"Fifty Pesos a Night"
by Osiris Brackhaus

 

"Mariachi Happy hour!", the pub's owner exclaimed merrily. "Mariachi singing is 5 Peso, a kiss from the Mariachi 10 Pesos. Dancing with them is 20 Pesos, and a night with the Mariachi is 50 Pesos!"

----

"Hey! You're back!" Lorenzo rushed to the entrance where the dark frame of his friend seemed to loom like a bad omen. Slinging his arms around the black-clad mariachi, he added: "So glad to see you, I'll have to tell - "

"No." The single word fell like a boulder. "I am here to get my guitar."

"The guitar." Lorenzo's arms slid off the mariachi's shoulders, retreating as inconspicuously as possible. What a fool he was to have hoped otherwise. "Sure. It's upstairs."

---

Up in the tiny room the two mariachi had been given by the establishment's landlord, Lorenzo noted that his guest was in a mood even more somber than the last time he had met him.

"Is he still drinking?"

Lorenzo looked at their mutual friend Fideo, unconsciously sitting in a corner of the room, a bottle of booze still in his numb hands. "Yes."

"I'll need you two soon enough. Better get him sober."

If it were that easy, Lorenzo thought with a slight bitterness, don't you think I would have done so long time ago? If I had a choice, do you really think I would waste away in this rathole?

Suddenly, the young musician realized that his guest was not inspecting that special guitar-case as he had thought, yet instead was observing him with his fierce, dark eyes.

"What?", he asked, and the other man walked up to him, picking a peso note out of Lorenzo's shirt he hadn't even noticed still sticking there.

"Fifty pesos a night. You're growing cheap."

That hurt.

More than Lorenzo would have liked, for it hurt like only the ones you love can hurt you. But like every time, he tried to put on a smile and ignore the pain. Usually, his smile did wonders to stop people from looking into his heart. But his old friend was not an ordinary person.
Not at all.

"A man's gotta eat", Lorenzo replied lightly, his voice almost perfectly steady.

"Why do you do this, Lorenzo?", the dark mariachi asked, holding up the note like proof number one. "Why?"

"Isn't that obvious?", the young man asked, trying to ignore the fact that hearing his name spoken by that special person in front of him made his mouth go dry. What a voice... "I need the money."

"You could beg. Steal. Work, for a change." For a moment that seemed too long for Lorenzo to endure, the two men stared at each other, but when the young musician finally tried to turn away, the mariachi grabbed his wrist and turned him back to face him. "We both know it's not about the money. What is it that makes you sell yourself?"

Lorenzo's attempt at a short laugh came out almost as a painful yelp. "You ask me? And what is it that makes you kill people? Again?"

The mariachi's jaw tightened, his eyes growing narrow and menacing. This had been a remark even Lorenzo couldn't fling at that man unsentenced.

"What now?", the young man asked tensely. "Are you going to shoot me as well or will you just break my neck?"

"I still need you." Without any further comment, the man in the scorpion-patterned jacked let go of his friend's hand, turning his attention back to the simple, black guitar-case and it's deadly contents.

"I am sorry," Lorenzo said after a long, awkward silence. "We're both trying to fill that void in our hearts, we're just doing so in different ways."

The mariachi looked up from his guitar-case, fiery dark eyes sparkling through the strands of his dusty hair. His voice was dripping with sarcasm as he asked: "What do you know about loss, Lorenzo?"

Answering truthfully took more courage of the young man than he had thought. But he managed to look his guest straight in the eye as he replied: "Something you know you can never call your own feels as much a loss to you as something that has been taken from you."

In the low light of the room, the mariachi's expression was hard to read, and Lorenzo wondered if it was disgust, boredom or something entirely else he saw in his old friend's eyes. Then, abruptly, the older man slammed the lid of the guitar-case shut, still staring at the other musician.

"So you still have that infatuation."

"It's not an infatuation," Lorenzo replied, inwardly praying that he wasn't breaking the last ties to the man he longed for so desperately. "Wish it was."

Silence spread after this confession like an oil spill on water, ugly, unhealthy, unstoppable. Finally after what seemed like a small eternity, the mariachi spoke again: "And? Does it work?"

