I Asked the Boy I Humiliated at School for Money

My name is Daniel. I’m an industrial engineer. I live in an apartment in the Eixample, in Barcelona, with my girlfriend Lucía. We don’t have tons of money, but we’re not missing anything important either. We go out to dinner on Fridays, travel a couple of times a year, and everything else fits into a quiet life.

Lucía is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. She’s loyal, funny, and has a body that stops traffic. Big, heavy tits that fill your hand and spill out to the sides; wide hips that show even under a coat; a round, firm ass that bounces when she walks; and a lush mouth that makes you want to bite it, shove two fingers in it, and finish inside it. I’m not the only one who notices; on every terrace, in every supermarket aisle, there are eyes following her, clinging to her cleavage and dropping shamelessly to her ass. Her only flaw, if you can even call it that, is that she’s jealous. The last serious boyfriend she had before me cheated on her for two years with a coworker. Since then, she’s lived with the alarm switched on.

But with me she has nothing to worry about. I adore her. I haven’t touched another woman as much as a hair since we got together. When I want to fuck, I fuck her. When I want a blowjob, she gives me one. When I want to empty myself, I empty into her cunt, her mouth, or her tits, and that’s enough for me.

Everything was going fine until they fired me from the studio.

It happened on a single morning. The boss called me into his office, talked to me about restructuring, cutbacks, how my position was being absorbed by a younger, cheaper coworker. I walked out of there with a cardboard box in my hands and my face ashen. I didn’t tell Lucía anything. I just couldn’t. I was embarrassed, I suppose, or scared, or both at once.

For the first few months I lived off my savings. I got up at the same time as always, put on my shirt, took my laptop to a café in the neighborhood, and spent the day sending out résumés that no one answered. In the afternoon I’d go home and tell Lucía how “the day” had gone. I made up meetings, stories about coworkers who no longer existed for me, problems with drawings I hadn’t opened in months.

Each month got harder. Eixample rent is no joke. My checking account started blinking red. I asked the bank for a couple of small loans and they turned me down. I sold the watch my father gave me when I graduated. That bought me three weeks of breathing room. After that I was back to the same suffocating pressure.

One night, while Lucía was asleep, I sat on the sofa with my phone in my hand and started scrolling through my contacts. I was looking for someone, anyone, who could throw me a rope. I ruled them out one by one. Family, no, too much pride. Close friends, no, either, because I didn’t want Lucía hearing about it from anyone else.

Then I stopped on a name I hadn’t dialed in more than fifteen years.

Rubén.

I’d kept it because someone from my high school group had created a chat at the time. I never used it. Never wrote to him. But there it was, with his profile picture from a century ago, smiling at me from the screen with an air of resignation.

I took a breath and hit call.

“Yes?” a dry voice answered.

“Rubén? It’s Daniel. Daniel Folch. We were at school together, do you remember me?”

There was a long silence.

“Daniel? I’m not placing you.”

“We shared four years at Maragall. I sat two rows behind you in math with Aragó.”

“Ah…” he said, and I could hear his voice change. “Yeah, I’ve got you now. Daniel. Long time.”

“Yeah, an eternity. Listen, sorry to call like this, out of nowhere…”

“Don’t worry. What are you up to?”

“Well, I studied engineering, moved to Barcelona, I’m in a relationship. And from what I can see, things have gone very well for you too. I heard about your production company.”

Rubén let out a short laugh, humorless.

“You could say that,” he said. “The nerd from school now makes a living doing porn. Who would’ve thought.”

“It’s a success, man. Really. I’m very happy for you.”

“Sure. I bet.”

The silence turned awkward. I didn’t know how to continue. He didn’t seem inclined to help me either.

“Look, I’ll be straight with you,” I said. “I’m not calling just to say hi. I’ve been out of work for months. I’ve sold everything I had, I owe two months’ rent, and I don’t want to tell my partner. I need a loan. I wouldn’t ask if I had another option. I’d pay you back with interest, whatever you want.”

I waited. He took a while to answer.

“What’s your partner’s name, Daniel?”

The question caught me off guard.

“My partner? Lucía. Why?”

“No reason. Just to get an idea. Have you been together long?”

“Three years. We’ve lived together for two.”

