sinistra
by cibeles
Miguel Torres Gómez is twenty years old, and he's never done this before. Or - no, he thinks, Rubén got me drunk once when we were sixteen or was it fifteen? - maybe that isn't true. Maybe it's a lie and he's convinced himself he's innocent because everybody has those unspoken fantasies. (Don't they?) Everybody thinks things they shouldn't when they're alone at night and their hand is a contorting bulge in the front of their shorts and it's just his voice in the dark and it has to be that way for everyone, because that would make it (marginally) okay. (Shit.) Everyone does it, he's so sure, when he finds himself slipping into a pleasantly bastardised form of a dream he's had too many times for it to be okay, but dreams are fine he thinks until Míchel's wedding-band is a sliver of a chill, bracing its way up the wintered, bronzed muscles of Miguel's back. Hissing into Míchel's mouth, Miguel simultaneously arches into Míchel's embrace and slides against the wall, his towel slipping a little around his hips.
This wasn't planned, he reminds himself. I didn't mean for this to happen, but- He groans as his head strikes the wall and Míchel's other hand makes its way down, down, further. I've been wanting this.
And of course it had been a loss; he and the other dark-haired boys had slunk from the pitch in their white shirts with pinched shoulders and pinched scowls and pinched waists and black eyes. He hadn't played poorly, either; he hadn't been arrogant, but it hadn't been his fault. One nil to a Segunda División team that he wouldn't give the time of day and so, maybe I'm arrogant he muses as he loosens the laces of his boots and feels his upper lip curling almost instinctively. So? He thinks this to ward off the effusive humiliation as he showers, as he reaches into his locker and hears Míchel calling him from down the hallway; there's a sick, flashing feeling in his stomach that always accompanies a loss: the smell of soap and the clinging scent of wet grass in his hair that won't go away no matter how hard he tries. And that almost necessary depression - it's football, isn't it? - is part of the reoccurring fantasy. Even the night before, in his hotel room, he had slithered beneath the covers and his left hand had coaxed his cock to a guilty hardness. Against his elbow, the flesh of his stomach gave only a little before he felt bone against fine-tuned muscle; he could feel his cock twitching in his hand his eyes drifted shut as he bit his lip and imagined a scene like this one. A loss, and it had been rough.
And it's rough now. Míchel had started to say, "You played well," and then he had said, "You really did," but then it had been, "Well-" and Miguel feels so drunk with all of this, his fingers interlacing and unlocking and looping and pressing at the nape of Míchel's neck, between his hairline and the collar of his oxford. The showers are still running down the hall but in this little office, Miguel's shaking, wet hands pull at Míchel's loosened tie now and Míchel's fingertips probe at the little curl of hair over the loosened towel before delving a little deeper. (Miguel's resulting, throaty moan seems to startle only himself; Míchel's eyes are heavy-lidded and his collar rumpled as he cups the side of Miguel's cheek and brushes his knuckles against a razor-nick-dotted jawbone.) Or at least it becomes rough, which is what Miguel has wanted all along. (Everybody wants something like this.)
"Miguel," says Míchel, his lips just millimetres from Miguel's. He pauses, as though to say something else, and his hand slides up further, twisting itself in Miguel's wet-curling hair. Miguel has no reply, just a sharp intake of breath, and he does as silently instructed. Míchel guides him to his knees, jerking Miguel's head forward as he does so; Míchel is leaning against his desk and Míchel is kneeling, repentant, desperate, thrilled. In almost no time at all, the front of Míchel's trousers is undone; they pool around his ankles (Miguel is clever); Miguel's towel is on the floor, and Miguel's thick lips lower tantalisingly close. He hovers, his breath hot, and his tongue flickers out as Míchel forces his head down, hard. The soft grunting noises, the fingers tightening and tugging at his scalp, the precome in his mouth; these satisfy him better than his frantically moving left hand. Most of all he enjoys the buckling feeling of Míchel's knees, and the look of the lines of his thighs. It's clear Míchel was once an athlete (like myself and he nearly chokes and wonders if those are tears streaming down his face or just water from the shower as the head of Míchel's cock grazes the back of his throat) with muscles well-defined and well-worn like that. He laughs a little, eyes burning now, and his teeth are careless but he remembers, yeah I did this before. His drunken memory sifts back to the forefront of his mind and just when it does, Míchel's hands press against the sides of his skull and he doesn't even have a choice in the matter. He just swallows, his shoulders bent and broken, and it spills a little down his chin - it's what he's wanted all along, that stricken look on Míchel's face, sweat dampening Míchel's grey-streaked hair - and he comes too, more from a feeling of accomplishment (arrogance?) than physical satisfaction. More from the feeling of the dexterity of his tongue down Míchel's length than his clumsy left hand more acquainted with three a.m. fantasies of Raúl (the Raúl) than office trysts with the man he addresses as "sir" in ordinary situations.
He doesn't say "sir" now; in fact, they say nothing, and Miguel ignores the headache, the bitter taste, the sore knees, as he wipes his hands on his towel, turns it inside-out, and knots it at his jutting, tan-lined hipbone before returning to his comrades. He can't help his grin - it pricks at the edge of his come-slicked lips without any prompting - as he closes the door behind him and hears the laughter of his friends and the ragged, smile-burned breathing of Míchel, whose knuckles are white over the edge of his desk.
