The Married Tobacconist Who Waited for My Bike Every Afternoon

My name is Andrés, I’m forty-nine years old and I’ve been married for almost twenty years. I’m not an interesting man. I install air-conditioning systems all over Toledo, come home, have dinner with my wife, we watch a series, and the next day I start all over again. My life looks like that of a lot of people my age.

My wife, Marta, and I have lived in the same neighborhood for more than a decade. I wouldn’t say my marriage is unhappy: we get along well and almost never argue. But over the years the passion of the early days turns into habit, and habit ends up looking far too much like routine. We haven’t fucked in months, and the few times we try it’s a short formality, with the lights off and without looking at each other.

I’ve smoked since I was young, though less and less as the years go by. I buy my cigarettes at the same tobacco shop, on Calle de la Plata, two blocks from home. It’s a small place where, for the past year, the same woman has always served me. For a long time, to me it was nothing more than that: the place where I bought cigarettes.

But there are moments that begin as something normal and, without you even realizing it, end up changing everything. In my case, it started one ordinary afternoon, when I walked in and Lucía looked at me a little differently than she had before.

For quite a long time, Lucía was simply the woman at the tobacco shop. Brunette, with large honey-colored eyes and an easy smile she gave to almost everyone. She must have been about forty-two. She was one of those women who catch your eye without trying, always in a light blouse that hinted at a pair of big, heavy tits behind the counter, and a round ass that stood out every time she bent down to reach something in the lower drawers.

At first our conversations never went beyond the usual.

—A pack of Ducados?

—Yes, thanks.

A couple of remarks about the weather and not much else. But you see the same person so many times that you end up exchanging more words than you intended. That’s how I found out she was married, that she had a sixteen-year-old son, and that they lived nearby.

The first time we really talked was one afternoon when she came in looking like she’d had a bad day, as if she hadn’t slept much. I asked for my cigarettes and, almost without thinking, said:

—You don’t seem to be having a very good day today.

She looked up, hesitated, and then let out a sigh.

—I argued with my husband this morning —she said, lowering her voice—. Well… actually we’ve been arguing for weeks. He drinks too much. And he comes home later and later. There are nights I don’t know where he is until after midnight.

She wasn’t saying it in anger, but with that exhaustion you get when a problem repeats itself too many times.

—Sometimes I think we’re going to end up separating —she murmured.

It was the first time she’d told me something personal. From that point on, our relationship stopped being that of customer and shop assistant.

***

And then the bike happened.

One afternoon I parked right in front of the door because there was nowhere closer. I bought my usual and went outside. Not even thirty seconds had passed when I heard the door open behind me.

—Is that bike yours? —she asked.

I turned and saw her in the doorway, looking at it with a mix of curiosity and excitement.

—Yeah. Do you like bikes?

—A lot. I’ve always liked them… but I’ve never ridden on one.

She came closer and ran her hand over the seat. And that was when I realized Lucía wasn’t talking to me the way she talked to everyone else. There was something different in her gaze.

From that day on, every time I showed up on the bike, she seemed to notice before I even walked in. One afternoon I’d barely killed the engine when she came out onto the sidewalk.

—I knew it was you. I recognize that noise from far away. —She leaned over the tank, her T-shirt clinging to her body from the heat, making her hard nipples show through the thin fabric, and I couldn’t help staring at her tits hanging right in front of me—. Seeing it isn’t the same as riding it —she added with a half-smile.

Those scenes started repeating themselves. When the street was quiet, Lucía would find any excuse to step outside, and we always ended up talking beside the bike. And always, sooner or later, her husband came up.

—He got home late again last night —she said one of those afternoons, leaning on the seat—. When he drinks, he becomes unbearable. Sometimes I feel like we live in the same house, but that’s all. He doesn’t touch me. He hasn’t touched me in months. —She looked at me, softening her voice—. It’s nice talking to you. One of these days you have to take me for a ride on the bike. Will you promise me?

She said it like someone making a joke. But it didn’t sound exactly like a joke.

—Promise —I answered, almost out of obligation.

***

For several days that phrase kept turning over in my head. We were both married and, although a strange complicity had sprung up between us, neither of us had done anything improper. Until that afternoon.

