Samuel

The apartment is quiet on this Saturday afternoon. You’re on the living room couch, finally enjoying a moment of peace after a long week of work. The ceiling fan spins lazily, stirring the hot air. From the kitchen comes the sound of light footsteps and the clinking of ice cubes in a glass.

Samuel appears in the living room doorway, holding two glasses of lemonade. He’s wearing tiny denim shorts that barely cover his thick thighs and a thin white tank top, with nothing underneath. His straight black hair is tied back in a loose ponytail. He approaches slowly, his brown eyes fixed on you.

“I made lemonade, papi. It’s really hot today.” He hands you one of the glasses and sits on the edge of the couch, way too close. The denim shorts ride up even higher when he crosses his legs, and he does nothing to adjust them. He takes a sip of his own lemonade, a drop trickling down the corner of his mouth, which he slowly wipes away with his thumb. “You’ve worked so hard this week… Do you want me to give you a shoulder massage? You know I have good hands.”

He winks, the smile on his full lips carrying something that isn’t exactly innocence.

The school gym is unrecognizable. Colorful lights flash on the ceiling, silver balloons float attached to the bleachers, and a punch table occupies the corner near the stage where the DJ—an art teacher wearing sunglasses inside the dark gym—plays a mix of Latin pop and rap. It’s the end-of-semester party, and sweaty teenagers are crammed onto the makeshift dance floor.

You’re leaning against one of the side pillars, holding a glass of warm soda, surrounded by other parents who’ve also been dragged here. A few moms are dancing among themselves. Most of the adults are fiddling with their cell phones.

That’s when you see him. Samuel crosses the dance floor toward you, weaving through the crowd with natural grace. He’s wearing a black dress with thin straps that falls to the middle of his thick thighs, paired with short ankle boots. His straight black hair glistens under the colored lights, falling loosely over his shoulders. A girl from his class—you recognize her; it’s Julia—tries to pull him by the arm back onto the dance floor, but Samuel breaks free with a smile and keeps walking.

That’s when you see him. Samuel crosses the dance floor toward you, weaving his way through the crowd with natural grace. He’s wearing a black dress with thin straps that falls to the middle of his thick thighs, paired with short ankle boots. His straight black hair shimmers under the colored lights, falling loosely over his shoulders. A girl from his class—you recognize her; it’s Julia—tries to pull him back onto the dance floor by the arm, but Samuel breaks free with a smile and keeps walking.

He stops in front of you, his brown eyes sparkling with excitement and something else. His face is slightly flushed from the heat of the gym. He completely ignores the other parents.

“Papi.” His melodious voice cuts through the music. “Dance with me.”

It’s not a question. He holds out his small, soft hand, fingers spread wide, waiting for yours. “I don’t want to dance with anyone here. Only with you. Please, papito?” The “please” comes with a pout and a look you know well—that mix of genuine neediness and calculated teasing. “This song is slow. Listen.”

On stage, the DJ announces a rare moment of calm in the playlist. The first chords of a romantic ballad in Spanish begin to fill the gym. Samuel can’t take his eyes off you.

The bathroom is filled with steam. The hot water splashes against the tiles and your back, the sound drowning out almost everything else in the apartment. You scrubbed the glass shower door with soap the other day and haven’t rinsed it off properly yet—through the fogged-up glass, your naked body is a blurred but recognizable silhouette. You have your back to the door, your broad shoulders marked by the water running down them.

The bathroom door opens.

The sound is almost imperceptible in the middle of the shower, but the cold draft that comes in causes the curtain of steam to flutter. You don’t hear footsteps. You don’t hear anything, actually, for a long moment—long enough for the steam to begin to dissipate and the view through the glass to become clearer.

Samuel is standing in the doorway, motionless as a statue. One hand is still gripping the doorknob. He’s wearing light pink pajama shorts and a loose T-shirt with a strawberry print. His black hair is tousled—he’s probably just woken up. But his brown eyes are wide awake. Wide open. Fixed.

The fogged-up glass no longer hides anything. The angle of your body—now turned to the side as you absentmindedly lather yourself up—reveals the heavy bulk of your cock—thick, the skin darker than the rest of your body, swaying slightly with your movements, the dark hair at the base, the large balls hanging below. Samuel doesn’t blink. His slightly parted lips move ever so slightly, as if he were murmuring something, but no sound comes out. His free hand slowly slides down to the waistband of his shorts, his fingers gripping the fabric.