“And you say she’s beautiful.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but she is. I can tell from your voice.”

I let out a nervous laugh. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

“Yeah, she’s beautiful. Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity. Just curiosity. Send me a message with your bank account number and tomorrow I’ll transfer it. No interest. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

He bit down hard on the word “friends,” like he was savoring it.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Rubén. Seriously. As soon as I find something, I’ll pay you back every last euro.”

“No rush. We’re in touch.”

He hung up before I could say anything else.

***

I sat there for a good while with the phone resting on my knee, staring at the dark screen. Something about that conversation didn’t quite add up. The questions about Lucía. The tone when he said “friends.” The way he ended the call.

But the truth was, at that moment I wasn’t in any shape to be suspicious. I was on the verge of crying with relief.

Rubén had been the nerd at school. Short, chubby, thick-framed glasses, and a backpack always too big for him. He barely spoke, played weird games, drew in the margins of his notes. And he got the black lottery of landing in a class full of assholes.

I was one of those assholes.

I wasn’t the worst. Others threw his sandwich on the floor, hid his books, and a couple of times yanked his pants down in the schoolyard. I never went that far. I just laughed. Made comments. Called him names. Copied his exams and then ignored him in the hallway. The usual, the kind of thing you do when you’re eighteen and haven’t yet asked yourself whether what you’re doing is right or wrong.

Over time we lost track of each other. I went off to university; he did too, as I later heard from others, though he didn’t finish his degree. He built a website. Started uploading amateur videos he somehow got hold of. Then he began producing his own material, hiring girls, renting a warehouse in Poblenou and turning it into a studio. In five years he’d become a millionaire.

He’d been into that kind of kink since school. I remember seeing him on some study hall duty, looking at his phone hidden under the desk with that same embarrassed face. Bondage, swaps, double penetrations, humiliation scenes, women with two dicks in their mouths and another in their cunt, extreme close-ups of facials. Things we, at that age, didn’t even know how to name. When I learned what he did for a living, I wasn’t surprised. It was a natural continuation of who he already was.

What did surprise me was that he’d said yes.

***

The next day, by late morning, I got a bank notification. Fifteen thousand euros. More than I’d asked for. Far more.

Behind the transfer was a message from him in the chat: “Attached document. Read it and sign it for me.”

It was a private loan contract between individuals. Well written, I suppose by his lawyer. Flexible term, zero-percent interest, but with a clause at the end that made me hesitate for a second: “The borrower undertakes to collaborate with the lender in occasional tasks related to his professional activity, provided they do not entail violation of the law.”

I read it three times. It was odd wording, ambiguous. But I was desperate and those fifteen thousand euros gave me back my breath. I signed. Scanned it. Sent it back.

“Received,” he replied. “Welcome to the club.”

I didn’t know what to say. I also didn’t understand what he meant by “club.”

That afternoon, for the first time in months, I left the house without the anguish lodged in my chest. I stopped by the rental agency, paid the two months I owed and put down three more in advance. I bought Lucía a bouquet of flowers. A bottle of wine. A box of her favorite chocolates, the ones with liquor.

When I got home, she was waiting with the table set. She was wearing a short black dress, no bra, and her tits stood out beneath the fabric like two promises. She looked at me oddly.

“What are we celebrating?” she asked, smiling.

“The big project got approved,” I lied. “Big commission.”

She hugged me. She kissed me, and that kiss wasn’t a greeting, it was one of those that starts in the mouth and ends lower down. She shoved her tongue all the way in, bit my lip, and whispered in my ear:

“I’m so proud of you, baby. So, so proud. And so horny.”

She took my hand and brought it between her legs. She wasn’t wearing panties. She was wet already, soaked through; I felt the heat of her cunt on my fingertips before I even touched her, and when I did, she moaned softly and arched her hips into my hand.

“To the table later,” she said. “Right now I want you on top.”

I lifted her up and sat her on the kitchen counter. I hiked her dress up to her waist. Her cunt was right there, open, shiny, with her lips swollen and the clit peeking out between them like a pink pearl. I dropped to my knees without thinking and buried my mouth in her. I licked her from bottom to top, slowly, savoring her, and she let out a long gasp and grabbed a fistful of my hair.

