The Gardener Affair

The sun was too bright. Patrick’s eyes felt like sandpaper as he blinked against the morning light slicing through the blinds. His skull throbbed with a dull, insistent ache, each pulse a reminder of the previous night’s excess. He turned his head, the motion sending a fresh wave of nausea through his gut.

Carlos lay beside him, sprawled across the tangled sheets, his broad chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. The man looked carved from stone even in sleep, powerful thighs, thick arms, dark stubble shadowing his jaw. On
Carlos’s other side, Matthew was passed out cold, his head resting gently on Carlos’s chest, lips slightly parted, a thin line of drool tracing down his chin. The sight of them like that, so casual, so intimate, sent another jolt through Patrick’s already frayed nerves.

Patrick groaned. Every muscle screamed. His mouth felt like cotton, coated with something foul and metallic. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the room tilting dangerously. The moment he stood, pressure built in his gut. He stumbled into the bathroom, barely reaching the toilet before his stomach convulsed.

Vomit splashed into the bowl, bitter chunks of pepperoni floating in the mess.

When the hell did I eat pepperoni?

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, flushed, and leaned against the cool porcelain tiles. With a shaky hand, he turned the faucet, letting icy water rush over his fingers before cupping it and splashing it roughly onto his face. The shock of cold against his clammy skin made him gasp, sharpening the fragments of memory that surfaced like bubbles in murky water. The pool house. Carlos pissing into Matthew’s hole. Drunken swimming. Then more beers. Reggaeton blasting through the speakers. Carlos taking them in the kitchen, on the living room floor, commanding them to kiss and finger each other while he watched. Pizza was ordered. More beer delivered. Carlos used Patrick’s own wallet to pay for it all.

He shook his head and forced himself upright. Downstairs, the house looked like a warzone.

Empty bottles covered every surface: coffee table, countertops, windowsills. The hardwood floor was tacky with spilled drinks. He walked toward the kitchen, his bare feet sticking to the mess. Through the sliding glass door, the pool area told the same story: bottles littered the deck, floating in the pool’s skimmer. On the outdoor bench sat several empty pizza boxes, crusts scattered beside them like fallen soldiers.

Patrick grabbed three bottles of Evian from the fridge, the cold glass soothing against his palms. He made his way back upstairs, each step deliberate, measured.

He reached the bedroom doorway and froze.

Matthew’s head was bobbing steadily up and down on Carlos’s thick cock. Carlos appeared to still be asleep, one arm draped over his face, but Matthew’s movements were practiced, hungry. The boy’s lips were stretched around the shaft, saliva glistening down his chin.