Patrick’s POV
Patricks wife, Stacey, had been buzzing with excitement for days. She’d gushed about hiring Carlos, an Argentinian gardener who came highly recommended by her friend Barbara. Patrick had only been half-listening at the time, scrolling through yet another endless chain of work emails on his phone.
“He’s supposed to be amazing,” Stacey had insisted, her voice bright with enthusiasm. “Barbara said he transformed their entire garden in just a few weeks. And apparently, he’s gorgeous.” She’d laughed then, teasing, though Patrick barely registered it.
“Do whatever makes you happy,” he’d murmured absently, eyes still glued to his screen.
Stacey had practically burst with excitement, throwing her arms around him in a tight hug. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” she’d gushed, pressing a kiss to his cheek before rushing off to finalize the details.
Patrick hadn’t given it much thought until he actually saw Carlos.
The man was impossible to ignore. His muscular frame, dark short hair, and rugged facial hair gave him an air of raw, untamed masculinity. His earth-stained hands and deep, accented voice only added to the effect. Carlos wasn’t just a gardener. He was a presence.
And Patrick hadn’t realised just how much is life was about to implode.
He had come home early from work, his final month as CEO of Zen Tech Finance. He was handing over his responsibilities to his replacement, a weight lifted after years of relentless grind. With millions in the bank, he and Stacey were more than comfortable. Their kids had grown, married, and started their own lives, leaving the two of them free to focus on each other and their plans to travel more before they got too old.
But as Patrick passed the upstairs bedroom window that afternoon, his attention was drawn not to the manicured lawn or the hydrangeas blooming near the pool, but to the scene unfolding behind them. It was a sight that would change everything.
Patrick's breath hitched as his gaze locked onto the scene unfolding behind the hydrangeas. There, shirtless and glistening with sweat, was Carlos—his thick, 9.5-inch cock slamming mercilessly into Matthew's tight hole. The Argentinian gardener's muscular back flexed with every brutal thrust, his dirt-stained hands digging into the neighbour’s son’s hips as he bent him over the low stone wall.
Matthew’s face was a twisted mix of agony and ecstasy, his mouth hanging open in silent pleas. Just eighteen, fresh out of high school, the kid Patrick had seen shooting hoops in his driveway was now being used, his body rocking violently with each deep, unforgiving stroke. Carlos growled something low and filthy in Spanish, his thick accent dripping with dominance as he spat into Matthew’s open, begging mouth.
Carlos’s voice, a low, gravelly growl thickened by his accent, cut through the quiet suburban air. “You like that, pendejo? You like how I use your tight little ass?”
Matthew’s response was a choked sob. “Yes… fuck, yes… more…”
Patrick’s own heart hammered against his ribs. He was a CEO, a man who commanded boardrooms, who made decisions worth billions. Control was his oxygen. But watching this—the raw, unfiltered dominance, the sheer physical power—it didn’t repulse him. It drew him. A deep, unsettling heat simmered in his stomach, spreading lower. Patrick hadn’t felt a stir like this in years—not since he’d met his Swiss mistress, Antonia, five years ago. She’d been a whirlwind of passion, their encounters like wildfires every time he was in Zurich for meetings. He’d paid for her lavish apartment, a private sanctuary where they’d fucked like rabbits, her nails clawing at his back, her body trembling beneath his. But after three years, Antonia had ended their arrangement. She’d met someone else, someone who could give her more than just stolen weeks every couple of months. Patrick hadn’t blamed her; he’d known their time was finite. Still, her absence had left a void—one he’d buried beneath his polished exterior and relentless focus on work.
Patrick’s breath hitched as Carlos leaned down, his lips brushing Matthew’s ear, and the sight sent a jolt of electricity straight to Patrick’s groin. He’d always been a little bicurious, though he’d never acted on it—not fully. There had been those wild nights in Zurich with Antonia, himself and her occasional male playthings, watching her writhe beneath another man’s touch while Patrick stroked himself in the shadows. He’d loved the way she moaned for them, the way her body arched when they took her harder than he ever could.
