The gaucho. Chapter IV

"Consider this an improvised advance during a long and boring journey. Pending the publication of an expanded and corrected version in the future."

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When summer ended, we had already gotten used to going everywhere together. Besides, my grandfather didn't mind my absences, trusting blindly in the gauchito who picked me up every morning in the truck so we could wander by the river. "Catch something and bring it back; we're going to eat," the old man used to say with excitement, and the gauchito lied every time he said yes. It was evident that we came back late more than once and empty-handed, but the routine was already established.

Under my shirt, I carried the marks of an afternoon of sex, love, roughness, and a taste of water and earth that flooded my mouth with its aftertaste. The gauchito shook his head from the wheel and disappeared at the end of the street, while the semen from an improvised romp on the truck's seat still slid warmly down my legs.

If that was love, we hadn't thought about it. The fun became such a habit for us that it gradually consumed all the available time.

We loved to meet every day as early as possible to go to the river, or to the little wooded area to devour each other with bites, drowning in kisses and saliva. Then inevitably he would stuff my mouth with his cock and often let his semen run over my tongue as he gluttonously took it in.

Some twilights, my body burned in a thousand places where his teeth had left a mark or where his reddish fingers were perfectly outlined on my skin. Bites and spankings were a continuous part of our encounters. We rivaled, me for surrendering and him for possessing my humanity. Me for absorbing his youthful juice and impulses, him bending my resistance and penetrating my body with adoration. We were lovers, but we didn't know it. We made love, and we could not have named it.

I accompanied him to the countryside, and I liked to peek out the truck window to see him walk among the grasses, shouting at the cows that came over hungry for salt. Suddenly, he would grab one by the ear and, smiling at me, threatened to jump on it to see how long it could handle his bucking. I think my fright prevented him from the mischief each time.

Then he would signal me, and hidden in the barn, on a bale of alfalfa, he would mount me firmly, pushing my ass open until we both finished. First me, throbbing desperately for the sensation of fullness, and then him, bending me over with my hair in his fist and another hand muffling my moans. Hard, fully beautiful.