The Gay Fantasy My Friend's Father Awakened

The week after the ranch put everything back in its place: the usual rhythm of classes, practices, house duties. With the guys in the group, life together went back to normal. The subject of those three days at the Montoya farm never disappeared entirely—how could it?—but it turned into an anecdote, into something we remembered with laughter on the edge of the court or during practice breaks.

What we talked about most was the river moment. That Saturday night, between the aguardiente and the darkness of the water, my hand ended up closing around Don Rodrigo's crotch. An accident, according to everyone. But what no one understood the way I did was what happened next: he put his hand over mine. Not to move it away. To hold it there. To keep it there several seconds longer than any joke could justify. And under the water, my fingers managed to feel the heavy, hot bulge of his cock hardening inside his wet pants, growing slowly against my palm while he held me firmly against him.

My friends brushed it off without much drama. The liquor, the heat of the night, Don Rodrigo being a serious, married man, Tomás's father, a respectable person. They were probably right. But I kept coming back to that moment with a precision that didn't fit the accident theory. The pressure of his fingers on mine. The angle of his jaw when he looked me in the eye without letting go of my hand. The way his lips hinted at something that wasn't exactly a smile. The thickness of that cock I had felt waking up under my hand.

That was not a joke.

Don Rodrigo had something about him I found impossible to ignore. A physical solidity that came not from the gym but from real work: broad shoulders, large hands with marked knuckles, a thick neck, a back that filled out any T-shirt. A voice that dropped a note when he talked about something that mattered to him. During the weekend at the farm he had sought me out for group games, for soccer, for activities where it was useful to have someone strong beside you, and I had taken advantage of every one of those excuses to stay close, to brush his arm with mine, to watch him when he wasn't looking. I imagined him shirtless, his chest covered in dark hair, his thick cock hanging between his thighs, his callused hands gripping my waist. Every time I saw him my pussy got hot and my cock went hard at the same time.

There was something in him that reminded me of someone even closer, something I'd spent years learning not to name even in my own head. And it was there, in that coincidence, that I began to see the possibility of doing something with all that accumulated desire.

The days after the ranch I spent carefully building the plan. It wasn't the first time I'd used the image of someone to project a desire I couldn't satisfy directly, but this time the target was very specific. I needed a night without interruptions, without other people's eyes, without having to manage my expressions. And I needed the right person to set it up. I didn't want to share it with anyone else. Not even with Sebas, who knew almost everything about me.

On Friday I arrived early at my Aunt Clara's house. We drank tinto and, without me having to ask directly, she gave me all the information I needed: my mom was going to the gym at seven, and she'd go with her. Sebas would train at the same time, as he did every Friday. The window was perfect. I only had to find a believable reason to stay home.

When I got there, I said that during soccer practice I'd strained my adductor muscle, right here inside, and that the teacher had recommended I not force it that day. My mom checked me with a worried face and then went off to change. My dad was in his room getting himself ready, looking like someone calculating whether he had the energy to go out or whether it was better to stay home.

—Are you going today? —I asked from the doorway.

—I have to go —he said, without much conviction.

—You don't have to do anything you don't want to.

He stood still for a moment and looked at me. We'd spent our whole lives learning to read each other's language, and in that instant we both knew exactly what was happening. My mom left first. Sebas had already gone out twenty minutes earlier. The house fell silent.

***

I went into his room. I was wearing very short, thin-fabric gym shorts that I knew he liked because they made my ass look good and showed I wasn't wearing anything underneath. I sat on the edge of his bed and rested my right foot on his thigh before he could say anything.

—The muscle is in here —I said, opening my leg so he could see it well—. Look at it for a second.

He put his hand on the inside of my thigh. He moved up slowly, measuring each centimeter with his rough fingers, and when he reached where I wanted him to reach, he stopped for a moment. The fabric had shifted and my cock was already hard, outlining itself against the shorts, and he saw it with the same calm with which he saw everything.

—Mateo —he said softly.

—We're here already, daddy.

I grabbed his hand and slid it under the fabric, until it rested on my hot cock. He closed his fingers around my dick without thinking, squeezing with that firmness of his, and started jerking me off slowly while I arched against the mattress. I pulled his shorts down and yanked them off. His cock was already out, thick, dark at the tip, with that vein running underneath that I knew by heart. I leaned in, grabbed his balls with one hand, and took him all the way into my mouth in one go until I felt him hit the back of my throat.

—Mateo, slow —he said through his teeth, gripping the back of my neck.

But I didn't want slow. I started sucking his cock hungrily, going up and down, letting my mouth fill with saliva and drip over his balls. He held my head with both hands and fucked my mouth at his pace, without mercy, until I felt tears spring to my eyes. When I heard him moan louder, I lifted my face and gave him a look.

