Tyrone and Daniel touched down in Cartagena on a Thursday morning, the coastal heat washing over them the moment the jet doors opened. The villa—rented discreetly through a private contact—sat above the old city, hidden behind a wall of flowering bougainvillea and wrought iron gates. High arches. Terracotta tiles. A balcony that overlooked the sea. Every inch oozed seduction.
Tyrone, of course, looked right at home—his sunglasses, black linen shirt unbuttoned halfway, and the slow, deliberate way he walked through the entryway like he already owned it.
Daniel followed, dressed in lightweight slacks and a sleeveless top that hugged his slim frame, showing just enough skin. He was quiet, observant, kneeling mentally at Tyrone’s side, even if not physically.
The local staff took their bags. Tyrone tipped generously.
Daniel never stopped watching him.
That Night
Tyrone stood on the villa balcony after dinner, sipping a neat pour of Colombian rum, shirtless now, the golden light behind him making his muscles gleam like a statue. The salt wind tangled with his scent—clean skin, spice, dark musk.
Daniel approached slowly.
“Sir…”
Tyrone turned. “Yes?”
Daniel hesitated. “You’ve been quiet.”
Tyrone walked over, lifted Daniel’s chin with two fingers.
“Sometimes I need to remind myself that obedience isn’t always about presence. It’s about absence.”
Daniel blinked. “Sir?”
Tyrone kissed his forehead—brief, possessive.
“You’re going to stay here tonight. Kneel. Meditate. Reflect. Don’t move from that cushion until I return.”
Daniel swallowed hard. “Where are you going?”
“To indulge myself.”
Daniel’s jaw tensed, his voice low. “Do I… get to ask who?”
Tyrone smirked. “No.”
He turned, left without another word.
Elsewhere — The One-Night Storm
La Cueva Roja was a local underground club. Intimate, pulsing with music, thick with sex and sweat. Tyrone entered like he was meant to be there. The locals noticed instantly. A man like him didn’t blend—he commanded.
That’s when she spotted him.
Sofía.
Voluptuous. Curvy in all the ways God made sinful. Her caramel skin shimmered under red lights. She wore a halter top too tight for gravity, a short skirt that left little to imagine, and heels that clicked like a countdown.
She approached without hesitation.
“¿Eres americano?”
“I’m whatever you want me to be tonight,” Tyrone said with a half-smile.
She licked her lips. “You look like you break things.”
“Only if they beg me to.”
That was all she needed to hear.
Back at Sofía’s Apartment
The walls were painted gold and red. A fan spun lazily overhead. Music thumped softly from her stereo, but it was drowned out by the way her heels hit the floor, the way her breath caught when Tyrone pinned her against the wall with one massive hand around her throat.
“You want it rough, baby?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she gasped. “Make me feel it tomorrow.”
Tyrone didn’t hold back.
He threw her onto the bed face-first, yanked down her thong, and spanked her hard—once, twice, again—until her moans filled the room. His other hand tangled in her thick curls, pulling her head back.
“You like being used?”
“Sí, papi. Sí.”
He unzipped, took out his full length, and teased her folds mercilessly before plunging inside her in one hard stroke. She cried out—pleasure, pain, surprise—and he relished it.
He pounded her with brutal rhythm, deep and relentless. One hand on her hip, the other wrapped around her throat from behind, keeping her exactly where he wanted her.
The headboard slammed. Her moans turned to screams. And Tyrone didn’t stop until she was shaking beneath him, whimpering, throat raw from screaming his name.
Meanwhile — Back at the Villa
Daniel knelt on a thick cushion in the center of the candlelit sitting room.
Time passed.
One hour. Then two. Then three.
The silence was his master now. The ache in his thighs, the hard floor beneath his knees, the gnawing jealousy in his gut—all became tools of reflection.
He thought about Tyrone’s pleasure. His hands on someone else. His mouth. His power.
Was it a betrayal? No. Tyrone had warned him. He knew this was part of the life. But it still hurt.
And yet… beneath the pain was something darker.
Need.
Daniel didn’t want Tyrone to stop being who he was. He wanted to be the one who endured it. Who stayed. Who proved himself.
He stayed kneeling.
He waited.
3:42 AM — Tyrone Returns
The villa was silent.
Tyrone entered, stripped of his shirt, sweat-slicked and glowing. The air shifted with his scent—sex, rum, salt. Daniel lifted his head, barely able to hide the way his eyes devoured him.
Tyrone walked directly to him, towering above.
“Did you move?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you cry?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you imagine me inside her?”
Daniel swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“Did you touch yourself?”
“No, sir.”
Tyrone smiled darkly.
“Good boy.”
He knelt then—pressed his forehead to Daniel’s. His hand cupped Daniel’s face.
“She was wild,” he murmured. “Loud. Begging. But she wasn’t you.”
Tyrone stood, removed his pants, and sat down in the oversized chair behind him.
“Now come here.”
Daniel climbed into his lap. Tyrone’s cock was still semi-hard—slick from his conquest—but Daniel didn’t flinch. He licked his lips, leaned down, and took him into his mouth without hesitation.
“That’s it,” Tyrone growled. “Claim what’s yours.”
Daniel sucked him slow, gentle at first, then with more hunger. Tyrone moaned, hand in his hair, head falling back.
“Make me forget her.”
Daniel did.
And when he was finished, Tyrone pulled him into his lap, wrapped his arms around him, and held him.
“You endured,” Tyrone whispered. “That makes you stronger than anyone I’ve ever touched.”
Daniel didn’t speak.
He just melted into his arms, knowing he’d passed the test.
Tyrone’s Page