The Shy Guy Who Hid a Dirty Secret

I had worked in that industrial components factory for ten years and had never had any reason to complain. Don Ernesto, the owner, was a fair man: the pay always came on time, the atmosphere was good, and the machines, though noisy, worked well. A predictable life, with no surprises. Until that October morning when everything changed.

Don Ernesto arrived first thing with a young man at his side. We gathered in the workshop without anyone having to say a word.

—I want to introduce my son Iván. He has finished his studies in Dublin and joins the company today. I ask that you treat him like one of the team.

The young man looked at us all with a slight smile. He was tall, with a strong jaw, well cared-for skin, and dark hair slicked back. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, fitting him perfectly across the chest. Handsome, in the most classic sense of the word.

—Marcos —Don Ernesto said, turning to me—, I trust you’ll be the one to bring him up to speed on the technical side of things.

—No problem.

When the others went back to their stations, Iván stayed beside me. He had that way of listening that you only see rarely: he didn’t interrupt, didn’t look at his phone, gave no sign of impatience. He only nodded and asked the exact right questions at the right moment.

—I don’t want to be a burden —he said when I showed him the first procedure—. I know you have real work to do. If there’s anything I can do on my own, tell me and I’ll do it.

—You’ll learn faster if we do it together.

That’s how we started.

We spent weeks moving through the factory from top to bottom. Between technical explanations, coffee breaks, and the dead hours in the afternoon, we told each other about our lives. I told him about my thirty-nine years, about living alone for a long time, about how I spent weekends at the gym and little else. He told me about the years abroad, the rowing team in Dublin, the winters in other cities, the feeling of coming home after so long away.

He was polite to the point of being formal. Never a word too many, never a rough gesture. Some people in the workshop called him “the young master,” but without any ill intent. Iván had earned respect in the simplest way possible: doing the work without complaint, without asking for privileges, without hiding behind his father’s surname.

And I, I have to admit, had grown fonder of him than was sensible.

***

On Friday nights, I disappeared. No one at the factory knew where I went. No one needed to know.

El Fortín was the kind of place that never appears in leisure guides. You got the address from someone you trusted, or you didn’t get it at all. Entry required a dress code: leather, military clothing, sportswear, or nothing at all. I usually went in cargo pants, black boots, and a white tank top that showed my arms. No cologne. No gel. With everything a Friday at work leaves on your skin. It was what the place asked for and what I wanted to give.

That night I arrived a little after eleven. Inside it smelled of sweat and hot leather, and the music pounded with a beat that made everything slower and more urgent at the same time. I ordered a drink at the long bar, drank it slowly, and started walking through the different corridors.

In the first rooms there were more spontaneous encounters: looks, brushes, hands that settled and withdrew according to interest. I passed through without stopping for long. It wasn’t what I was looking for that night. I wanted something more intense, the kind of encounter that leaves you exhausted in the best possible way.

I reached the back area. The volume dropped there, replaced by other sounds: breathing, movement, gasps, stray words no one tried to hide. I went into the shower room, which at that hour was always busy.

There were three men standing around a fourth lying on the floor, on the soaked tiles. The one underneath had his body tense, eyes closed, head thrown back. The three standing had their cocks in their hands and were pissing slowly over him, with that deliberation that turns something raw into something almost ceremonial. The hot streams fell on his face, his chest, his open mouth. The man on the floor swallowed what landed inside him, and what ran down his cheeks mixed with the dirty water on the floor. He had a brutal erection, his cock hard against his belly, and one hand on his balls, squeezing without quite masturbating.

I stepped closer. I wanted in, and the place allowed it.

Then I saw the face.

I stopped dead.

It was Iván. Don Ernesto’s son, the young man who had spent weeks explaining to me what life had been like in Dublin, was lying on the floor of El Fortín completely naked, soaked through from head to toe, with a hard cock pointing at the ceiling and an expression I had never seen on him at the factory. An expression that had absolutely nothing to do with the polite, reserved boy who kept me company every morning.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

A second that felt much longer.

—What are you waiting for? —he said, in a voice unlike the one he used every day. Darker, more direct—. Take it out and piss on me.

I stared at him while he slowly stroked his cock, never taking his eyes off me. There was no shame on his face. Only that sort of calm hunger I recognized because I felt it myself every Friday when I crossed the door of that club.

I unbuttoned my pants, took my cock out, and joined the others. I aimed at his chest first, then moved up to his face. Iván opened his mouth without closing his eyes, and when the stream went in he swallowed without flinching, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. When I finished, I shook the last drops onto his lips and he licked them with the tip of his tongue.