I arrived later than usual. The sun was already low and the street was almost empty. I saw Lucía inside, helping an older woman. When the woman left, she looked at the wall clock.

—I’m going to close a bit early today. There’s nobody around… and I feel like getting out for a while.

I paid and went out onto the sidewalk. A couple of minutes later the shutter came halfway down and Lucía locked up. She had her handbag over her shoulder and her hair tousled by the day’s heat. She stayed staring at the bike.

—Do you remember what I told you? I’ve always wanted to ride on a big bike. —She looked at me straight on, with a mix of shyness and resolve—. Will you take me for a ride?

It wasn’t a scandalous proposal. Just a ride. But we both knew it wasn’t that simple. It wasn’t about the bike. It was that she’d closed early. It was the way she looked at me.

—What about your husband? —I asked.

—He doesn’t get home until very late… you know.

I thought about Marta, at home, watching the series. None of it was serious. But it wasn’t innocent either. I opened the seat and took out Marta’s helmet.

—All right.

Lucía smiled in a way I hadn’t seen before. She put on the helmet and, before climbing on, asked:

—Where do I hold on?

When she put her hands around my waist, I had the feeling that ride was going to change more things than we imagined.

***

I started off slowly. There was little traffic at that hour, so I took the quiet streets that lead out of the neighborhood. A few minutes later Lucía pressed herself a little closer against my back.

—Now I understand why you like it —she said near my ear.

I drove without hurrying and climbed the narrow roads that lead to the Mirador del Valle, on the other side of the river. The city was beginning to light up and the air rising from the Tagus felt cool after the heat. On every curve her body leaned with mine, her tits pressing against my back, and on a straight stretch she slid her hands from my waist and planted them directly on my crotch. She squeezed my cock through the denim while I accelerated, and I felt it going hard against the fabric.

When we arrived, I parked beside the edge of the overlook. Lucía took off her helmet slowly. In front of us, the old town of Toledo stood out against the dark sky: the cathedral and the Alcázar lit up on the hill, and below, the Tagus wrapping around everything.

—My God… —she said, resting her elbows on the stone wall. The wind moved her hair, and for a few seconds neither of us spoke—. I haven’t been here in years. I used to come with my husband, when we used to go out more. —She turned to me—. I think it’s been a long time since I’ve done something just because I felt like it. And it’s your fault. You show up on that bike, you stay chatting as if we’d known each other our whole lives… and in the end I sneak out of work with you like a schoolgirl.

She stayed very close. For a second neither of us moved. We were both married, both had lives outside that moment, and even so there we were, alone at the lookout, looking at each other in a way that no longer had anything to do with a shop assistant and a customer.

—We should go back —she said, though she didn’t sound convinced. And she didn’t move.

Then she leaned forward and gave me a quick kiss, almost a brush. I froze for a fraction of a second. But before I could think, I wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her back. This time it wasn’t shy anymore. Her hands found my neck and the kiss became long, intense, tongue and all, while I slid my hands down to her ass and squeezed it with both hands. She let out a short moan into my mouth.

We separated almost at the same time, as if we’d suddenly remembered where we were.

—Sorry, Lucía… —I said quietly—. I don’t know what came over me.

She held my gaze. She didn’t look angry. Quite the opposite. She leaned in again, put her arms around my neck and kissed me once more, with much more determination. I felt her pressing against me, without a trace of doubt, rubbing her belly against the erection I could no longer hide. When she finally pulled away, she was breathing fast.

—I’ve been driving me crazy for a while now —she murmured—. I’m soaked, Andrés. Put your hand down your pants if you don’t believe me.

And the two of us knew that what had begun was no longer just a bike ride.

***

—Not here —I whispered—. There are too many people.

She didn’t answer with words. She dropped her hand to my crotch and squeezed my hard cock through the fabric, shamelessly, weighing it in her open palm.

—Fuck, you’re thick. I want it inside me. Then get me out of here, Andrés. Now.

We went down the slopes avoiding the lit-up streets. I knew a secluded alley off the tourist route, where stone walls blocked the lamplight and the cobblestone ground swallowed any sound. I stopped the bike against the wall and, before she’d even taken off the helmet, I already had her pressed against the masonry.

