The afternoon sun baked the manicured lawns of Patrick O’Connell’s estate, but Carlos Mendoza felt no discomfort. The heat felt like a part of him, a reminder of his home in Buenos Aires. It was also a tool.
He knew, with a deep, predatory certainty, why wealthy women hired him. They hired a gardener. They hired a maintenance man. But more often than not, they hired a fantasy.
Carlos leaned against the rough stone wall near the pool, shovel in hand, his shirt discarded carelessly over a nearby bench. The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, but Carlos welcomed it. He let the heat soak into his skin, the sweat glistening on his broad chest and muscular back like oil. His dark, short hair clung to his forehead damply, and his beard, streaked with sweat, framed his sharp jawline.
The shirtless work was deliberate, every movement, every flex of his shoulders as he lifted heavy bags of mulch and hauled them across the yard, was all choreographed. Carlos knew the effect he had on people. Even the way he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his dirt-stained fingers brushing against his temple, was designed to linger in their minds. He’d learned this power early, honed it like a blade. He knew what they saw when they looked at him: a man untamed, a man who carried the raw, primal energy of the earth itself. Watching wealthy wives linger a little too long as they passed by, stealing glances while pretending to admire the flowers, had become a game to him. Even the husbands, with their polished exteriors and hidden desires, couldn’t resist the magnetic pull of his presence. Carlos wasn’t just a gardener; he was a tempter, a provocateur. And he knew what they wanted, what they needed, even if they didn’t admit it to themselves.
As he lingered by the pool, his eyes tracked the erratic flight of a pair of hummingbirds darting around the newly installed azaleas. Their iridescent wings flashed in the sunlight, a fleeting beauty that reminded him of the fleeting fantasies he inspired in others. But Carlos was no fleeting fantasy. He was a force of nature, a man who demanded attention, who commanded obedience
He could feel Patrick’s eyes on him from the upstairs window. Carlos didn’t need to look up to know the CEO was watching, his polished facade cracking under the weight of his hidden desires. Carlos let his hand drift casually to the waistband of his shorts, adjusting the fabric just enough to hint at what lay beneath. He was a man who thrived on control, on domination. And Patrick, he knew, was a man desperate to surrender.
The hummingbirds flitted away, their fleeting beauty replaced by the raw, unyielding allure of his masculinity. He stayed where he was, letting the sun bake his skin, letting the sweat drip down his chest, letting the fantasy take root.
Carlos’s eyes drifted shut while he was leaning against his shovel, the sun beating down on his bare chest, and for a moment, he wasn’t in Patrick’s immaculate backyard. He was back in Buenos Aires, back home, he’d learned early. He’d inherited his looks from his fathera, policeman with a jaw cut from granite and a magnetic, dangerous presence. He carried the iron scent of authority, yes, but also something darker, something primal. It had always been this way. Back in his hometown, Women would deliberately speed just to get pulled over by his father. But Carlos inherited more than just the chiselled features; he saw the darker inheritance in the way his father moved through the world, taking what he wanted. The infidelity was an open secret. His beautiful, trusting mother remained oblivious, but Carlos saw. He saw the different women at the café, the lingering touches.
But that same summer, everything shifted.
The real lesson came one scorching summer afternoon when he was sixteen. He’d come home early, looking for his father, but instead found his uncle, Bruno, his mother’s brother, the fun uncle he’d spent countless nights with, playing video games at his cousin’s house. Carlos remembered sleepovers at his cousins’ house, uncle Bruno sprawled on the floor with them, laughing as they played board games late into the night.
The garage door was slightly ajar. The sounds were what hit him first: a wet, rhythmic slap, a choked gurgle, and a low, steady stream of filthy insults.
Carlos had peered through the gap. His father, still in his uniform trousers, was bent over the workbench. Under him, bent over the same bench, was Uncle Bruno. Bruno’s hands were bound behind his back with his own leather belt. His father’s hand was fisted in Bruno’s hair, yanking his head back as he drove into him, each thrust brutal and deep. He was frozen in place. He knew about his father's countless women, but had no idea his father also fucked men.
His uncle Bruno’s face was a twisted mask, caught between agony and rapture, his usually playful eyes now glassy with surrender. The sight had burned itself into Carlos’ mind, a lesson in power, in how desire could strip a man bare.
His father hadn’t even noticed him watching. Or maybe he had, and didn’t care.
His father’s voice was low and dripping with contempt.
