What We Did That Night at the Farm

We arrived at Felipe’s farm on Friday afternoon, when the sun was still beating down hard on the dirt road. There were five of us: Felipe, Tomás, Rafa, Bruno, and me, Mateo. Felipe’s parents were already there, Ernesto and Claudia, and they welcomed us with a tray of freshly made sandwiches and a cooler full of beers. It was the long weekend we had been looking forward to for months, and the farm had everything the imagination promises: a swimming pool, a barbecue area, an indoor billiards room, and a wooded area that disappeared behind the house when night fell.

I won’t dwell on Rafa, because there isn’t much to say. Tomás was the most polished-looking one in the group: cinnamon-colored skin, well-proportioned features, a body he’d been working on at the gym since he was fourteen. Felipe was almost six feet tall, broad-backed, with tattoos on his chest and arms that gave him the air of a guy who didn’t let anyone push him around. Bruno was different from all of us: tall, close to six foot two, dark-skinned and fine-featured, always carrying that air of someone who knew exactly how much attention he commanded in any room. We’d known one another since school, and there had always been certain rumors about him—about the size of the cock he was packing—that no one had ever bothered to deny.

But the person who caught my attention that day wasn’t any of my friends.

Felipe’s father, Ernesto, was forty-two and had the body of someone who hadn’t neglected himself for a single day. Shaved head, neatly trimmed black beard, tattoos on both forearms and another, larger one on the right side of his chest. His arms were the result of years of steady training, and when he spoke, his deep voice filled the space. I’d known him for a long time, of course, but I’d never given myself the luxury of really looking at him. That weekend was different.

The afternoon passed with swimming, laughter, and the usual games. Claudia, blonde and carrying the energy of someone who genuinely enjoyed young people’s company, joined in on some of the challenges and bet alongside Ernesto at the billiards table. There were beers, music, jokes nobody would remember the next day. All the ordinary ingredients of a day at the farm.

When night fell, the mood changed. Ernesto took control of the speaker, and salsa displaced reggaeton. The grill was lit, and the smell of roast meat and chorizo began mixing with the wood smoke. Claudia turned in early, saying the aguardiente had won its battle with her. The rest of us stayed outside, music blaring and the night still young.

That was when I noticed Bruno slipping around to the back of the house.

I followed him from a distance, taking a different path. I found him leaning against a tree, smoking a joint with the calm of someone who had been waiting for that moment for hours. He jumped when he saw me arrive.

“You scared me,” he said, exhaling the smoke slowly. “I thought it was Don Ernesto.”

“Relax. Give me a hit.”

He passed me the cigarette. We stayed silent for a few seconds, listening to the music drifting muffled from the house. Bruno looked up at the sky without saying anything.

“What a night,” he said at last. “All that’s missing is the women.”

“Or something else,” I replied, without thinking too much about it.

He glanced at me. A crooked smile that didn’t exactly say anything, but wasn’t innocent either.

“The rum gets me going,” he said. “Tonight, anything that crosses my path is getting it. I’ve had a hard-on for a while, brother. I need to unload.”

We laughed, but my laugh came out more nervous than it should have. The marijuana smoke had loosened something inside me, and the darkness between the trees created that particular feeling that whatever happened there would remain shut away there. Bruno kept talking, with fewer and fewer detours, until at some point he pulled down his shorts and took out his cock without any further preamble. The moon barely reached it, but there was enough light. It was exactly as the rumors had promised: long, thick, with a prominent vein running up the shaft from bottom to top, and a broad, dark head gleaming with precum. It was only half-hard, and it already looked impossible.

He gripped it at the base and gave himself two slow strokes, staring straight at me.

“Wouldn’t there happen to be someone around here who could help me with this?” he said. “It’s asking for a mouth.”

I stayed silent. I felt desire and nerves competing in the same instant. My mouth filled with saliva.

“Someone I trust,” he added. “I’ve done it before. More than once. And whoever gets on their knees doesn’t regret it, I promise you.”

