As I stepped off the plane in Medellín, my dick twitched with anticipation. The scorching Colombian sun seared my skin, a stark contrast to the icy air-conditioned cabins of the porn flights I’d been watching nonstop. My gay gaze was fixed on the Latin ass I knew awaited me – hard and fuck-ready.
I hailed a taxi, my cock straining against the confines of my briefs as we careened through the bustling streets. My destination: a seedy bar in the El Poblado district, where the locals served up more than just coffee and sugary pastries. This was where I’d arranged to meet Carlos, his chiseled tattooed arm a beacon of promise.
As I entered, the air thickened with the scent of cheap cologne and sweat, a heady mix that only intensified my lust. The bartender, a chiseled Adonis with a porn-perfect six-pack, flashed me a wicked grin as he expertly juggled a tray of beers. My eyes devoured him, then scanned the room, searching for Carlos.
A moment later, he strode in, his arm flexing like a piston beneath the intricate tattoo that snaked around his bicep. My cock jumped at the sight of those chiseled pecs and the promise of a hard fuck to come. As he approached, I could feel my mouth watering, anticipating the sweet suction of his lips on my dick.
“Hey, amigo,” Carlos purred, his warm breath fanning across my skin as he leaned in for a sultry kiss. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
In that instant, our cocks became one, entwined in a passion that defied language and culture. We ravished each other on the bar floor, our mouths locked in an oral sex frenzy that left us both panting and begging. The world around us melted away, leaving only the raw, primal urge to fuck – hard, fast, and often.
As we stumbled out of the bar into the warm Medellín night, I knew this was just the beginning of a gay Colombian adventure that would leave me utterly spent and screaming for more.
