The Night Two Men Made Me Theirs

There are things nobody expects from me. My coworkers see me arrive on time, with my shirt neatly pressed and my coffee still hot in my hand, and assume I live a life as orderly as my desk. My family has a very clear idea of who I am: the responsible one, the calm one, the one who never surprises anyone. On weekends I go to the dinners I’m expected at, I help when I’m asked, and I go home without making a sound.

What nobody knows is that there are nights when the body asks for something that doesn’t fit into any of those molds. Nights when my cock gets hard thinking about things I couldn’t even name at the office. Nights when I touch myself alone, in silence, imagining another mouth on mine, another hand on my dick, and I come biting my lip so I won’t make a sound.

I’m not the kind to complain about it. I learned a long time ago that what one does in private is one’s own business, and that the life lived behind closed doors doesn’t have to look anything like the one shown outside. I function well in both registers. The problem, if it can even be called a problem, is that sometimes the two worlds brush against each other. And that Saturday night was one of those times.

***

I met Marcos and Rodrigo a couple of years ago in the building where I live. They occupy the fourth floor; I’m on the second. At first they were just elevator neighbors: a hello, a comment about the weather, the door opening and closing. But one weekend they invited me upstairs to watch a soccer match and something clicked. After that we started seeing each other every two or three weeks. Beers, movies, cards. No strings, no drama. They were a stable couple, and it showed in the way they moved around their apartment, each one always knowing where the other was without needing to look.

That Saturday night there was no match. Marcos called me in the middle of the afternoon with his usual tone: “You coming up? We’ve got beers.” I went.

The apartment smelled like something they’d cooked earlier. Rodrigo was on the sofa with a deck of cards in his hand when I walked in. He nodded toward the empty spot beside him.

—You know how to play poker?

—The basics.

—Good —he said—. We play for clothes. Whoever loses a hand takes something off.

I laughed. It seemed like one of those suggestions people make just to see how the other person reacts. I looked at Marcos, who was in the kitchen opening three cans of beer with that calm he has about everything.

—And if I refuse? —I asked.

—Then you drink —Rodrigo said, very seriously. Then he smiled—. But you’re not going to refuse.

He was right. I didn’t refuse.

***

I lost the first few hands. First my shoes. Then my socks. I took them off without much concern, while Rodrigo lost his shirt in the next round and Marcos held out longer than anyone expected. The room started to change temperature as the game went on. Not just because of the heat or the beer. There was something else in the air, something unnamed but present from the start, sitting on the table like a face-down card.

When I was left in nothing but my pants and underwear, I noticed Rodrigo was no longer looking at the cards with the same interest as before. He was looking at me. Or rather, at the bulge marking my pants, the way I held the cards to cover it, the posture I’d taken on the sofa to hide it. Details that had gone unnoticed before and that he was now studying with the smile of someone who already knows how the game ends.

I lost another hand. I had to stand up to take off my pants.

The problem was that I’d been thinking about what was happening for a while, and a cock doesn’t know how to lie when the fabric is thin. I stood up and my briefs pulled tight, wet with a drop of precum that had soaked into the cloth. Marcos, who had sat back down, was looking too. Rodrigo said something very softly, something like, “Look at his cock, look how hard he’s got it.” Marcos gave a short laugh, the kind he has when something seems right.

—What? —I asked, and my voice came out rougher than I wanted.

—That you like the game more than you said —Rodrigo said—. You can see your dick from here.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t go fetch the beer I’d gone to fetch. I stood there in the middle of the living room with my hard cock straining against the fabric, while Rodrigo got up from the sofa and came up behind me. His hand settled on my chest, open, not squeezing. Then it slid down, slowly, until it closed over the bulge and squeezed me through my briefs. A gasp escaped me.

His lips brushed my ear before he spoke.

—Nobody’s forcing you to do anything —he said—. Just tell us if you want to stop.

And that was the problem: I didn’t want to stop. I wanted him to pull it out, to grab it without the fabric in the way, to do whatever the fuck he wanted with it.

