Confession: the Day I Took the Envelope to the Garage

This happened a couple of years ago, when I was twenty-two, in those strange days between finishing college and the end-of-degree trip. My mom had left for Tucumán on business the day before, and my dad caught me in the kitchen with the look of someone about to ask a favor. He needed me to take some money to the mechanic’s garage, in cash, before noon. They’d arranged an urgent trip north, and the car had to be ready for the following week.

I asked if I could go after lunch, and he said no, that the parts guy charged in cash and if I didn’t bring him half that very morning, he wouldn’t start. I grabbed two envelopes tied together with a rubber band and left them on the dining-room table while I went upstairs to change.

It had been sticky-hot since early morning. I didn’t want clothes that would leave marks on my back, so I took out a light skirt that came two fingers above my knee and a thin white tank top. I thought about putting on a bra, but my nipples showed too much, and the idea seemed more fun without one.

I put on a new cotton thong. I pulled it up slowly; the rubbing against my skin left my back tingling for a couple of seconds. On my feet, flats. I ate half an apple standing in the kitchen and tucked the package with the money into the small backpack I use for little things.

Before leaving, I fixed my hair and put on dark glasses. I looked at myself in the entryway mirror and felt like someone else: the girl who, on a weekday, was running an important errand, with grown-up money on her back, outside college hours. Grown-up. I left the door behind me and walked, feeling the air pass everywhere.

No one had ever looked at me so much. Halfway down the block I started noticing the double takes, that turn of the head from passing cars. I changed my stride without thinking, swayed my waist a little more, and let my hips find their own rhythm. I smiled beneath my glasses.

A gust of wind on a corner lifted my skirt a few inches, and I slapped it down with my palm. “What an ass, sweetheart!” shouted the passenger of a white Fiat that rolled past slowly. I lowered my head, laughed to myself, and kept going.

It had been a long time since I’d been to the garage, but I recognized it as soon as I saw the metal shutter half raised. Inside, the heat was different, the heat of lamps and oil, and the air was heavy with the smell of grease and metal. One of the guys dropped a wrench on the floor and came over, drying his hands on a rag. He looked at my legs for three whole seconds before speaking.

“Yes? How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Hugo. I have to leave an envelope for him from my father.”

“Hugo isn’t here, Damián is. His son, the one running the garage this week. Hang on, I’ll go up and tell him.”

He climbed a metal staircase with openwork steps, the kind that look like diamond-shaped grates. I saw him knock on the office door upstairs and disappear for a second. Around me, the others stopped whatever they were doing and kept staring at me without even trying to hide it. Every now and then a metallic bang made me jump. I took off my glasses and hooked them into my cleavage.

Through the Venetian-blind window I saw someone get up from the desk and lean out to look down. The guy came back like a puppy.

“He says to come up.”

I looked at the stairs. The diamond grating immediately made me think of the eyes waiting below for that angle. I grabbed my skirt and pressed it against my thighs, but I already knew the fabric was too light. I climbed slowly, step by step, not daring to turn my head. When I reached the top, I knocked on the glass with my knuckles.

“Come in,” answered a voice moving around the office.

The doorknob was loose and turned crookedly. When I entered, I saw him with his back to me, wearing a blue shirt open to the second button, taking down a poster of a model in a black bikini from the back wall.

“Ha! I’m taking her down so she won’t get jealous of you,” he said, without fully turning around.

I laughed. He was much younger and thinner than the father I remembered. When he turned, I saw an enormous, white, toothy smile, and on his forearms a tribal-line tattoo faded by the sun.

“I’m here on behalf of Tomasz Nowak,” I said.

“The Pole. Yeah, I know.”

“He’s Ukrainian,” I corrected him, though by then I wasn’t sure myself.

“Same thing. You can tell, anyway. You’re a little Russian girl. You couldn’t be any whiter or blonder.”

We laughed together.

“Don’t you remember me?”

I remembered the garage from when I was ten or twelve, but his face meant nothing to me.

“You were little,” he helped me out. “It was already obvious you were going to be pretty. Your hair’s gotten a little darker, but that porcelain skin hasn’t changed. You used to come with your old man, and I’d sit you here at the desk to draw. You were skinny; now you’ve got more curves than the road to the coast.”

“Ha-ha, I don’t know anything about roads,” I said. “But I remember the colored pencils.”

“Exactly. Leave the backpack there, on the couch in the back.”

