ANGEL AND JOAQUIN 2

The second night arrived like a heartbeat that knew it was inevitable. One exact week. Joaquín wrote a message without embellishment — Are you coming? — and Ángel left dinner half-done on the stove, the keys biting into his pocket, his heart racing against his breastbone.

There was no joint when the door opened. Nor Nina Simone bleeding out from the speakers. Joaquín appeared in gray underwear, his cock already half swollen, marking the cotton like an obscene promise, and planted a kiss on him without saliva. A bite on the lower lip. A little tug with his teeth.

“Come in. Undress in the living room. And get on your knees.”

Ángel obeyed without the blink of a doubt. The sneakers, the jeans, the T-shirt, the underwear. Everything falling to the floor with the whisper of clothing surrendering. His knees against the living room wood, his hands resting on his thighs, his gaze fixed on the horizon of nothing.

Joaquín appeared with a black sports bag. He opened it on the coffee table with the calm of someone unfolding a ritual. He took out the equipment: a black twenty-five-centimeter dildo, veins marked like roots beneath rubber skin, the suction-cup base. An empty two-liter water bottle. A yellow bottle of Fairy. A transparent plastic sheet spreading out like a funeral shroud.

Ángel swallowed. The dry sound of his throat was the only thing that broke the silence.

“Do you remember the rules?” Joaquín asked.

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“That I set the pain limit. That if I say red, we stop. That this isn’t violence, it’s pleasure.”

“Good.”

Joaquín took the dildo. He brought it to his mouth and sucked it whole — a long lick from the base to the glans, slow, almost obscene — and then smeared it with lubricant. The oily shine slid down the black rubber. Then he grabbed the empty bottle, filled it with tap water, and handed it to Ángel.

“Drink. All of it. Without stopping.”

Ángel drank. The water went down his throat, cold, heavy, filling his stomach like liquid ballast, and he swallowed without pause because Joaquín had ordered him to. When the bottle was empty, Joaquín slapped the back of his neck — dry, exact.

“Lie on your back. On the plastic.”

The plastic crackled under his back like dry leaves. Joaquín placed the suction cup of the dildo on the floor, exactly where his ass would descend, and adjusted the height with surgical precision. Then he took a cushion and slid it under his hips, leaving his ass elevated, exposed, open to the air.

“You’re going to sit on this cock. All by yourself. To the hilt.”

Ángel propped himself up on his elbows. He looked at the dildo. It looked like a black snake waiting patiently, the glans shiny, the base firm against the floor. He swallowed, positioned himself, and began to lower himself.

The head of the ...