The Viking from the Townhouse Learned to Bite the Pillow

Damián was still fucking me at the edge of the bed, my legs folded almost against my chest, my ass raised at the edge of the mattress and my back sunk into the rumpled sheets. Every thrust was hard, deep, calculated. He drove all the way in and pulled almost completely out before burying himself again with that controlled violence he had spent months learning to apply to me. I moaned hoarsely, my knuckles white from gripping the fabric, my 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 strike with a jolt that climbed my spine and kept pulsing behind my eyes. My cock was hard against my abdomen, leaking without anyone touching it, heavy, veined, ready to make me explode without a single caress.

Damián noticed. He noticed how my breathing broke between moans, how my ass clenched around him every time he sank into me, how my whole body was beginning to pull toward the edge. He smiled slowly and withdrew all at once.

The emptiness was brutal. My hole contracted 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 cling to.

“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 completely, like the slut you’ve always been inside.”

He positioned me in the center of that enormous 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 damp curtain. Damián settled in behind me, one hand on my hip, the other moving up my back until he grabbed a lock of hair and pulled, arching me a little farther. My neck went taut, my throat still burning from before, the bites throbbing on my shoulder and nape.

He entered with one single thrust.

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

“That’s it, slut. On all fours, like a bitch in heat,” he growled, starting to fuck me harder than before. “Look at how you 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 nobody has fucked you in thirty-nine years.”

His hips collided with my buttocks in dull blows that made the entire bed frame tremble. The pace was fast, deep, without a pause. My prostate crushed without respite, the orgasm building at the base of my cock like a knot tightening and tightening without ever quite coming loose. I moaned far too loudly, moaning with a desperation I didn’t recognize as my own, hoarse moans I hadn’t known a man could make.

Damián chuckled softly and reached for one of the pillows at the headboard. He pressed it against my mouth, forcing me to bite it.

“Bite it, slut,” he ordered. “Bite hard—we’re in a townhouse, and the kitchen wall faces the Sandovals’ garden. I don’t want the neighbor you drink beer with on Sundays to hear you moaning like a bitch while they open you up completely.”

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

Damián pulled harder on my hair, arching 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 which had been the group’s pride and now crushed beneath a man who weighed forty-four pounds more than I did. He put his mouth to my ear.

“Look at yourself, Marcos,” he whispered, without slowing down. “Look at how you bite the pillow so they won’t hear you. The one who played alpha male all over town, who showed off his car and his wife and his Finnish saunas, now on all fours, biting down feathers so his moans won’t reach the garden. Can you imagine if they came in now? If Lucía, Pilar, and Beatriz walked through that door and saw you like this, spread open, dripping, biting fabric because they’re fucking you like you’ve never been fucked before?”

I moaned louder against the pillow when I heard those names.

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

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

Beatriz. Beatriz was different. Beatriz came along when I was already thirty-two, the company was running, the partners were happy, and she was so calm and so smart that for six months I thought I had finally found the place where I could stay. She was the one who left me. She was the one who told me, one ordinary night, while I was brushing my teeth in her bathroom, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Marcos, but you’re not here with me. It’s as if every time I touch you, your mind is somewhere else.”

Beatriz opened my eyes without knowing she was doing it. That was when the trips to Madrid for no reason began, the apps with the profile photo left blank, the little hotels near the station. The other life began.

And now Damián was saying her name while fucking me on all fours, and I felt something inside me breaking in a way I had been putting off for years.

“Did you hear that?” he continued, laughing against my ear, fucking me harder and harder. “You moaned when I said their names. It turns you on, doesn’t it? Imagining them seeing you like this. Lucía would cover her mouth. Pilar would record a video to show the handball girls. And Beatriz… Beatriz wouldn’t say a thing. Beatriz would stand in the doorway looking at you and suddenly understand everything she had been trying to understand during that year with you. She’s the one who turns you on the most, isn’t she? Having her see you. Having her confirm that she was right.”

I bit the pillow until I tasted the fabric on my tongue. Tears—the strange mixture of pleasure and shame I had been discovering for months—stung my eyes. The orgasm was drawing near, imminent, brutal: the base of my cock throbbed, my hole contracted in small, rapid spasms, my whole body trembling to the rhythm of Damián’s hips pounding against me.

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

“You’re going to come like this, faggot,” he growled, his voice strained too, on the verge. “Biting the pillow, choking back your moans so the neighbors won’t find out, my cock buried in your ass while you think about Beatriz watching you from the door. The Viking from the townhouse, the one with the German car, turned into my slut. Push, Marcos. Push so you can come all by yourself. I want to watch you do it.”

I pushed. I thrust backward with a desperation I had never felt before, not with Lucía, not with Pilar, not with Beatriz, not with my wife, not with any of the guys from the hotels near the station. I pushed with my ass spread open, my hair pulled taut, my face buried in a pillow already soaked with saliva. I pushed as if at the far end of that thrust was finally the person I had spent thirty-nine years pretending not to be.

“That’s it, fuck… come for me,” he whispered, pulling my hair harder. “Come thinking about how Beatriz would see you. On all fours. Biting the pillow. Moaning like a bitch because they’re fucking you like you’ve never been fucked before. You’re mine, Marcos. My slut. My faggot. And you’re going to come like this. Broken. Surrendered. Completely humiliated.”

My cock throbbed without being touched. My hole clenched in spasms growing shorter and shorter. The muffled moans were now one continuous sound against the down. My body trembled on the edge, Damián fucked me mercilessly, laughing softly at my moans whenever he came near one of those names, taking 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, unsurprised, her eyebrows barely raised, as if at last all the pieces fit together. I saw her look at me without looking away. I saw her say nothing. I saw her understand. And I bit the pillow with all my strength because the orgasm was there, one thrust away, half a thrust away, one more word from him.

“Come, slut,” Damián ordered against my ear.

(To be continued in the next chapter…)