I Knocked on His Door Again After the Disaster

I went several days without working, and the sadness was suffocating me. What had happened hit me with every sunrise, and so, one ordinary afternoon, I decided to walk to the house where, months earlier, I had lived through that night no one in the neighborhood knew about. It was five o’clock. I rang the bell three times. No one opened.

Across the street there was a small bar, one of those with sticky tables and a television turned on though no one was watching it. I went in, ordered a beer, and sat beside the window, keeping an eye on the door of Lautaro’s building. While I drank, I texted him. I reminded him who I was, the guy from that New Year’s Eve party, the one who had stayed until dawn.

He didn’t answer.

I ordered another. And another. When I turned my phone’s screen toward me, it was already past eight. Just as I was about to leave, the device vibrated on the wooden table. It was him. “I’ll be down in five,” the message said.

He appeared in less than that, his hair still damp and an open jacket over a white T-shirt. He looked me up and down and immediately knew something was wrong.

—Come upstairs with me, he said, without asking anything else.

His apartment was on the fourth floor. The elevator smelled of old wood and damp. We didn’t speak on the way up. Lautaro opened the door and let me go in first, one hand resting on my lower back. Inside, the lights were warm, and some jazz I didn’t recognize was playing.

I sat on the edge of his bed. He put a pillow behind my back, poured two glasses of water, and settled in front of me on the floor, legs crossed like a child waiting for a story.

—Tell me.

And I told him. I started crying before the third sentence. I told him about the message I had sent him so many weeks earlier, about the silence I received in return, about how that silence had made me feel discarded at the worst moment. I told him that Iván’s brother—Iván, my partner at the time—had set a trap for me with a doctored photo. I told him I had lost my job, lost the rented room, lost something deeper inside me that I didn’t even know how to name.

Lautaro didn’t interrupt me. He let me empty everything out. When I finished, he stood up and hugged me as no one had hugged me in weeks. Without conditions. Without lectures.

—I suspected something was wrong with you, he said close to my ear. —That’s why I didn’t answer. I didn’t want you to think I was replying out of pity. I was afraid of hurting you even more.

I nodded against his shoulder. He smelled of oat soap and something else, something warm and familiar.

—Life goes on, he murmured. —Even if you don’t believe it right now.

I stayed in his arms for a long while, until my crying became heavy breathing and my hands stopped trembling.

***

When I pulled away, he wrinkled his nose with a smile.

—You’re a complete mess, he said, looking at my clothes. —How long has it been since you showered?

I laughed for the first time in days. He was right. I’d been wearing the same T-shirt since Tuesday, the same pants. I hadn’t even opened the drawer with the clean socks.

He took me by the hand and led me out of the apartment.

—Come on.

Half a block away there was a little shop that closed at nine. We arrived just in time. He chose for me: a basic black T-shirt, light-gray pants, underwear, new socks. He paid without letting me open my wallet.

—You can pay me back with your first paycheck, he said, winking at me.

We went back to the apartment. He took me straight to the bathroom. He turned on the hot water, undressed in front of me without a hint of embarrassment, and helped me take off my clothes as if I were a little boy. My embarrassment lasted ten seconds. After that, only the relief of the running water remained, the steam fogging the mirror, and his soapy hands moving over my back.

He ran his fingers slowly over my shoulders, my waist, the hollow of my lower back. When he reached my buttocks, he didn’t stop, but he didn’t hurry anything either. He spread them apart with both hands and ran a soapy finger right down the middle, brushing my hole, up and down, without putting it in, playing. My knees trembled. He was only washing me with the same calmness with which he had listened to me, but every brush against that spot sent blood rushing to my face.

I felt my cock hardening against his thigh. Not out of urgency. Out of gratitude. And because of those hands that knew where to touch.

Without thinking, I crouched in front of him, kneeling on the wet tiles. His cock was half-hard, not especially long but thick, marked by swollen veins pulsing beneath the skin. I took it in my hand, pulled it away from his belly, and ran my tongue along its entire underside, from his balls to the head. I tasted oat soap and clean skin, and then the salty flavor of the first drop that appeared at the tip. I spread it with my tongue, and he let out a short sigh.

I took it slowly into my mouth, savoring the way it grew between my lips. I held his balls with one hand and squeezed the base with the other. Lautaro rested a hand on the back of my head, without pressure, just to steady me, and began moving his hips in a gentle rocking motion, sinking a little farther with each thrust. He grew completely hard against my tongue, so thick that I had to open my mouth as wide as I could to take him without scraping him with my teeth.