Iván got up onto his knees on the wet tiles. One by one, he took the cocks of the other three into his mouth and cleaned them thoroughly, sucking every inch, running his tongue under the head, gripping their balls with his free hand. One of them held his head with both hands and fucked his mouth hard, all the way to the back, until Iván gagged and still didn’t pull away. Saliva hung from his chin in thick strings.

When he reached me, he gripped my thighs with both hands and didn’t hurry. He did it slowly, first sucking my balls, one and then the other, with a flat tongue. Then he worked his way up the shaft, licking from bottom to top, and only when he reached the tip did he take it all the way in, down his throat, with a skill that in no way matched the image of a shy, well-mannered boy. His tongue working under me, his throat tightening every time he took me to the back, the wet sound filling the room. I grabbed his wet hair with both hands and held him there for a while, setting the pace, fucking his mouth myself. He let me, eyes closed, swallowing around my cock.

The others started moving around us, changing positions, forming other groups.

Iván let go of my cock with a smack and got down on all fours on the wet floor. One of the others moved behind him, spat on his ass, rubbed the head against the hole, and shoved it in with a single thrust. Iván growled loudly, without protesting. Another one knelt in front of him and filled his mouth again. I knelt beside him, took the cock hanging hard between his legs, and worked it with my hand while they watched him get fucked at both ends.

We all ended up mixed together for a good while. I focused on two of them: with one I fucked him from behind against the tiled wall, gripping his hips and driving into him hard until he came without touching himself; with the other I made him kneel and emptied a second piss over his face while he masturbated. I kept looking at Iván with the third. The guy had him bent over a plastic bench, feet on the floor and back arched, fucking him with long, loud thrusts. At one point our eyes met across the room. Iván’s cheeks were red, his mouth open, eyes half-lidded, and he looked at me with a half smile that felt almost defiant, as if to say, “This is what I am, and now you know it.”

In the end I got myself off again between two men: one sucking me on his knees, the other pressed against my back, biting my neck and sliding two fingers into me from behind. When I came, I shot into the mouth of the one underneath. Iván was gone.

I got dressed slowly. The music was still going on the main floor and the crowd was still there, but I no longer felt like continuing. I went out into the street with my head full of a single image: him on the floor, soaked, looking at me with no apology in his eyes.

I got home a little after two in the morning. It took me quite a while to fall asleep.

***

Saturday dawned sunny. I woke up late, face down, my whole body aching in the most satisfying way possible. It was almost noon when the doorbell rang.

I opened the door with half-open eyes and a sheet wrapped around my waist.

Iván was standing on the landing. He wore dark jeans and a gray hoodie. His hair was damp, as if he had just showered. In one hand he held two paper coffee cups from some café in the neighborhood.

—Good morning —he said—. I was nearby and thought it was a bad idea not to bring coffee.

I looked at him for a moment without saying anything. Then I stepped aside to let him in.

—Come in.

He sat on the sofa and set the coffees on the table. I remained standing in the middle of the living room, not quite sure what posture to take. There was something absurd about the situation: the same person who the night before had been lying on the floor of a back room swallowing piss was now in my living room looking completely normal.

—You don’t have to say anything —he said, not taking his eyes off me—. Neither do I. If you’d rather I leave, I’ll leave.

—Don’t go.

Silence. We drank the coffee.

—How long have you been going to places like that? —I asked.

—Since I was twenty. There was a similar place in Dublin. —He paused—. My father used to take me to the factory as a kid so I could see the machines. I was always drawn to that smell: oil, hot metal, men’s sweat. As a child I couldn’t explain it. Now I can. I like guys who smell like work, who don’t mess around with delicacy, who fuck me like they’ve got something to get out of themselves.

—And that led you to me?

He smiled. It was the same smile as always, the one from the proper boy who never says more than necessary. But I already knew what was behind it.

He got up without saying anything else and disappeared down the hallway. I went to the kitchen to get water, and when I came back to the living room he was no longer there. I walked down the hall and opened the bedroom door.

He was lying face down on my bed, completely naked, his face buried in the pillow. The midday light cut diagonally across his back. He had a body that didn’t match the image of the serious young man in a suit who had shown up in the workshop weeks earlier: broad shoulders, the lines of rowing still marked in his arms and back, narrow hips, and a white, firm, round ass, slightly open on the mattress.

—It smells like you —he said without lifting his head—. The whole bed smells like you. Sweat, old cum, man.

I didn’t answer. I stood in the doorway looking at him for a moment.

He turned slowly and looked me over from head to toe with that expression I now recognized as his, the one that never appeared at the factory. Hungry. Unconcealed. His cock was already beginning to rise against his stomach.

—Are you just going to stand there staring at me, or are you going to do something? —he said—. Put it in already.

I walked over. I took the sheet off my waist and let it fall to the floor. Iván licked his lips when he saw my hard cock swinging in front of his face.