I walked to the couch, set it down, and came back. He invited me to sit on the other side of the glass desk. We talked for a while about harmless things: college, what I was going to do afterward, the trip. I told him I was leaving for the coast with my friends in a week.

“Whoa! The kind of chaos you’re going to cause,” he laughed.

Ten minutes later he told me the guys always went to eat at the little store across the street and he stayed in the office. He said he could buy me something if I wanted. I hesitated for three seconds and said yes. He ordered by phone, and twenty minutes later a bag arrived with two boxed meals: salad with cold meat. He arranged everything on top of the glass desk and poured me water from a pitcher he’d taken out of the little refrigerator in the corner. I took a long sip, and some escaped from the corner of my mouth.

***

He was sitting across from me, watching me eat. Every so often his gaze drifted to the edge of my skirt, to the boundary where my quadriceps touched the glass. I tugged it down slightly with two fingers, not quite sure whether the white of my thong was showing. To cut a large piece of meat, I had to use both hands. My skirt rode up, and his gaze went straight in there. I crossed my legs and didn’t care. When I looked at him again, his pants showed a bulge that hadn’t been there before.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” he said while pouring himself water. “How many boyfriends do you have?”

I choked on a piece of tomato. He laughed, poured me more water, and I drank quickly again. This time a stream escaped over my chin and fell onto my skirt. Damián stood up, went to a shelf, and came back with a clean rag. He crouched beside my chair and dried my skirt first. Then my leg.

He left a smear of grease on the side of my thigh, muttered a curse, apologized, and cleaned it with his open hand. His fingers moved higher along the inner side of my thigh, as if he were intensely focused on removing the stain, and I felt his rough palm scraping my skin millimeters from my thong. I sank farther into the chair and arched my back without meaning to.

“It was just a question,” he said, picking up the plates.

“No,” I answered. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

He raised his eyebrows. His gaze dropped to the triangle of my skirt and lingered a second too long.

“Incredible.”

To break the silence, I said the only useful thing that came to mind.

“I’ll give you the money.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

I went to the couch and bent down to open the little backpack. I immediately felt that my skirt had ridden up a little and was giving him a view of the beginning of my ass.

“Hey, no! Stay like that,” he said, his voice laughing at me.

I stayed. Instead of lifting the backpack, I opened the zipper where I was and began pulling out the envelope with two fingers. I heard him stand and walk toward me. I let the envelope fall back inside and reached for it again, slowly.

“That’s a lot of money,” he whispered in my ear. His voice was soft, but it went in like a pin. “Nice perfume.”

I caught the smell of metal and grease from his shirt. I straightened up and we stood facing each other, the envelope pressed between his chest and mine. He took it and, accidentally, his fingers brushed over the top of my breasts. My nipples were already hard beneath the thin tank top, standing out like two buttons, and he took far too long to move his hand. I bit my lip without realizing it, and he gave a quiet laugh.

He dropped onto the couch, opened the envelope, and began sorting the bills into little stacks on the armrest. I remained standing in front of him. It was hard to keep my legs steady because inside my thong I could already feel the wetness spreading, soaking the cotton seam.

“Could you bring me a piece of paper from the desk?” he said without looking up.

I realized it was an excuse to watch me walk. I went anyway. I crossed the office feeling his gaze on the back of my neck, grabbed the paper, and brought it to him quickly.

“It’s half the money,” he said after looking it over.

“Yes,” I answered. “The other half is due on delivery. But you can start anyway, can’t you?”

“No, I can’t.”

“I’ll call my father,” I said, my voice catching, “and tell him to bring it.”

“Forget it. The parts guy is coming in an hour, and I have to pay him all at once. Otherwise he won’t leave me anything, especially with the way things are in the country: they want the money now.”

“Can’t you put it up and I’ll bring it tomorrow?”

He fell silent, looking at me. Looking at me in a way that was no longer the way he had looked when he was taking down the poster. Now he looked at my tits, my legs, my mouth. He looked at me as if he were already undressing me piece by piece with his eyes.

“I don’t know.”

***

I don’t know when I decided. The fear of going home and telling my father that the work couldn’t begin was stronger than the embarrassment. But there was something else inside me too, a current that had been walking along with my skirt blowing in the wind since morning and now had nowhere left to go. My cunt throbbed. My thong was getting soaked, and he knew it; I could tell by the way he swallowed every time I crossed one leg over the other.

