What Started as a Massage Didn’t End There

I was twenty-one years old and the apartment was closing in on me.

It wasn’t something that could be explained easily. I was in my third year of engineering, living alone in a small apartment that smelled of unwashed clothes and cold coffee, and I’d been sleeping badly for weeks. The nights stretched out in a way I didn’t understand: not exactly sadness, but some kind of built-up tension with nowhere to go. My body was always on alert, my head always running. I jerked off twice a night just so I could close my eyes, and even then it didn’t help.

My classmates had their own problems. My family was far away. I wasn’t the type to call and pour my heart out, so I started spending hours in a chat forum where people talked about whatever came up: movies, work, everyday problems. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. I just wanted to read voices that weren’t my own.

That was where Camila appeared.

She messaged me one night out of nowhere: “Hi, how are you doing?” The most ordinary thing in the world. But something about the way she talked hooked me right away. She wasn’t one of those people who sent two-word replies and vanished. She asked questions, listened, answered in detail and without rushing. We talked about university, my routine, why I found it hard to switch off even though I was exhausted. I told her things I didn’t tell anyone, because with her there was no prior history or expectation of any kind.

On the third night she asked me to switch to a call. She said she preferred hearing me to reading me.

I hesitated for a moment. Then I agreed.

His voice was warm, a little deep for a woman’s, but I put that down to the late hour. We talked for more than an hour. I laughed for the first time in weeks. It was one of those conversations that doesn’t feel long, that ends and leaves a kind of lightness in your chest.

Then, almost at the end, after a short silence, he said:

—I have to confess something to you.

—Tell me.

—I’m not who you think I am. My name is Esteban. I’m forty-two and I’m a bottom.

***

I stayed quiet for several seconds. I didn’t know what to say.

Esteban didn’t pressure me. He explained, with a calm I appreciated, that he used that profile because people responded differently when they didn’t know who they were talking to. He wasn’t doing it to trick anyone, but to be able to have real conversations. I could hang up if I wanted, and he’d understand completely.

I didn’t hang up.

I sat there thinking for a moment about what it meant. I had always considered myself straight: my relationships had been with women, and so had my fantasies. But it was also true that at that point I didn’t have the energy to care too much about labels. I’d liked talking to this person. It was still the same person.

We kept talking for another hour.

Over time he explained to me what it meant to be a bottom, how it worked in practice, what set that apart from other orientations. He talked to me bluntly about how he liked being fucked, about how he’d spent years using dilators so he could take big cocks without pain, about how much he enjoyed sucking until the other guy came in his mouth. He said it without awkwardness, as if it were a conversation about anything else. I learned more that night than I’d learned in years of browsing the internet without looking for anything seriously. He told me about his life, his relationships, how he had come to understand himself. It was a story I hadn’t expected to hear and that somehow felt completely natural.

I felt my cock harden against my pants while I listened. I didn’t understand it. But it happened.

—Does all this bother you? —he asked at some point.

—No —I said, and it was true—. I find it interesting.

When he told me he lived less than fifteen minutes from my apartment, something shifted, even though I didn’t know exactly what.

***

We agreed to meet on a Saturday afternoon in the neighborhood square.

I saw him arrive before he saw me. He was a slender, medium-height man with a bit of untrimmed beard and simple clothes, the kind worn by someone who doesn’t need to prove anything. He had a body a lot like mine: narrow back, long arms. Nothing striking, nothing that would stand out in a crowd.

We greeted each other with a handshake and sat down on a bench. The afternoon was mild and the park was half empty.

We talked for more than an hour. About the usual things: university, the job he had as a technician at a physiotherapy clinic, the city neither of us especially loved. At no point was there any awkwardness. It was easy being with him, just as it had been easy talking on the phone. There was no tension or artifice, just someone I could talk to without effort.

At some point in the afternoon he mentioned massages. He said he had studied them seriously for years, that it was something he practiced regularly. He asked if I liked them.

—I always have —I admitted.

