The terrace after the storm
The sky was still gray-tinted when Mateo left the roof landing. The entire building seemed to sleep after the early morning shower. He went down two sections to the community terrace and found the door ajar, as always the lady on the ground floor forgot to lock it. One figure was already there: Javier, 3rd B, with a towel on his shoulder and his bare chest dripping water from the recent shower.
"I didn't know anyone was getting up early after a storm," said Matthew.
Javier became. The rising light outlined the relief of his shoulders and the dark line descending to the waist of the cotton pants.
"I wanted to see if the sun had dried the furniture. I was not planning on finding company.
They remained silent for a second, measuring distances. Then Javier pointed to the hammock and smiled.
- You can stay. I don't bite.
Mateo approached. The air retained some moisture; it smelled of wet soil and Javier’s shaving cream. They sat in the hammock. The initial contact was one knee rubbing another. None of them turned away. Javier’s breathing slowed; Mateo’s was slightly accelerated. Javier turned his head.
"Do you mind if I touch you?" he asked quietly.
"No," answered Matthew. "On the contrary.
Javier’s hand went up the inside of the other’s thigh, paused but firm, until it brushed the erection that was already pulling from the fabric of the short pants. Mateo contained a sound. In response, he bowed and brushed his lips against Javier’s jaw. The kiss came later, dense, with tongue and teeth that sought the corner of his mouth. Javier just stepped away.
"Inside," he said, pointing to the maintenance room at the bottom of the terrace, where they kept the pots and an old garden sofa covered with a tarp.
They entered. The place smelled of old wood and dry fertilizer. Javier closed the door with the latch and turned. The space narrowed. They took off their clothes with silent urgency: T-shirts that flew towards a broken pot, pants that fell in a circle around their ankles. Mateo’s skin had a slightly toasted tone; Javier’s, paler, showed the contrast of black hair that was born in the chest and went down through the belly.
Javier opened the small metal cabinet where they kept the tools. Among them, he found a pot of massage oil that someone had left there months ago. He examined it, read the label and smiled.
- It's still good.
They sat down on the couch. Mateo strung himself on Javier’s knees, both naked and hard. Mateo’s hands toured the other’s torso, tracing each muscle with the buds. Javier opened the boat and spilled a generous amount on his fingers. The oil was warm; it slipped slowly. Without haste, Javier extended his hand between Matthew’s buttocks, finding the muscle ring. He gave two soft circles before pressing the bud of a finger.
"Yes?" he asked.
"Slowly," answered Matthew, and added, "more."
The finger came in. Matthew squeezed his teeth, but not for pain, but for the complete feeling of something solid opening his way. Javier waited until the muscles gave way and then began a rhythmic, superficial movement. He added another finger when he felt Matthew’s body softened. The oil dripped into the thigh. Matthew groaned softly, bowing. Javier’s forehead rested against his chest.
"You're hot," said Javier.
Mateo joined a little and searched between the two bodies for Javier’s thick, heavy member. He lubricated it with the same oiled hand and raised it. He aligned his swollen head with his entrance and went down carefully. The dilation was gradual; a centimeter, a pause, another centimeter. Javier held Matthew’s hips, his thumbs drawing reassuring circles. When the penetration was complete, they both released a long sigh. The sofa creaked. Matthew remained motionless, getting used to the feeling of being full, stretched out, but without painful tension.
"Move," said Javier quietly. "Whenever you want.
Matthew began to swing. The rhythm grew little by little, from a smooth swing to a deeper swing. Every time he descended, Javier pushed up in soft synchrony. The oil facilitated the slip; the sound was wet, continuous, discreet. Mateo grabbed the back of the sofa to adjust the angle. Javier bit his nipple gently, causing a spasm that squeezed the inner flesh around the member that penetrated him.
"Fuck," said Matthew, more flattering than complaining.
Javier slid a hand between them and closed his fingers on the Mateo member, synchronizing the pressure with each attack. Mateo’s orgasm came first: intense heat that lowered him in the back and made him contract his internal muscles in rapid waves. Javier endured a few more seconds, holding his hips tightly, before spilling inside with a series of short impulses. The two remained still, breathing on the other’s shoulder.
After a few minutes, Mateo got up slowly. Javier’s member slipped out with a soft sound. Oil and semen began to slide through the inside of his thighs. Mateo laughed between his teeth and looked for the towel Javier had brought. They cleaned without haste, sharing the cloth and light kisses.
When they went out to the terrace, the sun was already breaking the clouds and the ground was shining with residual water. Javier picked up the scattered clothes and handed them over to Mateo.
"Maybe we could stay a little longer," said Matthew, without urgency in the voice.
Javier nodded and pointed to the hammock.
"After the storm there is always calm. Sometimes there is also company.
They stood there, shoulder to shoulder, as the city woke up. The fragrant oil still perfumed the closed air of the little room; the ajar door let a ray of light pass through. No one needed to say anything else.
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