What I Learned Sucking Off Three Mature Men

What I’m about to tell started out of curiosity, like almost everything that ends up changing you. One boring afternoon, with nothing better to do, I opened a video in which one guy shoved his cock all the way down another guy’s throat. I didn’t gasp, I didn’t close the tab, I didn’t laugh. I just sat there watching, mouth slightly open, trying to figure out whether I’d be able to do something like that.

That question didn’t leave my head for weeks. I spent all day at work thinking about it. I’d get home, shower, and before bed I’d put two fingers in my throat to see how far I could take it without gagging. It was always only a few centimeters. But curiosity had already taken root and there was no way to get it out.

One night, without thinking too much about it, I opened an anonymous classifieds page and wrote something short: “Young man looking for older gentleman for oral sex session. Want to learn deep throating. Absolute discretion.” I posted it, closed the laptop, and went to sleep convinced no one would answer.

Two days later my inbox was full.

The first one who made me raise an eyebrow was named Eduardo. The photo he sent wasn’t gym or catalog material: it was him, standing in front of a mirror, shirt half open and his face blocked by the camera. Fifty-something, hard belly, broad shoulders. But what really sold me was what was down below: a long cock, not especially thick, with a pronounced vein running along the whole shaft. I replied that same night.

We met on a Friday in a building near downtown. I climbed the seven floors on foot because the elevator was broken and arrived with my heart pounding. Eduardo opened the door wearing a towel around his waist and a glass of whiskey in his hand. He smelled like good cologne, the kind you can’t buy at just any pharmacy.

—Come in, relax —he said, and closed the door without rushing.

There wasn’t much conversation. I’d told him what I wanted, he’d accepted, and neither of us felt like pretending to be interested in the weather. I sat on the edge of the couch and he stood in front of me. I pulled the towel down with both hands, slowly, almost respectfully. What appeared was exactly what the photo had promised.

I started with the tip. Short, wet kisses, licking the head, sucking it with my lips closed while he let out a low gasp. I smelled the strong odor of his foreskin and the heat of flesh hardening in front of my face. Then I opened my mouth wider and started sucking with intent, circling the glans, running my tongue underneath it, coating everything in saliva until it shone. Eduardo let me set the pace. He was a patient man, the kind who understands that getting someone’s throat in is not some feat you achieve by forcing it.

—When you’re ready, go deeper —he murmured—. Don’t fight yourself.

I did what I could. I felt the head touch the back of my throat and a spasm ran through my whole body. The first gags are humiliating: they betray you, roll your eyes back, fill your mouth with saliva. But something in me didn’t want to stop. Every time I pulled back to breathe, I tried again. First just the tip, then half the cock, then a little more, pushing down with my tongue to make a path. Eduardo stroked the back of my neck, never hurrying me, and each time I took him back in I felt my throat tighten, felt the urge to vomit fighting against my desire to keep swallowing him. By the fifth or sixth thrust, I felt something give. The tip passed. Only for an instant, but it passed. Then another section went in, hot and hard, brushing my tongue, pressing against my uvula, filling my mouth until I was almost forced to breathe through my nose.

Eduardo stayed still. He held the back of my neck with spread fingers, not pressing, just accompanying me.

—There it is —he said—. Remember that feeling.

I lowered my head again and this time let myself go further. I felt the skin at the base brushing my lips, the foreskin —already fully retracted— soaking my face, saliva dripping down my chin as I worked to take him without letting up. He slid into me little by little, pushing with his hips and patience, until the head hit my throat again and I could take a little more, and a little more, until the reflex stopped beating me completely. It wasn’t an elegant feat: it was dirty work, lips stretched, jaw burning, throat swallowing however it could.

When he finished, my jaw hurt as if I’d spent two hours at the dentist. But I walked out of that building with a new certainty: I could do it. It wasn’t a matter of strength or size. It was a matter of patience and wanting it.

***

During the following weeks I practiced alone. I bought a medium-sized dildo and kept it by the bed. Every night I spent a few minutes with it. I learned to relax my tongue, loosen my jaw, breathe through my nose while the path was occupied. I worked it in little by little, first the tip, then more, until I felt the exact pressure at the back of my mouth and at the entrance to my throat. I moved my hand slowly, mimicking the sway of hips, and forced myself to hold on without gagging. It was like learning to play an instrument I’d had with me all along.

I met the second man the same way. His name was Octavio, and he lived alone in a twelfth-floor apartment overlooking the river. He was sixty, with a neat white beard and one of those cocks that impress you not because they’re long but because they’re thick. The head was almost the width of a plum. When he pulled it out of his pants in the living room, I estimated the diameter and my stomach clenched.

—Will it fit? —I asked, half joking.

—That’s up to you —he replied.

That night there was no patience. Octavio wasn’t rough, but he wasn’t a teacher either: he was the kind of man who enjoys watching you work. He kept me kneeling between his legs for almost an hour. I licked the frenum, sucked his balls calmly, ran my tongue all over the base until the skin was soaked, and when I had him truly hard, he brought him back to my mouth. My jaw felt locked, saliva dripping down my chin, my eyes watering. But his thickness was different from Eduardo’s length. Where Eduardo had taught me to go deeper, Octavio forced me to open wider. I had to stretch my mouth until it hurt, let the glans push my tongue against the floor of my mouth, and force myself not to bite, not to close, to take it.