Miguel Torres Gómez is twenty years old, and he's never done this before. Or - no, he thinks, Rubén got me drunk once when we were sixteen or was it fifteen? - maybe that isn't true. Maybe it's a lie and he's convinced himself he's innocent because everybody has those unspoken fantasies. (Don't they?) Everybody thinks things they shouldn't when they're alone at night and their hand is a contorting bulge in the front of their shorts and it's just his voice in the dark and it has to be that way for everyone, because that would make it (marginally) okay. (Shit.) Everyone does it, he's so sure, when he finds himself slipping into a pleasantly bastardised form of a dream he's had too many times for it to be okay, but dreams are fine he thinks until Míchel's wedding-band is a sliver of a chill, bracing its way up the wintered, bronzed muscles of Miguel's back. Hissing into Míchel's mouth, Miguel simultaneously arches into Míchel's embrace and slides against the wall, his towel slipping a little around his hips.
This wasn't planned, he reminds himself. I didn't mean for this to happen, but- He groans as his head strikes the wall and Míchel's other hand makes its way down, down, further. I've been wanting this.
And of course it had been a loss; he and the other dark-haired boys had slunk from the pitch in their white shirts with pinched shoulders and pinched scowls and pinched waists and black eyes. He hadn't played poorly, either; he hadn't been arrogant, but it hadn't been his fault. One nil to a Segunda División team that he wouldn't give the time of day and so, maybe I'm arrogant he muses as he loosens the laces of his boots and feels his upper lip curling almost instinctively. So? He thinks this to ward off the effusive humiliation as he showers, as he reaches into his locker and hears Míchel calling him from down the hallway; there's a sick, flashing feeling in his stomach that always accompanies a loss: the smell of soap and the clinging scent of wet grass in his hair that won't go away no matter how hard he tries. And that almost necessary depression - it's football, isn't it? - is part of the reoccurring fantasy. Even the night before, in his hotel room, he had slithered beneath the covers and his left hand had coaxed his cock to a guilty hardness. Against his elbow, the flesh of his stomach gave only a little before he felt bone against fine-tuned muscle; he could feel his cock twitching in his hand his eyes drifted shut as he bit his lip and imagined a scene like this one. A loss, and it had been rough.
And it's rough now. Míchel had started to say, "You played well," and then he had said, "You really did," but then it had been, "Well-" and Miguel feels so drunk with all of this, his fingers interlacing and unlocking and looping and pressing at the nape of Míchel's neck, between his hairline and the collar of his oxford. The showers are still running down the hall but in this little office, Miguel's shaking, wet hands pull at Míchel's loosened tie now and Míchel's fingertips probe at the little curl of hair over the loosened towel before delving a little deeper. (Miguel's resulting, throaty moan seems to startle only himself; Míchel's eyes are heavy-lidded and his collar rumpled as he cups the side of Miguel's cheek and brushes his knuckles against a razor-nick-dotted jawbone.) Or at least it becomes rough, which is what Miguel has wanted all along. (Everybody wants something like this.)
"Miguel," says Míchel, his lips just millimetres from Miguel's. He pauses, as though to say something else, and his hand slides up further, twisting itself in Miguel's wet-curling hair. Miguel has no reply, just a sharp intake of breath, and he does as silently instructed. Míchel guides him to his knees, jerking Miguel's head forward as he does so; Míchel is leaning against his desk and Míchel is kneeling, repentant, desperate, thrilled. In almost no time at all, the front of Míchel's trousers is undone; they pool around his ankles (Miguel is clever); Miguel's towel is on the floor, and Miguel's thick lips lower tantalisingly close. He hovers, his breath hot, and his tongue flickers out as Míchel forces his head down, hard. The soft grunting noises, the fingers tightening and tugging at his scalp, the precome in his mouth; these satisfy him better than his frantically moving left hand. Most of all he enjoys the buckling feeling of Míchel's knees, and the look of the lines of his thighs. It's clear Míchel was once an athlete (like myself and he nearly chokes and wonders if those are tears streaming down his face or just water from the shower as the head of Míchel's cock grazes the back of his throat) with muscles well-defined and well-worn like that. He laughs a little, eyes burning now, and his teeth are careless but he remembers, yeah I did this before. His drunken memory sifts back to the forefront of his mind and just when it does, Míchel's hands press against the sides of his skull and he doesn't even have a choice in the matter. He just swallows, his shoulders bent and broken, and it spills a little down his chin - it's what he's wanted all along, that stricken look on Míchel's face, sweat dampening Míchel's grey-streaked hair - and he comes too, more from a feeling of accomplishment (arrogance?) than physical satisfaction. More from the feeling of the dexterity of his tongue down Míchel's length than his clumsy left hand more acquainted with three a.m. fantasies of Raúl (the Raúl) than office trysts with the man he addresses as "sir" in ordinary situations.
He doesn't say "sir" now; in fact, they say nothing, and Miguel ignores the headache, the bitter taste, the sore knees, as he wipes his hands on his towel, turns it inside-out, and knots it at his jutting, tan-lined hipbone before returning to his comrades. He can't help his grin - it pricks at the edge of his come-slicked lips without any prompting - as he closes the door behind him and hears the laughter of his friends and the ragged, smile-burned breathing of Míchel, whose knuckles are white over the edge of his desk.