"What?"

"Selling yourself. Does it keep away the pain?"

The musician blinked in surprise at this unexpected turn of the conversation, yet answered truthfully enough: "Yes. Most of the times."

"So when does it fail?"

"Only when you're around."

The mariachi nodded slowly, pensively. Then he reached into his jacket and fingered out a battered ten-pesos note and flung it in Lorenzo's direction.

"Here."

"What for?"

"I was told a mariachi's kiss is ten pesos tonight."

"You're joking!"

"Am I smiling?"

No, he wasn't. Of course not.

Of all the people, Lorenzo thought. Now there is the one person on this ugly planet I'd gladly do for free, and he's paying me to kiss him. I've never felt more like a whore. And never cheaper.

"You don't have to pay me", Lorenzo said in a vain attempt to make himself feel any less awkward, but his companion didn't put away the money. "What are you trying to pull off?", the young musician asked, slowly walking over to his long-time friend. "Last time, you made pretty clear you didn't ever want to touch me."

The mariachi opened his mouth as if to say something, then clenched his jaws shut so abruptly Lorenzo could hear the teeth click. "T'was a long time ago. Things have changed."
In his dark eyes, Lorenzo could see pain, and sadness, emotions that had grown so common to the mariachi's face he hardly could remember him smile. Carolina's death had once again taken from him what little peace of mind he had ever found. But also, there was a distant fire now, a longing for revenge. Not hope, but at least a reason to go on.

The young musician walked up to his friend, as close as possible without actually touching him. For several year in his dreams, he had conjured up a moment like this, a moment where the fierceness in the mariachi's eyes was the burning of passion, and that this passion would be burning for him.
Though, there was no passion in the dark eyes he was looking in right now. Actually, Lorenzo found no way to tell what his companion was thinking, or what he was trying to get out of his charade.

And still, there was a temptation in the mariachi's offer Lorenzo had known from the beginning he would not be able to resist. Standing there right in front of him, dusty and tired, his stringy black hair more like a veil in front of his eyes than anything else. He smelled like he had been on the road for several days, but there still was something about him that made Lorenzo's heart pound in his chest, made his blood run through his veins scalding and thunderous.
There was a promise of passion in the mariachi's stance, a possibility of that exquisite desire that was able to wash over your mind, swallow you whole, and leave you lying breathless on the shores of exhaustion. Wrung out, yes, but cleansed as well. Cleansed of all that filth one acquired unavoidably when living a life that didn't give a shit if you could still look at yourself in the mirror the next morning as long as you were still alive.

Almost instinctively, Lorenzo found himself licking his lips, anticipating how it would feel to finally touch the man he had desired for such a long time. Still, the mariachi was staring at him, his look so intense it felt like burning, and yet unreadable in its intention.

"What do you see in me?", Lorenzo asked, going the final step and slinging one of his arms around the mariachi's waist. Gently pressing his body against the other man, he felt a dizzy wave of desire run through him as he felt the warmth of flesh and the firmness of muscle through the two layers of clothing between them. Yes, he definitely felt like he had imagined in his dreams. "What am I in your eyes?"

"You're not paid to talk."

Again, Lorenzo's face twitched in barely concealed pain. Alright, he was playing it the hard way.
With a gesture ruder than planned, the young musician snatched the money out of the other man's hand, tucking it away into his back pocket with grim determination. Yet, he didn't let go of the mariachi's waist one single inch. This was all about lust, about fucking, not love. If his feelings got hurt on the way there, Lorenzo didn't care. Emotions were a luxury a man of his limited means couldn't really afford. He was already getting more than he had ever dreamed of, so he shouldn't complain.

Carefully, he put a strand of hair out of the mariachi's face, trying a little smile. There was a beautiful man hidden underneath all that grime and anguish, and the fiery eyes looking out of that dusky face were enough gratification to make this job an easy one.

