THE WEEKEND THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING 16 - THE GIFT

THE GIFT

Pedro turned the key and pushed the door without knocking. He never knocked.

Juan was in the living room, with his back to him, talking on the phone. When he heard the door, he turned around and, upon seeing Pedro, his face changed color. Not out of fear, but out of that immediate alertness that kicks in when someone appears before whom you can't be distracted.

—Yes, yes, okay, we'll see later. I'll call you tomorrow. Bye, bye.

He hung up. He put the cell phone on the table and started undressing, with the clumsy urgency of someone who knows they should already be naked. In ten seconds, he was naked, with goosebumps from the change in temperature.

—Sorry —he said, a bit agitated—. I didn't know you were coming.

He knelt down in front of Pedro and buried his face in his crotch with total naturalness, his nose and mouth pressed against the bulge in his pants. Pedro unzipped his pants, put his hand on Juan's neck, and pushed, sinking Juan's face deeper into his boxer shorts. He kept him there for a few seconds, feeling Juan's nose pressing against his cock, the hot breath penetrating the fabric.

He rubbed Juan's face against his crotch. Slowly, from side to side, like someone cleaning something. Juan let him do it, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open, inhaling that smell he liked so much.

—Get up —Pedro said—. Let me see how your ass is doing.

Juan stood up and turned around. He leaned forward slightly, separating his legs, exposing his buttocks. Four days after, the marks from the whip had gone from bright red to yellowish-green.

Pedro ran his hand over them. Slowly, with his palm open, tracing the marks. Juan shuddered at the touch but didn't move.

—They still look good —Pedro said, with the tone of someone evaluating the result of a job—. This one is going to take a while to fade.

He pressed a mark with his thumb. Juan let out a hiss between his teeth.

—Does it still hurt?

—A bit. When I sit down.

—Good.

Pedro gave him a soft slap on the buttock —soft by his standards, which still made Juan tense up.

—Look at me —Pedro said.

Juan turned around. He faced Pedro, naked, with his arms hanging by his sides. There was something in his posture that betrayed residual fear. Four days hadn't been enough to erase the memory of the whip.

Pedro looked him up and down. The usual inspection. He started with his face —shaven, good—, went down to his chest. He extended his hand and ran his fingers over his sternum, slowly, from top to bottom. His fingers moved with attention, registering the texture of the skin.

He went down to his balls. He took them in his hand, weighed them, turned them with his fingers. Then he ran his hand over his thighs, the inner face, going up and down.

Pedro's expression changed. Not much. A subtle har...