Mauricio.

My father decided to send me to the U.S. for high school because I wasn’t doing well in school. It wasn’t just academics—I was being picked on for being gay, both at school and at home, especially by my mother. I spent four years in high school in the U.S., where there were fewer subjects per semester, and it was easier for me to complete.

When I finished, my father wanted to see the diploma and then see if I could get into university in Colombia. A teacher told Dad American high schools weren’t accepted for Colombian universities—they were too easy. Colombian nationals had to repeat high school in Colombia. My father decided I’d have to spend at least a couple of years in college first in the USA, but the timing was off, and I’d have to wait a semester. So he arranged for me to do the last six months of high school in Colombia.

Returning to school was easier. I was older, more confident, and seen as a foreigner who had spent years in the U.S. I wasn’t treated like the gay kid anymore—I was just the student who had gone abroad alone.

In art class, we had a teacher named Mauricio. He was an architect looking for work and teaching us architectural drawing. The work was hard and methodical. He taught us to use special pens, paper, and rulers to create proper architectural drawings. I was fascinated by him—not the class, but him. He was muscular, had straight hair, and was very good-looking. I found myself looking at his body and losing focus on the class.

Mauricio dressed with an effortless precision—never flashy, never sloppy. He struck that perfect balance between refined and relaxed, clothes that fit like they were made for him. It was impossible to ignore that he took care of his body; he was solid, built, and the way his trousers hugged his powerful thighs and the curve of his ass left nothing to the imagination. The fabric clung just enough to reveal a thick, heavy outline, making it clear he was packing serious heat.

His shirts were always crisp, the fabric starched and sharp against his broad chest. He didn’t need heavy cologne; his allure was subtler than that. But when you leaned in close, the scent hit you—dark brown hair washed with something clean and earthy, smelling like soap and warm skin. It was a masculine, intoxicating aroma that made you want to bury your face in his neck. He wasn’t just good-looking; he was a walking, breathing aphrodisiac.

One day, Mauricio noticed me staring. I turned away. Later, students complained about the class and how to make it more interesting. I, feeling bold, suggested going out for pizza and a beer to discuss it. We agreed, with the condition that we wouldn’t drink beer. At the restaurant, I gave him my number, and he gave me his. Eventually, I called him. He invited me to his apartment, which was practical and set up for his architectural work.

Mauricio taught me about gay sex in a kind, patient way. Mauricio’s voice was soft, telling me about feeling comfortable at home as he began unbuttoning his shirt. ‘Danny, at your age, I was terrified and didn’t tell my parents what I felt,’ he said, his eyes meeting mine with a knowing smile that eased the knot in my chest. He shrugged off his shirt, revealing smooth, toned skin. ‘Sorry, but I just got home and would like to change into more comfortable clothes.’ His pants followed, sliding down his legs until he stood there stark naked, unashamed and utterly captivating. His body was a masterpiece—broad shoulders tapering to a firm waist, and between his thighs, his cock hung heavy and thick, already hinting at the power it held.

He spoke on, his words weaving through the air about being true to one’s emotions, about not hiding from the pull inside you. I couldn’t tear my eyes away; I was in a trance, mesmerized by the way his muscles shifted with each breath. ‘You feel something?’ he asked, his tone gentle, inviting.

‘I feel afraid... and motionless,’ I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. My heart hammered, but his presence made it feel safe to say it out loud.

‘Touch yourself a little, around your face,’ he suggested, stepping closer. ‘Let the blood flow from your face into your lungs.’ I hesitated, my fingers brushing my forehead tentatively.

‘No, not there. Let me show you.’ He approached, completely bare, his confidence drawing me in. He took my hand in his larger one, guiding it with care. ‘These are the pressure points.’ Then, to get a better angle, he straddled my lap on the sofa, his legs spreading wide around my hips. His warmth pressed against me immediately—his balls resting heavy on my thigh, his cock brushing my stomach. But it didn’t overwhelm; it grounded me. His fingers massaged my temples in slow circles, then moved to the base of my skull. ‘Do you feel it? Are you relaxing?’

I nodded, my hands falling to the sides of the sofa. The tension in my face began to melt under his touch, waves of calm spreading down my neck. His cock lay soft but insistent against my abdomen, the heat of it seeping through my shirt, but somehow, in that moment, it stopped mattering. It felt... right.