“Imaginate si tu mujer y tus hijos te vieran ahora,” his father growled, his voice a rough, possessive whisper. (Imagine if your wife and kids saw you now.) “Pidiendo como la puta maricona que sos. Pedazo de mierda inútil.” (Begging like the faggot whore you are. You worthless piece of shit.)
Bruno moaned, his body trembling as he surrendered completely, his words broken and slurred.
“Por favor… por favor, Jaime. Cógeme. Haré cualquier cosa.”
[Please… please, Jaime. Fuck me. I’ll do anything.]
Bruno’s voice trembled, raw and desperate, as his body arched against the workbench. The words spilled out like a confession, each syllable soaked in shame and longing. Carlos watched, his young heart pounding, as his father leaned in closer, his grip tightening on Bruno’s throat.
“Mírate,” Jaime sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “Sos un desastre. Una vergüenza.”
[Look at you. You’re a mess. A disgrace.]
The words cut deep, but Bruno only moaned louder, his body writhing with a mixture of pain and ecstasy. Carlos couldn’t tear his eyes away. He should have been disgusted, furious. But there was something hypnotic about the way his father dominated his uncle, something primal that stirred a part of Carlos he didn’t yet understand.
“Harás lo que yo diga, ¿verdad? Sos mi perra obediente.”
[You’ll do whatever I say, won’t you? You’re my obedient bitch.]
Bruno nodded frantically, his breath hitching as he whispered, “Sí, lo que sea que quieras.”
[Yes, whatever you want.]
Carlos watched, transfixed, as his father pulled his cock out of his uncle's gaping hole, then unclipped the nightstick from his belt and walked around, grabbing Bruno by the hair, forcing him to look up to meet his eyes. It wasn’t just a tool of law now; it was an instrument of domination. His father spat on the tip, saliva glistening, then shoved it into Bruno’s mouth with a brutal twist.
“Chúpalo, trolo,” Jaime growled, grinding the nightstick deeper until Bruno gagged. “Dejalo bien mojado para tu coño de perra.”
[Suck it, faggot. Get it nice and wet for your whore pussy.]
Bruno’s eyes watered, but he obeyed, lips stretching around the metal object as he slurped obscenely. His humiliation was palpable, his moans muffled around the intrusion. His father Jaime leaned in, his breath hot against Bruno’s ear.
“Así, maricón… tan patético que hasta sabes cómo ser una buena putita.”
[That’s it, faggot… so pathetic you even know how to be a good slut.]
Carlos’s pulse roared in his ears. The scene burned into him, the way Bruno wanted the degradation, the way his father owned it. Power wasn’t just taken; it was given. And Bruno was giving it all.
His Uncle Bruno’s moans grew louder, his breath ragged as his body trembled under his father's control.
His face twisted in a mixture of pain and ecstasy, his eyes glazed over with surrender. The nightstick, now slick with saliva from Bruno’s forced submission, glistened obscenely in the dim light of the garage.
His father pressed the wet, cold metal against Bruno’s hole before pushing it inside, slow and relentless. Bruno screamed, a raw sound of pain and shocking pleasure. His father shoved his cock down his uncle's throat to muffle his screams, fucking his throat in time with the invasion from behind. The filth that spilled from his father’s mouth was a litany of ownership: maricón, perra, zorra… (faggot, bitch, slut…).
“Te encanta esto, ¿verdad?” [You love this, don’t you?] Jaime growled, his voice dripping with contempt as he thrust the nightstick deeper, making Bruno’s body convulse against the workbench. “No sos más que un puto animal.” [You’re nothing but a fucking animal.]
Bruno’s whimpers turned into desperate cries as he freed himself from his father's cock, his voice hoarse and broken. “Por favor, Jaime… más. Fóllame más duro.” [Please, Jaime… more. Fuck me harder.]
Jaime’s lips curled into a cruel smile as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against Bruno’s ear. “Claro que sí, maricón. Te voy a destrozar.” [Of course, faggot. I’m going to ruin you.]
Bruno’s body arched, his muscles straining as he gave himself over completely to his brother’s in-laws' dominance. The raw power emanating from Jaime was intoxicating, and Bruno was lost in the humiliation, the pain, the sheer force of it.
“Sos mi perra obediente,” Jaime growled, thrusting the nightstick harder, making Bruno’s body jerk violently. “Y siempre lo serás.” [You’re my obedient bitch. And you always will be.]
Carlos slowly backed away, leaving the scene. His cock was rock hard.