I turned my head and Rodrigo kissed me. It wasn’t a tentative kiss. It was a kiss that knew where it was going and made no apologies for it: deep tongue, lips biting, one hand already slipped inside my briefs and jerking me off slowly, palm half-dry and fingers right at the tip. I kissed back, mouth open. I felt Marcos’s hand on my shoulder from the other side, then at the nape of my neck, gripping. For a few seconds I was between the two of them, no one needing to say another word, cock out, briefs pulled down halfway to my thigh, Rodrigo’s mouth devouring mine.

Marcos turned my face toward him and kissed me too. He tasted like beer and something hotter. While he was devouring my mouth, Rodrigo had knelt and was finishing pulling down my briefs. I felt his hot tongue lick my glans from bottom to top, twice, three times, until he opened his mouth and took my cock all the way in in one motion. My knees nearly gave out. Marcos held me by the waist.

—Easy —he murmured in my ear—. Now you’re going to learn what it feels like to get your cock sucked properly.

Rodrigo knew exactly what he was doing. He sucked me with both hands: one squeezing the base, the other playing with my balls, and his tongue circling my glans every time he came back up. He closed his lips like he didn’t want to lose a single drop. I looked down and seeing his mouth full of my cock, his eyes half-lidded, the thread of saliva running down his chin, had me on the edge in less than a minute. I had to pull back.

—Wait —I said, panting—. Wait or I’m going to come already.

Rodrigo laughed without taking me out completely. Marcos turned me and kissed me again, this time putting two fingers in my mouth for me to suck. I sucked them.

***

I knelt in front of Rodrigo because I wanted to, not because anyone asked me to. I pulled down his underwear and his cock sprang out hard, thick, the tip already shining. It was the first time I was going to suck one in real life and not just in imagination. I closed my eyes, stuck out my tongue, and licked his full length from balls to tip. Rodrigo drew in a deep breath through his nose. Then I opened my mouth and took him in.

He was bigger than I expected. Not impossible, but enough that I had to find the angle before I could swallow him deeper. I took my time. I started halfway down, sucking with tight lips, letting the saliva run. Then I went lower, until the tip touched the back of my throat and my gag reflex forced me up. Rodrigo rested a hand on my head without pushing, just placing it there like a caress, and the sound he made —a low moan, almost a grunt from how much he liked it— went straight to my balls.

—That’s it, fuck —he muttered—. Suck me like that, no fear.

I did as he said. I took him all the way in again, this time holding back the gagging, and stayed there with my nose pressed to his belly for a few seconds before coming up coughing. Marcos had knelt behind me. His hands ran over my hips, my back, the small of my back. I felt his lips on my nape and then on a spot between my shoulder blades I hadn’t known was so sensitive. Then he moved lower and spread my ass cheeks with both hands.

The first lick made me jump. Marcos was eating my ass with his whole tongue, flat at first and then hardening to a point to work it inside. A moan escaped me with Rodrigo’s cock still in my mouth. Rodrigo laughed over me.

—He loves it —he told Marcos—. Look how he clenches every time you put it in.

Marcos kept going. He licked me, spat on me, shoved his tongue in as far as it could reach and then pulled it out to suck on my balls from behind. One of his fingers started circling my hole. He soaked it well with saliva before sliding it in. It went all the way in without resistance. Then he put in a second one.

Rodrigo threaded his fingers through my hair, slowly.

—Let’s go to the bedroom —he said—. We’re going to destroy the couch here.

***

In the bedroom there was a small lamp left on, bathing everything in orange. The bed was big. They put me in the center and the two of them took their places where they were supposed to be without anyone directing anything. Rodrigo settled against the headboard with his cock pointing up at the ceiling. Marcos got behind me, on his knees, with a bottle of lube he’d taken from the drawer.

—Look at me —Rodrigo said, gripping my hair and guiding my head toward his dick—. Suck me while Marcos gets you ready.

I obeyed. I took him back in my mouth slowly, this time with better technique, sucking the tip, going down to the middle, coming back up while my tongue circled. Rodrigo watched my mouth like someone who couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Behind me, I heard the click of the bottle and felt the cold lubricant run between my ass cheeks.

