The Photo That Almost Gave Us Away at Dinner

This happened just a few weeks ago, and I still have a hard time telling it without laughing, though at the time I didn’t find it funny at all.

Rodrigo and I have been together for almost three years. We’re the kind of couple that doesn’t need to put on any kind of performance in public to prove what we are, but who also don’t go around hiding. His coworkers know he has a boyfriend; some have seen us together at the odd dinner, some event. Nothing out of the ordinary.

That night there was a dinner to celebrate his boss Mauricio’s promotion. A restaurant with tablecloths, leather-bound menus, and waiters who called you “sir” with the look of people who were not especially enjoying themselves. The sort of dinner where you wear a tie even if the plan doesn’t thrill you all that much.

I dressed for the occasion: dark shirt, dress pants, shoes I almost never wear. But underneath I had my usual underwear, a pair of thin-fabric boxers that Rodrigo particularly likes because, according to him, everything beneath shows through when I wear them with nothing else. No one else needed to know that but him.

The dinner started well. There were eight of us at the table: Mauricio and his wife, three of Rodrigo’s coworkers, one of his direct collaborators, and the two of us. The wine was good, the conversation flowed easily enough. We talked about trips, summer plans, the new project Mauricio was going to lead.

And that was exactly where the problem began.

Mauricio asked where we’d gone the previous summer. Rodrigo told him about Portugal, southern Spain, a week in Sardinia. And like everyone does when they’re talking about a trip, he pulled out his phone to show pictures.

Nothing more normal in the world.

He kept swiping through images, showing the beach in the Algarve, the cathedral in Seville, the rocks of Capo Carbonara with that water-colored blue that looked unreal. His coworkers made comments, asked about the hotels, said they had to make a note of those destinations for next year. Rodrigo smiled and flicked through the photos with his thumb, confident.

I was looking at the dessert menu when I saw it.

I saw Rodrigo’s thumb stop dead. I saw his shoulders tense. I saw him jerk the phone away from everyone’s view in a sudden movement, too obvious to go unnoticed.

There was half a second of silence that felt to me like a whole minute.

—Oops, sorry —he said with a smile that was more of a grimace—. The battery died.

No one entirely believed him, but no one asked either. One of his coworkers made a comment about the dessert on the menu and the conversation moved on. Mauricio said something about Sardinian wines. On the surface, everything went back to normal.

Under the table, Rodrigo pressed his knee against mine.

I leaned slightly toward him and, without looking at him, asked in a very low voice:

—What happened?

—I’ll tell you later —he replied, with his mouth practically closed.

I didn’t need him to tell me anything. I had a pretty clear idea of what they’d seen.

***

Rodrigo has a folder on his phone that doesn’t show up in the main gallery. He unimaginatively calls it “Personal Documents.” Inside are photos of me that he himself took over the last few years: some on the beach, some at home with very little on, and some that definitely were not meant to be seen by his boss’s wife or anyone else at that table. Photos with my cock hard against my belly, photos of me sucking him off with semen still on my lips, photos on all fours with my ass spread open, showing the camera what he’d just put inside me. That kind of photo.

What I imagine Mauricio saw, or whoever happened to be looking more closely, was one of those last ones. My favorite was one Rodrigo took on the hotel terrace in Sardinia, on the last day, at sunset: me leaning against the railing with my boxers pulled halfway down my ass, my half-hard cock hanging out in front, and Rodrigo’s hand entering the frame from the side, gripping one of my cheeks. The rest of me out in the open. Looking out at the sea without realizing he had his phone raised.

I didn’t mind that Rodrigo had it. What bothered me, if anything, was that he had the bad luck to show it at that exact moment.

The main courses arrived and we ate them with less enthusiasm than they deserved. Rodrigo was uncomfortable. Honestly, so was I, though in a different way from him. There was something in that discomfort that wasn’t pure shame: there was also something electric, a tension I recognized without being able to fully explain it. My cock had been half-hard beneath the tablecloth since the second I understood what had just happened, and there it stayed, pressed against the fabric of my trousers, reminding me it was alive every time Mauricio spoke.

When dessert was brought out, Rodrigo leaned toward me.

—Should we leave when they finish coffee?

—Yes —I said. No further questions.

We said our goodbyes as usual. Mauricio made a joke about the early hours and said we were boring. Rodrigo laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and we left the restaurant toward the parking lot.

The air outside was cool. The parking-lot lights were at that low, eleven-at-night frequency, when almost no one is left and the cars line up in neat rows under lighting that makes everything seem quieter than it is.

Our car was at the back, next to a column. Rodrigo took out the keys.

—What exactly had they seen? —I asked once no one was nearby.

He opened the car, leaned against the door, and looked at me with an expression that was half embarrassment and half something else I recognized perfectly.

—The terrace photo in Sardinia —he said—. The one where my hand is on your ass.

I was silent for a moment. Then I laughed.

—Well —I said—. At least I came out well from that angle.

Rodrigo laughed too, but with the kind of laugh that releases built-up tension. He ran a hand over the back of his neck and looked at the car as if he were calculating something.

