What Began in the Sauna Ended Up as Something Else

I left the office at six in the evening and the sun was still beating down as if it were the height of August. It was early October and summer refused to leave. I put on my helmet and, as soon as I started the bike, I felt my head cooking inside it. Halfway there, the idea of stopping by the sauna crossed my mind. It had been months since I’d last gone there, but that afternoon I felt like seeing what was stirring in that discreet corner of the city center.

I parked the bike in a nearby little square and went down the stairs of an old restored mansion. The place is old but clean and well kept. It was there, years ago, that I started shaping my bisexual side and discovered an entire world I hadn’t suspected. What surprised me most then was that most of them weren’t out-and-out gays, but married guys with kids, men like me, curious types who just wanted to give release to a fantasy they didn’t dare say out loud.

But enough reminiscing. That afternoon the café area was lively and the changing rooms had their usual hustle and bustle. I got undressed, put everything in the locker, and tied the towel around my waist. As I usually do, I folded it and adjusted it until it sat like a tight miniskirt, with my shaved thighs on display. I went through the shower and entered the sauna. There were only three people inside.

An older, hefty man, a guy of about thirty-five, and a man my age, in his fifties, who looked Latin American: short, solid, with that body of someone who earns a living through physical labor. There were a few glances, nothing out of the ordinary. After a while, it was just the two of us.

He was the one who started talking, testing the waters with a few loose questions.

—Do you come here often? —he asked.

—Every now and then. And you?

—Less than I’d like. Work doesn’t let me. I’m married, so I only slip away when I can —he said, and then he shot the question back at me—. You too, with a woman?

—I do. But without drama. We’re both liberal, bisexual, and we enjoy ourselves however we can, with other people.

He looked at me as if I’d told him an enormous secret. He kept repeating how lucky I was and that talking about all that had gotten him worked up beyond belief. I laughed and pointed at the bulge showing beneath his towel. He laughed too and moved it aside, showing me a thick, shaved cock that commanded respect. I told him mine was more modest and he answered that mine wasn’t bad at all either.

—What are you, top or bottom? —he blurted out suddenly.

—With men, bottom. I like sex that’s a bit rough, and a macho guy who knows how to take charge drives me crazy.

He smiled crookedly.

—Then we’ve both been lucky today. We’ve just found exactly what we were looking for.

There were no more words. He grabbed my cock firmly and kissed me right there, inside the sauna.

***

We went straight to the showers, in full view of a couple of customers who didn’t miss a thing. He stood behind me, rubbing my thighs and ass with his cock, and I was hard in seconds. His soapy hands ran over my back, slid between my butt cheeks, and massaged me with a mixture of softness and firmness that left me trembling. As we walked toward the cubicles, he kept groping me and giving me the occasional slap.

The cubicles are narrow: a shelf with a mattress pad, a small monitor, and not much else. There was no foreplay and no detours. He shoved me backward onto the mattress pad, got into a sixty-nine, and lifted my legs up. While his tongue played with my entrance, slowly stretching me, I managed, with effort, to swallow more than half his cock.

—Marco —he had told me his name earlier, in the sauna. And then Marco ordered me to stay still.

He climbed down from the shelf, grabbed my thighs, put my ankles on his shoulders, and pulled me toward him. He smeared on lubricant, rubbed the tip against my entrance, and began to push in slowly. I protested, squirmed, but he didn’t stop: he went in centimeter by centimeter, all the way to the hilt.

—You’re mine now —he whispered with a mischievous smile.

I was already burning hot, my cock ready to explode. He started with a gentle rocking that kept building in intensity until it turned brutally hard, pulling out and driving back in all at once. He punctuated each thrust with a slap on my thighs. At one point he slapped my face so hard my cheek was left blazing and ordered me onto all fours.

I obeyed. He got onto the shelf, squatted over me, and rode me hard for several minutes. Then he yanked my hair, slid his arm across the front of my neck, and started to squeeze. I thought it was part of the game, that he’d let up, but he kept going. I began to feel dizzy, my body going loose on its own, and just then he let go. I came to almost immediately, I suppose barely a second had passed, but my head was spinning.

—Open your mouth —he said, pulling out and landing a tremendous slap on me.

I brought my lips there just in time to receive a thick, abundant stream that filled my mouth and part of my face. He smeared me with his hand and ordered me to swallow. I did. Then I cleaned his cock with my tongue until not a drop was left.

—Did you like it? —he asked, looking at my crotch.

I told him yes, and at that moment I realized I hadn’t come. But when I looked down, I saw that it was limp and dripping.

—When I squeezed your neck and your body relaxed, you came —he explained—. It happens to a lot of people with this kind of sex.

It had never happened to me before. I stood there baffled while he laughed calmly.

***

We decided to have a drink in the café area to talk. At the bar, Marco showed a lot of interest in our open relationship, and I talked at length about Carla, my wife, and Bianca, a trans neighbor with whom we’d put together a trio that worked wonderfully. His eyes lit up.

—I’d love to share something with you both —he said—. But we’ve only just met, and I understand if you’re hesitant.

—No problem on my side —I replied—. And I’m sure they wouldn’t have any either.

He got excited. I suggested he organize something himself, since he knew people, and add whoever he wanted besides us. He said he’d think it over. We exchanged phone numbers and agreed to talk in two days.

