The Stranger Who Stopped Me Before I Got Home

I had been planning that trip for weeks. My cousin Marcos had been living in another city for nearly a year, where he had finally found work in the hospitality industry after searching for a long time. I had a few days off from work and thought it was the right time to visit. I gave him two days’ notice, and he promised me dinner waiting and a cold beer.

I don’t like driving long distances, especially on the way back, at night, and on roads I don’t know well. I took the regional train in the middle of the afternoon; it left at four thirty and arrived in just over an hour and a half. I put a book in my backpack, my headphones, and the desire not to think about anything for ninety minutes. The train was nearly empty, and I could stretch out in my seat in peace.

***

The station where I arrived was small, one of those with two platforms and a lobby that smells of cold coffee. I got off with my backpack over one shoulder and lit a cigarette before getting my bearings. Marcos lived twenty minutes on foot from the historic center, and I had saved the route on my phone. I started walking unhurriedly: I had time, the afternoon was still bright, and I preferred to walk rather than spend money on a taxi for such a short distance.

I had been walking for about ten minutes down a street lined with closed shops when a young man coming the other way crossed in front of me and stopped.

—Excuse me. Do you have a light?

He was dark-haired, around twenty-two. His hair was cut very short, almost shaved on the sides and a little longer on top. Square jaw, pronounced cheekbones, straight nose. A tight white T-shirt stretched over a lean chest and dark jeans that fit him perfectly. There wasn’t a gram of padding anywhere. He wasn’t the kind of person you overlooked on the street, and I didn’t overlook him.

I took out my lighter and held it toward him. When he leaned his head toward the flame, I was able to look at him up close without making it obvious. When he raised his eyes, they were that dark brown that looked almost black in low light, and they held my gaze for a second longer than a stranger usually does when saying thank you.

—Thanks —he said—. Are you from around here?

—No. I’m spending the weekend with a relative.

He nodded. We smoked together for a moment without speaking. The street was empty, and there was no reason to leave yet—or at least that seemed to be what he thought.

Then he reached out and placed his hand on my forearm. Directly. Without pretending otherwise.

—My place is two minutes away —he said. As if it were the natural continuation of the conversation.

I looked at him. Looked at his hand. Looked at him again.

—What’s your name?

—Diego.

I dropped the cigarette butt and crushed it under my foot.

—Let’s go.

***

The building dated from the seventies, with the elevator being repaired and four flights of worn marble stairs. Diego climbed at a good pace, and I followed behind, watching the way his T-shirt shifted with the movement of his shoulders. He had the kind of body built by regular exercise and good genetics, not hours spent in a gym in front of a mirror.

The apartment was small and tidy. Sofa, television, a table with two chairs, kitchen integrated into the living room. He told me his roommates had gone away for the weekend. No further explanation was necessary.

He offered me water. We drank standing up, facing each other from a yard and a half away, without touching yet. Diego had a way of looking at me that left no room for ambiguity, but it didn’t convey urgency either. I liked that. Hurry was for people who didn’t really know what they wanted.

—How long has it been since you last got some? —I asked.

He smiled faintly.

—A little over two weeks. Is it that obvious?

—A little —I admitted.

He set the glass on the counter and came closer. He kissed me directly, without preliminaries. He tasted of tobacco and something minty, perhaps the water he had just drunk. I put one hand on his neck and the other on his waist and responded without holding back. Diego thrust his tongue into my mouth hungrily, pressing me against the counter until I felt his erection rubbing against me through our clothes.

***

In the bedroom, our clothes disappeared without much ceremony. Diego pulled off his T-shirt and sat on the edge of the bed. I took a moment to look at him before continuing with my own clothes. Flat chest, defined abdomen, evenly tanned skin without any marks from artificial tanning. Almost no body hair except around the pubis. His arms were crossed over his knees, and he watched me with a calm that was almost challenging.

I knelt in front of him.

I slowly undid his zipper and pulled down his jeans and underwear together, freeing his cock, hard and tense, pointing toward my face. I took hold of it at the base and weighed it in my hand for a moment, feeling the warmth of his skin and the firm pulse beneath my fingers. I started slowly, the way I preferred. First with my tongue, tracing the base with deliberate leisure, without hurrying toward the spot he was expecting. I ran the tip along the underside, then over the entire shaft, and moved up to the head to lick his retracted foreskin with short, wet strokes. I heard him hold his breath twice while I took my time. He rested one hand on my shoulder without pressing, simply leaving it there, as if he needed that point of contact to stay anchored.

It wasn’t very big, but it curved to one side, forcing me to adjust the angle. When I found the right one, Diego’s fingers closed involuntarily around my shoulder. I concentrated on the tip: gentle pressure with my lips, slow circles with my tongue, a brief pause, and then starting again. I sucked his head until it shone with saliva, then moved down and back up, taking him almost to my throat without losing the rhythm. Diego’s breathing changed pace: slower at first, then irregular, then broken.

—That —he murmured—. Just like that.

I continued for quite a while. I licked his testicles carefully, one at a time, while my hand kept working the base. I put his cock back in my mouth and sucked it deeper, letting the head strike the back of my tongue. I noticed the salty taste of his skin, the thickness of the pre-cum, and the way his hips began moving without his wanting them to. I lost track of time. When I felt he was reaching his limit, I changed the rhythm so he wouldn’t come yet. I wanted it to last longer.

He noticed.

—Stop —he said through his teeth—. Or I’ll come right now.