That night, alone in his room, Carlos had masturbated furiously, the images seared into his mind. It wasn’t about the act itself. It was about the surrender. The absolute yielding of one man to the will of another. Bruno, a man he respected, had given up all control, all dignity, and had craved the degradation. His father had taken that power without asking. It was a natural order.
Carlos carried that lesson with him. He maintained his body like a weapon. He ate clean, trained hard, and used his smile like a key. The lonely housewives were easy, amusing distractions. But the real thrill, the dark current that truly excited him, was in the submissive men. The ones who hid their hunger behind polite smiles and sharp suits. The ones who had power in the world but secretly ached to give it all away. You could be as rough, as brutal, as verbally vicious as you wanted with them. They wouldn’t complain. They’d thank you for it.
Matthew had been obvious. The boy’s lean body practically vibrated with needy desperation. He was a good little plaything, eager and pliant. But the real prize had revealed himself just days ago, in an upstairs window. Patrick O’Connell. The CEO. The man who owned this mansion, this life. Carlos had seen him there, hand moving frantically in his trousers, his face a mask of awe and shame as he watched Carlos ruin the neighbour boy. Carlos had met his gaze, had given him that slow, knowing smirk. I see you.
The invitation had been issued. Now, he just had to wait for the man to be brave enough, or desperate enough, to accept it.
Patricks POV
The afternoon sun beat down on the backyard, turning the pool into a shimmering plate of light. From the upstairs bedroom window, Patrick watched.
Carlos was there, of course. The Argentinian gardener leaned against his shovel, one hand adjusting the hefty bulge in his tight, dirt-stained work shorts. He was shirtless, his back glistening with sweat, muscles coiled like ropes under his sun-darkened skin. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then looked up, directly at the window. A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips.
Patrick’s heart hammered against his ribs. He was dressed in a light blue linen shirt and matching pants, the fabric crisp and expensive, a costume for a life he was about to abandon. He’d told the office he was working from home today. The final handover at Zen Tech Finance was proceeding smoothly; his replacement was capable. The millions in the bank were a fact. The travel plans with Stacey were a future fantasy. But this, this trembling, electrifying present—was his only reality.
He heard Stacey’s cheerful voice from downstairs. “Carlos, the azaleas look amazing! I’m off to yoga. See you later!”
“Gracias, señora. Hasta luego.” Carlos’s reply was smooth, respectful.
Patrick waited, listening to the click of the front door, the silence that followed. It was a silence thick with intention. He moved to the safe hidden behind a false panel in the bedroom wall. His fingers, usually so steady signing contracts, fumbled with the dial. The safe opened. Inside, neat bundles of cash, emergency funds, a symbol of control. He took five thousand dollars. The weight of the stack in his hand felt insignificant compared to the weight of the decision in his chest.
He remembered Carlos’s words from yesterday. Leave your ego and fear. Only bring your obedience.
Patrick clutched the money and walked to the upstairs bathroom. It was a spacious, marble-tiled room with a large floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the ancient oak tree in the side yard. He stood there, waiting, the cash held tight in his sweaty palm. Five minutes passed, each second stretching into an agony of anticipation.
Then, the door opened.
Carlos stepped in, his presence filling the space. He was still shirtless, his work shorts clinging to his powerful thighs. The scent of him, sun-warmed skin, honest sweat, earth, filled the bathroom, overwhelming the clean lavender soap smell.
“Hola, patrón,” Carlos said, his voice a low rumble. He closed the door behind him, the lock clicking with finality. Carlos walked over, closing the distance between them in two slow strides.
Patrick trembled. He held out the stack of bills. “I… here.”
Carlos didn’t look at the money. His dark eyes pinned Patrick, assessing him like a specimen. “Déjalo en el counter,” he commanded. [Put it on the counter.]
Patrick obeyed, placing the cash on the marble vanity. It looked vulgar there, a transaction. I should have put it in an envelope for you, I'm sorry...
“You want to talk?” Carlos murmured, his breath hot on Patrick’s ear. “Or you want to learn?”
Every nerve in Patrick’s body screamed. This was insanity. This was his employee, a gardener, at his multi-million-dollar home. But the craving, the need to surrender that had been gnawing at him for decades, erupted. “Learn,” he whispered, the word barely audible.
Carlos’s hand shot out, not to hit him, but to fist in the front of Patrick’s crisp, blue linen shirt. He yanked, and buttons flew, scattering on the tile floor with a tiny, pathetic clatter. “Then you listen. You obey. Comprendes, puta?” (Understand, whore?)
