Chapter 1 Cuckold

At 32 years old, tall, with a hairy and gym-worked body, I felt secure, but always aware that Adrian, at 28, was the one who stole the breath away. Dark-haired, hairless, with a face of sharp angles and a body chiseled in marble, Adrian was my pride and my obsession. For months, in the intimacy of our bed, we had talked about my fantasy: seeing him surrender to another man, being a voyeur of his ecstasy, letting my morbidity unleash like a fire. At first, he laughed, thinking I was joking. But when he saw the hunger in my eyes, he began to consider it. "I don't want to make you feel less, Raúl," he told me one night, his hands tracing circles on my hairy chest. "You would never be less," I replied, kissing his neck. "I just want to see you free, burning, especially on our anniversary."

That night, in the hotel bar, the air vibrated with soft music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. Adrian was radiant, his white shirt unbuttoned, hinting at the muscles of his torso. The whiskey we were drinking dissolved our inhibitions, the heat of the liquor mixing with the emotion of celebrating our love in this paradise. Then I saw him: a mature man, about 52 years old, sitting at the bar. Carlos, he introduced himself later. He was pure muscle, with a broad chest covered in grayish hair that peeked out from his unbuttoned shirt. His arms, like trunks, flexed with every movement, and his gaze, firm and confident, nailed Adrian like a predator measuring its prey.

"He's devouring you with his eyes," I whispered to Adrian, my voice trembling with excitement, the morbidity of our fantasy coming to life on our anniversary. He blushed, but didn't look away, his lips curving into a nervous smile. "Do you think I should talk to him?" he asked, unsure, his fingers brushing against my hand. My heart skipped a beat, the heat rising through my crotch. "Do it," I said, squeezing his hand. "For me. For us. For this special night."

Carlos leaned slightly from his seat at the bar, his gaze scanning Adrian with an intensity that charged the air. His eyes, dark and cunning, briefly slid towards me, evaluating me with a barely perceptible smile. "It seems they know how to enjoy a night like this," he said, his voice low and velvety, raising his glass in a distant toast. He paused, letting the silence fill with the soft music of the bar, before adding: "Why don't they come over? The drinks taste better when shared." His tone was an invitation wrapped in challenge, his fingers brushing against the edge of his glass with a slowness that promised more than just a drink.

Adrian looked at me, seeking my approval, and I nodded, my pulse accelerating. We approached, the whiskey amplifying the tension. Carlos was a master at keeping the game, his comments oscillating between sensual compliments to Adrian and small jabs at me that ignited my skin. "Look at him, Raúl," he said at one point, while Adrian laughed at one of his stories, his hand rest...