But sometimes, in the quiet moments after, his mind would wander. What would it feel like to be the one bent over, spread open, taking a cock like that? He’d jerked off to the thought more than once, his fingers tightening around himself as he imagined rough hands pinning him down, a deep voice growling filth in his ear. He’d even indulged in gay porn a handful of times, always in secret, always with a rush of shame afterwards, but never enough to stop him from coming back.
Now, watching Carlos’s thick, filthy fingers dig into Matthew’s hips, hearing the boy’s choked whimpers as the gardener spat into his mouth, Patrick’s pulse roared in his ears. The shame was gone, burned away by something far hotter: need. He wanted that. Wanted to be the one gasping, begging, taking it.
Carlos’s voice, thick with command, snapped him back to the moment. “¿Tu novia sabe que sos una putita hambrienta?”[Does your girlfriend know you're a hungry little slut?]
Matthew’s body trembled, his voice trembling with desperation as he responded in Spanish, “No, por favor, no le digas… Solo quiero tu verga, Carlos.” [No, please, don’t tell her… I just want your cock, Carlos.] His words were a mix of pleading and surrender, his tone dripping with raw need that matched the way his body arched against Carlos’s.
Patrick’s fingers dug into the windowsill as his other hand fumbled with his belt, his cock already straining against his tailored pants. He couldn’t tear his eyes away—Carlos’s thick, veined shaft pistoning into Matthew’s tight hole, the way the kid’s body jerked with each brutal thrust. The sight alone was enough to drive Patrick wild, but then Carlos growled something low and filthy in Spanish, and Matthew responded with a fluency that caught Patrick completely off guard.
Patrick’s brow furrowed in shock. Matthew was fluent in Spanish? The kid was the poster boy for suburban whiteness, pale skin, freckles, and a sunburn from shooting hoops in his driveway just last weekend. Patrick’s own Spanish was mediocre, picked up from years of business trips and half-hearted Duolingo sessions, but he could still grasp the gist of what was being said.
Patrick’s heart raced. The raw, frantic need in Matthew’s voice mirrored the heat simmering in his own chest. A low moan escaped Patrick’s lips as he finally freed himself, his palm slick with pre-cum as he stroked in time with Carlos’s relentless thrusts. He couldn’t believe what he was witnessing: the filthy words, the degrading tone, the way Matthew surrendered completely. It was intoxicating.
Carlos’s voice, rough and commanding, cut through the air. “¿Te gusta que te rompa el culo, putito?” [You like me wrecking your ass, little slut?]
Matthew’s reply was a broken whimper. “Sí—¡por favor, más duro!” [Yes—please, harder!]
Patrick’s grip tightened around his cock, his hips thrusting into his fist as if he could imagine it was him bent over that stone wall, taking every inch of Carlos’s brutal dominance. His breath came in ragged gasps, his mind drowning in the filthy exchange.
Carlos spat into Matthew’s open mouth again, growling, “Así es como te gusta, ¿no? Que te traten como una perra.” [This is how you like it, huh? Being treated like a bitch.]
Matthew’s moan was muffled, his body trembling. “Soy tu perra… solo tuyo.” [I’m your bitch… only yours.]
Patrick’s strokes turned frantic, his balls tightening, getting ready to explode. He bit his lip to stifle a moan, his thighs trembling. God, he wanted that. Wanted to be the one choking on Carlos’s spit, begging for more.
His orgasm hit him like a freight train, spurts of cum streaking the windowpane as he shuddered, his knees nearly buckling. For a long moment, he just stood there, panting, his mind still replaying every filthy word, every rough thrust.
And then—Carlos’s dark eyes flicked up, locking onto his through the glass.
A smirk curled the gardener’s lips.
He knew.
Mathew POV
Matthew had grown up under the care of his Mexican nanny, Rosa, who had practically raised him from the time he could walk. She’d taught him Spanish, her native tongue, and instilled in him a deep appreciation for her culture. While his parents were often absent, engrossed in their careers, Rosa had been the one to tuck him in at night, to cook him meals, to scold him in Spanish when he misbehaved. “¡No seas grosero!” she’d chide when he got too cheeky. [Don’t be rude!] “Habla más fuerte, Matías,” she’d encourage when he hesitated in his Spanish lessons. [Speak louder, Matthew.]
