Three Men Were Waiting for Me Behind the Blind

Marcos wrote me his number as soon as we finished chatting on the app. He said he preferred talking by direct message, that profile screens made him nervous and that he needed to know who he was going to meet before setting a date. It seemed like a good sign to me. It meant he wasn’t one of those who write three sentences and disappear.

He started with questions. Lots of questions. My tastes, my limits, what I was willing to do and what I wasn’t. It was all already written in my profile, but I didn’t mind repeating it. It was his way of checking that the guy in the photos matched the one answering on the other end of the phone. I asked him my own questions too. What he expected from me. How many of us there would be. Whether he was taking me somewhere safe or whether he was one of those who improvise in the car. His answers were clear, and there was no mismatch between what he wanted and what I was looking for that afternoon.

—I’ll be waiting for you in Plaza del Olivar at six —he wrote—. Don’t be late. The place is close, and the others are already there.

The others. That word stuck to my stomach the whole metro ride.

I got there five minutes early. I recognized him right away by the beard. It was very well kept, trimmed to the millimeter, and a tattoo climbed up his neck until it disappeared behind his ear. He was wearing cargo pants and an old sweatshirt stained with paint, the kind of clothes worn by someone who’s just finished working with his hands. We greeted each other with two quick kisses and a brief squeeze on the shoulder, as if we already knew each other.

—Come on —he said simply—. It’s around the corner. Don’t worry about anything, everything’s going to happen exactly like I told you.

We walked two blocks in silence. Marcos kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, sizing me up, and I kept looking at the doorways trying to guess where he was taking me. We turned a corner and stopped in front of a half-lowered metal shutter. He crouched down, lifted it another inch or so, and nodded for me to go in first.

—You first. I’m a gentleman —he said, and his smile showed the fang.

The place was a small workshop. It smelled of sawdust and varnish. There was a carpenter’s bench in the back, tools hanging on one wall, and, on some stacked planks serving as a bench, two men sitting there who lifted their heads when they saw me come in.

One was short, very dark-skinned, with a fixed stare; he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. The other looked like he’d turned fifty a long time ago: soft belly squeezed against his shirt, gray beard, small eyes set very close together. Neither of them smiled. They just looked at me the way you look at an order that’s finally arrived.

—This is Tono and Jorgeta —Marcos said, pointing at them with his thumb—. Tono’s the quiet one. Jorgeta’s the one who’s been pestering me for weeks to find him someone. Guys, this is the one I said was coming.

Jorgeta snorted through his nose, as if he still couldn’t quite believe it. Tono simply spread his legs and took hold of his cock over his pants.

—Right, let’s not waste time —Marcos cut in—. I have to be home before nine.

He pulled down the zipper and took his dick out without any preamble. It was half-hard, thick at the base, with the head peeking out from under the foreskin. I knelt without him having to ask. That was what had been agreed, and there was nothing to negotiate.

I took it in my hand and brought it to my mouth slowly, first my tongue along the frenulum, then taking him in as far as I could. In seconds he went from soft to hard. Marcos let out a short sound, half sigh and half laugh, and rested his hand on the back of my neck without pressing, just keeping time.

Next to us, Tono had stood up. He pulled his pants down to his thighs and stayed like that, dark cock in his hand, watching me work on his friend. He didn’t say anything. He waited his turn like someone waiting for a bathroom to free up.

Jorgeta was still seated. He unbuttoned his pants but didn’t get up. He was the third. He was the one who was going to fuck me. I knew it without having to ask.

—Turn around and take your pants down —he told me suddenly. His voice was hoarse, like an old smoker’s.

I obeyed. I pulled my jeans down to my knees and braced my forearms on the carpenter’s bench. I heard the sound of his boots as he got up, the click of the belt buckle, and suddenly I felt his hands part my ass cheeks with no regard at all. His tongue came after. Hot, thick, salivating my hole with an insistence that made me snort against the wood.

Meanwhile Marcos had put his cock back to my lips. I sucked him without any pattern, the three of them asking at the same time, the three of them putting it in and taking it out according to whatever each one wanted. Tono came closer and put his cock beside Marcos’s. I had both of them in front of my mouth, trying to alternate licks, while behind me Jorgeta kept his tongue inside me.

When the old man straightened up, I heard him spit into his hand and stroke it over his cock. I didn’t see how big he was until I felt him resting against my hole. Thicker than I had calculated. He pushed without warning and I let out a muffled cry into Marcos’s thigh.

—Hold on, hold on —Marcos murmured over me—. Breathe. There you go.