I pushed his head down into the pillow and ran my hands over his back, slid down over his hips and yanked his legs apart. He closed his eyes and pressed his face into the pillow without protesting. I pulled his ass cheeks open with both thumbs and spat on his hole. I ran my tongue down the slit, first slowly, circling the opening, then pressing with the tip until I opened him. Iván lifted his hips off the mattress, asking for more, offering himself to me, and I ate him out deeply, with my whole mouth, licking his ass until it was shining with saliva and he was moaning into the pillow, no longer able to stay quiet.

I put a finger in. Then two. He fucked himself on them, pushing his ass back, searching for my hand.

He moaned softly, but when he did it was real, without artifice, the sound someone makes when they can’t control themselves even if they want to.

—Marcos.

—Shut up.

—Marcos, now. Fuck me.

—I said shut up.

He grunted something that wasn’t a protest. I pulled my fingers out and gave his ass two smacks, one on each cheek, that echoed through the room. I kept going with my tongue until his hips started moving on their own against my mouth, looking for more pressure, more depth, anything I was still denying him.

When he asked me for the third time, I gave it to him.

I knelt behind him, gripped his hips, and pressed the head of my cock against his wet hole. I pushed slowly. It went in with resistance at first, the crown tight in the ring, and then the ring gave way and there was no resistance anymore. I drove it all in with one long thrust, until my balls were pressed against his ass. Iván clutched the sheet and exhaled hard, the kind of exhale that suddenly puts body and mind on the same level. I stopped for a second, my cock buried all the way inside, feeling his ass pulsing around me.

—Good?

—Don’t stop. Fuck me hard.

I didn’t stop.

I started moving. Long pulls back until only the head was left inside, then one hard thrust all the way in. The mattress creaked. Iván threw his head back and arched his back to take it better. I grabbed the back of his neck with one hand and held one hip with the other, setting the rhythm, fucking him harder and harder, until the sound of my balls slapping against his ass filled the bedroom. I bit his shoulder. I bit his neck. I brought my hand around to the front and grabbed his cock, wet with pre-cum, and worked it in time with my thrusts.

It lasted as long as it needed to, without looking at the clock, changing positions once and then again. I put him on his side, one leg over my shoulder, and kept going like that, watching his face while he bit his lip to keep from shouting. Then I put him on his back, legs open and knees against his chest, and drove into him again. From above I could see him all: his chest rising and falling, his hard cock bouncing against his belly with every thrust, his ass swallowing my cock whole every time I drove in.

At some point he turned over and got on top, taking control with a confidence that contradicted everything. He sat on my cock, grabbed it from behind with one hand, and lowered himself slowly until he took it all the way in. He started riding me. He rose to the tip and dropped to the bottom, thighs trembling from the effort, hands braced on my chest, his cock bouncing against his belly on its own. I watched him move and I couldn’t stop thinking about how, the week before, I had explained the workings of a hydraulic press to him with complete seriousness. I grabbed his cock and jerked him off while he kept riding me, faster and faster, tightening his ass around mine with every descent.

—I’m coming —he said through clenched teeth—. I’m coming, fuck.

When he came, it was across my chest. Thick, hot jets that reached from my throat to my navel. His ass closed like a fist around my cock and that was enough. I came seconds later, inside him, gripping his hips with both hands and driving myself in to the hilt as I emptied myself completely. I shot load after load, feeling his ass overflowing with cum and running over my balls. He stayed still on top of me for a moment, breathing hard, eyes closed, hands on my shoulders.

When he finally got up, a thick strand of cum fell from his ass onto my stomach. He caught it with two fingers, brought them to his mouth, and sucked them without taking his eyes off me.

Then he stood up, went to the bathroom, and called me from there.

He was standing in the tub, looking at me with that calm of someone who no longer has anything to hide. He was holding his cock, hard again, with one hand.

—Feel like it? —he asked.

—Yeah.

I got in with him. He knelt at the bottom of the tub and opened his mouth. I aimed at his chest and let out a long yellow stream that ran down his skin to his thighs. I moved up to his mouth and he swallowed without blinking, both hands on my thighs, moaning softly every time I filled his throat. When I finished, he got up, turned me around against the cold tiles, and this time he fucked me, biting my neck and gripping my pecs from behind, until he came inside me with a long grunt. After that I knelt down, cleaned his cock with my mouth, and he finished pissing over my head, laughing for the first time all morning.

What happened after was loud, wet, and exactly what the two of us needed.

Then we showered together, with hot water and no gel, as if we had agreed it without saying it. Beneath the spray he told me he wanted to go back to El Fortín that night. I told him yes, I’d pick him up at ten-thirty.

It was three in the afternoon when we went out to find somewhere to eat. We walked slowly through the neighborhood, unhurried, talking about anything except the obvious. The weekend had only just begun.