I stood up and lay down beside him on the bed. Diego looked down and saw that I was completely aroused too. He smiled and reached out.

He took me in his palm and began working me with a calm that was almost exasperating. He knew exactly what he was doing: he increased the pace just until I was about to lose control, squeezing with a hand wet from saliva and pre-cum, then slowed down and waited before starting again. Three times. Four. Each pause was harder to endure than the last. He leaned in to kiss me while continuing to masturbate me, and the brush of his tongue against mine made my entire body tense.

—Stop —I begged, breathing unevenly—. Or I’ll come too.

He let go and leaned on one elbow, wearing that half smile.

***

He asked me to lie face down. He searched the bedside table drawer and took out lubricant and a box of condoms. He was careful with his fingers: one first, slowly, asking in a low voice if I was all right. Then two, with even more patience. He opened me little by little, moving his fingers inside me precisely, brushing that sensitive spot until my breathing deepened and my hips began pushing against his hand on their own.

—Yes —I answered each time—. Keep going.

When he penetrated me, there was the usual moment of resistance, that instant when the body still hasn’t fully decided. Diego didn’t force it. He moved in a little and waited. Then a little more and waited again. When he was fully inside, he stayed still for a moment with his chest against my back, breathing deeply. I felt the condom tighten inside me, his thickness opening me, and his hand holding my hip to keep me steady.

He started slowly.

His hands were on my hips, and he adjusted the angle twice until he found the one that made me bite down on the pillow. Then he kept that angle and rhythm with a concentration evident in the firmness of his fingers, in the way he himself held his breath so he wouldn’t lose control too soon. He pulled almost all the way out and drove back in with a deep thrust, burying his cock to the hilt and making my ass tense around him. Each thrust tore a moan from me, and every pause drove me crazier.

—You like it like this, huh? —he murmured, pressed against my ear.

I answered with a muffled moan, and he gave it to me again exactly where I felt it most, firm and steady, without letting up. One hand stayed on my waist while the other moved up to my chest, squeezing a nipple as he kept fucking me from behind with an increasingly filthy rhythm. He changed the angle again, lifting my hip a little, and then I felt him even deeper, brushing that spot inside me that made my legs tremble. I pushed back against him, seeking him, asking for more with my ass and my ragged breathing.

I didn’t want it to end.

But it ended. Diego sped up in the final moments, and I felt it throughout his body: his fingers squeezing harder, his breathing reduced to something barely articulated. A moment of silence and tension, and then the weight of his body slowly collapsing onto mine. He came inside the condom with a hoarse moan, his thighs trembling, and stayed resting on me for another second before carefully pulling out.

He took off the condom and threw it in the trash.

—God —he said, lying on his back.

I nodded without speaking.

***

A few minutes passed. Diego turned toward me and looked down.

—I’ll take care of you —he said.

He moved down over my chest and abdomen without hesitation. When he reached the important part, he didn’t falter. He spread my thighs with his hands and moved between them, lowering his head to lick me, slowly at first and then faster, insistently, wetting me all over. What he did with his mouth over the next few minutes was precise and deliberate, as if he had paid attention to my earlier reactions and was now applying them intentionally. He varied the rhythm without seeming mechanical, without that sense of routine these things sometimes have. He knew where to press and when to stop. He sucked my clitoris with the tip of his tongue, then circled my entrance with his mouth and returned to the top, all with a fluency that slowly dismantled me from within.

At some point, muffled by the clothes heaped on the floor, I heard the phone vibrate. Once. Then again. I ignored it.

When I couldn’t hold out any longer, I warned him.

—I’m coming.

Diego pulled away and finished me with his hand, stroking me firmly while continuing to watch my face to see me fall apart. I came more intensely than I expected after such a long wait, my back arched and my feet pressing against the mattress. I felt my whole body convulse and my come spill hot over his hand and belly. He found some paper from the bedside table and cleaned me without my asking.

We stayed silent for a moment. The room smelled of sweat and something else, that clean, concrete smell that can’t be described without sounding ridiculous. Diego lit a cigarette and offered me the pack. I accepted.

—What time do you have to be there? —he asked.

—A while ago —I replied.

He exhaled slowly.

—I figured.

***

I showered in his bathroom, which was small but had hot water. While drying off, I took my phone from the pocket of my jeans: four missed calls from Marcos and a message sent forty minutes earlier. “Hey, are you okay? I’ve had dinner ready since eight. Let me know when you can.”

I left the bathroom. Diego was standing by the living-room window with another cigarette, looking out at the street.

—I have to go —I said.

He nodded without turning all the way around.

—I thought you might.

He crushed the cigarette butt on the windowsill and came to help me find my belt, which had ended up under the bed. He walked me barefoot to the door and leaned against the frame.

—If you’re ever back around here —he said.

—I know where you live —I replied.

He smiled and closed the door.

***

I arrived at Marcos’s place almost an hour late. I told him I had gotten lost wandering around the neighborhood, that the navigation app had taken me down the wrong road. He looked at me with the expression of someone who didn’t quite believe it but decided not to press, and served me the plate he had kept in the oven.

We had dinner. We talked about his job at the restaurant, whether he planned to stay in that city or return, whether he would come home for Christmas. I answered and paid attention, but part of my mind was still in that fourth-floor apartment without an elevator: the concentration in Diego’s eyes when he found the right angle, the weight of his body collapsing onto mine when he came, the way he had remained still for that second before pulling out.

Marcos asked me if I would come visit him again soon.

—Probably —I replied.

And I meant it.