But despite Rosa’s nurturing, Matthew had always felt like he was living a double life. High school was brutal and unforgiving, and he’d buried his truth deep—his truth that he was gay. Instead, he’d played the part of the golden boy athlete, the one with the pretty girlfriend and the effortless charm. It was a lie, one he’d convinced himself he needed to survive.
Two weeks prior, Matthew’s girlfriend Tess had leaned over the fence, her eyes widening as she caught sight of Carlos for the first time. “Oh my God, have you seen your neighbors’ new gardener? He’s fucking gorgeous,” she’d whispered, her voice tinged with awe.
Matthew had rolled his eyes, feigning disinterest. “Stop being a perv,” he’d teased, shoving her playfully. But then he’d glanced over, and his breath caught in his chest. Carlos was shirtless, his muscular frame glistening with sweat as he worked, his hands gripping a shovel. Fucking hell, Matthew thought, his pulse quickening.
Secretly, he’d been mesmerized. Carlos was everything Matthew had secretly fantasized about—raw, dominant, and utterly alpha. The way he moved, his sexy accent, it all sent the blood straight to his cock . But he couldn’t let on, not yet.
He and Tess both knew their time was running out. They were leaving for different colleges across country after the summer, and Matthew had already decided that once he got there, he was going to come out and live freely. No more lies, no more pretending.
And in that moment, Matthew was excited to finally be free.
But before he left, there was one thing he was determined to do: seduce Carlos.
It had started innocently enough, lingering glances, casual conversations over the fence in Spanish to impress him, compliments about Carlos’s work on the garden. But Matthew could feel the tension simmering beneath Carlos’s rugged exterior, and he was desperate to be the one who brought it to the surface.
One afternoon, as Carlos was bent over pruning the roses, his muscular frame taut with effort, Matthew couldn’t resist any longer. His fingers brushed against the front of Carlos’s shorts, feeling the heat and hardness beneath the fabric. Carlos swore sharply in Spanish, “¡Mierda!” and slapped Matthew’s hand away with such force it stung.
Carlos straightened, his dark eyes blazing. “Don’t ever touch me without my permission,” he growled in English, his thick accent adding a dangerous edge to his words. “And don’t you have a girlfriend?”
Matthew instantly flushed with embarrassment, stammering out an apology. “I’m sorry, I… I couldn’t help it. You’re just so fucking beautiful.” He turned to leave, heading toward the gap in the fence that led back to his backyard, humiliation burning in his chest.
But before he could slip away, Carlos called his name. “Mathew.”
Matthew froze, then turned back. His mouth dropped open as he saw Carlos had lowered his shorts and underwear, exposing the thick, veined length of his 9.5-inch cock. It was heavy, uncut, and glistening faintly in the sunlight. Matthew’s own cock twitched in his shorts, tenting against the fabric as heat surged through him.
Carlos smirked, his voice low and commanding. “You want my cock, slut? ¿Lo quieres?” he asked in Spanish.
Matthew swallowed hard, his voice trembling. “Sí.”
Carlos’s smirk widened. “Then get on your hands and knees and crawl.”
Matthew obeyed instantly, dropping to the ground as his heart raced like a caged animal set free. This was it—his first taste of cock, and he had never felt more alive. Every nerve in his body buzzed with a strange, electric anticipation as he crawled toward Carlos, his knees scraping against the rough stone path. The sharp sting only fueled his need, his body trembling as he reached his destination, face to face with Carlos’s monstrous cock. It was thick, veiny, and glistening faintly in the sunlight, a sight that made Matthew’s own cock twitch in his shorts.
Carlos didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Matthew by the hair, his earth-stained fingers tangling in the blond strands, and shoved himself down his throat. Brutal. Unrelenting. Matthew gagged, tears welling in his eyes as Carlos fucked his mouth with a raw, animalistic hunger. The sensation was overwhelming—Carlos’s cock stretching his lips, his throat constricting around the thick shaft—but Matthew welcomed it. He wanted to drown in this moment, in the taste of Carlos, in the way his body was being used.
“¿Te gusta, putito?” Carlos growled low in his throat, his thick accent dripping with dominance. [You like it, little slut?]