—I want to ask you for something different this time —I said, my lips still brushing the tip of his cock.

He looked up at me, breathing hard.

—I want you to be someone else. To act like someone who's had my head spinning for weeks.

—Who? —he asked.

—Don Rodrigo. Tomás's dad.

Silence. He looked at me with that expression of his, like he was processing something without showing what he thought, while I kept running my tongue over the head of his cock, licking the drop of fluid already beading there.

—Did something happen with him at the farm?

—Almost. I wish. But no. I grabbed his cock under the water, daddy. I felt all of it. And since that night I haven't been able to think about anything else.

—Okay —he said at last, and his voice had changed—. But we do it under my conditions.

He got up and opened the closet. He took out a small suitcase I knew by sight, the kind of thing you learn not to ask what it contains. First came a dark cloth blindfold that he placed over my eyes carefully, adjusting it without tightening it. Then I heard the metallic sound of something I recognized immediately. He ripped my shorts off, left me naked on the bed, and I felt the cold close around my left wrist, then my right, tying me to the headboard with a precision that left no room to move. I was open, legs apart, cock standing against my navel and ass raised for him.

—The conditions are mine —he said next to my ear, and at that moment his voice had something different in it, deeper, more deliberate—. You forget where you are. I take you there.

I nodded without saying anything. Under the blindfold, I closed my eyes.

***

The oil came first to my chest. Cold at the start, then warm from the heat of his palms. His hands moved slowly and without hurry, covering my chest, sliding down my abdomen, playing with my nipples until they hardened at once. Then they kept going down, circling my cock without quite touching it, spreading oil over my balls, over my crotch, over my thighs. My arms were above my head, tied to the bed, and I couldn't do anything but receive each movement and let it build.

—Keep your eyes closed even if you have the blindfold on —he said—. Listen to me carefully.

And he started talking.

The story he built began with something simple: a Saturday afternoon at the mall on the north side of the city. Don Rodrigo and I crossing paths in the food court, without Tomás, without anyone to put us in our usual place. He called me by name. He was surprised to find me alone.

—We order two tintos —my dad narrated in a calm voice, while his hands kept moving over my thighs—. Both standing, leaning against the counter. Don Rodrigo speaks slowly. He asks you about school, about training. Now and then he looks down and corrects himself. You look at the bulge straining against his pants. You realize he's got it big, daddy. That he'd fill any hand.

I could see it. The marble counter, the smell of burnt coffee, the dull noise of the mall. Don Rodrigo's dark blue jacket. The heavy bulge under the gray pants.

The story kept moving forward. They went from the counter to a table in a corner, away from the noise. From the usual topics to something more personal: what one is looking for, what one doesn't find, what one learns not to say out loud. And at some point in that conversation, Don Rodrigo let something slip. A comment about my legs. About the way I carried my body when I walked. About how badly he wanted to see me spread out on top of his bed. He said it naturally, without urgency, like someone opening a door and waiting to see whether the other person would walk through it.

The hands massaging me went lower. One closed around my oily cock and started moving up and down, with exactly the right pressure, while the other slipped between my butt cheeks and found my hole. I pulled against the cuffs without meaning to, as a reflex, with nowhere to go.

—Don Rodrigo knows an apartment two blocks away —the voice continued—. A friend left him the keys to pick up some papers. It won't take long. Let's go.

Inside the story, we both knew there were no papers. What there was was an apartment with afternoon light falling diagonally across a leather couch, and Don Rodrigo closing the door without hurry. The silence of a space that belonged to neither of us. Him sitting beside me and resting his hand on my thigh with the same naturalness he'd shown that night by the river. Slowly sliding up until he gripped my cock over my pants.

—Take off your clothes —Don Rodrigo said inside the story—. I want to see you completely.

And I took them off there, in that borrowed apartment, standing in front of him while he stayed dressed and watched me from the couch, running his eyes over me like someone studying something he'll take his time with. Then he would unbuckle his belt, pull down the zipper, and take out his cock. And it was exactly the cock I'd felt under the water: thick, dark, long, with the heavy balls hanging between his open legs.

—Come here —Don Rodrigo said—. Kneel down.

While my dad narrated, I felt something brushing between my thighs. An object I recognized without anyone having to explain anything to me. Cold, hard, slick with oil. It entered my ass slowly, first the tip, then halfway, opening me gradually and with a precision that made me clench my teeth and arch my back against the mattress. The hands never stopped moving at any moment, as if everything were part of one continuous motion: one pumped my cock with oil, the other pushed the toy deeper into my ass, and I let myself go.