The insult, delivered in that gravelly tone, made Patrick’s cock throb painfully against his linen pants. “Sí,” he gasped.
“Sí, qué?” Carlos demanded, his other hand coming up to grip Patrick’s jaw, forcing his head up. His fingers were strong, calloused, and stained with dirt. The smell of earth filled Patrick’s nostrils.
“Sí…” Patrick fumbled, his mind reeling.
“Dí ‘Sí, Papi.’” (Say ‘Yes, Daddy.’)
The command shattered the last of Patrick’s resistance. A moan escaped him. “Sí, Papi.”
Carlos’s eyes flashed with dark triumph. “Buen perro.” (Good dog.) He released Patrick’s jaw and instead grabbed the waistband of his linen pants, pulling them open with a rough, efficient tug. He shoved his hand inside, wrapping his powerful, dirt-gritted fingers around Patrick’s aching cock.
Patrick cried out, his hips jerking. The sensation was overwhelming, the rough skin, the absolute control, the sheer vulgarity of it happening in his bathroom. Carlos began to stroke him, a brutal, punishing rhythm.
“Mírame,” Carlos ordered. (Look at me.)
Patrick forced his eyes open, meeting Carlos’s dominant gaze. The gardener was watching him with clinical intensity, as if studying a specimen.
“Tienes la polla de un hombre que manda,” Carlos said, his stroke never faltering. “Pero los ojos de una perra que quiere que la dominen.” (You have the cock of a man who gives orders. But the eyes of a bitch who wants to be dominated.) He spat, casually. The warm, wet glob landed on Patrick’s cheek and slid down toward his mouth. “Límpiate.” (Clean yourself.)
Trembling, Patrick lifted his tongue, catching the salty fluid. The degradation was a fire in his veins. He’d never been so hard.
Carlos suddenly released him, leaving Patrick gasping and bereft. “On your knees. Ahora.” (Now.)
Patrick didn’t hesitate. He sank to the cool marble floor, his knees cracking, his ruined shirt hanging open. Carlos stood before him, a god of sweat and muscle. Then, with deliberate slowness, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his work shorts. He pushed them down, letting the fabric fall to his ankles, where they pooled around his heavy work boots. He now stood in only a pair of simple cream cotton underwear. The pouch was strained, the outline of his cock a thick, intimidating curve against the fabric.
He looked up at Carlos’s crotch, the dark hair visible at the leg openings of the underwear, the potent scent now overwhelming.
“Sniff,” Carlos ordered, his voice flat. “Inhale. Know what a real man smells like.”
Patrick leaned forward, his face inches from the cotton pouch. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The smell was raw, musky, male. It was sweat and sun and a deep, primal sexuality. It sent a bolt of pure arousal straight through him, blood rushing to his already hard, aching cock, which strained against his linen pants. He’d never felt so alive, so awake.
“Bueno,” Carlos murmured. “Now. Mouth the pouch. Lick. Use your tongue. Show me you want it.”
Patrick’s lips parted. He pressed his face against the damp cotton. He could feel the heat, the solid thickness beneath. He opened his mouth and let the fabric sink into it, tasting the salt-tang of sweat. Then he dragged his tongue over the bulge, a long, wet stripe from base to tip. The cock beneath twitched, growing harder, thicker.
Carlos let out a low, satisfied grunt. “Así… you are a hungry little bitch, aren’t you?” [Like that…]
Patrick moaned against the fabric, his own desire a roaring fire in his gut. He licked again, more desperately, sucking the cloth into his mouth.
Carlos’s grip tightened in Patrick’s hair, a possessive claim that sent shivers down his spine. "Mi perrito ejecutivo… quieres que te rompa, ¿verdad?" he murmured, his voice low and dripping with dominance. [My little executive dog… you want to be broken, don’t you?] The gravelly tone was a command, a promise, and a challenge all at once. Patrick’s breath hitched, his body trembling under Carlos’s raw authority.
Patrick nodded, his mouth still working. “Yes,” he gasped.
“Say it in Spanish. ‘Sí, quiero.’” [Yes, I want.]
“Sí… quiero,” Patrick managed, the words foreign and perfect on his tongue.
“Abre la boca, perra,” Carlos commanded, his hand fisting in Patrick’s neatly styled hair. (Open your mouth, bitch.)
Patrick obeyed, his lips parting. Carlos didn’t guide himself in gently. He shoved forward, the broad head pushing past Patrick’s lips, hitting the back of his throat in one brutal thrust. Patrick gagged, tears springing to his eyes. Carlos held him there, his pubic bone pressed against Patrick’s nose, suffocating him with his scent.