Before I could answer, we heard voices from the house. Felipe and Tomás were looking for us. Bruno put everything away in a second, adjusted the bulge inside his shorts—which no longer concealed anything—and stared at me.

“We’ll finish later. Don’t run out on me.”

***

Back at the pool, someone suggested the horse game: riders on their partners’ shoulders, fighting to knock the other pairs down. Ernesto agreed to join in, and through a setup I never quite understood, he and I ended up paired together. Me as the rider.

Climbing onto his shoulders was an indescribable experience. His hands gripping my thighs firmly, his thick fingers sinking into the soft flesh on the insides, the solidity of his body beneath me holding me up with seemingly no effort, the heat of his skin beneath the cold water. It was impossible to control what happened next. My cock got hard inside my swimsuit, stiff and throbbing against the wet fabric, pressed against Ernesto’s shaved nape. I decided to ignore it, convincing myself that no one would notice it beneath the surface.

Ernesto said nothing. But at some point he changed his grip and his hands moved slightly higher up my thighs, his thumbs stroking up and down, very slowly, a movement that could be read as an adjustment or as something much more deliberate. I felt a little spurt of precum escape inside my swimsuit. He tilted his head slightly, and I think he deliberately brushed the tip of my cock against his neck.

The game escalated, as it always does when there’s liquor and darkness. First came the penalties of taking a drink, then exercising at the edge of the pool, until I made a serious bet: the losers had to take off their swimsuits. Rafa and Tomás did it without much fuss. Felipe did too. Ernesto initially refused, but gave in after everyone insisted and his own son teased him. He took it off slowly, tossed it onto the edge, and I caught a glimpse of him before he got into the water: the man’s thick cock hanging between his legs, carrying noticeable weight even at rest, large, low-hanging balls, all framed by a well-kept bush of black hair. I did the same, mine still rigid, and was grateful that the water hid the evidence.

There was no way this was going to end well for me.

The water covered everything, but the rubbing, the abrupt movements, and the hands grabbing one another as part of the game created a tension floating over the surface like oil. When Ernesto suggested we switch roles—he would be the rider and I would be his horse—I accepted without questioning it. He was heavy, but I bore the weight. The hardest part was when he climbed directly onto my shoulders without putting on a shirt as a barrier. I felt his skin against mine, and something else: the hot, soft weight of his cock and balls resting against my nape, moving against me every time he shifted. I felt it growing. Little by little, thickening against my neck, until there was no way to ignore that the man was hard on my shoulder.

The game turned into contact penalties. Someone called for each rider to grab his horse. Ernesto let out a laugh and offered his pelvis forward. “Rules are meant to be followed,” he said, with the smile of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. I slid my hand beneath the water and closed it around his cock. It was hard, thick, hot even against the cold water. I couldn’t close my fingers all the way around it. He covered my hand with his and held it there for a moment, guiding me through a couple of slow strokes up and down before letting go, a squeeze that felt much longer than it was. The others shouted and cheered, understanding nothing of what was really happening.

When he got out of the pool, he said the game was “too dangerous” and sat down on a lounge chair with his glass of liquor. Around five in the morning, he stood up, made a round of goodbyes to the group, and when he reached me, he tousled my hair with his hand: a brief gesture charged with something I didn’t know how to name. He went to bed without looking back.

Soon afterward, Tomás and Rafa fell asleep on the lounge chairs. Only Bruno, Felipe, and I were left. Felipe lasted another half hour before dragging himself to his room. Bruno waited until the door closed.

“Let’s go outside,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

***

We went out toward the wooded area behind the house, far from any lit window. Bruno lit what was left of the joint and looked at me through narrowed eyes, taking his time.

“Now you’re going to finish what you started,” he said.

“That was crazy,” I replied.

“Go crazy again. Get on your knees.”