Marcos took his time. He was meticulous, in no rush. First one finger, all the way in, turning it. Then two, opening me. Then three. With his free hand he caressed my back, my nape, my thighs. When he pulled everything out and I felt the tip of his cock, thick and hot, press against my hole, my whole body tightened. Marcos noticed.

—Breathe —he said—. Keep sucking Rodrigo’s dick and breathe.

He pushed. The tip went in all at once and ripped a muffled gasp out of me, with Rodrigo’s cock still in my mouth. The burn when Marcos entered was unexpected but not unbearable: a sharp sensation that tightened my whole body for a few seconds before beginning to turn into something else. Marcos stayed still, letting me adjust. Then he pushed further. A centimeter. Another. Another, until I felt his balls against mine and knew he was all the way inside.

I focused on breathing. I focused on Rodrigo, on the weight of his cock in my mouth, on the rhythm we’d found, and little by little the burn turned into heat. Into pressure. Into something that wanted more. Into an itch inside that only stopped itching when Marcos pushed.

—Move —I murmured with my mouth full—. Fuck me.

Marcos started moving. Slow at first, with long thrusts that came almost all the way out and then went back in to the hilt. Then with more intent. Every movement of his pushed me toward Rodrigo, and the result was that everything was happening at the same time, synchronized without anyone planning it: when Marcos fucked me, Rodrigo’s cock sank deeper into my mouth. I was at the center of all of it, with two cocks inside me, and the thought that crossed my mind, if it was even a thought and not just a sensation, was that it had been a very long time since I’d been this present in anything. Without my brain analyzing. Without the part that’s always looking away.

Just that. Just there. With an ass full and a mouth full and two men’s hands on my body.

Marcos changed the rhythm. He grabbed my hips and started giving it to me harder, with short, dry thrusts that made my balls smack against the mattress. Every stroke ripped a moan out of me that Rodrigo swallowed with his cock. I could barely suck anymore, just keep my mouth open and let him fuck my throat from his side.

Rodrigo suddenly pulled me off him, yanking my hair back. He looked at me.

—Do you want to take it? —he asked—. Do you want me to come all over that good-boy face of yours?

I didn’t say yes with words. I opened my mouth and lifted my face. I stuck out my tongue so he could see it.

Rodrigo jerked himself off quickly, three or four times, with the tip a handspan from my mouth. Marcos, behind me, hadn’t stopped fucking me; he had one hand on the back of my neck to keep me in position.

It was a lot. The first shots hit my tongue, hot, thick, with that salty taste I’d always imagined as lighter. The second rope landed on my lips and the corner of my mouth. The third trembled at the tip and spilled onto Rodrigo’s fist. I wiped it slowly, never taking my eyes off him, running my finger over my cheek and bringing it to my mouth. I swallowed it all while Rodrigo made that deep, long sound he has when something leaves him speechless.

—Fuck —he gasped—. Fuck, look at you.

***

Marcos wasn’t done. I felt it in the way his hands tightened on my hips, in how the rhythm changed to something more urgent. Rodrigo moved aside and let himself fall to one side, his cock still dripping over his stomach, to watch. I leaned forward, planted my palms on the mattress, arched my back and pushed my ass back to give it to him better. Marcos understood.

The thrusts were direct and hard now, with none of the caution from before. I felt every one. Marcos’s cock hit a spot deep inside me that made my vision blur every time. My own erection, forgotten in the middle of all that, pulsed on its own against the air without anyone touching it, strings of precum falling onto the sheets.

—Touch it —Rodrigo said from the side—. Come with him inside you.

I grabbed it. I jerked myself off to the same rhythm Marcos was fucking me: fast, without finesse, palm gripping hard. I didn’t last long. I felt the orgasm rise from my feet, seize my back, and I came in streams over the sheet with a long moan, clenching my ass around Marcos’s cock.

That squeeze finished him off. Marcos growled, long and rough. His fingers clenched hard on my hips and he came inside. I felt each final thrust, shorter, deeper, as he emptied himself. Then he went still, pressed against my back, breathing against my nape for a full minute. When he pulled out, I felt his semen running warm down the inside of my thigh.