“Así,” Carlos grunted, beginning to fuck his face with short, deep jabs. “Tragas como una puta experimentada.” (Like that. You suck like an experienced whore.) He set a relentless pace, his hips pistoning, using Patrick’s mouth as nothing more than a wet, tight hole. Patrick’s world narrowed to the stretch of his lips, the ache in his jaw, the overwhelming presence of Carlos down his throat. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t care. Spit and pre-come dripped down his chin. His own cock wept untouched against his belly.
Carlos pulled out abruptly, a string of saliva connecting Patrick’s lips to his glistening tip. He looked down, his expression one of pure, predatory satisfaction. “Te gusta? ¿Te gusta ser mi puta?” (You like it? You like being my whore?)
Patrick, dazed and desperate, could only nod, gasping for air.
“No,” Carlos said, his voice a whip-crack. He slapped Patrick’s face, not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to sting, to humiliate. “Dícelo.” (Say it.)
“Me gusta, Papi,” Patrick sobbed, the admission tearing from him. “Soy tu puta.” (I like it, Daddy. I’m your whore.)
Carlos’s grip tightened. “Stand up.”
Patrick rose, shaky. Carlos pointed to the window. “Hands on the glass. Look out at your tree.”
Patrick placed his palms flat on the cool windowpane, staring out at the oak. His reflection was pale, eyes wide.
Carlos moved behind him. He ripped off his linen shirt, then gripped his pants. He pulled them down, along with his underwear, in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabrics slid to Patrick’s knees, leaving his ass exposed to the air, to Carlos’s gaze.
Patrick shuddered, utterly vulnerable.
Carlos didn’t speak. He simply knelt behind him. Patrick felt the heat of Carlos’s body, then the blunt pressure of his thumb, circling his hole. It was dry, rough. Patrick gasped.
“Relájate,” Carlos commanded. [Relax.]
Then, Carlos spat. A wet, warm glob landed directly on Patrick’s exposed cleft. The sound was crude, the act degrading. Patrick flinched, but the heat spread.
Carlos used his thumb again, now slick with spit, to massage the tight ring of muscle. Then he leaned in.
The first touch of Carlos’s tongue was a shock. It was broad, wet, and insistent. It wasn’t a gentle exploration; it was a claiming. Carlos licked over his hole, spreading the saliva, then pressed the tip of his tongue against the center, pushing.
Patrick’s moan was involuntary, loud. The sensation was utterly new. It was invasive, dirty, and it sparked a pleasure so deep and unexpected that it made his legs quiver. “Oh… god…”
Carlos worked him with his tongue, a rhythmic, relentless pressure. He wasn’t eating him out with tenderness; he was preparing him, opening him with wet, crude strokes. Patrick’s hands slid on the window, his forehead pressing against the glass. He was panting, his own cock hard and dripping between his legs.
“Más,” Carlos growled and spat again directly onto his target. The wetness splashed, and Carlos dove back in, his tongue delving deeper, fucking Patrick with it.
The pleasure built into a desperate need. The humiliation melted into a fierce, aching want. Patrick was losing himself, his CEO persona dissolving under the raw, physical dominance of this man. He was just a body, being used.
“Carlos…” he begged, his voice broken.
Carlos pulled back, standing up. His breath was hot on Patrick’s neck. “What do you want, patrón?”
“Fuck me,” Patrick whispered, the words a confession. “Please. Fuck me.”
Carlos’s hand smoothed over Patrick’s trembling back. “Así me gusta,” he said, almost approvingly. [That’s how I like it.] He stepped back. Patrick heard the rustle of fabric, Carlos pulling his underwear down.
He turned his head just enough to see. Carlos’cock It was thick, uncut, the head dark and prominent, a vein running along its length. It was a tool of pure power.
Carlos spat into his own palm, then slicked his cock with the moisture. He stepped close again, his body pressing against Patrick’s back. One hand gripped Patrick’s hip, hard. The other guided his cock.
The pressure at Patrick’s entrance was immense, blunt, and unyielding. Carlos didn’t ask, didn’t pause. He pushed.
Patrick screamed, the sound tearing from his throat as Carlos’s thick cock breached him in one brutal thrust. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks as the searing pain ripped through him. He’d never been fucked before, never been stretched like this, and his body rebelled against the invasion. He was so tight, the burn unbearable.
