Chapter 1
Chapter 1
André wakes up, blinking repeatedly until his eyes adjust to the light coming through the window. His head hurts, and his throat is painfully dry.
A groan escapes him when he tries to turn over, intending to hide from the light beneath the soft blankets.
He bites his lip and opens his eyes fully when a sharp stab of pain shoots through his hip and ass.
What the hell?
It is the first question that comes to mind.
—...
A cold sweat runs down his back when he realizes that this is definitely not his room...
He sits up carefully, biting his lower lip. An elegant red velvet canopy frames the enormous dark-wood bed, blocking part of his view. Even so... he can see his clothes scattered across the granite floor, along with other garments he doesn’t recognize as his own.
He shudders when the sound of the shower reaches his ears.
He looks toward the door that must lead to the bathroom.
Then his attention returns to the floor.
...The clothes.
...The shoes.
...Used condoms...
The place where he is...
A spacious, elegant bedroom furnished with black, minimalist furniture. The white walls are almost completely bare, lacking any decoration or personal touch.
It looks like a hotel room.
—Fuck... —he whispers, screaming the word inside his head.
Despite the sharp pain in his ass, he gets up and grabs his clothes, dressing as quickly as he can.
He picks up his shoes, clutching them against his chest, and flees the room, barely clear-headed enough not to slam the door behind him.
He hurries down the hallway, running barefoot as he tries to get as far away from that room as possible.
He enters the elevator and repeatedly presses the button for the ground floor. His heartbeat pounds so hard he can feel it in his throat.
As soon as the doors close, he backs away and bumps into a corner. He puts his shoes on, stuffing his socks into his pockets.
He buttons his shirt, catching his reflection in the elevator mirrors and taking in his appearance: messy hair, a sheen of sweat covering his face.
Swollen lips...
Hickeys...
Bite marks on his neck and shoulder...
He shakes his head and quickly covers everything by straightening his shirt and fastening every last button.
The doors open, and he steps into a lobby. It’s elegant, but it definitely doesn’t look like a hotel.
An apartment building.
The guard by the entrance, a burly man dressed in something resembling a police uniform, looks at him. Embarrassed by his appearance, André lowers his head and hurries past him until he is finally outside.
He curses the sunlight, which now seems even more intense, bringing his headache back with it.
He pats his pockets, checking the things he took with him: phone, wallet, keys... good.
He walks faster. He wants to get as far away from that place as possible, but the pain in his hip keeps him from running again.
He reaches the bus stop and climbs onto the bus that is already waiting.
He can feel people’s eyes on him, so he moves toward the back of the vehicle, where the seats are empty.
He drops into one of them, biting down hard on his lips to stifle a groan.
He covers his face with both hands, then pulls his legs up onto the plastic seat, burying his head between his knees and hiding his embarrassed face from any nosy passengers.
He had slept with someone...
He had no idea who the person was. He couldn’t remember...
He had slept with someone for the first time...
And that someone had been a complete stranger...
Fuck.
Fuck...
—Fuck... —he mutters through clenched teeth.
He remains silent for the entire ride. Several streets later, he gets off and takes a second bus, struggling this time with the discomfort, which is intensified by the noise of the people, the vibration of the engine, and the jolts every time the bus stops.
He finally reaches home, a modest apartment in one of the many units inside the old four-story building.
The interior is small, with only two bedrooms, one bathroom, and an open space combining the kitchen, dining room, and living room. Everything is furnished with old secondhand furniture.
It’s Saturday, as he can confirm by the calendar hanging near the entrance. It’s 7 a.m., according to the clock on one of the living room walls.
His mother is still at work, so he is alone in the apartment.
He walks into the bathroom, strips completely, and the shame hits him all over again when he sees himself in the small mirror above the sink.
It isn’t just his neck and shoulders...
There are small, circular marks scattered across his chest and abdomen, along with obvious handprints around his waist, hips, and thighs.
He steps into the shower and takes a cold shower, refreshing his body and washing away the sticky feeling on his skin.
He touches his ass with his fingers. The area is so sensitive that he groans from the slightest contact.
There is a faint sticky sensation, but it shouldn’t be... semen, considering the used condoms he saw in that room...
There had been so many...
How many times had they... done it?
He bites his lip hard as he wonders, Is that why my hip hurts so much? What kind of animal in heat did I get myself involved with?
He gets out of the shower and slaps his cheeks, wanting to stop thinking about it.
His bedroom is small, barely large enough for a single bed, a little wardrobe, a chair, and an old table that serves as his desk.
He puts on his underwear, black sweatpants, and a long-sleeved red T-shirt with a round collar that covers most of the marks. He carefully lies down on the bed and covers his eyes with his forearm.