I knelt. I rested my elbows on his knees and looked at him. He took a deep breath and settled back against the couch. I slid my hands over his thighs, not touching the center yet, dragging my palms over the worn jeans. I saw the bulge grow more pronounced in his pants, the fabric pulling tight diagonally, and guessed how far it reached.

“I don’t know,” he repeated, his voice trembling a little now. “Maybe I have some money here.”

“Yeah?” I said, and lowered my head until I rested it against his right knee. I looked up at him with my eyes wide open. I dragged my left hand slowly to the exact millimeter before the bulge. I didn’t touch it. Only the heat touched: my hand and the taut fabric.

He sighed. He lowered my hand gently and, with the other, opened my lips. I felt his thumb touch my teeth, which opened like a mechanical door, and I welcomed it with the tip of my tongue sharpened like a spear. I sucked it lightly, closing my lips around it and drawing on his knuckle, then stuck my tongue beneath his finger so he could see me licking it. I felt his breathing speed up to a rhythm different from mine.

He hurried his hand toward the button of his pants, and I stopped him with two fingers.

“No.”

I opened his legs with my knees, slid all the way between them, and unbuttoned his pants myself, looking at him. First the button, then the zipper, one by one, unhurriedly, while he held his breath. I slipped my hand inside his boxers and hooked his cock at the root. It was thick, heavier than I’d imagined, and throbbed in my fist as if it had a pulse of its own. His skin burned; mine was warm. I pulled it out, forcing the fabric, which snapped back into place, and it stood upright, red, with a vein running beneath it and a transparent drop appearing at the tip. It fit perfectly between both my hands. I began moving them slowly up and down, pressed it against my cheek, let it tap me gently, rubbed it against my cheekbone. The smell of hot skin, of sweaty man, filled my nose, and a little moan escaped me.

I gathered saliva, stuck out my tongue, and let it fall in a thread, in slow motion, onto the pink head. The thread landed right on the frenulum, slid down the sides, and ran along the shaft to my fingers. He threw his head back for an instant and brought it forward again, missing nothing. I circled it with my tongue, the tip first, then took the entire head into my mouth, sucking it slowly like a piece of candy. I took it inside slowly, millimeter by millimeter, until it hit the back of my palate. He grabbed the back of my neck, but I pushed his hand away. I wanted to do it myself. I never stopped looking at him. I pulled the skin back with two fingers and let saliva drip over it, mixing with his and running down to his balls. I licked those too, one and then the other, while continuing to jerk him with my closed fist.

“You can’t be such a slut,” he said, almost breathless.

“See?” I answered, and devoured his cock to the root, swallowing what I could, feeling the tip press against my throat. My eyes filled with tears and spit, and I pulled it out just enough to breathe. A thick strand of saliva hung from my lip to the head. I spread it over my tits and put it back in my mouth to the bottom.

“Look what you’re doing, look how you suck it,” he murmured. “You’re a filthy little slut.”

I answered with a moan that came out muffled, my mouth full. I tightened my lips around the shaft and began moving my head up and down quickly, sloshing, squeezing my cheeks, hollowing them, while my free hand caressed his balls. He grabbed my hair; this time I let him, and he began setting the pace, pushing me against his pelvis. Every thrust made me swallow more and left me with less air. When he pulled it out, I coughed, drool running down my chin, strands sticking to the side of my face, and then I put it back in myself.

He stood and lifted me by the elbows. He turned me around, grabbed me by the neck with one hand, and covered me with short kisses behind my ear while his other hand slipped beneath my skirt. His fingers were large; first they passed over the lips of my cunt through my thong, squeezing it, then he moved it aside with his index finger and stroked my wet flesh directly. He found my swollen clitoris and made slow circles, then fast ones, then wandered back into the opening. One finger slipped in just barely, and a cry escaped me, which I had to bite back against my own shoulder so it wouldn’t carry downstairs.

“You’re soaked, you fucking bitch,” he whispered. “Look at you dripping.”

He lifted his hand and held it in front of my face. His fingers gleamed, threaded with my wetness. He put them in my mouth and I sucked them, tasting my own salty flavor, while with his other hand he squeezed my breast beneath the tank top. My knees knocked together and another, longer moan escaped me.

He lifted my skirt just enough and pressed me against the glass desk. The cold hit my palms and thighs at once. He pulled my tank top up to my waist, and my tits fell flat against the icy glass, my nipples cramping from the shock. He moved my thong aside; I felt the fabric shift and a little wetness there, right along the seam, as the soaked cotton peeled away from my flesh.