—You carry tension in the way you move —he said, not sounding condescending—. Your neck and shoulders are loaded up. That builds over time.

I told him yes, that stress went straight to my back. That since I’d been living alone there was no one to tell me whether I had bad posture at my desk, and that when I woke up in the morning it felt as if I hadn’t slept at all.

—If you want, I can give you a session —he offered—. No charge. I just need a place with enough space.

I should think this through better, I told myself.

But by then we were already walking toward my apartment.

***

The apartment was small: a living room, a kitchen, and a bedroom with a full-size bed inherited from the previous tenant. Esteban came in without commenting on the mess. He took off his jacket, folded it over the desk chair with an efficiency that contrasted with how relaxed the afternoon felt, and asked me to put on some background music if I wanted.

I put on something instrumental. It seemed right.

—For the massage I need you to take your clothes off —he said, direct but not hurried—. I work with oil, and fabric gets in the way of the flow. If you’d rather stay in your underwear, that works too.

—Okay —I said.

After a second, he took off his T-shirt and pants himself. He did it with a naturalness that completely disarmed me: there was no provocation in the gesture, only efficiency. His body was that of someone who took care of the basics without obsessing over them. Slender, no chest hair, with a pronounced hip line and an ass I hadn’t expected to be so defined, round and perked up under the tight black boxer briefs. When he bent down to fold his pants, the fabric pulled tight over his ass cheeks and I kept staring longer than I should have.

I stayed in my boxers. I didn’t dare go further. I was already half hard and didn’t want it to show.

He said nothing about it. He told me to lie face down on the bed.

***

The first few minutes were exactly what I expected: hands finding the tension points in my shoulders, just enough pressure at the base of my neck, slow movements running down my spine. He was good at it. Very good. His strength was calibrated, he knew exactly how hard to press before the muscle gave.

I felt my whole body give in. The jaw I’d been clenching without realizing. My feet, which were always cold. The rhythm of my breathing, which slowed almost without my deciding it.

It was when he reached my lower back that I noticed something different.

Esteban was kneeling beside me, but at some point he shifted position and I felt him over me, one leg on each side of my hips. He kept massaging, but now with the full weight of his torso behind each movement. I felt his skin against mine, the warmth of the oil between us.

And then I felt him against the boxers I was wearing. A hard, marked bulge pressed against the seam of my ass through both layers of fabric. His cock, swollen, wedged exactly between my cheeks as if it already knew where it was going.

I sat up abruptly.

He leaned back at once.

—Sorry —he said, not defensive—. I went too far.

I looked at him. His face was calm, not ashamed but not provocative either. Waiting. And my cock was pounding against the mattress, so hard it hurt.

—It’s okay —I said at last.

And weirdly, it was true. My heart was racing, but it wasn’t fear. It was something I hadn’t experienced before and didn’t know how to name until much later.

—I can keep going without that —he said—. Or we can stop here. Whatever you want.

—Keep going —I heard my own voice say.

***

The massage continued over my thighs, my calves, my feet. Every area got the same methodical attention. I had an erection rubbing against the sheet and I wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. Pre-cum was leaking from my cock onto the fabric of my boxers, and I could feel the hot stain spreading underneath me.

When he got to the inner part of my thighs, his oiled fingers moved up very slowly, almost caressing, and my hips moved on their own, just an inch. I pushed against his hand without meaning to. Enough for him to understand everything.

Esteban didn’t ignore it. He moved slowly upward, one hand on each leg, until his fingers brushed the fabric of my boxers, right where my balls were pressed tight against the elastic. He looked at me. He didn’t need to say anything.

I nodded.

He pulled my underwear down with the same slowness with which he had done everything else. My cock sprang free in a whip-like motion, hard, the tip shiny with pre-cum, resting against my stomach. He let out a tiny sound at the sight of it, something between a sigh and approval.

—What a nice cock you have —he murmured, more to himself than to me.

