In Caracas’s sultry night, I met him at a rundown porn shop, where the air reeked of stale semen and desperation. His name was Carlos, a muscular Venezuelan with a thick, uncut cock that made my dick twitch in anticipation. As he fisted his giant meat, I felt an overwhelming urge to taste it.
“Quieres jugar?” he asked, eyes locked on mine like a predator sensing prey.
I nodded, my mouth watering at the mere thought of his raw, unbridled sexuality. He led me to a dingy backroom, the sound of porn videos and grunting men providing a raunchy soundtrack for our encounter.
Carlos dropped his pants, revealing that magnificent cock, glistening with precum. I couldn’t resist; my tongue darted out, licking the tip in a slow, deliberate motion. His groan echoed off the walls as I swallowed him whole, my lips sliding up and down his shaft like a suction cup on a hot summer day.
With each stroke, he pumped his hips, fucking my mouth with a ferocity that left me breathless. My cock strained against my jeans, yearning to be free and join in the primal dance of sex and lust.
Suddenly, Carlos pulled out, his dick glistening like a chrome-plated rod. He grasped my head, pushing me back onto the bed as he mounted me with a brutal intensity. Our bodies collided in a frenzy of thrusts, our sweaty skin slapping together like a drumbeat in a primal chant.
I felt his cock swell, the precum dripping like a promise of what was to come. He arched his back, screaming “¡Sí! ¡Sí!” as he exploded inside me, a hot, sticky torrent that left us both gasping for air. In that instant, I knew our sweaty, lust-fueled encounter would be etched in my memory like a brand on a willing slave – a testament to the raw power of gay sex and the unrelenting drive of machismo.
