The Night I Decided to Be Completely Passive with Him

It was after ten at night when I opened the app with one very clear idea in mind: that night I wanted to be completely passive. No exceptions, no negotiations. Just give myself over.

I didn’t take long. Twenty minutes later I was already in conversation with a man named Marco, around fifty according to his profile, a declared active. The photos were concrete and honest: a body built over the years, nothing flashy but enough to make something in me tighten when I saw them. He wrote well, without abbreviations. He asked me what I was looking for that night and when I told him, he answered with a simple “perfect.”

He gave me his address. A high-rise building in the downtown area, fourteenth floor.

—If you come by taxi, you’ll be here in ten minutes —he wrote.

I got there in fifteen. Midnight hadn’t passed yet.

***

The elevator was the first test. As soon as the doors closed, Marco moved in behind me without saying a word and slid his hand over my hip, slowly, as if he already had the right to do it. He pressed me against the mirrored wall and spoke into my ear, his voice deeper than in the messages:

—You’re looking good.

That was all he said. It was enough.

When the doors opened, he guided me down the corridor with his hand at the small of my back, as if I were already his and we were just finishing up a pending errand.

The apartment was spacious and neat. Light walls, dark furniture, an entire city glittering behind the floor-to-ceiling window. I stayed looking at that view a second too long.

—That happens to me every time —he said—. Even after three years living here.

He went to the kitchen and came back with two glasses of red wine. I accepted mine gladly. There was something about that atmosphere, that ordered calm, that made the body relax in a different way. When you know you’re in the hands of someone who knows what he’s doing, pleasure changes register. It becomes denser, slower, more yours.

—Take your clothes off —Marco said as he settled into the sofa, unhurried, holding me with his gaze.

I did it between sips. I took off my shirt, my shoes, my pants. I stayed in my underwear and looked at him. He nodded slowly, as if evaluating what he saw, and then loosened his belt.

—Come here.

***

I knelt between his legs and took him into my mouth before he was fully hard. I like that too: feeling how he grows, how the texture changes, how someone’s breathing becomes slower and deeper while you hold him on your tongue. Marco put his hand on my head, not pressing, just resting it there. A quiet gesture of possession that said more than any command.

—Like that, like that —he murmured—. Don’t stop.

I didn’t stop. I took him to the back of my throat several times, controlling the rhythm, swallowing him with my mouth open and my jaw tightening so I wouldn’t lose the cadence. I could feel the hardened cock filling my mouth, rubbing against my tongue, and every time I went down and up with precision I tore from him a more ragged, deeper moan. When he was fully hard and on the verge of coming, he stopped me gently.

—Not yet. Sit here.

I sat beside him on the sofa and we tangled together. His hands moved over my body with a familiarity that in another situation would have felt strange, but that night it felt exactly as it should. He bit my neck softly. He took my nipples between his fingers and squeezed until pain and pleasure mixed into something without an exact name. He went down my chest, opened my legs with calm firmness, and slid his fingers between my thighs, testing the wetness he’d already drawn out of me with my mouth earlier. I was completely naked. He was still wearing his briefs, and that asymmetry made me more nervous, in the good way. That was part of the game too.

He stood up, brought more wine and a board with something to snack on. He poured the glasses carefully. Everything about that man had a particular cadence, as if sex were a ritual he had learned to celebrate without hurry and without waste.

—Stand up for a moment —he asked, taking my hand.

I rose and he brought his glass close so I could take a sip. I took too much and the wine spilled down my chin, my chest, all the way to my navel. Marco lowered his head and licked it clean: the chin first, then the chest, then the stomach, and kept going until he knelt in front of me and put his mouth between my legs, licking me with slow hunger, spreading my thighs to bury his tongue where it was hottest. What started as a joke ended with him on his knees, holding my hips, while I rested a hand on his shoulder so I wouldn’t lose my balance. He sucked my cunt with precision, unhurried, running the tip of his tongue through the center and then opening me wider with his fingers, as if he wanted me to feel every edge of myself against my skin.

When he stood back up he kissed me with his mouth still wet. He turned me around and led me to the sofa.

—Lean on the backrest.

***

I knelt on the seat with my hands on the backrest and he positioned himself behind me. I felt him coming closer, the pressure of his cock against me, hot and firm, and I waited. Marco took one breath. He opened me slowly. The entry was gradual, meticulous: first the pressure, then the opening, then the depth. When he reached the back I stayed still for a moment, absorbing the full sensation, the flesh widening to receive him, the dry, wet pull of his cock sliding in until my legs shook.

—Are you okay? —he asked quietly.

—More than okay —I answered.

He started moving. Slowly at first, finding the rhythm, and then more firmly when he understood that I didn’t need him to be gentle. He leaned over me, took me by the hair with one hand, and brought his mouth to my ear:

—You owed me this one tonight.

I didn’t know what to answer. It wasn’t necessary.

We stayed like that for fifteen minutes, maybe more. Time became imprecise. His thrusts opened and closed me with measured violence, brutal without losing control, and every time he pulled out halfway to drive back in I let out a longer, more broken moan. Marco squeezed my hips, changed the angle, made me arch my back and the sensation became deeper, dirtier, more exact. When he decided it was time, he pulled out abruptly and the emptiness he left behind was as physical as what had come before. I stayed in the same place, leaning on the backrest, catching my breath, my ass still throbbing inside.

—Let’s shower —he said—. I want to have you in bed.

***

The shower was large, with dark tiles and water that heated up in seconds. We stepped in together and there the rhythm changed: slower, more tactile. We soaped each other without urgency, our hands exploring what we had touched in other ways before. He ran soap over my chest, my abdomen, between my thighs, and I did the same on his back, his ass, the base of his cock still half-hard under the hot water. Skin slipped, hands glided better, and the steam made the air smell of soap, sex, and thick humidity.

