The Friend from the Next Block and the Massages That Changed Everything

My name is Mateo. Back then, I had just turned nineteen. I was blond, light-eyed, skinny as a stick, with an ass bigger than a body that thin had any business carrying. The guys from the neighborhood made fun of me every time we played soccer and the ball went sailing off. I laughed with them, because at that age you learn to defend yourself by making the mockery part of the joke.

I was shy when it came to sex. I knew the basics, had leafed through a hidden magazine or two, had jerked off a thousand times looking at pictures of tits and asses, but everything else lived inside my head, mixed with equal parts curiosity and fear. I had a quiet youth until a new doctor moved into the yellow house on the corner with his wife and two sons.

The older one was named Damián. He was a couple of years ahead of me in school, intelligent, read books I barely understood, and had the kind of confidence older men possess when they aren't quite men yet. We became friends right away. We went to the same college, rode our bikes to the creek, played chess in his yard, and came home with scraped knees and dry throats.

We never talked about sex. Not once. That's why, when everything began, it caught me so completely off guard.

One winter afternoon, I mentioned almost in passing that my lower back hurt.

—You must have moved awkwardly —he said, while fitting the bicycle chain back on—. Want me to tell my old man? He'll examine you and that'll be that.

—No, let's not bother him over something so stupid.

—I know a thing or two myself. My old man taught me how to give massages. If you want, we can try.

—Better not —I said, without knowing why.

The days went by and the discomfort persisted. I didn't tell my parents, I don't know why. Only Damián, who insisted on the same offer every afternoon, until one Thursday I gave in.

After all, he's a friend, I thought. What could happen?

We went to his father's office, where he was working at the hospital that day. Damián closed the door without locking it and pointed me toward the examination table. I took off my shirt and pants, left my underwear on, and lay facedown. He rubbed his hands together to warm them and began pressing along both sides of my spine.

—This won't work —he said a few minutes later—. Take everything off; it's more practical.

I remained silent for a moment. The thought of being naked in front of him tightened my chest.

—What is it? Are you afraid I'll see you? —he said jokingly, though there was something serious underneath—. I've got the same thing you do. If you're embarrassed, I'll cover your ass with a towel.

I did as he asked. With my cheeks burning, I lowered my underwear, feeling his gaze fixed on my ass as I lay down again. He covered me with a short sheet and went back to work with his hands. This time he applied a cold gel that sent a shiver through me. He started at my shoulders, moved forcefully down my back, squeezed my muscles until it hurt, then relaxed, sliding his fingers in circles. When he reached my buttocks, through the sheet, his fingers pressed in and released with a rhythm unlike anything I had ever felt. He kneaded my cheeks as if they were dough, opening and closing them, and every time he spread them apart I felt the cool air slip into the cleft and raise gooseflesh all over me.

At the end, he pulled the sheet away without warning. I remained facedown, completely naked, and his hands continued as if nothing had happened. They slid over my thighs and along the sides of my ass, brushing the beginning of the cleft. His open palm traveled up the insides of my thighs and stopped millimeters from my balls without touching them, then moved down again. I felt my cock harden beneath my body, trapped against the table, pulsing against the padded leather. A thread of liquid wet the tip and stuck to my skin. I closed my eyes and didn't say a word. His fingers moved upward again, this time openly spreading my buttocks, and I felt one of them run along the entire cleft, from top to bottom, a slow stroke that sent a tremor from the nape of my neck to my feet.

—That's it —he suddenly said—. That's enough for today.

I got dressed, trying not to let him see my erection, my cock so swollen it barely fit inside my underwear. I thanked him, went out into the street, and walked the two blocks home with my ears burning and the tip wetting the fabric. What if I'd let him continue? I thought. I shook my head. Stupid shit. That night I jerked off twice thinking about his fingers spreading my ass.

***

Two days later, he asked how my back was doing. I told him it was better. He suggested a couple more sessions to finish loosening it up, and I accepted before thinking. It was obvious that something had changed between us, but neither of us named it.

The second time, I undressed without much hesitation. Damián poured on the gel again, this time more generously, and let a stream fall between my buttocks. The warm liquid ran down the cleft until it reached my balls. His fingers entered the groove and brushed, almost accidentally, against my hole. Then they moved up along the sides to my testicles, weighed them in his palm, and kneaded them carefully. He didn't stop there: he began sliding his index finger over my anus again and again, without pressing, merely brushing the wrinkled rim and drawing circles over the entrance. Every pass made me clench my ass against his finger, as if asking him to go in, though I didn't dare say it.

