A Secret Night with Oskar
For years, I had maintained a deep friendship with Andrés, a kind man with a bustling household of four children. Whenever my business trips took me through the interior of the state, Andrés insisted I stay at his home rather than a hotel. I always appreciated his hospitality, never imagining that my visits would lead to a moment that would haunt and thrill me for the rest of my life.
It happened around midnight on a humid summer night. I was drifting into a heavy sleep when I felt a presence beside me. A pair of arms wrapped around me from behind, squeezing tight. I startled awake to find Oskar, Andrés’s eldest son, staring at me with an intensity that made my heart race. At eighteen, Oskar was striking—pale, tall, and lean, with the subtle musculature of a young man coming into his own.
“Let me stay here with you for a while,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and longing. When I questioned him, asking if he had any idea how wrong this was, he looked me in the eyes with raw honesty. He confessed that he had wanted me for a long time, that he had watched me from afar, imagining the touch he now craved.
Despite my loyalty to Andrés, the suddenness of the encounter and the sheer desire in Oskar’s eyes overcame my resolve. I felt my own body responding instantly. I stood up and locked the bedroom door, the click of the bolt signaling a point of no return. “If we do this, we do it right,” I commanded. Oskar obeyed instantly, stripping away his clothes until he stood naked and vulnerable before me.
The passion that followed was a fever. I began by kissing his neck, my beard grazing his skin, feeling him shiver beneath me. He was like a flame, his body heating up as I explored every inch of him. He clung to me, his breath coming in ragged gasps, confessing that he had saved himself for this moment, imagining that I would be the first to ever possess him.
The air in the room grew thick with scent and heat. Guided by a mutual, desperate hunger, we moved together. He positioned himself on the bed, offering himself to me completely. As I entered him, the sensation was overwhelming—he was tight, welcoming, and utterly consumed by the experience. Oskar let out a low moan, urging me to push deeper, to take everything he had to give.
We collided in a rhythmic, primal dance, the silence of the house amplifying every gasp and wet sound of our union. When the climax finally hit, it was explosive, a release of years of suppressed tension that left us both breathless and spent. I collapsed beside him, the silence returning, though it felt heavier now.
As the morning sun broke, the weight of guilt settled in my chest. I looked at Andrés across the breakfast table, feeling like a traitor. Yet, when I looked at Oskar, I saw only a profound happiness in his eyes. As I drove him to his university, he told me not to feel guilty, reminding me that he had sought me out.
We never repeated the act, and the secret remained locked between us. But even years later, I can still feel the heat of that night and the memory of a love that was as forbidden as it was unforgettable.