The Chalet Viking Learned to Bite the Pillow

Damián kept fucking me right on the edge of the bed, my legs bent almost up to my chest, my ass lifted to the edge of the mattress, my back sunk into the tangled sheets. Every thrust was dry, deep, calculated. He went all the way in and came almost all the way out before driving back in again with that controlled violence he’d spent months learning to use on me. I moaned hoarsely, knuckles white from gripping the fabric, my whole body trembling as if I were being emptied from the inside.

The pleasure didn’t come in waves; it came in hammer blows. My prostate answered every удар with a jolt that ran up my spine and kept throbbing behind my eyes. My cock was hard against my abdomen, leaking without anyone touching it, heavy, veined, ready to blow me apart without a single caress.

Damián noticed. He noticed how my breath broke between moans, how my hole clenched around him every time he drove in, how my whole body started pulling toward the edge. He smiled slowly and pulled out abruptly.

The emptiness was brutal. My hole tightened in the air, wet, throbbing, desperate to feel him inside again. I let out a broken moan, almost a whimper, my legs trembling high, my heels searching for something to brace against.

—Not yet, faggot —he said hoarsely, grabbing my hips to turn me over—. I want to see you on all fours when you come. I want to see you break apart completely, like the bitch you’ve always been on the inside.

He positioned me in the middle of that huge bed my wife and I had chosen together five years earlier. Knees sunk into the mattress, hands spread against the sheets, back arched in that curve that left me completely exposed. My hair, long since the summer, fell over my face like a wet curtain. Damián settled in behind me, one hand on my hip, the other sliding up my back until he caught a lock of hair and yanked to arch me even more. My neck went taut, my throat still burning from earlier, the bites throbbing on my shoulder and the nape of my neck.

He drove in with one hard thrust.

I moaned long and unabashed, and he yanked my hair so I couldn’t lower my face against the pillow. He wanted to see me. He wanted me to see myself being seen.

—That’s it, bitch. On all fours, like a bitch in heat —he growled, starting to fuck me harder than before—. Look at how you spread open. Look at how your ass swallows every inch. You’re going to come without touching yourself, Marcos. You’re going to come just because I’m fucking you like no one has fucked you in thirty-nine years.

His hips crashed against my ass with dull blows that made the whole bed shudder. The rhythm was fast, deep, relentless. My prostate was being crushed without pause, my orgasm gathering at the base of my cock like a knot tightening and tightening without quite letting go. I moaned too loud, moaned with a desperation I didn’t recognize as my own, hoarse sounds I didn’t know a man could make.

Damián gave a low laugh and reached for one of the pillows at the headboard. He pressed it against my mouth, forcing me to bite down on it.

—Bite, slut —he ordered—. Bite hard, because we’re in a semi-detached house and the kitchen wall faces the Sandovals’ garden. I don’t want the neighbor you drink beer with on Sundays hearing you moan like a bitch while they split you open.

I bit down. I sank my teeth into the soft fabric and the moans turned into something else, more intimate, more obscene: muffled moans vibrating against the down, saliva soaking it, my whole body undulating backward to take him deeper. Every thrust made me push my ass back against him, offer more, open wider. My hole closed around his cock as if it wanted to keep it there, as if it had a memory of its own and knew that without it, the rest of the world was unbearable.

Damián tugged harder on my hair, arched me to the limit, and leaned over my back. I felt his chest pressed against the tattoo I’d gotten at twenty-two, that eagle that had been the pride of the crew and was now being flattened by a man twenty kilos heavier than me. He put his mouth to my ear.

—Look at you, Marcos —he whispered, without slowing down—. Look at you biting the pillow so they won’t hear you. The guy who played macho alpha all over town, the one who bragged about his car and his wife and Finnish saunas, now on all fours, biting down on down so the moans don’t get out into the garden. Can you imagine if someone came in now? If Lucía, Pilar and Beatriz crossed that door and saw you like this, open, dripping, biting fabric because you’re getting fucked like you’ve never been fucked before?