Matthew couldn’t speak, couldn’t form words with his mouth stuffed full, but he moaned around Carlos’s cock, the sound muffled yet desperate. His hands gripped the gardener’s thighs for balance, his nails digging into the rough fabric of Carlos’s work shorts. Everything about this felt primal. Raw. Perfect.
Carlos spat into Matthew’s open, waiting mouth, the act filthy and degrading, and Matthew loved it. He had never felt so alive, so seen, even as Carlos used him like a toy. This was what he’d been craving, what he’d been secretly fantasising about—to surrender completely, to be dominated by someone who knew exactly what he needed.
Matthew’s knees ached against the rough stone, his throat burned, and his eyes watered, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was Carlos’s cock filling him, stretching him, owning him. He was utterly consumed, and it was the most exhilarating feeling he’d ever known.
As Carlos pulled out momentarily to let him catch his breath, Matthew looked up at him with watery, pleading eyes. His lips were swollen, his face flushed, but there was no shame in his expression—only desire.
“Más,” Matthew whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling. [More.]
Carlos smirked, his dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Ya sabía que eras una perra hambrienta.” [I knew you were a hungry little slut.]
And then he plunged back in, and Matthew surrendered completely to the bliss.
“¿Te gusta, puta?” Carlos growled, his accent thickening with each filthy word. “¿Te gusta cómo te uso como un juguete?” [Do you like it, whore? Do you like how I use you like a toy?]
Matthew could only moan around Carlos’s cock, his own erection throbbing painfully as the degradation fueled his arousal. The more Carlos called him vile names in Spanish— “perra,” “zorra,” “putita”— the harder Matthew became, his body trembling with need.
From that day on, they hooked up almost daily, their encounters growing more aggressive and rougher each time. Matthew would sneak over whenever Stacey and Patrick left the house, letting Carlos use him in ways he’d only fantasized about. And now, here they were, hidden behind the hydrangeas near the pool, Matthew’s body bent over as Carlos claimed him once again, their connection as raw and primal as the first time.
Matthew found himself slipping back into the language that felt like home. “Por favor, Carlos—¡no puedo más!” he begged, tears streaking his flushed cheeks. [Please, Carlos—I can’t take anymore!]
Carlos chuckled darkly, his breath hot against Matthew’s neck. “¿No? Pero todavía te estás moviendo como una putita desesperada.” [No? But you’re still moving like a desperate little slut.]
Matthew’s pride burned, but the truth was, he couldn’t deny it. The way Carlos dominated him, the way he degraded him—it lit a fire in him he hadn’t known existed. “Sí, soy una putita,” he admitted, his voice breaking. [Yes, I’m a little slut.] The words felt foreign yet thrilling on his tongue, a secret confession only Carlos could draw out of him.
Carlos’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into Matthew’s hips as he leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of Matthew’s ear. “Bien, pendejo. Vamos a seguir hasta que no puedas caminar.” [Good, idiot. We’re going to keep going until you can’t walk.]
Matthew shuddered, his body betraying him as he arched back into Carlos’s thrusts. “¡Sí, sí, hazme tu perra!” he cried, his voice rising in desperation. [Yes, yes, make me your bitch!]
“¿Tu novia sabe que sos un maricón?” Carlos growled, his hips pistoning into Matthew with relentless force. [Does your girlfriend know you’re a fag?] His voice was a low, gravelly rumble, dripping with contempt and dominance.
Matthew’s breath hitched, his body trembling as he stammered out a reply, “No… por favor, no le digas…” [No… please, don’t tell her…]
Carlos laughed, a dark, cruel sound that sent shivers down Matthew’s spine. “¿Y si la llamara ahora? Le contaría cómo te encanta que te rompa el culo.” [And if I called her right now? I’d tell her how much you love getting your ass wrecked.]
Matthew’s eyes widened in panic, but before he could protest, Carlos leaned in, his lips brushing against Matthew’s ear. “A ella no le importarías nada si supiera que sos una putita hambrienta por mi verga.” [She wouldn’t give a damn about you if she knew you’re a hungry little slut for my cock.]