—That’s it, that’s it… he murmured.

I tightened my lips around his flesh and sucked as I pulled away, tugging at him. I popped his cock out of my mouth with a wet smack and licked his balls one by one, sucking them, while I pulled his foreskin back and forth with my hand, keeping a rhythm. I took him back in all the way, until the tip bumped against my throat and made my eyes water. I looked up and found him watching me with an intensity I hadn’t seen in him at the party.

—Get out of the water, he murmured, his voice hoarse. —If you keep going like that, I’ll come in your mouth, and I don’t want to—not yet.

***

We left without drying ourselves completely. We dripped down the hallway. I was still drunk on cheap beer and something stronger that was no longer sadness, and I could feel my hard cock pressed against my belly. Lautaro gently pushed me against the bedroom wardrobe, placed my hands against the wood, and settled behind me. He spread my buttocks with his thumbs. He didn’t prepare me. He didn’t warn me. He spit into his hand, rubbed the saliva over the head, and pressed it against my hole.

When he entered dry, I let out a cry that seemed more surprise than pain. The head of his cock forced my ring open in one thrust, and I felt as though he were splitting me in half.

—Not like that! I said, wrenching myself away, my legs closing on their own.

It burned. It burned with a fire that made me turn my face away, grip the edge of the wardrobe, and hold back tears that were no longer for anything I had told him before.

Lautaro immediately stepped back. He turned me around and held my face between both hands.

—Forgive me. Forgive me, forgive me. He repeated it like a prayer. —We’re going to do this right. I promise.

He took me to the bed. He laid me face down on the cool sheets, with a pillow beneath my pelvis to raise my ass. He kissed the nape of my neck, my back, my waist, my thighs, barely biting the fleshiest part of my buttocks. He spread me wide with both hands, left me exposed, and stared at me for a few seconds before lowering his face.

His first lick went from bottom to top, flat and broad, from my perineum to the base of my spine. Then the tip of his tongue pressed right into the center, pushing, making little circles around my puckered hole. The warm saliva softened the burning and awakened something else in its place. Something electric that traveled from the base of my spine to the tips of my fingers.

Lautaro ate my ass with a hunger I hadn’t known he possessed. He sucked, licked, spat, and licked again. He pushed his tongue inside and pulled it out, then put it in deeper, while pressing the edge with his thumb to open me a little. I clutched the sheet with both hands and pushed myself against his mouth, shamelessly moving my hips against his face.

—Better? he asked, pulling away for a moment, his chin wet with saliva.

I only nodded against the pillow, panting.

He touched me with his fingers first. One, patiently, going in to the knuckles, searching inside. Then two, opening in a scissoring motion to stretch me. A long moan escaped me when he added a third. He took a little bottle from the bedside-table drawer, poured oil into his palm, and spread it over my hole and inside me, his fingers buried all the way in, moving in circles.

When he positioned himself over me, it was different. He settled against my hole and pushed slowly. He entered inch by inch, pausing, waiting for my body to receive him. I felt every part of myself yielding, opening, letting him pass, until I felt his balls resting against my flesh and knew he was all the way inside me.

—You’ve got the sweetest ass I’ve tasted this year, he said softly against my ear as he began to move. —You squeeze me like you don’t want to let me go.

I laughed between pleasure and surprise. It was the first time I’d heard something like that said tenderly, not crudely. He pushed in and pulled out in long strokes, all the way to the base, and every time he drove in deep, he pulled a short moan from me against the pillow.

***

Then he turned me over. He wanted to see my face. He spread my legs, lifted them, and rested them on his shoulders. He spat on the tip again, settled between my thighs, and entered in one thrust, without resistance this time. I was the one who received him without complaint, raising my hips to meet him halfway, seeking him.

Every thrust was slow and complete, all the way to the base. Each time he sank to the end, he let out a sigh that ended in a name—his own. I watched his cock, slick with oil, going in and out of me, the skin of my ring stretched around it, and the sight made me even hotter. My own hard cock lay against my navel, jerking with every thrust, dripping at the tip.

He kissed my eyelids, my collarbones, the pulse in my neck. Then he moved down to my nipples and sucked one, then the other, biting them lightly while he kept thrusting. His hands never stayed still: they traveled along my sides, squeezed my waist, gripped my thighs to open me a little wider, took my cock and squeezed it without fully masturbating me, simply holding it and letting it move on its own with the rhythm of my ass.