He held the cigarette in one hand and gently took me by the nape with the other, pushing me down—not violently, but without giving me a choice. I knelt on the ground among the trees, with the chill of dawn on my back and the silence of the crickets all around. I slowly pulled down his swim shorts, along with his boxer briefs, and his cock sprang into my face. It was already rock-hard. The head gleamed, swollen, with a thick drop of precum hanging from the tip. The smell of a man hit me full-on: sweat, smoke, rum. My mouth watered instantly.

I stuck out my tongue and licked that drop first, dragging it from the tip to my mouth. Bruno let out a low moan. Then I ran my whole tongue along the underside of his shaft, from his balls to the head, wetting the entire length. I sucked his balls one by one, slowly taking them into my mouth, feeling their weight, while my hand worked his cock up and down.

“Ay, motherfucker,” he whispered. “You’re so good at that.”

I opened my mouth and took him in. At first slowly, testing the limit, feeling the head part my lips and fill my palate. Then with more force, letting it descend to the back of my throat. I gagged the first time, and a strand of saliva fell down my chin. Bruno rested his hand on my head without pressing, letting me set my own pace. He smoked calmly, leaning against the tree, his eyes closed and his breathing increasingly broken.

“That’s it,” he said softly. “Exactly like that. Suck all of it, don’t let it come out.”

I began moving faster, sucking him eagerly with both hands: one at the base for what wouldn’t fit, the other massaging his balls. Every so often I pulled it all the way out, spit on the head, and put it back in, letting the wet sounds ring out among the trees. I licked the entire length again, tracing every vein with the tip of my tongue, and swallowed him again. My throat burned. I didn’t care. I could feel his whole body tensing, his hips beginning to move against my face, thrusting without realizing it.

“Wait, wait,” he said, grabbing my hair and pulling me back. “If you keep going like that, I’ll come right now, and I want to finish inside you.”

After a good while of that, he lifted me, turned me around, and began pulling down my swimsuit with my back to him. I felt his breath on my nape, his hands squeezing my ass cheeks and spreading them apart.

“Wait,” I told him. “If you’re going to do it, prepare me properly first.”

“How?”

“Suck me. With your tongue. Open me up properly before you put it in, because you’ve got a thick one.”

There was a long silence. Only his breathing in the darkness.

“No,” he said. “I’ve never done it with a guy. Barely even with a woman.”

“Then forget it. You won’t get in with what you’ve got there, all dry.”

A quiet negotiation followed, almost whispered, as we leaned against the same tree. He confessed that he sometimes did it with women and liked it, but that with a man it was different. I told him what needed to be said: that he could close his eyes if he wanted, that he should forget who I was, that he should just feel. That it was the only way his cock would fit inside me. It took him a while, but he finally agreed, on the condition that it would never be mentioned.

He positioned himself behind me. I braced myself against the trunk with my forearms, arched my back, and pushed my ass backward, offering it to him wide open. I heard him hold his breath. His big hands carefully spread my cheeks. At first I only felt his hot breath there, very close, hesitating. Then a brief brush of the tip of his tongue, barely a touch, and a pause. Another brush, longer. Another pause. Until something in him gave way and he began in earnest.

He ran his whole tongue over me, from bottom to top, pressing firmly. Then he began making circles around the opening, softening it, wetting it. I had to bite my arm to keep from moaning. I grabbed the back of his head and pressed it against me. Bruno growled and really drove his tongue in, pushing it inside, eating my ass as if he’d wanted to do it for months. He moved in and out, covering me with saliva, going a little deeper each time, while one hand grabbed my cock in front and worked it slowly. He left me completely wet, dripping with spit.

He did it well. Better than I expected from someone who swore he’d never been in that position. He took his time, unhurried, until he had me open and throbbing. When he stood up and aimed the head of his cock at me, I was already ready to receive him.

He put it in slowly. I felt the head force my ring, felt it give little by little, the burning giving way to a deep, full sensation as the hot flesh made its way inside me. I let out a long moan I couldn’t contain. Bruno covered my mouth with his hand.

“Keep quiet, motherfucker,” he whispered. “They’ll hear us.”