My body responded in the most obvious way. I got hard as a rock, so swollen it hurt. When he tried to turn me over to massage my front, I resisted at first, but in the end he turned me onto my back. He saw the bulge, saw my stiff cock against my belly, the tip shining with fluid. I covered myself with my hand, mortified with embarrassment.

—Don't be stupid. Enjoy it —he said—. Want me to keep going? Then you'll come.

—No, this isn't right.

I stood up, got dressed clumsily, and left. I walked without looking back, my neck burning, with a strange mixture of anger at myself and something else, something I didn't want to name.

I avoided him for two days. I'd pass him in the street and look down. But Damián came looking for me again with his usual casualness.

—I don't understand why you're angry —he said quietly—. You enjoyed it quite a lot last time.

I turned red all the way to my hair. He took my hand for a second, only a second.

—I'll be waiting for you tomorrow. We're going to finish what we started.

I nodded, because my mouth wouldn't work.

***

The next day I went. His mother was out, his father was at the hospital, and his brothers were in class. We went to the office, and this time he locked the door.

—Just in case —he said without looking at me.

I undressed without preamble and threw myself facedown. Damián poured gel over my back, buttocks, legs, even my feet. His hands moved over my skin with a new slowness; they were no longer looking for pain. They were looking for something else. I knew it and he knew it, and still we remained silent.

When his fingers began spreading my cleft and pressing against the entrance, a sound escaped my throat without my permission. A hoarse, dirty moan that gave me away completely. Damián turned me over again, saw that I was hard, and this time lowered his hand and began touching it. He took my cock in gel-soaked fingers, wrapped his hand all the way around it, and began moving his fist up and down slowly, looking me in the face. He caressed it with three fingers, almost curiously, played with my foreskin, ran his thumb over the tip, and smeared the pre-cum I was leaking myself. I bit the table to keep from screaming.

Then he turned me over again, facedown, pulled my hips up to raise my ass, and his index finger began to push.

The gel opened the way. I felt the finger enter completely, slowly, forcing the tight ring, while my moans seeped into the table. It went in and out with a calmness that drove me crazy. A few minutes later he inserted a second finger. The burning made me breathe unevenly, but he continued, opening me, spreading his fingers inside me to widen the entrance.

—Do you like it, Mateo? —he asked in my ear, his voice hoarse, his three-day beard brushing my cheek—. Tell me you like it.

—Keep going —I told him, and it was the only thing I could say.

He pushed the two fingers in and out with more force, curling them inside me, searching for something. When he found that spot, a jolt shot through me and made me lift my ass, begging for more. My cock was dripping onto the table, a warm puddle beneath my belly.

Suddenly I felt his weight on top of me. He was naked; I hadn't noticed when he had taken off his clothes. His hard cock searched between my buttocks, hot and slick with gel, much thicker than his fingers. The tip brushed my cleft, wandered between my cheeks, searched for the entrance, and rested there, throbbing against my hole.

—Not that, Damián —I managed to say.

—All right, I'll get off. I'm not forcing you to do anything —he replied, and moved away.

Two seconds passed. Three. I remained facedown, listening to my own breathing and feeling my open, throbbing hole, asking for something my mouth didn't dare name. I heard myself say, in a voice that didn't seem like mine:

—Okay, fine.

He mounted me again. He spread my buttocks with both hands and placed the tip against my ass. He pushed slowly, without hurrying. The gel did almost all the work. I felt something thick forcing its way in, a dull burning that rose up my spine, a pressure that hurt and yet didn't, a sensation unlike any other. His cock entered little by little, inch by inch, while I moaned against the table, biting my lip until it bled. When he was fully inside me, he stayed still, letting me feel it throbbing inside my ass.

He wrapped his arms around me from behind, kissed my neck, bit my shoulder, and began moving slowly. He pulled his cock almost all the way out and drove it back in to the hilt, each thrust deeper than the last. I didn't know what to do with my hands, my head, or the thought of what was happening. I simply stayed still, my ass raised, letting him fuck me, eyes closed and moans escaping on their own. Damián found his rhythm. His hips slapped against my buttocks with a wet sound, and every blow made me spit out a new cry. He reached underneath, found my cock, and began pounding it at the same time as he fucked me, synchronizing his fist with his thrusts.