I kissed her hard while my hands slipped under her blouse. Her skin burned. She wasn’t wearing a bra; my fingers found her heavy tits and nipples hard as stones that seemed ready to break through the thin fabric. I pinched both of them at once, tugging slightly, and she arched her back against the stone and smothered a moan in my neck. I lifted her blouse up to her throat and bent down to suck on them. I took one full tit into my mouth, licking the areola in circles, nibbling the nipple, while with my other hand I kept squeezing the other one. The tip grew even harder against my tongue.

—Don’t talk… —she panted—. I’ve been soaking my panties for weeks just from seeing you get off the bike. Suck them, yes, look how they’re getting…

I sucked on them for a good while, going from one to the other until they were shining with saliva. I slid one hand down her belly and unfastened her jeans. I slipped my hand inside her panties. She was drenched, the panties soaked through, stuck to her cunt. Her pubic hair was wet. I brushed her clit with my thumb, in slow circles, and she jerked, digging her nails into my shoulders.

—Like that… slower at first —she begged.

I pulled her jeans and panties down to mid-thigh so I could get better access. I slid one finger into her cunt. She was on fire, tight, gushing. I moved it slowly, curling it upward, searching for that rough spot inside, while my thumb kept circling her swollen clit. Lucía writhed against the wall, her hips moving on their own, looking for more of me.

—Put another one in. Two. As many as you want —she whispered.

I slid in a second finger. I worked them together, in and out at a steady rhythm, my knuckles brushing against her wet lips. In the silence of the alley you could hear the wet, pornographic sound of my fingers going in and out of her cunt. She clenched her thighs around my hand, trapping it, and her breathing turned ragged.

—Faster… don’t stop, don’t stop, like that, you fucking bastard, like that… —she moaned into my neck, covering her own mouth with her other hand so she wouldn’t scream.

I sped up. My hand was soaked to the wrist. I could feel her inside tightening more and more, the walls of her cunt squeezing my fingers as if they didn’t want to let them go. I pressed my thumb harder against her clit and curled my fingers inside toward the spot that drove her crazy. Suddenly her whole body tensed, she arched her back against the stone and smothered a long moan against my shoulder while she came in spasms over my hand. I could feel her cunt pulsing, squeezing and releasing, while a hot stream of fluid ran over my fingers into my palm. It took her several seconds to loosen up, hanging from my neck, trembling, her legs weak.

—I hadn’t come like that in years —she whispered, still panting—. Years, Andrés, fuck. Now it’s your turn.

Without giving me time, she turned me against the wall, switching places with me, and dropped to her knees behind the bulk of the bike, hidden from any eyes that might appear at the mouth of the alley. I heard the zipper come down. Her warm hand searched inside my underwear and pulled out my hard, dripping cock. She looked at it for a second, weighed it in her hand, and smiled.

—What a cock you’ve got hiding there, you bastard.

And without further ado she shoved it all the way into her mouth in one go, all the way to the back, until I felt the tip hit the back of her throat. She gagged briefly, pulled back, and took me in again. Her tongue danced over the head every time she came up to the tip, sucking hard, and her hand squeezed my base and twisted it gently in time with her mouth. I had to grip the handlebars to keep from dropping to my knees.

She looked up at me from below, her hair falling across her face and her eyes full of desire, her mouth full of my cock stretching her lips. With her other hand she slipped her fingers between her legs, still with the jeans around her thighs, and started touching herself while she sucked me. Every distant noise sent me through the roof; the risk of someone turning the corner and seeing us —a woman on her knees in an alley giving head to a stranger still wearing a helmet— made it a thousand times more intense.

She pulled it out for a moment to catch her breath, spat on the head and rubbed me from top to bottom with her hand, staring straight at me.

—Come in my mouth. I want you to come in my mouth, Andrés. I want to swallow it all.

She took me back in and now she was moving frantically, hand and mouth working together, sucking with hollow cheeks, her tongue pressed against the underside of the head.