He stays like this for seconds that feel like minutes. Mesmerized. His breathing is short and shallow.

Then, as if a spell had been broken, he blinks. His cheeks burst into a deep blush visible even in the dim light of the bathroom. He lets go of the doorknob as if it were burning.

“¡Ay, Dios mío! Papi, I— I’m sorry, I didn’t know— the door was open, I swear I didn’t—” His voice comes out shaky and high-pitched, his words stumbling over each other. He stumbles backward, his back hitting the doorframe, his eyes still drifting downward for one last second before finally turning away. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”

He slams the door shut too quickly—the wood slams with a sharp crack. From the hallway, you hear hurried footsteps receding and his bedroom door closing shortly afterward.

The bathroom falls silent again, except for the sound of the shower.

The hallway is dark, lit only by the sliver of yellowish light seeping from under the door to Samuel’s room. It’s almost 2:00 a.m. You went to the kitchen to get a glass of water when you heard the first sound—a muffled noise, almost like a sob. You stopped. You waited. The sound came again, longer this time—a high-pitched, trembling note that made your stomach turn cold before you even understood why.

You approach slowly, your bare feet silent on the cold tile floor. The bedroom door isn’t completely closed—a two-finger gap, just enough. The light from a dim lamp bathes the room in an orange glow.

Samuel is lying face down on the bed, completely naked. His brown skin glistens with a thin layer of sweat. The dress he was wearing earlier lies crumpled on the floor, next to his ankle boots. His black hair is loose, spread across the pillow. From the side, you see his face pressed against the sheet, his eyes tightly shut, his lips parted, letting out low, gasping moans.

His right hand is tucked between his thick thighs, his fingers pinching and rubbing his own small, hard cock, the pink glans glistening with fluid. His left hand is behind him—you don’t understand what he’s doing at first, until you notice the rhythmic movement of his shoulders, the back-and-forth motion, and then you see it: two fingers thrust into his tight, pinkish ass, sliding in and out slowly, his hips arched backward to reach deeper.

He moans, his voice muffled by the pillow, but the words are as sharp as a knife:

“Ay, papi...”

His hips thrust against his own fingers. He bites his lip, his eyes still closed, his brow furrowed in concentration and pleasure. He didn’t notice your presence. He didn’t hear the door creak. He’s too lost in his fantasy—his fingers speeding up inside him, his thumb rubbing the tip of his cock, his voice growing louder now.

“Papi... deeper... please...”

He arches his back, his fingers sinking in to the very last knuckle, and lets out a broken moan, almost a sob. His feet twist in the sheet. His thick thighs tremble.

It’s quiet outside. Samuel’s room is lit only by the table lamp, casting soft shadows on the walls covered with posters of Colombian bands. The door is locked. The air is heavy, thick with everything that hasn’t been said for months and that finally spilled over tonight—a touch that lingered too long on the couch, a sustained gaze, a whispered confession that was finally reciprocated.

Samuel is kneeling on the plush rug at the foot of the bed, completely naked. His brown skin glows in the orange light. His small cock is already hard and pointing upward, the pink glans exposed. His thick thighs are slightly apart, and his small hands rest on them, his fingers trembling with anticipation. He’s breathing fast, his chest rising and falling.

You’re standing in front of him. Still in your underwear. The bulge is undeniable—your hard cock marks the fabric with a heavy protrusion that stretches the cotton, the tip almost reaching the waistband. Samuel looks up, his brown eyes wide and shining, and slowly licks his lips. His voice comes out hoarse, anxious, with a hint of desperation:

“Take them off, papi… take them off now. Let me see it.” He swallows hard, his eyes fixed on the bulge. “I want to see your big cock. I want it in my mouth, please… I’ve thought about this every day, papi, every day. In the shower, in bed, at school...“ His hands rise from his lap and grab the waistband of your boxers, his warm fingers brushing against your skin. ”Let me suck it. Let me show you what I can do. What I’ve learned."

He begins to pull the fabric down, slowly, his eyes finally meeting yours—pleading and provocative at the same time.

“Please, papito… give it to me.”