He kissed me under the stream of water, his hair stuck to his face and his eyes closed, and it was one of those kisses that don’t go anywhere in particular but are worth keeping.

I took my time with him too. I jerked him off against the shower wall while the steam wrapped around everything and his hips responded without being asked. I grabbed his cock with my wet hand, squeezed him from the base, and moved upward slowly with my wrist, feeling him get harder, hotter, heavier in my palm. What began as something functional ended up being as intimate as everything before it. There’s something about shared showers that lowers the last defenses sex left intact. I spread his legs to wash his balls, traced the groove between his thighs, and he let out a rough groan, pressing his forehead to my shoulder while I kept pumping him until he started trembling.

We got out and dried off. He handed me a clean towel and guided me down the hall to the bedroom, which was in half-light: only a very dim lamp illuminated the huge bed, the tidy nightstand, the window left ajar with a bit of breeze coming in from outside.

—Sit down —he said, pointing at the bed.

I sat. He remained standing in front of me, opened his legs slightly, and looked down at me.

—Now you touch me.

***

I took him into my mouth again, this time unhurried, savoring every inch. Marco leaned against the wall and watched me with narrowed eyes, his hand on my head. I liked that look: it wasn’t urgency, it was appreciation. Like someone savoring something he knows won’t last forever. I licked him from the balls to the tip, sucked slowly, alternating tongue and lips, and when he was fully hard I took him all the way down, swallowing saliva and breath to make room for him better. He set the pace with his fingers on my scalp, not squeezing too hard, letting me handle him my way while his moan became increasingly shattered.

When he felt he was reaching the limit again, he lay back on the bed and invited me up. We settled facing each other and what came next was a long exchange that had no clear beginning or end: his mouth on me, mine on him, our bodies turning with the clumsy, precise logic of two people who understand each other well even if they’ve only just met. He opened me with two fingers, then three, sinking them into my ass slowly until the pressure became an unbearable need. Every time I was about to come, he released the pressure a thousandth of a second later, and that calculated delay left me in a state of tension that was already pleasure in itself. Then he arranged me on my side, put one leg over his, and penetrated me again, this time deeper, pushing until the mattress creaked with each back-and-forth.

We stayed like that for at least an hour. No talking, no long pauses, just giving ourselves over to it.

After that he put me face down and penetrated me again, this time on the bed, more calmly but with the same determination as before. He took me by the hips and set a deliberate pace, as if he wanted me to remember each movement separately. The wet slap of his cock sliding in and out made me arch my back, bury my face in the pillow, and press my hands into the sheets. When he came, he did it without warning me, only with a deep sound that vibrated against my back, and then he fell onto me for a few seconds before rolling to my side.

We stayed silent.

—I didn’t expect this —he said at last.

—What did you expect?

—I don’t know. Much less. —He laughed a little.

***

After a while we got up and went back to the sofa, still naked. It was after one in the morning. Marco poured the rest of the wine and we ate some of what he had brought earlier on the board. We talked about light things: the app, the neighborhood, his job, which had something to do with design. The conversation was comfortable, without demands, as if we had known each other for a long time.

That was when the game took a different turn.

Marco got on all fours on the sofa with a spontaneity that caught me off guard, and looked at me over his shoulder.

—I want you to open me up.

I understood what he was asking. I took the time necessary, starting gently, reading his reactions carefully. His body responded well: trained, patient. Little by little I went forward, guided by his indications and by what I felt under my fingers. I slowly separated his ass cheeks, wet the entrance, slid in the tip of one finger first, then two, until the hole gave way and opened with that mix of resistance and surrender that makes everything else disappear. Marco breathed deeply, jaw clenched and voice rough.

—Slowly —he told me—. Like that, like that.

His moans filled the apartment. The dilation was real and voluntary, and what moved through him was pleasure without a doubt. At some point I thought about the neighbors, though it seemed neither of us cared much in that moment. When I had him ready, I positioned myself behind him and started fucking him little by little, feeling how he received me, how his ass tightened around me before yielding again. Each thrust pulled a dirtier, deeper sound from him, and his hand clutched the sofa while I kept opening him with patience and force.

When it was time to pull out I did it carefully, slowly, feeling every centimeter of the reverse path. The cry he let out when I came out completely had something of release and something of lament at the same time. He lay face down on the sofa and asked me, his voice still broken, to stroke his back.

I did. I ran my fingers over his skin for a long while, without speaking.

***

It was already late when I got up to look for my clothes.

—Stay —he said from the sofa—. Let’s go to bed and sleep.

—I can’t —I answered. It wasn’t entirely a lie.

—Next time you’ll stay over. —He said it as if it were already decided.

—Next time I’ll stay over —I replied, though I wasn’t sure there would be a next time.

In the elevator on the way down, we kissed. One of those goodbye kisses that last longer than they should, with hands that still don’t know it’s already time to let go. When the doors opened on the ground floor, Marco smiled at me in a way that was half satisfaction and half something harder to name.

I went out into the street. The dawn air was cold and clean. I got in the car and started it.

I was thinking about whether I’d see him again. Probably not. That has its own pleasure too: the perfection of a night that doesn’t need a continuation to be what it was.

***

I got home after three. I stripped in the hallway and went straight to bed. I slept straight through until eight-thirty.

While I was making coffee I turned on my phone. I opened the app almost without thinking, with the habit already established by routines that form on their own. This time I searched more calmly, without urgency. The night I’d just had didn’t ask for immediate repetition. It asked to be savored.

But while I waited for the coffee to finish dripping, I could still feel in my body every moment from the night before. And that, somehow, was enough.