“Yes, just like that, eat me out all the way,” she moaned. “Suck my clit, Daniel, suck it hard.”

I obeyed. I sealed my lips around her clit and tugged at it with my mouth while I slid two fingers into her cunt and searched for the spot inside. I could feel her clamping down, squeezing my fingers, a thread of wetness running down to my wrist. I went lower too and ran my tongue over her ass, over her tight little hole, and she jolted and laughed.

“Dirty bastard… do that again.”

I did it again. And again. I ate her out for minutes, biting the inside of her thighs, sucking her pussy lips, pushing my tongue as deep as I could. When she started trembling and squeezing my head between her thighs, I got up, unbuttoned my pants, and pulled out my cock, hard and swollen, the head already wet.

“Put it in,” she said, panting. “Put it in now, baby, I can’t take it anymore.”

I grabbed her by the hips and drove into her with one thrust. All the way in, to the hilt. She screamed and clutched my shoulders. Her cunt gripped me like a hot, wet fist. I started fucking her right there on the counter, with the flowers fallen to one side and the bottle of wine still unopened. Her tits bounced beneath her dress with every thrust, and I yanked the dress down in one pull until they were out, two big, heavy breasts with dark hard nipples like stones. I bent down and sucked one, biting it, while I kept pounding into her.

“Harder,” she begged. “More, Daniel, fuck me harder, split me open…”

I lifted her off the counter, turned her around, and bent her over the dining table, the one we weren’t going to use for dinner after all. I spread her ass with both hands and shoved it in again from behind, into her cunt, while her tight little asshole stared at me from inches away. I spat on it. Ran my thumb over it. She moaned.

“Dirty bastard… put it in there too.”

I pushed my thumb into her ass slowly while still driving into her cunt. Two holes occupied, pressing against each other with every thrust. Lucía had her cheek pressed to the table and her mouth open, moaning low, not holding back, not caring if the neighbors heard.

“I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come,” she started repeating, faster and faster, lower and lower.

She came with her cunt biting down on my cock in spasms, soaking my balls, and I held on a little longer, watching her ass bounce against my hips, until I couldn’t anymore. I pulled out just in time, turned her around, sat her on the edge of the table and aimed at her tits. I came all over her in thick, hot ropes, on her nipples, on her cleavage, one stream reaching her chin. She ran two fingers over her chest, gathered them up slick with my cum, and put them in her mouth, looking me straight in the eyes.

“All for me,” she said, sucking them. “All of it.”

We stayed like that for a while, panting, sticky, with her dress hanging off one hip and the food going cold. She gave me the kiss back with my taste still in her mouth and pressed herself against my chest.

For a moment, I convinced myself it had been a good decision. That Rubén had grown up, that he’d forgiven me, that the clause in the contract was just lawyerly formalism, that it meant nothing.

The guy, after all, had a good heart. That’s what I thought. That’s what I needed to think.

***

The first message came two weeks later. It was a Friday night. Lucía had showered and was on the sofa watching a series, in panties and one of my T-shirts, with one breast peeking out of the neckline without her realizing it. I was in the kitchen, pretending to tidy something.

“I’ve got a party in Sitges next Saturday. Come with your girl. You’ll be interested.”

I read the message three times, just like the contract. This time it wasn’t ambiguous.

I told him no, that Lucía wouldn’t fit in his world, that I hadn’t told her anything about him or the loan. That I’d rather pay him back little by little, the way we’d agreed.

It took him a minute to write back. When he did, he attached a photo of the signed contract and the following text: “Last clause. Read it again. And tell Lucía to put something nice on. No panties. She should come without.”

I turned off the screen. Rested my hands on the counter. Closed my eyes. Through the open window came music from the bar on the corner, laughter, glasses clinking. A normal life that was no longer mine.

From the living room, Lucía called out to me.

“Baby, are you coming? The episode’s starting.”

I swallowed. Wiped my hands on the dish towel. Walked toward the living room with the fakest smile I think I’ve ever worn in my life.

“Coming, love. Coming.”

That night, while she slept naked with her hand on my chest and one leg crossed over my sleeping cock, I understood what I’d done.

I had sold the most valuable thing I had for fifteen thousand euros and the lie of an old enemy. And I still hadn’t started paying the price.