Sneaking his hand down the mariachi's neck, he pressed himself even tighter against the other man. Lorenzo knew that he embarked on a fling he had no idea of where to it would lead, and he couldn't have cared less. Holding his own head to the side, he neared the other man's lips, desire and hesitation battling in his heart. He could hear the mariachi breathe, feel his breath on his face, feel his chest rise and fall in his embrace, his crotch firmly pressed against his hip. Only for a heartbeat, he let his lips hover above the other man's mouth, then gently, longingly kissed him. The first moment their lips touched, all the penned up desire in Lorenzo's heart seemed to break loose, his kiss growing fiercer, more demanding, his tongue prying open the mariachi's reluctant lips, his embrace so tight it seemed the young musician wanted to melt himself onto the other man's body.

Suddenly, a soft shiver ran through the mariachi's body, nothing more than a deep breath and a sudden change in his stance. But the change couldn't have been more profound in Lorenzo's eyes had he suddenly sprouted white wings and a halo. Slowly, as if learning again how to do so, the dark clad man's lips opened under the constant caress of the young musician, the mariachi's mouth opening slowly like the eyes of a man waking from a deathlike sleep. When Lorenzo felt two strong arms rising at his side, touching his chest, bit by bit returning the embrace he was holding the mariachi in, he was so astounded he stopped his kissing and looked at his friend in bewilderment.

"You haven't shaved", the almost legendary pistolero stated in a voice somewhat too husky not to give away that he wasn't as untouched as he tried to appear.

"And you seem as if you've actually liked it."

"It felt... real. No wonder they pay you."

Again, Lorenzo drew in a sharp breath as his friend’s words reminded him that he actually had been paid for this kiss. But the still close embrace the mariachi held him in gave the young man enough resolve to this time reply with what was in his heart.

"It felt real because it was."

The mariachi cocked a mocking eyebrow at him. "Is that what you tell every customer?"

"No!" Lorenzo exclaimed with so much anguish that his companion actually blinked. "I've said so to quite a bunch of girls, admitted. But never before to a guy." The two men looked at each other in the half-dark of the small room, each one wondering what was going on behind the other one's brow. "¡Te quiero, mariachi," Lorenzo whispered, afraid he might break those fragile words if he used any other language than his own, "¡Tengo te amé siempre!"

Instead of an answer, the other man took the young musician's chin in his hand, gently wiping across Lorenzo's lips with his thumb. Still tingling with the reminder of the passionate kiss they had exchanged only moments ago, the touch was so electrifying it made Lorenzo shudder in the mariachi's embrace.

"Very good", the dark clad man whispered, his voice so deep it made Lorenzo moan soundlessly. "You just earned yourself another ten pesos."

And without asking, he bent forward, kissing the young man with a passion that bordered to violence. Lorenzo didn't know what was happening to him, and he staggered backwards not to fall over, but the mariachi didn't let go of him, not at all.
Following the motion the musician had started, he pushed him across the room, kissing him incessantly until a wardrobe stopped their way. With a sound somewhere between a sharp breath and a grunt, the mariachi pulled himself away from his friend, staring at him from behind the dark curtain of his hair, breathing hard.

Stunned, Lorenzo rubbed his mouth sensitive with the rough treatment, seeking for words, finding none. Instead, he just stood there, his back against the furniture, his lips slightly parted, moist, trembling; his usually so well-groomed hair in tell-tale disarray. Wordlessly, he watched as the mariachi grabbed into his jacket, somewhat awkwardly fingered out another ten-pesos note and tucked it into the young man's shirt.

Again, uneasy silence spread between them, and Lorenzo wondered which of them had gone mad. Except for the unconscious Fideo still slumped on his chair in the corner, this whole scene looked just too much like what he had envisioned for himself when his sleepless nights had called for some tenderness.
Only that he had never thought of the mariachi paying him for what he would have been gladly willing to pay for himself. And more than a mere ten pesos, that for sure.

"So it's fifty pesos a night, right?", the mariachi asked, his voice still husky, and Lorenzo could have winced at the question.

"Please, don't", the young musician said, raising his slender hands in a pleading gesture.

"Not? A hundred pesos maybe?"

"No, please! I - I don't want you to pay me..."

Almost menacingly, the mariachi walked up to his companion again, so close the strands of his hair actually touched the young man's cheeks.