It didn’t even take one. At four in the afternoon the next day, Marco called me: he already had something arranged with some friends who ran a Latin gay bar. He gave me the address so we could meet there that same evening, have a coffee, and fine-tune the details.

The place was run by a trans woman who, according to the photos on the walls, had been a beauty queen in her country years before. Past fifty, she was still tremendously attractive: a narrow waist, a small belly that instead of making her less beautiful only made her sexier, and a perky ass that could compete with Carla’s. Her name was Yamila and, as soon as she saw me, she started talking to me as if she’d known me all her life.

We agreed on the day the bar would be closed. It would be Marco, Yamila, a couple of her friends, and on our side, Carla, Bianca, and me. Before I left, Yamila hung around my neck, shoved her tongue deep into my mouth, and pressed a considerable bulge against mine, while Marco, never missing a chance, caressed both our asses and said goodbye with a pat for each of us.

At home I told everyone everything. Carla and Bianca agreed delightedly. Bianca, moreover, had already heard about Yamila: that she’d arrived with nothing and carved out a life for herself through sheer force of character, and that her parties were legendary.

***

We arrived at the place a little after nine. Bianca was wearing a little black leather dress, impossibly high-heeled boots, and dark stockings; I was dressed to match her. Carla was wearing only a red trench coat, red heels, and, underneath, a pale lace set. Yamila welcomed us in tiny denim shorts and a red lace bra. She kissed the three of us and hooked Carla by the arm for introductions.

First she introduced us to Samira, a Moroccan woman of about thirty, slim, with very long black hair and a model’s body, squeezed into a skin-tight white dress. Then to Wílmer, a stocky Colombian with broad shoulders and arms that looked ready to burst through his shirt. The last was a Spaniard, one Rubén, wiry, about sixty, Yamila’s partner, with a permanently sour face though he greeted us politely.

The evening started with beer, snacks, and Latin music in the background. Little by little, the conversations moved closer and the first caresses began. Yamila and Rubén kept Carla to themselves, praising her body and putting their hands all over her, and she, who enjoys this like nobody else, let them and played along. Samira and Marco chatted with Bianca, while I spent some time with Samira: kind, cultured, but hot-blooded, never stopping her hands on me anywhere she could reach.

When things started to heat up, Yamila closed the curtains with a remote, dimmed the lights until the room was wrapped in a warm half-dark, and softened the music. Without realizing it, the party had already begun. I saw Carla kissing Yamila, who was rubbing my wife’s belly with a considerable erection. Rubén, equally armed but with his cock more prominently outlined, was grinding it against Carla’s ass. When I looked over at the other group, I saw Bianca sucking Marco’s cock while Samira, stretched out on some cushions, rode Bianca with Marco tugging at her hair.

As for me, Wílmer wasted no time. He pulled my dress off in two quick yanks, laid me back on a table, and lifted my legs. When he pressed his cock against my entrance, I stopped him cold.

—No way without lubricant —I told him. The size truly commanded respect.

He understood, searched in a drawer, and came back with lubricant. He pushed in slowly. He got in with relative ease, but the pressure was enormous; fear made me shake more than the pain did.

Suddenly I heard Carla’s cries. I turned and saw her suspended in the air, legs over Rubén’s shoulders, impaled all the way in, while Yamila spread her ass cheeks to join in the thrusting. Each удар made her cry out.

—Worry about your own —Wílmer told me, with two hard shoves that yanked me out of my concentration—. She’s fine. But I’m going to leave you not knowing which way it hit you.

***

I managed to glance at Bianca, who was taking care of Samira while Marco tried to get behind her by balancing himself, because Bianca was a full head taller than him. My friend’s face said it all: eyes rolled back, moans with no restraint.

Wílmer got tired of my not paying attention to him. He flipped me over with a rough twist, gave me two slaps that left my ass burning, grabbed my hair, and drove his cock into me in one stroke, pumping like an animal. The table, heavy as it was, shifted with every thrust. At that moment I saw Carla convulsing between Yamila and Rubén, who came almost at the same time. My wife looked for me with her eyes, gave me a smile of pure satisfaction, and walked over to me. She sat on the table where I was taking Wílmer’s punishment, opened her legs in front of my face, and no words were needed: I buried my mouth between her thighs while he sped up behind me.

When he pulled out, he did it with a stream that crossed my back. I needed to come, so I broke free, stood in front of Carla, and finished on her without warning. As soon as I was done, Marco took advantage of the fact that my wife was still half-kneeling and took her from behind, while Bianca moved in behind me and fucked me. A few thrusts were enough for both of us to finish at once.

The others applauded and celebrated that the party had been a success. But Samira objected: she said she still had plenty left in her and wanted more. Yamila, as the owner and mistress of ceremonies, told her everyone was exhausted, but that her whim would be indulged: she should choose who she wanted to end the night with.

The Moroccan woman knew exactly what she wanted. She took Carla by the hand and led her to the shower. They came back half an hour later, clean and perfumed, to put on a show for us. They started by kissing and running their hands over each other’s bodies, moved into a side-on sixty-nine, and found each other with their hands until they tore long, noisy orgasms from one another that left us all speechless. We clapped like crazy.

The night ended with everyone sleeping on a sort of tatami mat in the back room, because nobody dared leave without first recovering a bit of strength. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought that that detour home, brought on by nothing more than a heat wave, had opened a door I had no intention of ever closing again.