When I finally felt the head pass my throat, it was like a click. Octavio let out a hoarse sound and grabbed me by the hair. He didn’t shove: he just held me, making sure I didn’t pull away. I stayed like that for several seconds, feeling him pulse inside me, hard as a tool, the tip sunk in so far my uvula seemed to disappear in flesh and saliva. Then he let me go to catch my breath and shoved it back in again.

He didn’t settle for my mouth. He made me open wider, rested his hand behind my head, and worked me at a slow but insistent rhythm, going in and out with that heavy cock that stretched me more each time. My lips burned from the friction, my throat was closing and opening like a broken valve, and still I kept going. At one point he leaned in a little, looked down at me over his belly, and said:

—Look at you swallowing my cock, you little fucker.

He came in my mouth a few minutes later. A dense, abundant load, tasting of metal and salt. He didn’t give me time to think about whether to swallow or spit; I swallowed because there was nothing else to do. I felt the hot shot sliding over my tongue, down my throat, and I swallowed it in several short gulps, breathing between each one while he kept holding my hair. Octavio looked down at me with a tired smile.

—Kid, not everyone can do what you do.

I didn’t answer. I stayed seated on the floor, my back against the couch, looking at the river through the window. Something had changed inside me, but I still didn’t know what.

***

The third one came by recommendation. Octavio gave my number to a friend of his, a man named Mauricio, a retired lawyer, widowed for years. We talked on WhatsApp for several nights before meeting. He was polite, ironic, wrote with semicolons. From the start he warned me he had “a particular detail,” and sent me a photo.

It took me a while to process it. Nine inches, he said later. He wasn’t exaggerating. It was long, it seemed never-ending, but luckily it wasn’t thick. I told him I accepted the challenge. Mauricio offered me a reward if I managed to swallow the whole thing. Not for the money, he said, but because he liked the idea of rewarding effort.

We met on a Saturday afternoon at his house, an old property with high ceilings and a library that covered an entire wall. He offered me coffee, we chatted for twenty minutes about nothing, and then he took me to the bedroom without touching me. When he undressed and I saw it in person, I understood why he had insisted so much on the warning.

—Think you can handle it? —he asked.

—I hope so.

—If you take the whole thing —he said, sitting on the edge of the bed—, I swear I’ll reward you like nobody else.

I started slowly. I sucked the tip first, then ran my tongue over the crown, licking every crease as if I wanted to memorize it. I wrapped my hand around the shaft, slowly, to wet it and prepare myself better. The first fifteen minutes were pure training: tongue, lips, saliva, breathing. Mauricio stayed still, letting me work. When I felt him hard enough that he wouldn’t bend, I knew it was time. I braced my hands on his thighs, opened my mouth as wide as I could, and went in.

The first half went down almost without resistance. The second half was another story. I felt the head trying to pass, bumping against the back, cutting off my air. The gagging came back, but I knew it now. I let it roll over me like waves. Mauricio put a hand on the back of my neck, not hard, just guiding, and that was enough for me to let go completely. I swallowed him in sections, my jaw trembling, my tongue flattened under the weight of that endless cock, breathing in short gasps through my nose. Every extra centimeter opened my throat wider, soaked my face, left my eyes watering. But I wasn’t thinking about stopping anymore. I was thinking about taking the whole thing.

With one single motion, he shoved it all the way in.

The world went out for a second. I had no air, no throat, nothing. Just that presence filling me from the inside out. I wanted to scream and discovered I couldn’t even do that. Mauricio held me like that for ten eternal seconds, looking me in the eyes, and then pulled it out all the way. I sucked in air as if I’d just risen from the bottom of a pool.

—Open —he said softly—. I’m going again.

This time he didn’t give me time to think. He drove it in to the hilt and started moving inside me with a rhythm that wasn’t violent, but wasn’t kind either. Fucking my throat, I thought later in my head, was exactly that: fucking a hole that wasn’t designed for this, and forcing me to accept it. My jaw felt as if it had been dislocated. I felt the tip touching places no one had ever touched, the base brushing my lips, saliva overflowing at the corners while he kept pumping that absurdly long cock, pulling it out and shoving it back in until he could make me lose control. Mauricio breathed heavily, letting out small growls every time I managed to take him without tearing out his throat or mine.

When he said he was about to come, he didn’t pull out. He left it inside me and unloaded there, at the back, in long streams that went straight down to my stomach without ever passing over my tongue. I felt the hot, thick load flooding my mouth under pressure, forcing me to swallow by reflex while he kept pushing until he emptied himself. When he finally withdrew, I coughed, spat out a mix of saliva and semen, and let myself collapse onto the rug.

Mauricio brought me a glass of water and sat beside me.

—You’re a real cock-gobbler —he said, and it sounded almost tender.

I nodded. I couldn’t speak. My jaw throbbed, my throat burned, I had thick phlegm that took me half an hour to clear. But inside, something new had settled in: a strange calm, like someone who has just crossed a river they’d been staring at from the bank for a long time.

Mauricio kept his promise. He paid me what he’d promised and offered to see me every fifteen days. He also told me, looking straight at me, that next time he wanted to try something else, and that if I’d managed what happened that afternoon with my mouth, he didn’t see why we couldn’t repeat it lower down.

I told him yes without thinking. After all, I’d already taken cocks of many sizes in another place. But that’s another story, and that night, driving back home with my throat inflamed and my mouth still tasting like him, I understood something I hadn’t understood before: some desires aren’t discovered, they’re built. And mine was already built.