‘Hold on,’ he murmured, shifting to reach behind me. He stood up on the sofa cushions for better leverage, his body towering over me now, his cock swaying inches from my face— the tip grazing my nose as he rummaged on the shelf. The musky scent of him hit me, clean and faintly tropical, like coconut from his soap. I couldn’t help it; my tongue darted out, licking the smooth head tentatively. It was salty-sweet, silky against my taste buds.

He froze for a split second, then let out a low chuckle, no judgment, just acceptance. Without hesitation, he wrapped his hand around the base and guided it to my lips. ‘Suck on it. It’s okay—you’re safe.’

I opened my mouth, taking him in. He was huge, stretching my jaw as I swirled my tongue around his thickening shaft. The coconut flavor bloomed stronger now, delicious and exotic, making my mouth water. My nipples peaked hard against my shirt, a sharp ache building in my own cock, straining against my jeans. I bobbed my head experimentally, feeling him harden fully in my mouth, the veins pulsing against my lips.

‘Ah! Found it!’ he exclaimed suddenly, pulling back with a grin. In his hand were condoms and a bottle of lotion. He hopped down, his erection bobbing with the motion, and knelt before me. His hands were quick but gentle, unbuckling my belt and tugging my jeans down my legs along with my boxers. My cock sprang free, throbbing in the cool air, but he ignored it for now, focusing lower. He squeezed lotion onto his fingers—clear, slick lube—and parted my thighs. ‘Relax for me,’ he whispered, circling my hole with one finger before pressing in slowly.

The intrusion burned at first, but his kisses distracted me—soft presses to my lips, my jaw, my neck. His tongue slipped into my mouth, tasting of mint and reassurance, as his finger crooked inside me, finding that spot that made my toes curl. ‘You fresh fruit, eh?’ he teased between kisses, his voice husky.

Then he paused, pulling back to search my eyes. ‘You’re 18, right? I heard your friends talk about your birthday.’

‘Yeah, I am,’ I breathed, my body humming from his touch. ‘But I’m leaving soon—back to the USA for two years of college.’

We talked like that for a bit, the conversation flowing easily despite the heat between us. His hand rested on my thigh, and I couldn’t resist reaching out, cupping his huge balls in my palm. They were warm, heavy, the skin soft and slightly wrinkled. I rolled them gently as we chatted about my nerves, his own first time, and the importance of owning our desires. All the while, his cock stayed rock-hard, leaking a bead of precum that I swiped with my thumb, smearing it over the head.

‘Enough talk,’ he finally said, his eyes darkening with want. He lubed his cock generously, the slick sounds filling the room, then positioned me. ‘Sit on it. Go slow—just slow. It helps if I kiss you.’

I straddled him, heart pounding as I lowered myself. The tip nudged my mancunt, and with a deep breath, I sank. The stretch was intense, his girth splitting me open inch by inch, but his mouth on mine—tongue dancing, lips sucking—made it bearable, even thrilling. When he was fully inside me, his pubes tickling my ass, he gripped open my ass cheeks and thrust up hard—once, twice, three or four times, from tip to root. Each plunge hit deep, sparking fireworks behind my eyes.

I came undone, my cock untouched, spurting ropes of cum across his chest. I gasped, couldn’t breathe, the pleasure crashing over me like a wave, leaving me trembling and spent.

‘There,’ he soothed, stroking my back as I slumped against him. ‘You are no longer a virgin.’ He eased me off gently, then guided me to turn over on the sofa, my stomach pressing into the cushions. ‘Now, let me massage you.’

His hands started innocent—kneading my shoulders, working the knots from my back with strong, oiled fingers. But it didn’t last. Soon, his thumbs dipped lower, spreading my cheeks, and I felt the lubed head of his cock pressing back in. This time, there was no holding back. He fucked me hard, his hips snapping forward, his balls slapping against mine with each deep thrust. The sofa creaked under us, my moans muffled into the fabric as he pounded relentlessly, chasing his own release.

He groaned my name—or what felt like it in the haze—and buried himself deep, pulsing as he filled the condom. We collapsed together, sweaty and sated, his arms wrapping around me in a final, tender hold.

It was such a gorgeous day. I walked out of there trembling with joy, my body sore in the best way, my mind buzzing with the freedom of it all. For the first time, I felt seen, desired, and utterly alive.

THE END.

Credits: pants-down-dadd CUMM.co.UK

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