Fucked by the companion

The months passed. Winter took away the cold from the warehouse and brought the suffocating heat of summer. The olive campaign started in mid-October, and the company sent us to a lost cortijo in the middle of the olive groves of Jaén to harvest for three consecutive weeks. From sunup to sundown, red dust stuck to our skin, and the smell of burnt earth and ripe olives filled the air.

We had to share a room. A small room on the top floor of the cortijo: two single beds separated by a small, rickety table, a closet that smelled of naphthalene, and a tiny bathroom with a shower and broken tiles. With no functioning fan, only a window that overlooked the olive grove and let in the chirping of crickets and the sweltering heat at night.

From the first day, Dani started marking his territory in a different way. He would take off his shirt as soon as he entered the room, walk around in his underwear in front of me while I changed, stretch out on the bed with his legs open, shamelessly showing off his bulge. He would catch me staring and smile sideways, as if saying "I know what you want".

At night, after dinner with the other colleagues, we would go up together. He would shower first, come out wrapped in a towel that barely covered him, and sit on the edge of my bed while drying his hair with another towel. He would "accidentally" brush his knee against my leg. He would ask me silly questions just to stay close: "Does your back hurt from harvesting all day?", "Have you seen how your ass looks in those short pants?". Each insinuation was more direct, more brazen.

The third night, he couldn't wait any longer.

We had turned off the light. I was in my bed, sweating under the thin sheet, trying to sleep. He got up from his bed, approached me silently, and got into my bed without asking permission. I felt his hot body pressing against mine from behind, his already-hard cock pressing against my ass through my underwear.

"Don't make a sound," he whispered in my ear. "The others are next door."

He easily turned me over onto my stomach, pulled down my underwear to mid-thigh, and spat directly between my cheeks. He opened me up with his fingers, prepared me quickly, and entered me with a slow but deep thrust. I let out an involuntary moan, loud, which echoed in the silent room.

He stopped for a second, pulled out slightly, and leaned down to the floor. He picked up his underwear from the day - the ones he had worn all day harvesting under the sun, soaked with sweat, with a strong smell of balls, cock, and earth - and shoved them into my mouth without hesitation.

"Smell and be quiet," he growled softly as he went back in all the way.

The warm, damp fabric filled my mouth. It tasted of salt, of man, of him after twelve hours of hard work. The smell invaded my nostrils, intense, addictive, and turned me on even more. I moaned against the fabric, but only a muffled, hoarse sound ...