—When we get home I’ll take your boxers off myself and fuck you like an animal —he said, his voice low but perfectly clear—. I’ve been rock hard through this whole fucking dinner thinking about putting my cock in you.

—Why wait?

I said it before I’d finished thinking it. Rodrigo looked at me hard. I nodded toward the parking lot: empty, silent, with the column shielding us on one side and the dark car windows in front.

There wasn’t much more deliberation than that.

***

We got into the back seat with that particular clumsiness of doing something in a space not made for it, but with the advantage that, at that moment, it was completely ours. I shut the door. Rodrigo locked it.

I kissed him. Really kissed him, with my tongue going all the way into his mouth, with my breathing already broken before we’d even started. He put one hand on the back of my neck and the other on my tie, tugging me toward him as if he wanted to bring me closer even though there was no room left to get any closer.

—You always wear this tie —he said against my mouth.

—You gave it to me.

—I know.

I put my hand in his crotch and squeezed over his trousers. He was hard, really hard, pressing against the fabric like he’d been waiting for hours to get out. I squeezed him hard and he let out a low growl against my neck.

—And this? —I whispered in his ear—. Was it like this all through dinner?

—Ever since I saw the fucking photo —he said—. It got hard all at once. I’ve had my cock pressed against the table through the last three courses.

I laughed softly and pulled down his zipper. I slipped my hand through the opening and took his cock out of his boxers. It was hot, hard, the head already wet. I took the base in my hand and started stroking the skin up and down, slowly, pressed right against him, watching him close his eyes and throw his head back against the headrest.

—Suck me for a while —he asked me, his voice broken.

I leaned in as best I could in the tight space of the seat and took him in my mouth. All of it. All the way down until he hit the back of my throat and made me cough for a second. Rodrigo put his hand on my neck, not to push but to hold my hair while I sucked him with hunger, going up and down, helping myself with my hand at the base, licking his balls between each pass.

—Fuck —he kept repeating under his breath—. Fuck, fuck, like that.

Saliva dripped down my chin and wet his balls and the unbuttoned trousers. I ran my tongue the full length of him, from base to tip, sucking his head like it was candy, taking him all the way back in. Rodrigo had his thighs tight and his hips rose a little every time I came down on him with my mouth.

—Stop —he said suddenly—. Stop or I’m going to come in your mouth and I don’t want to come like that yet.

I lifted my head, lips shining, and smiled. He grabbed my tie and pulled me back up to his mouth. He kissed me with tongue, not caring about the taste of his own cock, not caring about anything.

I unfastened my trousers. He did the same with mine all the way. We managed it in the narrow space of the back seat with that mix of efficiency and clumsiness these situations always have: elbows ending up where they shouldn’t, knees against the front-seat backrest, clothes not fully removed but shifted just enough to make it work. He pulled my trousers down to my knees and my thin-fabric boxers with them. My cock jumped free, hard as a rock, the tip already dripping against my shirt.

Rodrigo grabbed it in one hand and started jerking me off with a closed fist, looking into my eyes.

—Look how hard you are —he said—. You’re dripping.

—All through dinner like this —I said—. Since you decided to show the photos.

—Filthy thing.

—You’re the filthy one, carrying my naked ass around on your phone.

He laughed and squeezed my cock harder. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t moan.

Rodrigo had had a small tube of lube in the glove compartment for months. It wasn’t something we used in there often, but it was there. It had always been there.

—Did you know this was going to happen tonight? —I asked when I saw him take it out.

—No —he said—. But you never know.

He put lube on his fingers and reached for my hand so I’d spread some on his cock. I coated it well, from top to bottom, while he shoved two fingers into my ass at once. One first, then another, finding the spot, circling them, opening me up. I let out a moan louder than I should have.

—Shh —he whispered—. They’ll hear you outside.

—Then stop doing that.

—Not a chance.

He added a third finger. He moved them inside me with calculated slowness, curling them upward, touching that exact spot that made my cock jerk and spill another thick drop onto my shirt. I gritted my teeth and breathed through my nose, my forehead already beaded with sweat under my fringe.

—Fuck me already —I said—. I can’t take it anymore.

—Come on.

I got on top of him. The car roof was too close and I had to lean forward, hands braced on the front-seat backrest. Rodrigo put his hands on my hips with that way of his of holding me that is firm without being rough, that guides me without pushing. With one hand he guided my cock to his ass. I felt the round tip pressing there, searching for the entrance, pushing only slightly.

I felt him against me first. Then, slowly, I lowered my body weight.

There’s something about that first moment that doesn’t feel like any other sensation. The initial resistance of the ring giving way, the head slipping in all at once with a small pull, and then the opening, the body swallowing the rest of the cock centimeter by centimeter until my ass hit his thighs and I felt it all inside me, throbbing. Pressure turning into heat. Rodrigo exhaled slowly, with a muffled “fuck,” and I stayed still for a second, his cock buried all the way inside me, letting my body settle around him, finding that particular balance you only achieve with time and practice.

