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“No ‘think,’ lil bro. Just move.”

So I moved.

Feeling awkward at first, ridiculous. Expecting the older man to laugh at me as I tried to follow the rhythm with my gyrations on top of him. Not so much dancing - at least, not how I thought that was meant to go - but rather more like working out, somehow. That same measure and control, only instead of weights it was Carlos’ rapt stare that held my attention.

“Lift your arms,” he told me, softly.

I knew what that looked like, too; could picture myself in the mirrors on the weights room walls. Dumbbells making my biceps bulge, my delts and traps swell. The focus of my big bros there no less intense than Carlos’ clear fascination now, only in the gym they were showing me how to reshape my body. Now, my teammate was teaching me how you could fuck with another man before he was even out of his clothes.

And there was something oddly powerful about that, even though I still felt clumsy.

Arms above me, a hand clasping each elbow. My head framed by my swollen muscles, as I stared down at him and tried to move my hips in time to the music. “Dancing” too generous a term for it - implying too much control, too much grace - but from the expression on Carlos’ face, that nuance didn’t so much matter. His erection, obvious each time I ground my cheeks into his lap, only made that more clear.

“Such a fast learner.”

I licked my lips, entranced by his smirk and the glaze of his eyes.

“Am I not meant to keep going, until you cum in your pants?”

Carlos’ nostrils flared, and then a split-second later he was twisting us. Gripping my waist, rolling me onto my back on the soft couch; quicker than I could begin to stop him, had I even wanted to. Left staring up at him, looming over me, his body between my thighs.

“Maybe I cum in you instead, lil bro.”

I wrapped my legs around him, squeezing us together. Remembering the number of times I’d done that during training, practicing move after move, over and over again. Coach’s barked orders and the heat of my teammate levering against me.

God only knew what Coach would say if he could see me now.

“Are you waiting for me to tell you how much I want it?”

One day, I’d be able to say such brazen things and not instantly blush and bite my tongue. Not that Carlos seemed to mind my uneven boldness.

“You know, lil bro, there have been many times they tried to ban the tango.” His weight braced on one arm, he pushed the fingers of his other hand between my lips. Watching, approving, as I licked and sucked on them. “It was considered too potent, too sexual. A corrupting influence.”

My jaw hung open, as he pushed his hand beneath him. Tugging my shorts down, so that he could work his spit-slicked fingers into me. Two from the get-go, my body instinctively softening.

“And at times, there were no women dancers,” he continued, watching my face as he squeezed a third digit inside. “And the men would dance together. Taking it in turns to lead, and follow.” A grin - all bright white teeth - as I gasped, his knuckles pressed against my skin.

Carlos bent down to nuzzle under my neck. His voice a vibration as much as sound.

“Adaptability is important, I think, lil bro. Flexibility. A willingness to be... versatile.”

Awkward, to reach down and tug at his cut-offs, but I knew the end justified the means. Wanting to feel his bare skin in my fist, to stroke the thick inches I’d drooled over, and felt deep in me, and watched bob and shake as I took my turn pounding Carlos’ tight hole. Relishing the sight of him - masculine, and strong, and achingly handsome - on all-fours, ass hiked up, and just as comfortable there as he was preparing to fuck me now.

“Lube,” I demanded, breathless.

He laughed. Jerked his chin at the end of the couch.

I reached for it, grunted with frustration that the end table was beyond my greedy fingers. Sliding half-out from under him, as I finally grabbed for the bottle, my chest draped over the sofa’s arm.

He pushed me down the rest of the way, body flipped again. Ass up, my own arms dangling, as he yanked my shorts to just below my cheeks.

Carlos took the bottle from me, and a moment later I felt the cool drizzle of the lube kiss my skin. Tickling as it drooled across my hole, the older man waiting almost until I was sure I’d be dripping onto his couch before catching it with his fingers and quickly pushing it inside me.

A change, then, a new texture, but that same sense of incredible stretching that had me wriggling in pleasure and anticipation. Grinding my cock into the cushions, their scant friction a simmering frustration. Only I knew Carlos wouldn’t let me jerk off, not now, not yet. Would pin my hands, my wrists, my arms if necessary. Force me to stay in the moment with him, savor it, rather than racing to the end.

Still, that didn’t mean I couldn’t try to hurry him along.

“Come on,” I muttered, my voice muffled by the arm of the couch as I levered myself against him. Carlos’ fingers were good - long and sly - but I knew what would feel better.