—You've got such a tight ass, fuck —he panted against my ear—. You're going to take all of it.

I don't know how long it lasted. Five minutes, ten. I felt him speed up, the blows becoming savage, his breathing breaking apart. When he came inside me, I felt his whole body tremble, his fingers squeezing my nipples until they hurt, a growl escaping him as if he had been bitten. A warm spurt filled me inside, and he kept thrusting slowly, emptying himself completely. Then he collapsed onto my back, sweaty, without pulling out, his cock still hard inside my ass. With every one of his pulses, I felt his cum run down my thighs.

When he finally pulled away, he withdrew slowly and I felt a strange emptiness, my opening left wide, a thread of semen sliding down the cleft. He was still hard. I was startled by its size; I hadn't looked at it properly until then: thick, long, with prominent veins and a swollen glans, still shining with gel and his own milk.

—Want to try it? —he asked.

I knelt without thinking. I sucked it clumsily at first, not knowing how wide to open my mouth, gagging when he tried to push it farther in. Then I took hold of the base and worked it into my mouth with greater commitment, while he stroked my head and guided my pace by pulling my hair. I tasted him mixed with myself, salty and harsh, and realized I liked it. I jerked myself off at the same time, my cock between my fingers, my mouth occupied with his, until I came onto the cold tiled floor of the office with a muffled moan and a long spurt that splashed my knees.

On the way home, I decided it had been an episode. A freak occurrence. It wasn't going to happen again. I'm not a fag, I told myself. But people tell themselves those things once they're already satisfied.

***

Two weeks passed in a blur. Exams, studying, no room in my head for anything else. As soon as I finished my last test, I went looking for him. He was alone. He caressed my face and began unbuttoning my shirt without saying a word. I let him. When he was naked too, I knelt again. This time there was no hesitation. I took his cock in both hands, ran my tongue along its entire length from base to tip, sucked his balls one by one while jerking him off, and then swallowed him whole until my throat bumped against his pubic bone. Damián grabbed the back of my neck and began fucking my mouth, moving my head as if it were a toy. When he came, he filled my mouth with semen and made me swallow it all. Then he made me get on all fours on the rug and fucked me from behind without gel, using the saliva from my mouth as the only lubrication. He fucked me hard, gripping my hips and biting my back. I came onto the rug without anyone touching my cock, only his thrusts hammering inside me. This time there were no massages either.

I went home thinking I had to end it. That I was going to talk to him. That it wasn't my thing. People always put those conversations off until tomorrow.

***

One September afternoon, we went for a bike ride beyond the neighborhood. We pedaled along dirt paths, crossed an empty lot, and came upon an abandoned house at the edge of a grove of trees. Curiosity led us inside. We forced open a window, went through the rooms, and found broken furniture, dust, and fabric eaten away by damp. In the back bedroom there was a bed with an old, collapsed mattress.

I looked at Damián. He was looking at me in a way I already knew.

—Listen, I wanted to talk about something… —I began.

He didn't let me finish. He took off his pants, lay down on the mattress, and pushed my head toward his crotch. Before I knew what was happening, his fingers were already beneath my pants, making their way in and probing my ass with a dry finger. The sentence I had been about to say was postponed to another day. I sucked his cock until he was hard, took it slowly into my mouth, letting a thread of saliva run over his balls, and then climbed on top of him and sat down. I lowered myself onto him, impaling myself slowly, feeling him make his way inside me, and when he was fully in, I stayed still, breathing, while he squeezed my buttocks and looked up at me.

—I want you —he whispered—. I can't stop thinking about you.

I began moving on my own. I raised and lowered my hips, driving him into me again and again, feeling every inch enter and leave. His hands were on my waist, helping me keep the rhythm, arching himself to bury deeper inside. Then he turned me over, put me on my back, lifted my legs over his shoulders, and fucked me while looking into my eyes, his cock pulling almost completely out and plunging back to the bottom, until he came inside me for the second time that afternoon. When he finished, he bent down and sucked me until I filled his mouth. That afternoon we spent more than two hours on that bed, fucking in every position we could think of. We adopted the abandoned house as our refuge. We brought a blanket, a candle, and a bottle of water. Any excuse was enough to sneak away there.