“Stop—please, stop! I can’t take it!” Patrick gasped, his voice cracking with desperation. He clawed at the windowpane, his reflection a portrait of agony.
Carlos leaned in, his breath hot against Patrick’s ear. He spat on Patrick’s face, the wet slap cutting through the air. “¿Qué te dije, puta?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. [What did I tell you, whore?] “I told you to leave your fear and bring only your obedience. The only word I want to hear from you is ’Más.’ Give it to me, perra. Now.”
Patrick whimpered, his body trembling under Carlos’s grip. The pain was overwhelming, but the raw dominance in Carlos’s voice ignited something deep within him. He swallowed his cries, forcing himself to submit.
“Más,” Patrick whispered, his voice barely audible, shaky with surrender.
Carlos’s grip tightened on his hips, and he pulled back slightly before thrusting forward again, harder this time. Patrick cried out, but the word slipped from his lips again, louder now. “Más!”
Carlos chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through Patrick’s body. “Buen perro,” he murmured. [Good dog.] He set a ruthless pace, each thrust deeper, harder, forcing Patrick to endure and embrace the pain. The tears kept flowing, but Patrick didn’t ask him to stop again. He clung to the window, his body surrendered, his mind consumed by Carlos’s raw, unrelenting dominance.
“Más!” he moaned, his voice breaking, as Carlos claimed him completely.
“Ah…” Carlos groaned, his breath hot on Patrick’s neck. He was in, fully seated, his balls pressed against Patrick’s skin.
Patrick gasped, his vision blurring. The pain subsided, replaced by a fullness so profound it stole his breath. He was occupied, owned.
“Muy tight,” Carlos muttered, his hand tightening on Patrick’s hip. [Very tight.] Then he pulled back, just a little, and thrust forward again.
The second stroke was smoother, the wetness from his tongue and spit easing the way. It was still rough, deep, a piston driving into his core. Patrick’s moan was long and ragged.
Carlos set a rhythm. It wasn’t slow or loving. It was work. Hard, deep, punishing strokes that rocked Patrick against the window. Each impact made Patrick’s palms slap the glass. Each withdrawal left him empty and desperate for the next filling.
“Take it,” Carlos grunted, his voice guttural. “Take your gardener’s cock, ejecutivo.”
Patrick could only nod, his body shaking with the force. The pleasure was building, tight and intense, from the base of his spine. The degradation—the spit, the crude commands, the cash on the counter—all fused into the physical act, making it hotter, more illicit.
Carlos’s pace increased. He was fucking him harder now, his grip bruising on Patrick’s hip, his other hand braced against the window frame for leverage. The sound was wet, slapping, obscene in the pristine bathroom.
“Gritalo,” Carlos commanded, his breath ragged. [Scream it.] “Tell me you love it.”
“I love it,” Patrick choked out, the words true and shocking.
“Más fuerte!” [Louder!]
“I love it!” Patrick shouted, his voice breaking against the window.
Carlos drove into him with a final, brutal intensity. His thrusts became shorter, faster, aiming deep. Patrick felt Carlos’s body tense, the muscles in his back locking. He was hitting a spot inside Patrick that sent white sparks behind his eyelids.
“Ah… voy… voy a…” Carlos growled, his rhythm faltering. [I’m… I’m going to…]
He slammed home, buried to the root, and held there. Patrick felt the hot, sudden flood inside him as Carlos came, a pulsing, urgent release that filled the tight channel. The sensation was overwhelming, a claiming so complete it brought Patrick’s own orgasm roaring up unbidden.
With Carlos still pulsing inside him, Patrick’s own cock jerked, spilling his release onto the marble floor beneath him in silent, helpless spurts. He sagged against the window, held up only by Carlos’s grip and the cock still lodged within him.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the smell of sex and sweat in the air.
Carlos slowly pulled out. Patrick felt the empty, wet ache. Carlos stepped back, looking at him, at the mess on the floor, at the cash on the counter.
He wiped his cock with Patrick's discarded linen shirt, then pulled his work shorts back up over his boots. He looked at Patrick, still bent over, exposed, trembling.
“Buen trabajo,” Carlos said, his tone matter-of-fact, like commenting on a well-pruned hedge. [Good job.] He picked up the stack of cash from the counter, folded it, and tucked it into his pocket. “We will do this again. When I say.”
He turned and walked out of the bathroom, leaving the door open behind him.
Patrick stayed there, hands on the glass, for a long time.
to be continued...
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