Tears welled up in Matthew’s eyes as he whispered, “Por favor, Carlos… no…” [Please, Carlos… don’t…]
But Carlos only smirked, his thrusts becoming even more brutal. “Demuéstrame que sos mi perra, y quizás no la llame.” [Prove you’re my bitch, and maybe I won’t call her.]
Matthew’s pride shattered, his voice breaking as he pleaded, “¡Soy tu perra, Carlos! ¡Solo tuyo!” [I’m your bitch, Carlos! Only yours!]
Carlos chuckled darkly, satisfied. “Sí, pendejo. Y nunca te olvides de eso.” [Yes, idiot. And never forget it.]
The words sent a jolt through Mathew, his own pulse thundering in his ears. The degradation, the ownership in Carlos’s voice—it shouldn’t have made his throat go dry. But it did.
Carlos leaned down, his face close to Matthew’s. “Open your mouth.”
He complied instantly, lips parting. Carlos spat, a thick globule landing on his tongue. He didn’t flinch; he swallowed, his eyes wide and worshipful. “Gracias,” he whispered, the degradation clearly a drug to him.
“Good boy,” Carlos grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. The slap of skin, the guttural moans, the filthy praise—it was a symphony of surrender.
Carlos’s rhythm became punishing. “You’re nothing but a hole for me, maricón. A warm, wet hole. Tell me you want my seed.”
“I want it!” Matthew cried out, his voice breaking. “Please, Carlos, fill me up! I need it!”
With a final, animalistic roar, Carlos drove home, his body shuddering as he emptied himself deep inside his hole. Matthew collapsed against the stone, panting, a look of pure, shattered bliss on his young face. Carlos patted his cheek almost dismissively, then stood up, adjusting his work shorts. He didn’t look spent; he looked powerful. Invigorated.
Mathew watched Carlos walk casually back toward the gardening shed, as if he’d just completed a routine task. He slowly gathered himself, pulling up his shorts with a shaky reverence before disappearing through a gap in the fence toward his own home.
Patrick POV
The silence that followed was deafening. Patrick stood frozen at the window, his chest heaving as the image burned into his mind. The submission. The roughness. The complete abdication of control. Here, in his own backyard, was a real alpha. And the spark it ignited wasn’t jealousy; it was want. A desperate, aching want to feel that same surrender.
Carlos’s dark eyes flicked up, locking onto Patrick’s through the glass. A smirk curled the gardener’s lips, his gaze heavy with knowing. He’d seen him. Patrick’s hand still lingered on his softening cock, streaks of cum drying on the windowpane. Carlos’s smirk deepened, as if he could taste Patrick’s shame and his desire on the air.
Patrick’s throat tightened, his pulse roaring. Carlos didn’t look away. Instead, he licked his lips slowly, deliberately, his gaze dragging down Patrick’s body like a predator sizing up its prey. The message was clear: you’re next.
Patrick’s knees nearly gave out. He’d been exposed, caught in the act, but instead of humiliation, he felt a thrill shoot through him. Carlos’s eyes lingered for a moment longer before he turned, casually adjusting his work shorts as he strode back toward the gardening shed. The unspoken challenge hung in the air, leaving Patrick trembling with a mix of fear and anticipation.
He’d been the alpha for so long. But now, all he wanted was to surrender.
He needed a plan. Stacey would be home soon. She’d hired Carlos, admired his work, his smile. She’d never suspect. Patrick had to move fast.
He found Carlos by the shed, rinsing his hands under a hose. The gardener turned, his dark eyes meeting Patrick’s. There was no guilt there, only a quiet, confident assessment. “Mr. O’Connell. The irrigation system for the new bed is almost complete.”
Patrick’s voice felt foreign in his throat. “I saw you.”
Carlos’s gaze didn’t waver. A slow, knowing smile touched his lips. He didn’t ask what Patrick saw. He simply waited.
“With Matthew,” Patrick added, the name feeling illicit on his tongue.
“Ah,” Carlos said, shutting off the hose. He wiped his hands on his shorts. “The boy has needs. He comes to me.”
“He’s eighteen,” Patrick stated, as if that made it permissible. It did, legally. Morally, in this context, it felt wild. Dangerous.