***

But one rainy Saturday, everything changed.

We had arrived soaked. We dried ourselves as best we could, kissed, and took off our clothes. I was on all fours on the mattress, Damián's cock buried to the hilt inside me, when we heard footsteps. Before we could react, two men appeared in the doorway. They looked to be in their thirties, both big; one had an unkempt beard, the other was bald, with a hard face.

—Look what we've got here —the bald man said with a sideways smile—. Two little fags playing.

Fear fell over me like a bucket of ice water. We tried to cover ourselves with something. The bald man walked over, grabbed my arm, and pulled me away from the bed. Damián tried to intervene and earned a backhand that sent him sprawling onto the floor.

—I'm in charge here —the bald man told me, sitting on the edge of the mattress and forcing me to stand in front of him—. What's your name?

—Mateo, sir —I murmured, trembling.

—You like the way your little friend does it to you?

—That's between us —I answered, with a courage I didn't know where I found.

He grabbed my arm, bent me over his knees, and smacked my buttocks so hard that a cry escaped me. Two more followed, then three, until tears streamed down my face and my ass burned as if it had been scorched. Damián watched from a corner in silence, and I couldn't understand why he did nothing.

The bald man made me kneel between his legs and lowered his pants. What appeared was dark, thick, curved, and as hard as if it had been waiting for this moment for hours. A brutal cock, its glans purple and its veins swollen, much larger than Damián's. He grabbed me by the hair and pushed.

—There's a first time for everything —he said—. Open wide, little girl.

I did because I had no choice. He shoved it down my throat in one motion and I gagged, spitting saliva, tears streaming from my eyes. He didn't give me time to adjust: he grabbed my ears and began fucking my mouth, knocking his balls against my chin and forcing me to take him. I coughed and drooled, a thread of saliva running down my chest. And gradually, against everything I wanted to feel, my body began to become confused. The adrenaline, the fear, the weight of that man dominating me effortlessly, the strong smell of his crotch—all of it blended into something that was no longer only terror. My cock hardened between my legs, traitorous, and he noticed.

—You like it, don't you, little girl? —he said, and I didn't answer. My hand slipped down to my own cock, and I grabbed it without thinking. He laughed—. Look at him, the little slut is jerking himself off.

He made me climb onto the bed, threw me facedown, and spread my legs with his hands like pincers. The bearded man came closer to the mattress and watched everything without blinking, his hand inside his pants, touching himself. The bald man spat on my ass, spread the saliva over his tip, and plunged into me in one stroke without warning. I screamed. The pain was electric, a tearing sensation that shot up to my neck; I felt split in two. But after a minute it gave way to something else. He began moving quickly, without restraint, caring nothing for me, pounding my buttocks against his pelvis with a dry sound. His sweaty chest stuck to my back like wet paper. He grabbed my hair, pulled my head back, and whispered obscenities in my ear while destroying my ass.

—You've got such a tasty little ass, slut. I'm going to fill you with milk.

He came inside me a few minutes later with a long groan, squeezing my hips until his fingers left marks. When he pulled out, he brought my face to his cock and made me clean it with my mouth. I sucked his dirty cock, coated with his cum and what had come from my own ass, and the mixed taste turned my stomach. Meanwhile, the bearded man was already ready, waiting his turn, his cock out and his hand working it. What happened afterward is something I don't want to remember in detail. I only know that they both used me, put me in every position, that one shoved his cock into my mouth while the other fucked me from behind, that they filled me with semen inside and out, and that when they had both finished, they dressed without hurrying. Before leaving, the bald man slapped Damián on the shoulder.

—Your little bitch is a pretty one —he told him—. We'll let you keep going.

Damián didn't answer. But I had noticed something the entire time: he was hard. Watching everything, and hard.

I dressed in silence, semen sliding down my thighs and my ass burning. I felt less than an object, less than nothing. Damián came toward me, perhaps to comfort me, perhaps to finish what the others had left undone. I never found out, because I didn't let him speak.

—I don't want to know anything about any of this anymore —I told him—. I'm leaving.

I pedaled home with my legs trembling and my ass burning. That night, in bed, I stared at the ceiling for hours. I didn't cry. I cried later, weeks afterward, when I understood that the worst betrayal that afternoon had not come from the two strangers. It had come from the friend who had watched me the entire time without lifting a finger.