He wrapped one oil-covered hand around my erection and started jerking me off with the same concentration he’d given the rest of my body. His hand slid up and down in a slow rhythm, squeezing just below the glans each time he reached the top, twisting his wrist at the tip. He was methodical, attentive to every reaction, precise where he needed to be precise. Every time I groaned into the pillow, he eased up so I wouldn’t come yet.

With his other hand he spread my ass cheeks and slid an oiled finger along the seam of my hole, not rushing, not pressing, just testing. I tensed for a second and he noticed.

—Easy —he said—. I’m just playing.

The finger stayed there, circling my hole without going in, and I didn’t know whether I wanted him to stop or keep going. In the end I rested my forehead on the pillow and let him do whatever he wanted.

When he turned me over again and looked me in the face, I understood we were in a completely different place from where we’d started. His mouth was a handspan from my cock and he couldn’t stop looking at it.

—Is this okay? —he asked.

—Yes —I said, voice broken.

He lowered his head.

What came next was the first time anyone had ever really sucked my cock. Not as something clumsy or rushed. He took the whole thing into his mouth in one go, until I felt the tip bump against the back of his throat. He didn’t even gag. He stayed there, swallowing around it, and then started to move up and down with obscene slowness, looking up at me with shining eyes.

His tongue curled around the frenulum every time he came up. When he got to the base, he left my cock buried in his throat and clenched down on it with his muscles, as if he were swallowing me. Then he’d come back up to suck only the tip, taking it with suction, licking my balls, going back down to the root.

I felt the ceiling spin and had to grip the pillow so I wouldn’t make a sound. I grabbed his head without meaning to, pushing into his mouth, and he let me fuck his mouth for a while, swallowing every time my cock hit the back.

—I’m going to come —I managed to say.

He didn’t take it out. Not even an inch. He pressed his lips to the base and waited.

I came in jets into his mouth, hips lifted off the mattress, fingers buried in his hair. I felt him swallowing, felt him clamping around my cock as I kept unloading, felt him not pull away until I stopped giving him anything. Then he licked the tip carefully, cleaning every drop from me, and smiled with shining lips.

—Rest a bit —he said, his voice a little hoarse from the effort.

***

I needed several minutes to get back to anything like normal.

He was lying beside me, not moving, not demanding anything. He’d slipped his boxers down without me noticing and was jerking himself off very slowly, without urgency, almost as if it were something he did to pass the time. His cock was smaller than mine, slim, very hard, the tip wet. He didn’t move his hand away when he saw me looking.

The fan turned slowly. The music was still playing in the background.

—Do you want to keep going? —he asked when he noticed my breathing was settling.

I didn’t know exactly what he meant by that. But I also didn’t want to stop and analyze it too much.

—What did you have in mind? —I asked.

He pulled a condom from the pocket of his pants, which were on the floor beside the bed. He set it on the sheet between us and turned over. He got on all fours, ass raised, back arched. He ran his oiled fingers over his asshole and began to open himself up in front of me, first with one finger, then two, without any shame.

—Look how open I’ve got it —he said, without turning around—. I’ve had it ready for your cock since I saw you in the square.

It took me a moment to understand what he was asking for. Actually, no. I understood perfectly. What I didn’t understand was how my cock had gotten hard again so quickly after coming.

I’d never been with a man. Nor had I seriously thought about it, at least not consciously. But I was in my room, I was twenty-one, and in front of me there was an ass opened up, shining with oil, asking me to fuck it. My body had been making decisions on its own all afternoon.

I put the condom on with shaking hands. He kept pushing his fingers in and out of himself, moaning softly, waiting for me.

—Come on —he said—. Put it in slowly. Don’t be afraid.

I knelt behind him. I took his ass in both hands, spread him open, and pressed the tip against the hole. It was hot, slick, softer than I’d imagined. I pushed an inch in and felt the flesh open around my cock, giving way, swallowing me.

Esteban let out a long, deep moan and pushed his hips back. He guided the whole thing from the start with a patience that surprised me: he placed my hands on his hips, set the rhythm with the movement of his own body. When I hesitated, he waited. When I moved forward, he adjusted. He was precise, controlled, and he knew exactly what he was doing.