—Don Rodrigo tells you what he's thought for a long time —the voice continued, now closer to my ear—. No bullshit. In that way he has when something really matters to him. He tells you he's watched you since the first day Tomás brought you to his house. That there's something in you he didn't know how to name until that afternoon. That he's glad to see you haven't run either. That he's been jerking off to your face for weeks. That that night by the river, when you felt his cock, he wished he'd buried it all the way inside you right there.

I could hear his exact voice. Not my dad's. Don Rodrigo's.

The story kept heating up slowly and deliberately. I was kneeling in front of him on that leather couch. I grabbed his balls with one hand and took his cock into my mouth, feeling him fill my throat completely. He grabbed my hair and shoved it in all the way, not letting me breathe, until his cock got even harder against my tongue. I sucked him like he was the last cock I was ever going to taste in my life, leaving his balls wet with spit, licking his head, sucking his shaft from root to tip.

—Turn around —Don Rodrigo said in the story—. I want to see your ass.

And I turned around right there, on all fours on the carpet, raising my open ass for him. He grabbed my cheeks with both hands, spread them apart, and leaned down to slip his entire tongue into my hole. He licked me slowly, then quickly, then shoved it all the way inside while squeezing my ass until his thick fingers left marks in it. I moaned with my face pressed against the couch's leather, begging him to fuck me, to put it inside me already.

—Do you want me to put it in? —Don Rodrigo said in the story, spitting on my ass, smearing the saliva over me with the head of his cock.

—Yes, daddy —I answered, inside the story and outside it at the same time.

—Ask properly.

—Fuck me, Don Rodrigo. Fuck me all the way.

And in the apartment of the story, Don Rodrigo grabbed my hips with those enormous hands and drove his entire cock into my ass in one thrust. I screamed against the leather couch while he stayed still for a moment, waiting for me to take his thick cock, and then he started fucking me slowly, with long, deep thrusts, hitting my ass with his balls on every stroke.

The toy inside me found a harder, faster rhythm. The hand on my cock pumped me with more urgency. I writhed under the oil and the bound leather, listening to the voice describe how Don Rodrigo had me pinned to the couch, how he held my neck with one hand while he fucked me with everything he had, how he told me in my ear that I was his, that that ass was his, that he wasn't going to stop fucking me until I came without being touched.

—Like that, daddy, like that —I moaned, my fists clenched against the cuffs—. Harder. Don't stop.

—Don Rodrigo fucks you with all the weight of his body —my dad's voice kept going, now rougher, more aroused—. He has you against the couch with his big hand on the back of your neck. He tells you things in your ear he hasn't told anyone. He tells you he doesn't want to hide anymore. That he'll look for you whenever he can. That this stays between the two of you.

The toy hit my prostate with every push. The hand squeezed my cock harder. Both hands working me at once, both holes full, and Don Rodrigo's voice inside my head telling me he was going to fill my ass with cum, that he'd fuck me until he left his load inside me.

In the apartment of the story, Don Rodrigo turned me around without taking his cock out. He put me on my back on the couch, lifted my legs to rest them on his shoulders, and drove it back in to the hilt. Now he could see my face. He grabbed my cock with his callused hand and jerked me off at the same rhythm he fucked me, looking into my eyes, saying nothing, jaw tight and sweat running down his temple.

—Come for Don Rodrigo —the voice said beside me, pressed to my ear—. Come thinking about him. About his cock inside you. About his hand. About his face.

I don't know at what point in the story I reached the edge. It was with that sentence, with the hands and the movement inside me converging at the same time, with the image of Don Rodrigo in that apartment looking at me with the same calm with which he'd looked at me that night in the water. I felt the orgasm rise from my balls, fill my cock, and burst in thick spurts that splashed over my chest, my neck, my face. I got there on my own, with my arms cuffed and my eyes covered, screaming another man's name, and when it happened it was long and complete and more real than I had calculated. My ass clenched around the toy in spasms I couldn't control, and the hand on my cock kept milking me until there was nothing left inside.

***

When the blindfold came off, it took me a moment to recognize the room's ceiling, the window, the last light of evening. My cum was drying on my chest and my whole body was shaking. My dad was standing beside the bed, silent, with his cock still hard, hanging between his legs and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. There was neither triumph nor regret on his face. Only the calm expression of someone who did his job well and knows it.

—Was it good? —he asked.

—It was —I answered.

We didn't add anything else. There was nothing to add.

That Don Rodrigo would never know anything about that afternoon was, somehow, part of what made it perfect. The desire that can't be said out loud finds its own way to be fulfilled, if one looks with enough care. That afternoon I learned that fantasy doesn't need the other person in order to be completely real. It only needs someone to hold it long enough for you to truly enter it.

And my dad held it to the end.