—Stop, or I’m going to come now —I warned her through clenched teeth. She didn’t stop. On the contrary, she sucked harder and shoved my cock down her throat until her nose touched my groin. The orgasm hit me all at once, brutal. I started pumping out streams of semen into her mouth, one after another, and I felt her swallowing, her throat squeezing the tip with every gulp. She didn’t waste a drop. When she finally pulled away, still using her tongue, she cleaned the last drops from the little hole.

She stood up slowly, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand and wearing a mischievous smile. She kissed me, sharing the salty taste on her tongue, and whispered:

—That’s just the appetizer. Next time you’re putting it in all the way. Front, back, wherever you want. I don’t know when or where, but you’re going to fuck me one of these days.

She pulled her panties and jeans back up, adjusted her blouse, and with one finger scooped up a drop of semen left on her chin and licked it off slowly, looking at me.

***

I took her to a little street two blocks from her house. She got off quickly and held out the helmet almost without looking at me.

—Thanks for… everything. See you —she said, with that short smile she used with customers.

I watched her turn the corner until she disappeared. I started off again, unhurried, as if nothing had happened. The night wind dried my sweat, but it didn’t erase her smell: perfume mixed with the tobacco that clung to her clothes all day, and that smell of wet cunt that was still stuck to my fingers.

When I parked in front of the house, the living room light was on. I went in with my usual key. Marta looked up from the sofa.

—You’re late —she said, without reproach.

—I took a long ride. I felt like clearing my head.

I went to the bathroom, washed my face with cold water and rubbed my fingers with soap until they stopped smelling like cunt. I put on a little cologne to cover her scent. In the mirror I was still the same Andrés as always, the husband of almost twenty years. But my eyes were different. More alive. And more guilty.

I went back to the living room and sat next to Marta. She rested her head on my shoulder and I hugged her by instinct, as I did every night. And while the series played in the background, I thought about Lucía the next day, about how she would look at me when I walked in to buy cigarettes, about that promise hanging between us like a time bomb. And I knew I wasn’t going to be able not to keep it.

***

I stayed on the corner until the sound of the bike was completely gone. I put a hand to my neck, where I could still feel Andrés’s bite, and the other to my belly, where the heat was still throbbing. My panties were soaked, stuck to my cunt, and every step reminded me of what I had just done. I could still feel his semen in my throat, that salty taste that wouldn’t go away.

Lucía, what are you doing? I told myself, almost laughing from nerves. It wasn’t the laughter of regret, but of vertigo, of that feeling of being alive that I hadn’t felt in years.

I walked the two blocks to my building looking at the ground. The neighborhood was quiet, nobody noticing my tousled hair or the smile I couldn’t get rid of. The hallway was dark: my son was asleep, and my husband wouldn’t be home until the small hours, like almost every night. Better that way. Today I didn’t want to see him come home smelling of alcohol.

In the bathroom I looked at myself in the mirror: eyes brighter, lips swollen from so much kissing and sucking. I pulled my jeans and panties down to my ankles. The fabric was dark with damp, with a little trail of fluid stuck to it. I smelled my fingers: they smelled like him, like his cock, and I smelled my panties; they smelled like me. I stood there a moment like that, half naked in front of the mirror, touching my still-sensitive tits, with my nipples marked and red from how much he had sucked them.

I got into bed without turning off the light, naked from the waist down, remembering every detail: how his hands smelled of soap and gasoline, not stale beer; how he had looked at me on the overlook, with a clean hunger; how he’d put his fingers deep inside me in that alley; how he’d taken me in his mouth all the way to the throat and how much I had enjoyed choking on him. For the first time in years I had felt truly desired, truly fucked.

My cunt was still throbbing, sensitive, swollen, asking for more. I slipped a hand under the sheets and opened my lips with two fingers. I was dripping again. I started rubbing my clit slowly, imagining it was Andrés’s tongue licking me there. With the other hand I slipped two fingers into my cunt and moved them the way he had moved them, curling them upward, while I kept my thumb on my clit. I imagined his cock, that hot thickness I had had in my mouth, going in and out of me, driving me against the wall. I came quickly, muffling the moan in the pillow, biting it so I wouldn’t wake the boy, and stayed still, with my heart in my ears and my hand still inside.

***

The hours passed. The clock struck two. I was in that limbo between sleep and wakefulness when I heard the key fumbling in the lock: once, twice, three times. Then a dull thud against the wood and a slurred curse.