"Fucking for free is like killing off people for no reason"; he whispered. "We both shouldn't sink that low. And we're not far off, anyway."

This time, it was the mariachi who took a strand of hair out of Lorenzo's face, tucking it behind his ear with a gentleness that belied his brutish words. "So how much a night?"

"Fifty pesos." Lorenzo tried not to choke on the words, closing his eyes as if that would make him not feel the anguish that threatened to overwhelm him.
In the relative silence of the room, he could hear the mariachi take out some more bills, setting them onto a nearby table. So it was going to happen tonight. How life had a fucking way of making you unhappy even if it finally gives you what you have always desired.
But there was no point in complaining, was there?

Slowly, Lorenzo opened his eyes again, and with odd amusement saw the mariachi standing a few steps in front of him, his arms crossed on his chest, a faint expression in his strong features that might almost have been a smile.

"I am waiting", he said.

Languidly, Lorenzo pushed himself away from the wardrobe he had been leaning against, answering the mariachi's hinted smile with a sleazy grin of his own. Whatever was on his companion's mad mind, this was his terrain now. "I'll make you enjoy this."

Closing his friend's mouth with another kiss, the young musician let his left hand wander almost stealthily under the mariachi's black jacket, his fingers gently touching the soft cotton of his shirt tingling at the feel of sinewy muscle underneath. This was so much better than what he had dreamt of for himself, Lorenzo thought as he let the tip of his tongue run across the other man's lips, grinning inwardly as he felt a faint shiver of excitement responding. This is the real thing.

Both of his hands now caressed the mariachi's chest, and Lorenzo's breath was running deep and hard with excitement. His old friend was still not joining in the game, but that was just fine. The young musician could tell by his partner's breathing that he was enjoying this, that he felt the excitement just as much as Lorenzo. And the hard bulge of the mariachi's crotch pressing hot against his thigh was all the proof one could have asked for.

Lifting up the black suede jacket, Lorenzo pushed it over his friend's shoulders, letting the heavy garment drop to the ground. For a heartbeat, he was afraid that the noise of the countless clasps and chains would wake up their mutual friend Fideo, but the drunken musician didn't even flinch. In the low, reddish glow of the single lightbulb that was the only illumination in the room, he could see the curve of muscle underneath the mariachi's white shirt, its white embroidery an oddly sensual touch to so grim a man.

"What exactly do you want me to do?", Lorenzo asked between two gentle kisses he pressed onto his friend’s neck.

"Make me forget."

"I can't do that." The young musician sounded genuinely regretful. "And you know that."

"Not at least for a while?"

Lorenzo smiled softly. "That, I can try."

Slowly, he opened the top button if his companion's shirt, then the next one, then one more. Running with his fingers across the slightly hairy chest he uncovered, he moaned softly in deep longing. "How long have I been waiting to do just this...", he whispered, more to himself than to anybody else, then lowered his head and kissed one of the exposed nipples, no more then a gentle licking at first, growing more passionate, sucking, biting, until the mariachi grabbed his head and forcefully pushed him away.

Looking up, Lorenzo found the other man staring at him, but in the low light, and behind his curtain of hair, his expression was hard to make out. The young musician noted how his friend’s chest was moving with each deep breath, and that the hands that held his head were almost trembling with the control needed to hold them still.

Without a word, the mariachi pulled up his young companion, up to his face, kissing him with the same ferocious passion like the time before, again pushing him across the room in the process. This time, they ended up against the wall next to the wardrobe, both men panting with desire, both of them unsure of what to do next.

Once more, Lorenzo rubbed over his throbbing lips, his head dizzy with longing and hardly able to decide what to do next. But the mariachi standing in front of him, breathing hard, his shirt open and exposing one shoulder was an image too tempting not to act upon.

This time, the young musician grabbed for the other man's head, kissing him with enough passion to make both their bodies shiver. Then, with a swift motion, Lorenzo moved around, now pinning the mariachi against the wall for a change. Underneath his lips, the young man could feel a smile tug at the corner of his friend's mouth, and he knew that this was a compliment as great as he would ever get.

