My massage therapist pushed me to the limit on a dirt road

It had been months since I’d written anything, and yet this story had been going round and round in my head all that time. Today I’m finally sitting down to tell it, because it feels like the most honest way to close it.

Adrián was my massage therapist for almost a year. It started with a table, a pair of firm hands, and a neck that smelled of almond oil. It ended up becoming something very different. The first two times we ended up in his bed I told ages ago. What was still left to tell was the ending.

After that second session, which was one of the wildest fucks I remember, we stayed in touch by message for weeks. The conversation got hot on its own. Any excuse worked: a photo of him just out of bed, a voice note from me telling him what I’d do if I had him in front of me, an emoji that in any other context meant nothing and between us meant everything.

The problem was logistical, not about desire. His sister had been living with him for a couple of months, taking up the sofa in the living room and half the bathroom. I didn’t have a place of my own where I could bring anyone either. Each of us on our own, both of us with no roof under which to fuck.

One afternoon, after a whole day of messages that read like a porn script, I suggested something concrete.

—I’ll pick you up in the car on your street and we’ll go look for a field. Whatever, but I can’t take it anymore.

—Tonight? —he replied.

—Tonight.

It must have been around May, because that sticky heat was already starting up, the kind that makes you want to strip down anywhere. I showered slowly, prepared my ass carefully, and chose clothes that would be easy to take off: shorts, a sleeveless shirt, flip-flops. I wasn’t going to a restaurant.

On the way to pick him up, I was thinking in detail about how I’d pull down his leggings, how I’d kneel, how his cock would go into me. Without meaning to, I kept rubbing myself over my trousers. I had to breathe deeply several times so I wouldn’t arrive at his building with the heat of it escaping through my ears.

When I saw him coming out of the block, I nearly fell over. He was wearing short leggings, a white tank top, and his hair was still damp. Adrián was the kind of man who looked good in the yellow light of streetlamps: it sharpened his jaw and outlined his shoulders. He got into the car, gave me that smile of his that always seemed to be apologizing for something, and I melted.

—Where are we going? —he asked.

—I’ve got an idea.

I left the city on the old road. While I was driving, I ran my hand over his thigh. I started by stroking his knee and slowly worked my way up. The skin on his legs was warm and hard. When I reached his package, I found it already marked out, tight against the stretchy fabric. He smiled without looking at me.

—If you keep driving like that, we’re going to die —he said.

—Then I’ll pull over.

About six miles from the town there was a dirt track I knew from when I used to go running on Sundays. It ran alongside an almond grove and disappeared between two plots of land. There were no streetlights, no houses, nothing. Just crickets and moonlight.

I cut the engine. I switched off the lights. For a second, the silence was complete.

***

We moved to the back seats as if we’d rehearsed it. There was no talk beforehand. I grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him like I’d been wanting to bite his mouth for months, which was exactly what I’d been doing. Adrián kissed with a strange kind of control: he seemed calm and, at the same time, he left you breathless. His tongue worked slowly, deliberately, until all of a sudden he tightened up and reminded you who was in charge.

We undressed halfway. I pulled his shirt up to his neck and lowered his leggings to his knees. I yanked off my shorts and stayed in my T-shirt. The inside of the car fogged up in seconds.

I started kissing his neck, biting gently just below his ear, where I knew everything on him would go prickly. I went down across his chest, over his sternum, along the trail of dark hair to his navel. I stopped there for a moment, sinking my tongue in, because I knew that gesture would throw him off rhythm. I heard him suck in a sharp breath.

His cock was hard, brown, thick. It leaked that amount of clear fluid I remembered so vividly, the kind that turned every blowjob into something easier, slipperier, dirtier. I took it all in one go. I wanted him to know, without needing to say it, that tonight I wasn’t stopping.

Adrián groaned and grabbed my hair. He didn’t pull hard. He just set my rhythm, telling me when to go up, when to go down, when to leave it out for a second and run my tongue underneath, right where the frenulum made him shiver. I let myself be carried along and answered with my mouth.

At some point, his fingers found my ass. He patted me over the top, then underneath, then inside. First one finger, then two. He did it with the same calm he’d used to massage my back months before. I felt myself opening to his rhythm, without warning.

—Come here —he said suddenly.

He yanked me up by the hair and kissed me again. Tongue against tongue, while he made me move over him. Without letting go of my neck, he positioned his cock just beneath my entrance. He rubbed against it, teased it, without going in. I moved slowly, letting the head pass through me again and again, until I stopped thinking.

