The Perfect Blowjob Was Waiting for Me in the Dark Room

My name is Daniel. I’m in my thirties, I live in Barcelona, and I’ve just come out of a club with the feeling that I finally understand what people meant when they told me a dark room was another dimension. But let me start from the beginning, because otherwise you’ll miss half the story and you won’t understand why this is, for me, almost a little personal revenge.

See, for too many years I belonged to a religious congregation that spent the day preaching abstinence as the path to some kind of higher purity. The truth is that inside those walls there was more sideways glancing and more secret hand jobs than in any sauna. I reached my thirties with a fogged-up head, a numb body, and a sense of loss that was driving me crazy. When I finally gathered the courage to tell them to go to hell, the only thing I was clear about was that I was going to reclaim everything I’d denied myself.

In that congregation there was a silent tolerance for certain contact between men. It was understood as a lesser evil, a weakness of the flesh. Being with a woman, on the other hand, was falling without remedy. Sons of bitches. The brotherhood was riddled with opportunistic men hiding behind a pious façade, so that as soon as the chance came along, they could suck the new guy’s cock or invite him to something deeper. One of the organization’s heavyweights, an executive with a company car and a crucifix on his lapel, had spent years looking for a way to ram my cock between his ass cheeks every time I let my guard down for a second.

With that background, it’s not surprising that over time my curiosity got the better of me. Was sex between men really as satisfying as they hinted? Or was it pure cover? I promised myself I’d find out my own way, far from the cassock and the prayers. That was how one Friday night I ended up at a place in the Eixample that advertised itself online as home to one of the best dark rooms in the city.

I got there close to midnight. The place was busy enough to let me blend in and awake enough that the stream of customers drifting toward the back of the club was impossible to miss. I leaned on the bar, ordered a gin and tonic, and endured half an hour of pointless conversation with a guy in a denim jacket who kept insisting on knowing what I did for a living. I smiled, lied just enough, finished my drink, and headed toward where everyone else was going. Toward paradise, if you want to call it that.

Behind a couple of dark curtains there was a narrow, badly lit corridor, with a hand-painted sign on a half-open door: “only studs.” I went through without thinking too much about it. The last thing I saw before the light went out for me was a red bulb dying on the ceiling. After that there was only black, heat, and breathing.

Anyone who says you go into a dark room to meet someone is lying. There it doesn’t matter who you are, what you do, whether you’re married, or what your face looks like. What matters is what you’ve got between your legs and how much you want to play. You understand that the moment you feel the first unknown hand slide over your trousers, gauging, weighing, deciding whether you’re worth stopping for or whether it should keep moving.

“Do you want me to suck you?” a voice whispered at my left ear.

“Not yet,” I answered, almost by instinct.

“I’m here whenever you want,” he said, and I felt him move away.

I hadn’t taken three steps when another hand grabbed my package over the fabric.

“Stick your tongue in me,” someone purred.

“Later,” I replied, and kept moving.

I wanted to see, or rather feel, what there was in the deepest corners before stopping anywhere. I had promised myself the whole night, and I wasn’t going to settle for the first offer. As I moved forward, my ears were adjusting: short gasps, quickened breathing, the unmistakable slap of a palm against an ass cheek, the wet murmur of a mouth at work. The room was a full repertoire. Hand jobs by the handful, blowjobs halfway down, throat-fucking, couples pressed against the wall, threesomes in a corner, someone kneeling in the back getting his mouth filled by turns from two men who took their time.

What was most common, though, was penetration. Sometimes with a condom, often without, slicked with creams someone must have replenished every night beside an invisible trash can. Some men slid into each other slowly, as if they wanted to stretch the night out. Others rammed in hard, without mercy, spitting out words that in any other context would sound ridiculous and that there, in the middle of the dark, lit things up more than hands did.

“Swallow it all,” one said to his improvised partner. “You don’t leave here tonight without my load inside you.”

And did they ever. Men went into the room nonstop and almost nobody came out. The one doing the fucking didn’t let go, and the one being fucked didn’t seem in any rush to leave either.

***

I ended up in a corner, leaning against a wall colder than I’d expected. Half a meter away, a cock swayed with no apparent owner, offering itself. I stretched out my hand, stroked it with my open palm, circled it with my fingers. It was thick, hot, with the head already wet. Its owner grunted something under his breath and I let myself drop to his height, opened my mouth, and took it in calmly. I wanted to taste it, to find out whether I liked it as much as I’d imagined for years. I did.

But they weren’t going to let me enjoy it alone. Soon I noticed my new friend was being approached from behind. Another man had gotten behind him and opened his ass cheeks with a skill that clearly showed a lot of experience. The cock’s owner leaned slightly forward to offer a better angle and I, not wanting to spoil the moment, stopped sucking and simply held the cock in both hands at chest height while I waited for what was coming.