Slowly moving lower with his kisses, Lorenzo knelt down in front of his companion, his mouth exploring each bit of skin between the mariachi's cheek and his belly. When finally, he was on his knees, the young man looked up, for the first time finding an expression in the other man's face, and with a certain pride in his craft he saw that the mariachi was smirking. A bit, at least.

Well, Lorenzo thought as he started to open the belt that closed the mariachi's black suede trousers. A smirk's definitely not as good as a moan or a helpless whimper, but I think we're getting there. Taking his time, he unclasped the buckle, grinning with certain anticipation at the promising bulge that was now right in front of his face. Running his hands across the hard curve, the young musician heard the mariachi take in a deep and longing breath. Unexpectedly, the pistolero grabbed his companion's head by the hair, holding him firm, pressing the young man's face against his crotch, moaning soundlessly.

Lorenzo yelped softly, more in surprise than in pain, and yet was all but disappointed by his companion's passionate outburst. The mariachi didn't let go of his hair, but he lessened the pressure, and the young musician noted that his hands were shaking with barely controlled desire as he unbuttoned the mariachi's trousers. The zipper was going hard where hot flesh pressed against the fabric, a fact Lorenzo noted with delight. Slowly, like unwrapping a present, he peeled away first the heavy black suede of the pants, then the light white cotton of the shirt, one of his hands planted firmly on the other man's butt.

Now talk about tight fit, Lorenzo thought at he realized just how nicely the mariachi's ass fit into his hand, firm and round. And all this suede and the fancy clasps and stuff... That's what I call a nicely wrapped present.

Though he knew it would look cheesy, the young man couldn't resist pulling down the mariachi's briefs with his teeth. But hey, this was a once-in-his-lifetime experience, and he was allowed a little bit overacting. Like jack-in-the-box, an admirable cock jumped up right in front of Lorenzo's nose, finally free of its confines, throbbing with need.

The young musician felt a wave of red-hot lust wash over his body, and with almost greedy swiftness, grabbed the mariachi's trousers and briefs, pulling them down to his knees in a single motion.
Which prove not as easy a task as Lorenzo had thought in the beginning, and once again he wondered how long in the morning his companion had to struggle to get this extremely snug piece of clothing over his nice, hard ass.

But this thought was only a flashed image, washed away like sand by the flood in the morning. Another image was now far more prominent on Lorenzo's mind, holding his attention like the mariachi still held the young man's head in his grip. Carefully, trying hard not to rush in this unique moment, he moved forward, until he could feel the heat the mariachi's cock radiated like fire on his cheeks, until his lips touched the soft silken skin that covered such much-desired hardness.
Almost completely lost to the sensation, Lorenzo let his lips wander along the throbbing meat, kissing it gently, licking along its length with his tongue. How much a single detail can fill your mind, he wondered as his lips gently cupped the head, how little all other things seem to matter in such moments.
Carefully, the young musician let his hands wander up the mariachi's belly, stroking him, caressing him, holding him, while he swallowed his cock more and more, savoring each inch. As a low groan escaped his old friend, he smiled, at least as much as his current situation allowed, and looked up. Down from his kneeling position, the mariachi seemed to be a towering man, his chest rising like the Andes, his dark eyes burning in a lightless fire.
It was an image Lorenzo wanted to burn into his memory and never forget, the one time his old friend looked at him with more than just companionable amiability.

Slowly, he started to move his head, rocking up and down along the other man's cock, almost forgetting to breathe as he saw the mariachi writhe in soundless lust. Even if he was only paying me, Lorenzo though with deep satisfaction, his lust is real. And that, he'll never be able to take back. I might never be his, never once in my life, but right now, he's all mine.

The temptation to finish the mariachi off right there and then was great, harder to fight than Lorenzo would have ever thought. To see the other man wind himself in helpless desire, to exert all what little power he had over him right now was so very alluring, but also carried the danger of ending this evening long before time.

After all, the mariachi had paid for a whole night, not just for a blow-job. Even that would be all he wanted if asked right now. If he would be willing and able to answer, that was, of course.