He wants to sleep...
But he can’t.
The sound of his phone interrupts him. A message has arrived.
He gets up, retrieves the phone from among his dirty clothes, and returns to bed, groaning when he drops down onto the mattress. A sharp stab of pain shoots through him, leaving him unable to move for several seconds until it finally subsides.
The old button phone displays a large number of messages from Héctor and Miriam, along with eight missed calls from Héctor during the early hours of the morning.
André doesn’t waste time reading them. He goes straight to Héctor’s most recent message.
😾 Héctor 🐈 «If this is some fucking joke, it stopped being funny hours ago. Where the fuck are you?» —3:40 a.m.
«I’m home.»
He replies and writes nothing else.
Why bother?
That answer is probably going to make Héctor even angrier...
Something he shouldn’t do after apparently making him worry all night, but what was he supposed to write?
«My whole body hurts, but don’t worry. I’m fine. I just left with a complete stranger and had sex with him. But hey! At least it looks like we used protection... I’m home.»
No! ...No.
—I don’t remember —the brown-haired boy whispers as he lies down and pulls the blankets completely over himself. —If I don’t remember, it didn’t happen...
He tells himself that.
But he is lying.
Because, yes, well...
He doesn’t remember the guy. Not his face in detail... much less his name.
But he remembers his hands.
His touch.
The kisses.
The overwhelming, burning sensation of pleasure...
...His voice.
—Fuck you —he whispers, almost like a suppressed scream, covering his face tightly with his hands, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He nearly scratches his own skin in a desperate attempt to tear those sensations away and truly forget everything, to pretend that none of it ever happened.
André doesn’t leave the apartment for the rest of Saturday. He spends most of the day sleeping.
He gets up only to prepare food and have it ready when his mother comes home. They share a little time together before she, exhausted, drags her feet toward her bedroom to sleep.
The pain in his body has eased somewhat by Saturday night, allowing him to hide it from his mother on Sunday, her day off.
André is secretly grateful that his mother doesn’t want to do anything except rest at home and prepare their meals together throughout the day. He manages to take some time to meet Héctor and Miriam at a park near their building.
The pair reprimand him.
Héctor, especially, doesn’t stop scolding him for failing to tell them that he was leaving the party at the bar and disappearing for hours without answering their messages.
The brown-haired boy silently endures the black-haired man’s complaints and the constant “you’re an idiot” he throws into nearly every sentence.
He doesn’t argue. Not when the blonde, who usually lets things slide and even covers for him, also expresses her anger, going so far as to refuse to speak to him after angrily declaring that she would never invite him out again...
André doubts that threat.
Both of them are older than André. They aren’t exactly “older siblings” or good role models, considering that they were actually the ones who had gotten him the fake ID he used to enter that bar and others they’d invited him to since he was fifteen...
They even fight and argue constantly because André isn’t exactly the kind of kid who keeps his mouth shut.
But they care about one another, and that is why André keeps his mouth shut this time, enduring every minute of their scolding because he knows he deserves it.
In the afternoons, after dinner, he stays in his room under the excuse of finishing his homework and studying for a while, but it’s difficult...
With the alcohol out of his system, several memories from that night have become clearer...
Perhaps too clear.
At times, his mind drifts away from his algebra equations and wanders back to that guy...
He can’t remember his features in detail, but he does remember that he had blond hair...
And bright, expressive amber eyes that stared at him intensely.
Amber eyes framed by thick, long blond lashes.
An intense gaze, half-lidded and fixed solely on him.
And a faint, crooked smile.
Slim hands hold his legs firmly, pushing them against his chest and allowing the other’s cock to slide deeper inside him...
Kisses devour his mouth, leaving him breathless. He tries to pull away from those lips just to catch his breath.
But another moan escapes his throat, giving the other man the opportunity to kiss him again.
Meanwhile, another hand travels down his abdomen, lightly pressing against the damp skin of his stomach before wrapping around his erection.
Slowly stroking him.
Slowly.
Almost torturously, until his body melts beneath waves of pleasure and bursts of release.
André bites his lip and squeezes his thighs together while tugging his shirt down, covering his crotch.
He slowly leans forward until his forehead rests against the pages of his books, remaining in that position as the heat in his cheeks intensifies, along with the trembling in his shoulders.
He bites his lip once more and unzips his pants.
He frees his erection from his clothes and begins to masturbate.
Focusing on the sensations that blond-haired boy had made him feel, but placing another face over the blurred features...
Replacing those intense, striking amber eyes with a pair of beautiful blue ones, their gaze much softer.
—...Michael... Mh.