The man being penetrated seemed like a mature gentleman, broad-shouldered, with a slightly bulging stomach and a short beard that scratched whenever he leaned against my cheek. He clung to me as soon as he felt the first thrust. He grabbed my neck, buried his forehead in my shoulder, and began breathing like a bellows. I was still holding his cock in my hands, feeling how every shove from the man behind him travelled through his whole body and into my palms.

The man behind was anything but delicate. He fucked him with a dry, measured rhythm, without urgency but without pause, like someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. The older guy took it, moaned against my neck, gripped my shoulders with fingers that felt like clamps. I stroked his cock with both hands, matching the same beat I was getting from behind. When the man behind sped up, I sped up. When he slowed down, I slowed down. It was like playing an instrument that answered with gasps.

“That’s it, fuck, that’s it,” the older man whispered into my ear.

“I’m going to fill you up all the way,” the voice from behind promised.

I didn’t take long to notice the older man was about to come in my hands. Goose bumps rose along his thighs first, then his arms, and a shiver ran through his whole torso. He squeezed my shoulders so hard I thought he’d leave marks on me. A couple more thrusts and he emptied into my palms with a long moan, while the man behind him buried himself to the hilt and held still until the end.

The man behind withdrew his cock calmly. The older man kissed me on the forehead, almost as thanks, and disappeared into the dark without saying a word. I thought that was the end of my session. I was about to pull up my trousers and go back to the bar when I felt someone pull them down.

***

A firm, confident hand, with no hesitation, undid the buckle, opened the zipper, and took out my cock, which had been hard as a rod for a long time. I felt the air around me change. People had come closer. I couldn’t see them, but I could sense them: breathing, clothes brushing, elbows looking for a place. My cock went from mouth to mouth with a speed that was almost dizzying. I couldn’t say how many tongues tasted me in the first few minutes. Twelve, fifteen, I don’t know. Big mouths, small mouths, mouths that stayed at the tip, mouths that dared to go down two inches and give up, tongues licking my balls while another sucked my glans.

And yet, in the middle of that tangle, there was an order. It took me a moment to realize it, but there was no doubt. Someone was directing the feast. A huge hand had closed around the base of my cock and was guiding it, presenting it, offering it to whoever he decided and pulling it back before the guest got too comfortable. It was the same man who, a minute earlier, had been fucking the older guy from behind. I recognized the way he held on, his silence, that authority that seemed not to need a single word.

He let one mouth have a taste, counted two seconds, pulled away. Another. Two seconds. Withdraw. He wasn’t being selfish. He was choosing. And when he’d been at it for a couple of minutes, he decided it was his turn.

He took the whole thing into his mouth.

When I say the whole thing, I mean it. I’m as big as I need to be, and yet my cock disappeared into his mouth as if he’d been practicing that move his whole life. I felt it go in hot, tight, all the way to a depth few mouths reach. I let out a grunt I didn’t recognize as my own and grabbed the back of that stranger’s neck with both hands. He hadn’t sucked me yet; he was devouring me.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

At that moment I remembered the thrusts he’d been generously giving the older man and, I suppose, a little bit of payback got into me. I started thrusting myself, setting the pace, pulling on the back of his neck to drive myself in as far as I could go. He didn’t protest. On the contrary. Every time I sped up, he opened his throat wider, relaxed, invited me deeper. I shoved my cock into his mouth with rage, without mercy, as if I wanted to avenge all the years they’d told me this was sin.

I came in his mouth without mercy too.

That wasn’t a cumshot. It was a spill. The load leaked from the corners of his mouth, ran down his chin, and still he didn’t pull away. I stayed motionless, pressing his head against my groin, waiting for the last pulse, for the last drop my cock wanted to give him. When I finally let go, he straightened slowly, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and leaned toward my ear.

“Take note,” he said very softly, and dictated a mobile number to me that I didn’t even need to write down because it stuck in my head the first time.

I pulled up my trousers, fastened them slowly, and left the dark room with legs like cotton. I crossed the bar without looking at anyone, got my coat, and went down to the street. It was cold. I lit a cigarette leaning against a lamppost and stood there for a while looking at the doorway I’d just come through, thinking how absurd it was that it had taken me so long to cross that threshold.

If what you’re after is to get fucked, if what you want is to ride someone with confidence and skill, this man won’t disappoint you. But if what you want, like it was for me, is a blowjob that comes close to perfection, a mouth that seems designed to make you forget everything else, then you don’t need any more explanation. I still haven’t called him, but the number is still there in my head, waiting for my patience to run out. Until next time.