What Started in the Sauna Ended Up Being 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 motorcycle, I felt my head cooking inside it. Halfway there, I got the idea of stopping by the sauna. I hadn’t been there in months, but that afternoon I felt like seeing what was going on in that discreet corner of downtown.

I left the motorcycle in a nearby little square and went down the stairs of an old restored manor house. The place is old, but it’s clean and well maintained. It was there, years ago, that I began shaping my bisexual side and discovered an entire world I’d never suspected existed. What surprised me most back then was that most of them weren’t openly gay, but married guys with children, men like me, curious men who simply wanted to give free rein to a fantasy they didn’t dare talk about out loud.

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

An older, burly man, a guy of about thirty-five, and a man around my age, in his fifties, who looked Latin American: short, solidly built, with the body of someone who earns his living through physical work. There were a few glances, nothing out of the ordinary. After a while, it was just him and me.

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

—Do you come here often? —he asked me.

—Every now and then. What about you?

—Less often than I’d like. Work doesn’t give me much time. I’m married, so I only sneak away when I can —he said, and immediately turned the question back on me—. You too, with a woman?

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

He stared at me as if I’d told him some enormous secret. He kept repeating how lucky he was and that talking about all this had got him incredibly turned on. I laughed and pointed to the bulge showing beneath his towel. He laughed too and pulled it aside, showing me a thick, shaved cock, the kind that commands attention. I told him mine was more discreet, and he replied that it wasn’t bad at all.

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

—With men, bottom. I like sex a little rough, and a dominant man who knows how to take charge drives me crazy.

He gave me a sideways smile.

—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 positioned himself behind me, rubbing my thighs and ass with his cock, and I got hard within seconds. His soapy hands traveled over my back, settled between my buttocks, and massaged me with a mixture of gentleness and firmness that left me trembling. As we walked toward the cubicles, he never stopped fondling me and giving me the occasional smack.

The cubicles are narrow: a shelf with a mattress, a small monitor, and not much else. There was no foreplay or messing around. He pushed me onto my back on the mattress, got into a sixty-nine position, and lifted my legs. While his tongue played with my entrance, gradually stretching me open, I managed, with some 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 keep still.

He climbed down from the shelf, grabbed me by the thighs, placed my ankles over his shoulders, and pulled me toward him. He applied lubricant, rubbed the head against my entrance, and began pushing slowly. I protested and writhed, but he didn’t stop: he worked his way in centimeter by centimeter until he was buried to the hilt.

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

I was already burning hot, my cock ready to burst. He started with a gentle rocking motion that grew in intensity until it became brutally hard, pulling out and driving back in with a single thrust. He accompanied every plunge with a smack to my thighs. At one point he slapped me, leaving my cheek burning, and ordered me onto all fours.

I obeyed. He climbed onto the shelf, squatted over me, and rode me hard for several minutes. Then he pulled my hair, wrapped his arm around the front of my neck, and began to squeeze. I thought it was part of the game, that he would ease up, but he kept going. I grew dizzy, felt my body relaxing on its own, and just then he let go. I came to almost immediately—I suppose no more than a second had passed—but my head was spinning.

—Open your mouth —he said, pulling out and giving me a tremendous smack.

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

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

I told him I had, and that was when I realized I hadn’t come. But when I looked down, I saw that I 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. I sat there bewildered while he calmly laughed.

***

We decided to have a drink in the café and talk. At the bar, Marco took a great interest in our open relationship, and I told him at length about Carla, my wife, and Bianca, a trans neighbor with whom we had put together a threesome that worked wonderfully. His eyes lit up.

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

—I have no problem with it —I replied—. And I’m sure they wouldn’t either.

He got excited. I suggested that he organize something, since he knew people, and bring along whoever he wanted in addition to us. He said he’d give it some thought. We exchanged phone numbers and agreed to talk in two days.

Not even one day passed. At four in the afternoon the next day, Marco called me: he already had something arranged with some friends who ran a Latin-themed bar. He gave me the address so we could meet that very afternoon, have a coffee, and finalize the details.

The place was run by a trans woman who, judging by the photographs on the walls, had been a beauty queen in her country years earlier. Past fifty, she was still tremendously attractive: a narrow waist, a small belly that made her more sensual rather than detracting from her looks, and a pert ass that could rival Carla’s. Her name was Yamila, and as soon as she saw me, she started chatting as if she’d known me all her life.