So when Lorenzo could already feel his old friend's cock swell even harder, his balls growing taut, the young musician let go of him with a slight tinge of regret.

Looking up again, he could see the mariachi panting hard, his hands clenching at his sides. He still had his eyes opened, and stared at the young man at his feet with a smoldering fury.

"What?", he asked coarsely.

"Nothing", Lorenzo replied and rose to his feet again, shedding his shirt in a well-practiced motion. "Just wait and see."

"Wait?" The mariachi didn't sound too thrilled at the prospect, but his friend only grinned widely.

"The deal holds both ways. You pay for a night, you get a night. No more, no less." The musician took his time to kiss his old friend before he went on, one of his hands gently caressing the hard cock between them. "Don't think I would let you get out of here that easily."

"Looks like I'm in your hands", the mariachi said, looking downward, yet closed his eyes with a very satisfying groan as Lorenzo grabbed his cock just the right bit harder.

"You didn't pay me to listen," the young man said with a wide grin, "So stop talking."

For a few moments, the two men leaned against each other, pressed against the wall, moving in the silent rhythm of pleasure. Then, rather abruptly as Lorenzo felt his friend coming too close to the edge, they separated once more.
This time, the mariachi didn't speak, only watched in silent fascination as his friend slipped out of his pants. Absent-mindedly, he stroked his chest until Lorenzo was standing in front of him, completely naked, the young man's cock as hard and needy as his own.

Slinging his arms around his still half-clad friend, the young musician whispered softly into the other man's ear: "Tell me, mariachi, have you ever love a man before?"

"Why should I have?", the other man asked back, just as softly, and yet with an edge that made Lorenzo swallow once more.

I mustn't forget he's just using me to distract himself, the young man reminded himself urgently. I mustn't forget that this is all I'll ever get of him.

"Never mind." Again, Lorenzo pressed his body against the other man, gently rubbing skin on skin. "I'll show you the way."

Trying hard not to rush, the young musician used his wet fingers to prepare himself, hardly able to wait. Desire was burning inside of him in a raging torrent, and he dearly hoped that the man he was holding would be able to quench this burning at least for a time.
When he felt himself relaxed enough to enjoy what would be coming next, Lorenzo didn't wait one heartbeat longer. Turning around, he placed his ass against the mariachi's lap, leaning his back against the other man's chest. Carefully, he reached behind him, took the throbbing cock and placed its head against his entrance.
Even if the mariachi had never had a man before, it didn't take him any time to understand what was expected of him. Deftly, he shoved his dick up the young musician's ass, holding Lorenzo at his hair and waist.

The young man had to stifle a yelp of pain as the mariachi filled him, but then, his own desire was far to voracious to be deterred by such petty sensations. Arching back to welcome every tiny bit of his cock inside of him, Lorenzo shuddered as pain and lust clashed within his body, whimpering as he felt his shudder echo in the mariachi's movements.

Deep and hard, the mariachi thrust into him, his movements strong and deliberate, the sensation of his dick inside of him flooding Lorenzo's mind, obliterating any worries or fears, leaving nothing behind but pure, unrefined, primal lust.

How long he fucked him, Lorenzo couldn't have said afterwards. Only when all of a sudden, the mariachi's dick left him and his hands didn't hold him any longer, the young man started to think again.
Staggering on his wobbly legs, panting, sweat glistening on his tanned skin, he turned around, staring at his old friend who still stood in his corner beside the wardrobe.

"No", the mariachi exclaimed under his breath. "No, this is all wrong!"

"¿Que?", Lorenzo asked, his lust-clouded mind struggling to make any sense of what was happening.

"It shouldn't be like this."

Pearls of sweat glistened among the dark hair on his heaving chest, and all the young man could think of that this was where the dream ended and the princess turned into Cinderella once again and forever.

"What...", Lorenzo pressed out, staggering a few steps ahead until he found some hold on the edge of a table. "Did I do anything wrong?"

"Oh, fuck you, Lorenzo." With three steps, the mariachi stood next to him, radiating heat and desire. With a single, deft motion, he hauled the young musician up into a straight position, slinging his arms around the naked man. "You're not being paid for thinking, either."