I fucked myself on him. I lowered my hips, felt the pressure of the head, clenched my teeth, and kept going down. He looked at me for an instant as if to say, “you’re not wet enough,” but both of us knew we weren’t going to stop. His hands spread my cheeks. I kept lowering myself until I was sitting all the way down, with his cock completely inside me.

Pain and pleasure mixed into something that has no name. I held on to his neck and started moving. Slowly at first, then faster. Riding him, groaning low, losing my head against his jaw. Every time I came down, his cock hit a precise spot that made me let out a whimper.

We kissed between thrusts. Saliva ran down our chins. The car windows were completely fogged up. There was a thick, almost solid layer of condensation isolating the cabin from the world. It was just him, me, and a smell of sweat and oil that had stuck to our skin.

—I’m burning up —he said after a while.

Me too. My T-shirt was sticking to my back as if someone had dumped a bucket of water over me. The seat was wet.

—Let’s get out —I suggested.

***

We opened the car doors and the temperature changed abruptly. There was a little breeze, and that air against sweat-soaked skin was almost as obscene as everything before it. I crouched down in front of him, right at the height of his cock, which was still hard and shiny with my own wetness.

This time I wasn’t the one setting the pace. Adrián grabbed my head with both hands and started fucking my mouth as if he wanted to make something clear. He gave me no respite. He made me take him all the way to the back of my throat, held me there for a second, pulled out, and went back in. I looked up at him with watery eyes, and he held my gaze without blinking.

At one point I nearly choked. I coughed. I gagged. Instead of letting me go, he carefully pulled his cock out and held my face between his palms.

—Are you okay?

—I’m very okay. Here, with you.

He kissed me again, this time with a strange tenderness. As if he needed to make sure I was still the same guy who’d picked him up in the street a little while earlier. He wiped the saliva from my chin with his thumb and smiled.

Then, without saying anything, he turned me around. He made me lean my forearms on the back seat of the car, with the door open. I was inside from the waist up and outside from the waist down. My ass, right at the height of his cock. The stars, which you never even see in the city, were up there above us, absurdly numerous.

There was no warning. He shoved it into me to the hilt in one thrust. I let out a shout and he laughed softly. Then he started fucking me for real. Not the easy riding of the back seat: a real fucking, deep, rhythmic, brutal. His pelvis slammed into my ass with a dry sound that mixed with the crickets.

I nearly came twice without touching myself. When I felt myself getting close, I clenched my teeth and made myself wait. I wanted him to come first. I wanted to feel it.

—You want me to fill your ass? —he asked, his voice rough.

—Yes, fuck. Fill me up completely.

I don’t know how long it lasted. Five minutes, ten, twenty. Time doesn’t work in moments like that. All I know is that I felt his hand gripping my waist, his fingers digging into me, the rhythm becoming more erratic and harder.

—I’m going to come.

—Do it. Inside. All of it.

And he came. I felt him go deeper, I felt him trembling, I felt him blow out a breath against the back of my neck as he emptied himself inside me. Then he collapsed over my back, hugging me, still inside, not moving.

I held out as best I could. My legs were shaking. But there was something in that feeling —having managed to make that guy, so young, so handsome, so used to being able to choose, lose control with me on a dirt track at three in the morning—that made the trembling worth bearing.

When he softened, he slid out slowly. I straightened up however I could and we kissed. Long. Without haste. We looked at each other for a second, filthy, disheveled, sweaty, and we both started laughing weakly. The situation was ridiculous and, at the same time, perfect.

—I’ve got water in the trunk —I said.

—Thank God.

We cleaned ourselves up as best we could, with the bottle and two paper tissues. We got dressed slowly, without looking at the time. Every now and then one of us would let out a short laugh and the other would catch it too. There was no need to talk.

***

On the way back to town I put on low music. Adrián stayed looking out the window, one leg tucked up on the seat. I took his hand and rested it on my thigh. We stayed like that the whole way.

I dropped him off at his building. Before getting out, he leaned over and gave me a short, almost childish kiss. He thanked me. I thanked him back. The two of us knew, without saying it, that there probably wouldn’t be a fourth time.

There wasn’t. A few weeks later he met the guy he lives with now. I see him every now and then, always by chance, always with that same calm smile. He asks after me politely and tells me he’s fine, that he’s happy. I believe him. I’m genuinely glad.

Today, while writing this, I’ve been hard almost the whole time. Now I’m closing the computer, I’m going to switch off the light, and before I sleep I’m going to remember it again. Slowly, without hurry, like that night among the almond trees.

And tomorrow, if he calls me again, I’ll know how to say no.

Probably.