He stayed inside for a moment, still, letting me adjust. Then he began to move. At first gently, pulling it almost all the way out and easing it back in, each thrust deeper than the last, until I had him all the way inside me, his balls hitting my ass. When he understood that he wasn’t hurting me anymore, he began fucking me with confidence. He pressed his chest against my back, took me by the shoulders from behind, and picked up the pace. I held myself against the tree with both hands, my feet planted firmly on the damp earth, pushing my ass backward to receive every thrust. The sky was just beginning to lighten on the horizon.

“There, like that,” I asked him softly. “Put it all the way in. Don’t stop.”

“What an ass you’ve got, faggot,” he panted against my ear. “You squeeze me so well. You were made for this cock.”

He changed positions twice. First he made me spread my feet farther apart and arch my back more so he could enter me straighter, his chest pressed against my back and his hands squeezing my nipples. Then he wanted to see me with my hands on the ground and my ass raised, on all fours in the dirt, completely at his disposal. I obeyed without questioning it. He knelt behind me, grabbed my hips, and drove into me eagerly, each hard thrust making his balls slap against mine, a wet, rhythmic sound mingling with the crickets. Whenever I felt close to my limit and squeezed his cock with my ass, he stopped and waited, breathing hard, drawing it out as long as possible.

“Not yet,” he told me, squeezing my ass with both hands and watching it swallow him. “I want to fuck you more.”

At one point he pulled his cock out, turned me over, and threw me onto my back on the ground. He lifted my legs, draped them over his shoulders, and thrust back into me in one motion, all the way to the hilt. Now I could see his face: eyes narrowed, mouth slightly open, sweat running down his neck. He stared at me as he fucked me, and that look was almost worse than the cock. I worked my own with my right hand in time with his fucking, feeling the other man’s cock touch something inside me that made my legs tremble.

When he finally reached the point of no return, he clutched my thighs tightly, buried his face against my neck, and came inside me with a long moan that he tried to smother against my skin. I felt the hot jets emptying inside me, one after another, while he continued moving slowly, squeezing out every last drop. He pulled his cock out slowly, still hard, dripping with cum and saliva, and brought it to my mouth. I cleaned it with my tongue without being asked, tasting his own come on the head of his cock, swallowing what remained.

I stood up. I’d been masturbating for minutes without coming. Bruno, still breathing heavily, leaned against the tree and began to piss. The stream fell nearby, too nearby, sounding loudly against the bark. The liquor, the exhaustion, and the heat of everything that had just happened combined into an impulse I didn’t know how to analyze at the time: I took his cock in my hand and directed the stream toward myself. I felt the warmth of the liquid running over my chest, down my abdomen, wetting the hand I was using to jerk myself off. I brought it to my mouth and drank a sip, tasting the bitter saltiness. Bruno let out a muffled growl when he saw it.

I came right there, silently, my knees in the dirt, shooting a long, thick stream over the leaf litter while the rest of Bruno’s piss finished emptying onto my chest.

***

We looked at each other for a moment. Neither of us said anything. We went back to the house; I threw myself into the pool to clean up, and he went straight to his room. I showered in cold water, changed, and went to bed.

It took me a while to fall asleep. I’d known Bruno for years: in class, at weekend games, on group outings. I’d never felt anything like what happened that night. I’d always seen him as just another friend, with no deeper story. But that morning I had discovered something I hadn’t known I was looking for, and the memory wouldn’t let me rest: his weight on top of me, the smell of wet wood and smoke, the sensation of his cock moving unhurriedly inside me, the heat of his come left inside me.

I jerked off before closing my eyes, remembering everything in detail, coming again against the sheet.

The next day, everything was as usual. Bruno treated me exactly as he had before. The subject was never mentioned, not that day or afterward. I interpreted it as a late-night misadventure, the kind of thing that happens between men when there’s too much liquor and too much darkness. As the days passed, I understood that it hadn’t been as casual as it suited me to believe.