Kissing him passionately, the mariachi pushed him backward until the table stopped them. Then, with a single motion, he swept everything on the table onto the ground, groping at Lorenzo's ass with his other hand all the while. "It's just that I want to see your face when I take you", the mariachi explained, pushing down the young man onto the table. "I want to see your face when I make you scream."

There was such a feral desire in the mariachi's deep voice that Lorenzo thought he'd never breathe again. Never even once again in his whole life.
But when the mariachi lifted the young man up and placed his legs onto his shoulders, when his hot and hard cock filled him with a single thrust, the air for his scream had to come from somewhere.

This time, there was little restrain in the mariachi's movements, and even though Lorenzo could hardly think himself, he could feel his companion swiftly approach his peak.
The young man hardly noticed him stroking himself, maybe even guiding the mariachi's hands to his own cock, only realized somewhere in his lust-drenched mind that he came, all his attention focussed on the man moving on top of him, on the soft, grunting noises he made.

Slowly, as the worst mist of his own climax cleared from his perceptions, Lorenzo found the mariachi lying on top of him, his brawny arms slung around the young man's neck, holding him as tight as possible. The mariachi's dick was still deeply buried inside of him, and he moved in tiny, slow thrusts, shivering hard each time he moved.
He was close to his own peak, Lorenzo realized, so close he could hardly move, and yet he didn't want it to end.
The sensation of the mariachi's lust-wrecked body on top of his own, each square inch of skin sticking together with sweat, hearing his breath go all ragged and short right next to his ear was so hot, so electrifying Lorenzo could have sworn he came once more on spot.
Gently, he reached for the mariachi's head, turning him around to kiss him, gently and longingly. Tenderly, he stroked the other man's hair, the rigid muscles on his back, his own mind set afire by his partner's peak close and yet not happening with any of the mariachi's tiny thrusts. Lorenzo slung his legs around his companion's waist, pressing himself even more onto the throbbing cock inside of him, still kissing him with all the love he held in his heart.
He could feel the other man's muscles move underneath his skin, could feel him shiver and writhe, exerting so much control over his own body Lorenzo could hardly believe. Finally, the mariachi stopped moving at all, his waves of shivers blending together into a tremor that encompassed his whole body, a soundless scream ripping his throat only to be swallowed by Lorenzo's gentle kisses.
With so little distraction, the young man could almost feel the tension break and recede, could feel his lover pumping hot and hard inside of him.

Never before had any of his countless partners shared his peak so clearly with him before, Lorenzo realized, and it would be a memory he would treasure until the end of his days.

"Graçias," he whispered softly as the mariachi slumped down of him, all life apparently drained from his body. "Thank you." Lorenzo continued to stroke the other man's hair, his fingers playing with the damp, dark curls while his lover gathered himself, while he reveled in the scarce, blissfully unselfconscious, peaceful moments good love-making gave to you.

Then, with a sluggish motion, the mariachi pulled himself out of the young musician, their bodies separating with a soft, sticky wet sound. For a moment, he just stood next to the table, motionless, his chest glistening, his eyes hidden behind his hair. The mariachi took a deep breath, saying:

"Don't thank me." Pulling up his trousers again, he scanned the room for some rag to clean himself, while Lorenzo still lay on the table, naked, speechless. "I paid you like a whore, although all you wanted was my love."

Half-heartedly, the mariachi cleaned his chest and put his shirt back on, gathering up his jacket from the ground. Lorenzo sat up on the table, searching for any words that could express the emotional turmoil he felt inside, but once again, it was the mariachi who spoke first.

"But love's the one thing I can't give."

Tucking the shirt into his pants, the mariachi took his jacket, his guitar-case and walked over to the door. Already holding the doorknob in his hand, he turned around, saying: "Get Fideo sober. I'll call when I need you."

Without waiting for a reply, the mariachi opened the door, and left.

The jingling chains on his trousers and jacked disappeared into the distance and the murmur of the bar below, and on his table, Lorenzo sat, naked and exhausted, hugging his knees, and cried.

 

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to: Osiris Brackhaus

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