The congress straight guy let me suck him off in the bathroom

It all started in Valencia. That city does things to me; I don’t know what it has. I go there now and then for work, and this time I was lucky enough that the company was putting on a whole weekend congress. You all know how those things go: new people, drinks late into the night, and everyone looking for their own thing, even if nobody says it out loud.

Friday was quiet. We were arriving throughout the afternoon, the obligatory introductions, a long dinner, and then beers at a nearby bar. That was when I started reading the room. Some people clearly wanted something without quite knowing what; others came in already itching to let loose.

By the way, I haven’t introduced myself. My name’s Bruno, twenty-four years old, dark-haired, short curly hair, neither skinny nor fat, brown eyes. They say I make a good first impression, and I think that was exactly what saved me the following night. You’ll see why.

That first night was nothing but laughs and beers. I had a great time watching the crowd: short, tall, thin, built, shy, statues with deadpan faces. A bit of everything.

And of course, as always, it happened to me. Guess who I fixated on? That’s right. The most straight guy in the room.

His name was Marcos. Tall, broad-shouldered, long hair tied back in a bun, short beard, and green eyes that could cut through the air. Masculine as hell, but with a nobility you could see in the way he treated people. The kind who, if he can, will lend a hand without you asking. Of course, the first thing I thought was: there’s no fucking way I’m getting involved with this one.

I spent half the night watching him from my corner. The way he laughed, throwing his head back, the way he rolled up his shirt sleeves to the elbows, exposing forearms you wanted to bite into, the way he talked to people looking them straight in the eye. Every gesture of his was an invitation he didn’t even know he was making, and I kept every one of them for myself, one by one, to go over later alone.

The night went by fast. I went back to my room early thinking about him, though I couldn’t do anything because I was sharing a room with another colleague. Jesus, if I’d slept with Marcos, nobody would have lived to tell the tale of that wall.

***

Saturday was a nonstop scramble. Meetings in the morning, lunch break, more talks in the afternoon and, finally, what really woke me up: they gave us the afternoon off. While some people showered, the rest of us waited to go to dinner. I hung out with the little group from the night before and, all of a sudden, Hugo, one of Marcos’s friends, blurted out to me point-blank:

—Hey, Bruno, who would you hook up with? Knowing you, you’ve definitely already got your eye on someone.

—Pfft, Marcos, without thinking twice. Have you seen the guy?

—He’s built well, huh?

—And what he could give me…

—Oh, yeah? Well, look, he said he’s free tonight.

—What are you saying? Didn’t he have a girlfriend?

—Yeah, but you can see how things are.

I didn’t catch anything else we talked about after that. My mind had already gone somewhere else. I was picturing it: how I’d kiss him, how I’d lick every inch of his body, his cock, his ass. Who can concentrate with that running through their head. And he had exactly the kind of body that drives me wild. Tall but broad, with meat on them. I’m not into guys whose ribs you can count.

We had dinner and Marcos got pushy about going out again. I kept turning over what Hugo had said. I mean, what could go wrong? Especially after what happened when we went up to his room so he could change. We started roughhousing as a joke, I threw him onto the bed and landed on top of him. Our faces ended up very, very close. And what was below, I won’t even get into.

We went out. A couple of beers in one place, another bar, and Marcos went from beer to gin. I don’t know how we ended up closing the place, but of course he wanted to keep going. It was three of his friends, him, and me. That’s when I switched from beer to vodka.

And from bar to bar, Marcos started in. He’d put his hand on my ass, palm me without trying to hide it, hugs that lasted too long. Things that aren’t exactly very straight, especially not with his buddies watching.

***

The vodka did its job and I got a desperate urge to piss like there was no tomorrow. Marcos saw me stand up.

—Hey, where are you going?

—To the bathroom, I’m fucking dying to piss.

—Wait, I’m coming with you.

—What, you want to hold it for me or what?

—If you behave…

On the way to the bathroom he kept rubbing my ass. Not a slap or a quick pinch, no. He kneaded it with his open hand, slowly, like he had all the time in the world.

The bathroom was narrow, one of those where two guys barely fit. A single yellowish bulb, cold tiles, and a dripping faucet. I peed first, with him a foot away, pretending we were each staring at our own wall. When it was his turn, we had no choice but to get close, really close. And that’s when everything snapped into place. Picture the scene: me with my fly open, wrapped around him, and his hands on my ass again, this time without any excuse at all.

I felt his breathing change. He wasn’t the relaxed guy from the table anymore; he was tense, alert, as if he’d finally admitted why he’d come in there with me. He pressed me against his body and I felt his chest rising and falling fast. My heart was racing. I’d spent the whole weekend imagining this moment, and now that I had him pressed against me, I could hardly believe it.

We started kissing. First a few brushes against the neck, slow, almost shy. But it quickly turned into one of those make-out sessions you only give when you’re really horny. He tasted like gin and cigarettes, and I loved every second of it.

Suddenly my pack of cigarettes fell to the floor and I thought: this is my chance. Without thinking twice, I knelt down in front of him. I started sucking him through his pants, feeling the outline of everything. It wasn’t huge; it was exactly the size that lets you enjoy it without choking. Trust me, that’s appreciated.

Marcos didn’t last long.

—Stop, stop, stop. If you’re going to suck it, suck it properly.

No sooner said than done. He pulled it out. Jesus Christ: shaved, straight, hard as a rock, and with that man smell of someone who’s had it on him all day. I started working it the way I know how. I took it in all the way, ran my tongue over the tip, let him fuck my mouth at his own pace. And he, besides holding my head with one hand and setting the rhythm, was moaning. Quietly, holding back, but moaning.

And there was something else that turned me on even more: his cock was lubing itself up on its own. A thin, shiny thread was dripping from it, making it painfully clear how hot he was and how much he liked what I was doing to him. That, and hearing him breathe in short gasps, is what gets me most. I need to know the other guy is truly enjoying it.

The floor was digging into my knees and I didn’t care. My whole attention was on him, on every tremor running through his thighs, on the way he clenched his jaw to keep quiet and failed anyway. Above us, through the haze of alcohol, the bar music and the voices of his friends carried on from the table, none of them suspecting a thing. That made it a thousand times hotter: the forbidden, the thing that could be found out at any moment.

I stayed there a while, on my knees, until I felt like getting a little filthier. I stood up, gathered as much of it as I could in my mouth, and kissed him. Another long make-out session, with lots of spit and lots of tongue, sharing what was his between the two of us. Then he turned, stood beside me, and started jerking me off while he was stroking himself at the same time. And they still say the straight guy.

***

When we were having the best time, the cubicle door flew open. It shut immediately, so I doubt they got a good look at much. Even so, we sprang apart, yanked our pants up in a hurry, and Marcos took a deep breath.

—Come on, let’s go have a smoke, let the stupidness pass.

—We can keep going later, right?

—We’ll see.

We went back to the table with his friends and I don’t know if it was the alcohol, which always pushes us further than we’d admit sober, but Marcos took my hand under the table and brought it to his crotch. Right there, in front of everyone. The more I touched him discreetly, the harder he got. I couldn’t believe it.

Unfortunately, just then they announced closing time and kicked us out of the bar. What could have ended in a perfect night was left hanging at that “we’ll see” that still annoys me to remember.

I’ve run into him again at another congress, but we only crossed paths for a short while. Barely a greeting, a conspiratorial smile, and that look that says more than either of us dares to say out loud. Maybe next time I’ll manage to drag him all the way over to my side. I hope so, because he looks like an absolute pig, and I was left dying to see just how far he goes.