We arranged to meet on the day the bar closed. It would be Marco, Yamila, a couple of her friends, and, on our side, Carla, Bianca, and me. Before I left, Yamila wrapped herself around my neck, shoved her tongue deep into my mouth, and pressed a considerable bulge against mine, while Marco, never one to pass up an opportunity, caressed both our asses and said goodbye with a smack for each of us.

I told Carla and Bianca everything at home. They were delighted. Bianca had already heard of Yamila, too: that she had arrived with nothing and made her way through sheer force of character, and that her parties were legendary.

***

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

First she introduced us to Samira, a Moroccan woman around thirty, slender, with extremely long black hair and a model’s body, squeezed into a very tight white dress. Then there was Wílmer, a sturdy Colombian with broad shoulders and arms that looked ready to burst through his shirt. The last was Spanish, a man named Rubén, wiry, around sixty, Yamila’s partner, with a surly expression even though he greeted us pleasantly.

The evening began with beers, snacks, and Latin music playing in the background. Little by little, the conversations drew closer and the first caresses began. Yamila and Rubén monopolized Carla, praising her body and feeling her up everywhere, and she, who enjoyed this more than anyone, 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 caresses all over me.

When things began heating up, Yamila closed the curtains with a remote, lowered the lights until only a warm gloom remained, and softened the music. Before we knew it, the party had begun. I saw Carla kissing Yamila, who was rubbing my wife’s belly with a considerable erection. Rubén, just as well endowed but with a more prominent cock, rubbed it against Carla’s buttocks. When I looked toward the other group, I saw Bianca sucking Marco’s cock while Samira, reclining on some cushions, rode Bianca as Marco pulled her hair.

As for me, Wílmer didn’t waste any time. He stripped off my dress in two pulls, laid me on my back across a table, and lifted my legs. When he pressed his cock against my entrance, I stopped him dead.

—No lubricant, no way —I told him. His size was genuinely intimidating.

He understood, searched a drawer, and came back with lubricant. He pushed slowly. It went in relatively easily, but the pressure was enormous; fear made me tremble more than the pain did.

Suddenly I heard Carla’s cries. I turned and saw her suspended in the air, her legs over Rubén’s shoulders, impaled to the hilt, while Yamila spread her buttocks to join in the thrusting. Every blow tore a cry from her.

—Worry about yourself —Wílmer told me, with two thrusts that snapped me out of my concentration—. She’s fine. But I’m going to leave you not knowing where it came from.

***

I managed to glance at Bianca, who was taking care of Samira while Marco tried to position himself behind her, keeping his balance because Bianca was a full head taller than him. My friend’s face said it all: eyes rolled back, moans without restraint.

Wílmer grew tired of not having my full attention. He spun me around roughly, gave me two slaps that left my ass burning, grabbed me by the hair, and drove his cock into me in one blow, pounding like an animal. The table, which had some weight to it, shifted with every thrust. At that moment I saw Carla convulse between Yamila and Rubén, who came almost simultaneously. My wife sought me out with her eyes, gave me a smile of pure satisfaction, and walked toward me. She sat on the table where I was taking Wílmer’s punishment, spread her legs in front of my face, and no words were necessary: I buried my mouth between her thighs while he accelerated behind me.

When he pulled out, he did so by releasing a stream across 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 my wife still being half-kneeling and took her from behind, while Bianca positioned herself behind me and penetrated me. A few thrusts were enough for us both to finish at the same time.

The others applauded and celebrated the party’s success. But Samira protested: she said she still had plenty left in her and wanted more. Yamila, as hostess and master of ceremonies, told her that everyone was exhausted, but that her wish would be granted: she could choose whom she wanted to close out the night with.

The Moroccan woman knew exactly what she wanted. She took Carla by the hand and led her to the shower. They reappeared half an hour later, clean and perfumed, to put on a show for us. They began by kissing and exploring each other’s bodies, moved on to a sideways sixty-nine, and sought each other with their hands until they brought one another long, noisy orgasms that left us all speechless. We applauded like mad.

The night ended with everyone sleeping on a kind of tatami mat in the back room, because nobody dared leave before recovering at least some of their strength. As I drifted off, I thought that detour on the way home, caused by nothing more than a bout of heat, had opened a door I had no intention of closing again.