I moaned harder into the pillow at those names.

Lucía. My girlfriend from the last year of high school, the one everyone assumed was mine because I was “the one who got around.” Lucía put up with two years of quick hands and long silences before leaving me for a guy from her music class.

Pilar. The captain of the handball team, who I hooked up with at someone else’s stag party and paraded around the whole group like a trophy. Pilar got married four summers ago, and I still ran into her at the supermarket.

Beatriz. Beatriz was something else. Beatriz came along when I was already thirty-two, the company running, the partners happy, and she was so calm and so smart that for six months I thought I’d finally found the place I was meant to stay. She was the one who left me. She was the one who told me, one random night while I was brushing my teeth in her bathroom: “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Marcos, but you’re not here with me. It’s like every time I touch you, your head is somewhere else.”

Beatriz opened my eyes without knowing she was opening them. That was when the trips to Madrid for no reason began, the apps with no-profile photos, the small hotels near the station. That was when the other life began.

And now Damián was saying her name while he fucked me on all fours and I felt something inside me break in a way I’d been postponing for years.

—Did you hear that? —he went on, laughing against my ear, fucking me harder and harder—. You moaned when I said their names. It turns you on, doesn’t it? The idea of them seeing you like this turns you on. Lucía would cover her mouth. Pilar would record a video to show the handball girls. And Beatriz… Beatriz wouldn’t say a word. Beatriz would stand in the doorway looking at you and understand all at once everything she’d been trying to understand that year with you. That’s the one who turns you on most, isn’t it? Her seeing you. Her confirming she was right.

I bit the pillow until I could taste the fabric on my tongue. Tears, that strange mix of pleasure and shame I’d been discovering for months, stung my eyes. The orgasm was closing in, brutal and immediate: the base of my cock pulsed, my hole contracted in small, quick spasms, my whole body shaking in time with Damián’s hips pounding into me.

Damián noticed and stepped everything up. The hand on my hip slid down to dig into the flesh of my side and pull me back with every thrust, synchronizing my body with his. The other hand kept yanking my hair, keeping me arched, keeping me exposed. The bed creaked, the sheets bunched beneath my knees, sweat dripped from his chest onto my back and ran down my sides.

—You’re going to come like this, faggot —he growled, his voice tight too, on the edge—. Biting the pillow, muffling your moans so the neighbors don’t find out, your ass full of my cock while you think about Beatriz watching you from the doorway. The Viking of the semi-detached house, the guy with the German car, turned into my slut. Push, Marcos. Push so you come all by yourself. I want to see you do it.

I pushed. I pushed back with a desperation I had never felt, not with Lucía, not with Pilar, not with Beatriz, not with my wife, not with any of the guys in the hotels near the station. I pushed with my ass open, my hair taut, my face buried in a pillow already soaked with saliva. I pushed as if at the far end of that push was, at last, the person I’d spent thirty-nine years pretending to be someone else for.

—That’s it, fuck… come for me —he whispered, pulling harder on my hair—. Come thinking about how Beatriz would see you. On all fours. Biting a pillow. Moaning like a bitch because you’re being fucked like you’ve never been fucked before. You’re mine, Marcos. My slut. My faggot. And you’re going to come like this. Broken. Given over. Humiliated completely.

My cock was throbbing untouched. My hole clenched in shorter and shorter spasms. The muffled moans were now one continuous sound against the down. My body shook on the brink, Damián fucked without mercy, softly laughing at my moans every time he passed near one of those names, driving me to the absolute limit of pleasure and surrender.

I closed my eyes.

I saw Beatriz in the bedroom doorway. I saw her standing still, not surprised, her eyebrows barely raised, as if all the pieces were finally clicking into place. I saw her looking at me and not looking away. I saw her not saying anything. I saw her understanding. And I bit the pillow with all my strength because the orgasm was right there, one blow away, half a blow away, one more word from him away.

—Come, bitch —Damián ordered against my ear.

(To be continued in the next chapter…)