It was him. Rubén, my husband.

I sat up in bed, my heart racing. It wasn’t the first time he’d come home like that, but tonight felt different; or maybe it was me, more alert, more exposed. The door opened with a creak. Heavy footsteps, a stumble, keys falling to the floor. I held my breath: if the kid woke up, everything would be worse.

Rubén appeared in the doorway, outlined against the hallway light. He smelled of beer, black tobacco, bar sweat. His shirt was untucked, his hair a mess, his eyes glassy.

—Already in bed? —he slurred, leaning on the frame—. Such an early bird.

I switched on the little lamp. There it was, the usual thing: the three-day beard, the dark circles, that expression halfway between aggressive and lost that he wore when he drank.

—It’s two-thirty, Rubén. The boy has class tomorrow.

He let out a short, humorless laugh.

—The boy, the boy… always the boy. And what about me? Don’t I count?

He collapsed onto the edge of the bed. I shifted back a little, instinctively, and he noticed.

—They bought me a few drinks at Emilio’s place tonight. I couldn’t say no. But you never go out with me. You’ve been weird lately —he said, squinting—. Happier. Do you have a boyfriend or what?

I felt a chill in my stomach. For a second I thought he knew. That he smelled another man on me, in the bed. But no, it was just the drunk’s paranoia.

—Don’t be an idiot —I answered neutrally—. I’m tired. The tobacco shop opens early.

He looked at me for a long moment and then gave a hoarse laugh.

—Of course, the tobacco shop. Stuck in there all day, selling cigarettes to old men and fucking bikers.

The words hit me like a punch, but I clenched my fists under the sheet and said nothing. He got up unsteadily, went to the bathroom, came back taking off his shirt.

—Come here —he said, flopping onto his back—. Give me a massage. I’m dead.

I looked at him. The body that had once seemed strong to me was now soft, bloated with beer and time. His belly hanging over the belt. I felt a wave of disgust mixed with pity. I thought of Andrés’s hard cock in my mouth barely two hours earlier, and of the last time Rubén had managed to get himself hard with me —I couldn’t even remember when.

—I don’t feel like it, Rubén. Go to sleep.

He grunted, turned his back to me and soon after started snoring.

***

I stayed awake a long while longer, staring at the ceiling. The smell of alcohol filled the room. I thought about Andrés, about the way he had looked at me in the alley, about how he had pressed my tits against the stone, about the wet sound of his fingers going into me, about how, for the first time in years, someone had truly wanted me, not out of habit or duty.

And while Rubén snored beside me, I slipped my hand under the sheets again. I pulled my nightgown up to my waist, careful not to move the mattress, and slowly spread my legs. I was still wet from the last time. I started touching myself in silence, imagining it was Andrés sliding down my belly, opening my lips with his fingers, putting two, three thick fingers deep inside me. I slipped in my own, imitating him, curling them upward like he had done. With my other hand I pinched a nipple beneath the nightgown, tugging hard, the way he had bitten it.

I imagined riding him, on the bike, or on the floor of the tobacco shop after lowering the shutter, or on my knees sucking him again, his cock filling my mouth, the hot semen running down my chin and tits. I imagined asking him for it from behind, something Rubén had never done to me, Andrés’s cock forcing its way into my ass slowly until he put it all the way in. My fingers moved on their own now, fast, and I pressed my thighs against my own hand to muffle the wet noise.

I came biting my lip until it hurt, stifling the moan in the pillow, feeling my cunt squeeze my fingers the same way I’d squeezed his before. I pulled them out wet and brought them to my mouth without thinking, sucking them as if they were something of his.

Afterward I stayed still, breathing deeply, my thighs sticky. Tomorrow I’d open the tobacco shop as always. And when Andrés came in asking for his Ducados, I’d smile at him in that way only he understood. Because now I knew it for certain: I wasn’t going to stop. I couldn’t. Even if Rubén slept beside me, even if the boy was in the next room, even if the whole neighborhood found out one day.

I wanted more. I wanted his cock inside me, all of it, all the way to the back. I wanted him to fuck me in the back room, against the counter, with the shutter half down. I wanted everything. And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t care what it cost.