The silence that followed lasted several seconds. The three of us collapsed onto the bed without coordination, each in our own place, each breathing our own way. Rodrigo was the first to get up. He came back with three cold cans.

***

I lay there staring at the ceiling. The orange lamp cast angular shadows on the walls. Marcos had one arm behind his head. Rodrigo was sitting on the edge of the bed with half his can already gone.

—You okay? —Marcos asked. No irony. No hidden meaning. Just the question.

—Yeah —I said.

It was a simple truth. No shades, no analysis. It had been a long time since I’d felt that kind of good.

—First time, right? —Rodrigo asked.

I took a sip before answering.

—In practice, yeah.

Rodrigo nodded. Marcos did too. Neither of them made any further comment. That was what I liked about them: they didn’t need to turn anything into a moment.

***

I got up to go to the bathroom. The shower took a while to warm up. I stayed under the water longer than necessary, head bowed, the stream hitting the back of my neck. I could still feel my ass open, the warm burn of having had him inside, my throat a little raw. I put a finger in to wash myself out and it came back with traces of Marcos’s come. I thought about work on Monday. I thought about my coworkers with their assumptions and their neatly arranged drawers. I thought about the family dinner next month.

Then I stopped thinking about all of that.

I got out of the shower, dried off, went back to the bedroom. The bed was still big. Rodrigo had left room on the right side without saying anything. I slid between the sheets, against his warm body. He put an arm over me.

At two in the morning I felt a hand on my hip. Exploratory. Not rushing anything. Then it slid down and took hold of me from the front, finding me already half-hard.

I turned toward Rodrigo.

—Again —I said. Not as a question.

He smiled in the dark.

***

This time I took the lead. Rodrigo stayed lying on his back and I rode him, settling onto his cock slowly, wetting it first with my mouth and then spitting into my hand to coat it. I lowered my hips carefully. The tip struggled at the entrance for a second and then went in all at once, to the hilt. We both moaned at the same time.

I learned the angle on the fly. I braced both hands on his chest and started moving, up and down, slow at first, then faster, feeling his cock hit me inside every time I came down. Rodrigo watched me from below with his teeth clenched, his hands on my hips guiding the rhythm.

Marcos woke up with the movement. He knelt in front of me on the bed, his cock hard again, and I took him in my mouth while still riding Rodrigo. The three of us found a tempo nobody had rehearsed and that worked anyway: when I went up, Marcos’s cock sank deeper into my mouth; when I came down, Rodrigo hit the depths of me.

Marcos grabbed my nape and started fucking my mouth to his rhythm. Rodrigo, underneath, was driving into me from below. I was just an open body between the two of them, and there wasn’t a single thought that could get in there.

Marcos came first, this time inside, in my mouth. He made me swallow and gave me no choice: he held me pressed against the back of my throat while he emptied himself, hand behind my head. When he pulled out, I coughed and smiled and wiped the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. Then I dropped all my weight onto Rodrigo, clenching my ass around him as hard as I could with each downward motion, until he came too with a long groan. I came over his stomach, barely touching myself, just from the friction of my cock against his skin every time I came down.

We finished when we finished. No boasting. Rodrigo’s warmth beneath me, Marcos’s hand on my shoulder, the three of us breathing together in the small room.

I collapsed onto my side. Someone switched off the lamp.

***

I slept deeply, with no dreams I could remember. I woke when the gray light of morning slipped through the half-closed blinds and took a moment to orient myself. The big bed. Clothes thrown on the floor. Marcos was sleeping with his mouth slightly open. Rodrigo was looking at me from the edge of the bed, a cup of coffee in his hand.

—There’s more in the kitchen —he said.

I got up. I went to the kitchen. I poured myself coffee and stood by the window, looking out at the empty street on Sunday morning. In the building across the way, someone was walking a dog. A woman crossed the street with her coat unbuttoned.

I drank the coffee slowly.

That night didn’t change a single thing about who I am on the outside. On Monday I arrived on time. Shirt neatly pressed. Coffee hot. I answered emails, attended meetings, said what needed to be said.

But in the elevator, when Marcos greeted me with that short nod we’ve shared for two years, I held his gaze a second longer than usual.

And he did too.