. He opened his mouth and showed me he still had some left. Then he swallowed, smiling.

—Not a drop goes to waste —he said.

I stayed still, breathing deeply. I wiped myself with the back of my wrist, unsure whether I felt ashamed or euphoric. Perhaps both at once.

***

He got up almost immediately. He went into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and washed himself. He came out with a towel tied around his waist and began dressing without hurry.

—When you're ready, you can leave —he said, buttoning his shirt—. The room is paid for until two.

—Okay.

He came over to the bed, ran his hand over my head, almost affectionately, almost paternally.

—You did well for your first time. And not because I came quickly. Because you didn't hide. Next time I'll fuck you.

He said it naturally, like someone closing a deal. I didn't answer, but my stomach tightened. I watched him leave. I heard the click of the door. I remained lying on my back, my jeans tangled around my ankles and the black thong still soaked, now also with my own semen cooling against the fabric, staring at a lightbulb that didn't work. Ten, fifteen minutes passed. I wasn't in a hurry.

Inside me, two men coexisted. One felt dirty, used, a bar whore in a hotel room, with the taste of someone else's milk still in his mouth and his asshole throbbing from a finger that was no longer there. The other was breathing more easily than he had in years, as if he had returned something he'd kept hidden for far too long. Both were right, and both were me.

I got up, dressed, and rinsed my mouth several times in front of the mirror. I could still taste it at the back of my throat, and it wouldn't quite go away. I folded the thong and put it in my jeans pocket. I didn't want my wife to find it with that mixed smell of semen. I would wash it by hand that same night and return it to the basket, where no one would ask questions.

I walked home with the fine rain clinging to my hair. My wife had come home early and was sleeping facedown, hugging her pillow. I got into bed carefully. I kissed her bare shoulder. She murmured something and settled against me.

—Late —she said, half-asleep.

—A beer with the guys.

She fell asleep right away. I lay there staring at the ceiling, going over every minute, my asshole still conscious of having been touched for the first time and my mouth remembering Ramiro's cock. I knew two things for certain: I was never going to tell anyone, and next time I was going to let him put it inside me.