—Put it all in —he murmured—. Don’t worry, I can take the whole thing.

I pushed in all the way with one thrust. My balls bumped against his and I stayed there, breathing, feeling his ass squeeze my cock in waves, as if it had a life of its own. I’d never been inside anything so hot and so tight. A pussy didn’t feel like this. Not even close.

—Fuck me —he said, and started moving his ass against me, setting the pace—. Fuck me hard. You won’t break me.

I started thrusting. At first slowly, pulling my cock almost all the way out and driving it back in with a slam. Then faster, gripping his hips, burying myself to the hilt each time. The sound of oil and flesh filled the room, mixed with the hoarse moans he let out against the pillow.

—Like that, like that, don’t stop —he panted—. Fuck me, give it all to me, come inside me.

I grabbed his hair with one hand and yanked his head back. I fucked his ass like I’d been doing it for years, not like it was the first time. Every time I thrust, he moaned louder, clenched tighter, moved his ass in circles to feel me everywhere.

I lasted less than I wanted to. Getting inside had been easier than I’d imagined. The heat, the pressure, the strangeness of the whole situation added to the exhaustion built up over the previous weeks was too much. I came with my hands nailed to his hips and my face buried in his back, unable to say anything, unloading into the condom in wave after wave that didn’t stop. I felt his ass milking my cock, squeezing every time I trembled, drawing out the last drop.

I stayed there, buried to the hilt, panting against the back of his neck, never wanting to pull out.

After that I couldn’t move for what felt like several minutes.

When I finally pulled out, my cock slipped free of his ass with a wet sound. Esteban turned around and lay on his back, his cock stiff against his belly and a smear of pre-cum on his navel. He smiled.

—Now help me —he said.

When I lay down beside him, Esteban positioned himself next to me. He was still hard and dripping. I took his cock in my hand —it was the first time I’d touched one that wasn’t mine— and started jerking him off awkwardly. He guided my hand with his over mine, setting the rhythm, pressing my fingers exactly where he needed more pressure. After a while I didn’t need him to guide me anymore.

—Spit on it —he murmured—. Let it slip.

I spat on the tip and kept jerking him off, faster, twisting my wrist each time I came up the way he had done for me before. He spread his legs for me, lifted his knees, and I realized he wanted me to touch his ass while he came. I ran a finger over his hole, still open and slick, and pushed it in to the first knuckle. He let out a strangled cry.

—There, there, don’t pull it out —he panted.

I slid in another finger, moving them around inside him while I kept stroking his cock. I needed him to finish, and he knew it. I curled my fingers inside, searching, and found something soft and round that made his entire back arch when I pressed it.

He came a few seconds later, shooting hot cum across his own belly and chest, squeezing my fingers with his ass with every spurt. It was five or six bursts in a row, more than I’d ever seen anyone shoot. He kept his eyes closed, breathing through his mouth, while his cock kept spitting the last thin threads of semen over his stomach.

I pulled my fingers out carefully. He grabbed them and took them to his mouth, sucking them clean without the slightest shame. Then he looked at me and smiled.

We took a short nap, side by side, with the fan on and music still playing, the smear of semen drying slowly on his skin.

***

By the time he left, it was already night.

Before going out he turned back at the door and told me it had been a good afternoon. That if I wanted, we could do it again, that he was in no hurry and had no expectations. That next time he’d teach me how to last longer, and that he’d love to taste my cock again, this time without a condom if I’d gotten tested. That I should think about it with no pressure at all.

I stayed at the door until he disappeared down the hallway.

I sat on the edge of the bed. The apartment smelled of massage oil, sweat, and semen, of the warm trace of someone who was no longer there. I stared at the ceiling for a long while. I still had the taste of his skin on my lips and my sticky cock against my leg.

I didn’t feel confused, exactly. I felt different. Like when you realize an idea you had was smaller than reality, that the world had more rooms than you’d assumed.

I talked to Esteban again that same night. And many nights after that.

But that’s another story.