—Good —I said quietly.

—Very good —he answered, his voice lower than usual—. You’re so tight, fuck.

I started moving. Slowly at first, raising and lowering my hips on him, finding the rhythm in that reduced space. Every downward push drove his cock all the way in; every rise left it almost out, the head held by the ring of my ass. The seat creaked slightly. The windows began to fog from the edges inward, as if the car were becoming aware of what was happening inside it.

From outside, if someone had looked toward the column, they would have seen two blurred silhouettes and a car moving very gently. No one looked. The parking lot stayed empty, with its low lights and rows of motionless cars.

Rodrigo gripped me harder as the minutes passed. He dug his fingers into my hips and pulled me down each time I lowered myself, helping me take him all the way in, harder each time. I sped up. One hand held onto the front seat and the other grabbed my own cock and jerked it while I bounced on him. It was so hard it hurt. Pre-cum ran over my knuckles.

—Fuck me harder —I begged, almost voiceless—. Harder, Rodrigo.

He started driving his hips up to meet me halfway. Each thrust sounded with a dull slap of skin against skin, my ass cheeks hitting his thighs. His cock opened me all the way every time, touching me inside at exactly the spot that made me clench my teeth and swallow my groans.

There’s something particular about doing this in a place where you shouldn’t: the thrill that someone could appear at any moment turns every sound from outside into something that makes you more nervous and more turned on at the same time. A car crossing the back of the parking lot made me hold my breath and stop dead, Rodrigo’s cock still buried inside me and throbbing. Rodrigo squeezed my hips, holding me, telling me without words not to stop.

I didn’t stop. I started moving again, slower, clenching my ass around him with each drop, feeling him let out a low moan when I squeezed him with my inner muscles.

The car that had come in found its space at the far end of the lot, away from us. We heard a door slam. Footsteps fading. Silence settling back in.

I went back to the earlier rhythm, harder, deeper. My cock was jerking on its own every time I went all the way down. I kept moving for a good while, with my tie still on, hanging between us like a leash, and my dress pants half down, and Rodrigo looking up at me with narrowed eyes and an open mouth. I looked at him, not at the lot or the fogged-up roof. There was something in his face at that moment, that particular focus, that way he clenches his jaw, that I liked more than anything else.

—I’m going to come —I warned him, panting.

—Come on me —he said—. On the shirt. Anywhere. Come.

I jerked my cock faster, never stopping the bounce on him. A couple more thrusts and the orgasm shot up my spine like an electric shock. I came in thick spurts that landed on his white shirt, one after another, while my ass clenched all the way around his cock with each spasm. I let out a rough moan that I tried to muffle by biting my lip and didn’t quite manage.

I felt Rodrigo lose control beneath me. He gripped my hips down to the bone, held me pinned on him, and started thrusting upward with the contained force of the whole night, four, five, six times, each thrust deeper than the last. When he came, he did it with his fingers digging into my hips with a force that would leave marks tomorrow. I felt it inside me, that familiar heat I knew perfectly well after three years, his cock emptying in thick spurts against my walls, soaking me from within. I stayed on top of him without moving, still, with his cock still hard and throbbing inside me, letting everything finish settling.

Neither of us said anything for a while. The only sounds were our two breaths slowly coming apart and the faint drip of my cum running down his shirt to his belt.

In the end I lifted myself a little, carefully. His cock slipped out of me with a wet sound and I felt his cum beginning to run down the back of my thigh toward the seat.

—You’re ruining the seat for me —he muttered.

—Sorry. You put half a liter in me.

He gave a faint laugh, still breathless.

—I don’t know how I’m going to look Mauricio in the face on Monday —he said at last, his head against the seat back.

I laughed against his shoulder.

—Same way he’ll look at you.

***

We tidied ourselves up as best we could. I pulled my boxers back up, which had stayed halfway down my thighs the whole time, immediately noticing the sticky dampness between my ass cheeks. My dress pants hadn’t suffered too badly, fortunately. The tie was still in place, a little crooked, but in place. Rodrigo looked at the stain of my cum on his shirt, clicked his tongue, and buttoned his jacket over it to cover it.

We got out of the back seat with the same clumsiness with which we’d gotten in. Rodrigo opened the windows for a moment so the condensation on the glass would clear. Then he started the car.

We drove home in silence, the kind of silence that isn’t awkward but the opposite. Rodrigo drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on my knee, and I watched the city lights passing by the window.

On the way I noticed my boxers slowly getting wetter. His semen leaking out of my ass, soaking the fabric stuck to my skin. That’s how these things go. I resigned myself without much drama.

The next day, Rodrigo texted me mid-morning. It only said: “Mauricio asked me if you were a photographer.”

I didn’t answer. I imagined the scene: Mauricio in his new office, with his recent promotion and that image of the Sardinian terrace still turning over somewhere in a corner of his mind he didn’t want to acknowledge, my naked ass and Rodrigo’s hand gripping it branded behind his eyes every time he closed them.

Anyway. At least the angle was good.