Jorgeta stayed still, buried to the hilt, letting me adjust. I was breathing through my mouth, forehead against the wood, fists clenched. I could feel every beat of him inside me, the pulse of his cock expanding what wasn’t ready yet to be expanded.

—You like it? —Marcos asked, lifting my chin with two fingers. The question sounded like a game. He knew the answer perfectly—. Is this what you were expecting?

—It’s a lot —I managed to say.

—An ass that gets fucked is an ass that ends up sore. That’s the rule. Relax.

Jorgeta started moving. He did it at his own pace, paying no attention to me. I wasn’t a person at that moment, I was the hole he was going to unload into what he’d been holding back for weeks, and I wasn’t pretending to be anything else either. Every thrust drove me two inches against the table. Marcos went back to putting my head where it belonged and shoving his cock down my throat.

Tono was the first to lose patience. He grabbed my head with both hands and started fucking my mouth hard, with no regard for the gags. I drooled over the planks and held Marcos’s cock with my free hand so I wouldn’t lose my balance.

—Fuck, that’s good —Tono murmured. It was almost the first time I’d heard him speak—. Fuck. I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come now.

He unloaded down my throat with two more thrusts. I didn’t have time to pull away, and I didn’t want to. I swallowed what I could and what escaped ran down my chin. When he pulled his cock out, I licked it clean and opened my mouth to show him the rest. He seemed to like that. He nodded once, pulled his pants back up, and sat down on the planks again, exhausted, as if he’d just come back from a run.

***

Marcos came over and tapped my cheek twice with his cock.

—Now me. Don’t go anywhere yet.

I started sucking him slowly, catching my breath between each movement. Behind me, Jorgeta kept fucking me with a mechanical consistency that no longer hurt. My body had given in. I could feel myself opening to each thrust, wet with the old man’s saliva and his own sweat.

—I’m coming outside —Marcos said—. Open your mouth and stick out your tongue.

I did as I was told. He pulled his cock out just in time and jerked it a couple of fingers from my face. The first two spurts hit my palate and made me cough. The rest landed on my tongue, thick, hot. I took him back into my mouth while he was still hard and swallowed him whole, one last time, before letting him go. Marcos smiled and stepped away, panting.

—You’ve still got the main course —he said, looking over my shoulder at Jorgeta.

The old man had changed rhythm. Now he was thrusting hard, without pause, and muttering things through his teeth I couldn’t fully make out. Something about getting me pregnant. Something about not letting me go until I learned. The table creaked beneath us and I stopped holding back the sound. I started to moan low, moving my hips back to meet him. Something had loosened inside me. It was no longer the submission from the start, it was something else.

—Take that —Jorgeta growled suddenly—. Take it now. Take it.

I felt him unload inside me. Three long, deep pulses while he dug his hands into my hips. He stayed like that for a good while, without pulling out, catching his breath. When he finally withdrew, I heard the wet whistle of his cock leaving me and a low groan, almost a complaint, at having to separate.

—Stay where you are —he ordered—. Let Marcos take a picture of you. I want to see what I left inside you.

Marcos took out his phone. I didn’t protest. I held the position while he framed the shot, heard the click, and only then stood up with trembling legs and braced myself on the table so I wouldn’t fall. Jorgeta gave my ass one satisfied slap and sat down to look for his cigarettes.

—There’s a toilet in the back if you want to let out what you’ve got inside —Marcos said, handing me a roll of paper.

When I came out of the bathroom, all three had lit cigarettes and were talking about football as if I’d come to fix their tap. Marcos offered me one. I don’t smoke, but I accepted. I took a short drag and handed it back.

—How was it? —he asked—. Too rough?

—A little —I admitted—. But that was what was agreed. I liked it.

—Especially Jorgeta. He’d gone weeks without getting it wet. I kept telling him he needed patience.

—It showed.

I said goodbye to Tono with a nod and to the old man with a brief handshake. Marcos walked me to the shutter. Before I left, he sent the photos to my phone. There were two. In the first I was bent over the table, with his friend’s trail running down the inside of my thigh. In the second, just the close-up. I looked at them once and locked the phone.

—If you want to do it again, write —he said, giving me a parting slap on the ass.

—And you, if something comes up —I answered.

I went out into the street and took a deep breath. The cold air woke me up. I walked slowly to the mouth of the subway, still feeling Jorgeta’s pressure with every step, pleased to have left without promises I didn’t want to keep. That was what we had talked about. Not a kiss, not a preamble, not one word more. Just what was in the script, carried out without embellishment. And for me, that afternoon, it was exactly what I needed.