—Tell me what you want, he demanded at one point, his forehead pressed against mine.

—More, was all I could answer. —Harder. Break me.

He gave me more. He sped up. He changed the angle, lifted my hips with both hands, and drove into me from above, dropping his full weight. He found a spot inside me that made me arch my back and let out an incredulous laugh, as if no one had ever touched me before. Every time he brushed that place, a spasm shot through my entire spine.

—There, there, there, I kept repeating, gripping his shoulders, pulling him toward me, digging my nails into his back. —Don’t stop, don’t stop.

The sound of his balls slapping against my ass filled the room, mixed with the jazz in the background and my own moans, which I no longer controlled. Lautaro grabbed my cock with his right hand and jerked me off at the same pace he fucked me, squeezing me hard, pulling back my foreskin until the reddened head was exposed.

I came first. It happened suddenly, without warning. I felt my entire belly tighten, felt my ass squeeze around his cock, and released a thick jet that splashed onto my chest, my navel, even my chin. Then another, and another, until my skin was streaked with warm semen. My squeezing around him pushed him to the edge.

I felt him come the first time. I felt it in the way his whole body tensed, in the sudden heat inside me, in the guttural moan that escaped against my collarbone. The first spurts filled me, hot, and I felt every pulse of his cock as he came. He didn’t pull out. He stayed inside, still hard, soaked in his own cum, and kept moving in a slower, deeper rhythm until he grew hard again, as hard as he had been at the start. He kept fucking me, now with semen running down my thighs, until he finished again, this time with a long tremor that left its mark on me. I felt the second warm wave mixing with the first inside me.

When he finally pulled out, I felt the warm trickle between my thighs, running down the crack of my ass onto the sheet. I gathered some with my finger and brought it to my mouth without thinking. It tasted like him. It didn’t disgust me. It gave me a feeling of belonging I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Lautaro lay on top of me without putting all his weight down, braced on his elbows, my own semen stuck to his chest. He kissed my forehead.

—I want you to be mine, he said. —Mine alone. No one else is going to fuck you like this.

He sounded serious. It wasn’t a heat-of-the-moment line. I looked him in the eyes and answered without thinking.

—That’s how it’s going to be.

***

I wanted to go back to my rented room; it was almost eleven. But he stopped me. He’d ordered hamburgers while I slept for a while, he said. The bell rang a few minutes later, and we ate sitting on his bed, boxes on our knees and the music still playing softly. I could still feel the good ache inside me, and every time I shifted, a warm trickle ran down between my buttocks.

—Stay the night, he asked.

—I don’t have a job, I said, chewing. —I have to go out early tomorrow to look for one.

He raised an eyebrow.

—A friend of mine has a shop downtown. He’s looking for someone to help with the stockroom and customer service. I’ll call him tomorrow.

—Seriously?

—Seriously.

That same night, he texted him. He got a reply a little while later: I was to come at nine in the morning and bring my ID.

I stayed.

We slept embracing one another, my back against his chest, his arm crossed over my waist. At some point during the night I woke with his heavy breathing against my neck and felt his cock, hard again, resting between my buttocks, sliding up and down the crack, still wet from before. I pushed backward without saying anything, seeking him with my ass. He understood. He opened me a little with his hand, pressed the tip against my already-soft hole, and slipped in all at once, to the base, meeting no resistance.

We fell into a slow rhythm, almost asleep, lying on our sides, his hand gripping my cock and jerking me off in time with his thrusts. I squeezed my ass around him every time he sank in. I felt him so deep he seemed to reach my ribs. He bit my shoulder when he was about to come, and we finished one after the other without separating. I came over his hand, and he came as soon as he felt my ring contracting around him, deep inside once again.

He came inside me again. I fell asleep with that new warmth slowly leaking out of me, his cock still halfway inside, feeling that the next day, for the first time in weeks, wasn’t a threat.

At seven, the alarm went off. He showered first, dressed quickly, and left me the address of the shop written on a folded piece of paper on the bedside table.

—Be on time, he said, kissing my temple before he left.

I stayed in bed a little longer, smelling the sheets, staring at the ceiling, my legs still spread and the trace of him drying between my thighs. I wasn’t healed. Sadness doesn’t disappear after one night, no matter how good it is. But for the first time since the disaster, I felt I could get up, put on the new clothes, walk downtown, and ask for a job. I felt there was solid ground beneath my feet.

That was enough for me.