“Yes,” Carlos agreed. “Old enough to know what he wants.” He leaned back against the shed wall, crossing his arms. The muscles in his forearms flexed. “And you, Mr. O’Connell? What do you want?”
The question was a direct hit. Patrick’s carefully constructed facade of corporate authority crumbled. He swallowed. “I saw… how you were with him.”
“And?”
“It… sparked something.” Patrick hated the admission, but the truth was a fire he couldn’t contain. “I’ve been in control for so long. At work. At home. Seeing you… I didn’t know I could want… the opposite.”
Carlos’s smile widened. It wasn’t friendly; it was predatory. “You want to surrender.”
The word hung in the air. Surrender. It was exactly right. Patrick nodded, a slight, almost imperceptible movement.
Carlos stepped closer. The smell of soil, sweat, and masculine heat enveloped Patrick. “Your wife,” Carlos said, his voice dropping. “She does not see this in you.”
“No.”
“And you wish to explore this… without her knowledge.”
“Yes.”
Carlos studied him, his eyes roaming over Patrick’s face, his polished demeanor. “You are a powerful man. But you wish to be powerless. With me.”
Patrick’s breath came short. “Yes.”
Carlos reached out, not to touch, but to gesture. His stained index finger pointed toward the main house. “Upstairs. The guest bathroom. It has a lock. The window faces the old oak, no one can see in.” He let the implication hang. “Tomorrow. Afternoon. Your wife has her yoga class.”
It was an offer. A command.
Patrick’s mind raced. This was insanity. But his body throbbed with agreement. “What… what would happen?”
Carlos laughed, a low, rich sound. “You would not be in charge, Mr. O’Connell. You would take what I give. You would learn what it is to be used.” He paused, letting the word sink its hooks deep. “You would feel it. Like Matthew felt it. But you are not a boy. You are a man. It will be different for you. More… profound.”
The promise was terrifying. And irresistible. Patrick found himself nodding again. “Tomorrow. Afternoon.”
Carlos leaned back, his dark eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and calculation. “Good,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. “But understand something, Mr. O’Connell. What you’re asking for… it’s not free. The kind of service you want—the kind of service you need—costs extra. Five thousand dollars.”
Patrick’s breath hitched, his mind racing. Five thousand was nothing to him, a drop in the ocean of his wealth, but the implication was clear: this was no casual encounter. This was a transaction, and Carlos was setting the terms. “Extra?” Patrick echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Carlos nodded slowly, his smirk widening. “Extra services require extra payment. You want me to make you feel what Matthew felt? To take you down, strip you of control, and leave you breathless? That’s not just a favor. That’s art. And art has a price.”
Patrick swallowed, his pulse quickening. He didn’t hesitate. “Done.”
Carlos chuckled darkly, his gaze piercing. “Good. Bring the money tomorrow. Cash. No wires, no checks. Do not bring your wallet. Do not bring your phone. Bring only your obedience… and your payment.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with promise and command. Patrick’s throat tightened, but he nodded again, his resolve hardening. Tomorrow, he would surrender—body, mind, and wallet.
Patrick walked back to the house on unsteady legs. The deal was struck. He couldn’t refuse. He didn’t want to refuse. The thought of tomorrow, of locking that bathroom door, of handing over everything to Carlos… it made his blood run hot and his cock twitch.
Stacey arrived home an hour later, bubbly and talking about travel brochures. Patrick smiled, nodded, poured her a glass of wine. His mind was a thousand miles away, trapped in the shadow of the hydrangeas, replaying the spit, the degradation, the final, possessive thrust.
That night, in their marital bed, Patrick lay awake. Stacey slept soundly beside him. He imagined Carlos’s rough voice. He imagined being bent over the cold tile of the guest bathroom. He imagined not having to think, not having to decide, just having to take. The fantasy made his cock raging hard, a relentless pressure. He touched himself, quietly, under the sheets, his strokes imagining a rhythm not his own. When he finished, biting back a groan, it was with the vivid mental image of Carlos watching him, a cruel smile on his lips, saying, “That’s all you can do for yourself, patrón. Wait until I do it for you.”
To be continued...
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