He knelt behind me and kissed me from my waist downward, until he buried his face between my ass cheeks. He spread my ass with both hands and drove his tongue between the crack, first without reaching any particular place, then moving down to my cunt, giving long licks that traveled up my entire vulva. I felt his beard scraping the skin of my buttocks, felt his tongue move in and out of the opening, and his fingers went from my clitoris inside me. I clenched my whole pelvis against the glass. Two fingers entered me, then three, curling upward, searching for the spot that made my knees tremble. He tried to reach my ass with his tongue and didn’t quite make it. His fingers did.

“Fuck me now,” I begged, my cheeks burning against the glass. “Fuck me, please, I can’t take it anymore.”

He stood. He raised me upright. We danced for a brief moment with my head searching for his mouth. We kissed with the taste of metal and sex, of my cunt on his tongue and his cock on mine. He murmured something in my ear that I didn’t fully understand, but it sounded heavy. I told him yes with my eyes.

He pulled my tank top over my head, and I was completely naked from the waist up against the glass. My nipples swelled suddenly from the cold, purple and erect, and he pinched them from behind, one with each hand, while biting my neck. He pushed the back of my neck down again until I was barely resting against the desk. On all fours, my ass in the air, I felt his wet cock first against my buttock, sliding between my cheeks, then moving down and marking the lips of my cunt, rubbing up and down over the wetness, coating itself with my juices. I pressed both hands against the glass.

He entered slowly. The head first, stretching me, the flesh opening and mixing with mine. Then half the cock. Then all of it, until I felt his balls strike against my clitoris. I had to throw my head back and make a couple of movements to adjust myself, breathe, endure. I felt like crying, but not from sadness. He grabbed my hair with one hand and my hip with the other and began setting a metronome rhythm that accelerated on its own. Every thrust lifted my whole body onto the glass and made my flattened tits slap against the cold. I heard the sloshing of my soaked cunt swallowing his cock again and again, a liquid, filthy sound that made me even hotter.

“Look how wet you’re making it,” he whispered without stopping his thrusts. “Look what a slut you are, coming all the way here so I can fill your cunt.”

“Yes,” I answered, almost voiceless. “Break me open, come on.”

While he said things to me that I don’t dare repeat now, some of my spit fell onto the glass and, in time with it, he wiped it up with his palm. He used it to coat his fingers and brought them to his mouth. Then he ran those same fingers over my lips and made me suck them while he kept fucking me.

He pulled my thong all the way down, and I helped by lifting one leg and then the other. It hung from one ankle, and I kicked it away. I touched his hard, wet cock whenever I could reach back; I touched his tight balls, the place where he was entering my body. I felt my own juices on my fingers, viscous and hot.

I sat upright, turned around, and he seated me on the desk. The cold traveled from my ass to my back. He yanked my legs open, positioned himself between them, and entered me face-to-face again. This time I could see him. I watched his cock sink into me, watched my lips stretch to swallow it, watched it withdraw gleaming with my wetness before entering again. I wrapped my arms around his neck and we found the same rhythm. We stayed that way for a long while, looking at each other, him lowering his head to suck one breast and then the other, biting my nipples just as he drove in to the hilt. My cunt made embarrassing noises, and he liked it more each time.

He lifted me by the ass without pulling out and carried me to the desk chair. He sat down, I stayed on top, impaled, and began moving. He sucked my tits while I rose and fell, bracing myself with my hands on his shoulders so I wouldn’t fall, dropping my whole weight onto his cock to the hilt. Every time I sank down, a higher moan escaped me, and he answered with a bite to my nipple. He put a finger in my mouth, and I bit it. He slapped my face lightly with his palm.

“More,” I said without thinking. “Harder.”

He slapped me again, with more force, and the sting in my cheek went straight to my cunt. I nodded yes. One hand in my hair, pulling me backward so my neck stood out, the other on my cheek, and me bouncing on top, impaling myself deeper and deeper, feeling the knot of my orgasm beginning to build in the pit of my stomach. I dug my nails into his shoulders. I bit his neck. I screamed into his ear, “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” until he covered my mouth with his hand, full of my own spit.

***

When he felt the tingling coming up from my pelvis, he pulled the chair backward. He hauled me up, turned me around, and put me back on all fours against the desk. My tits struck the cold again, and my hands slipped once more in the spit left there from before.

“No, wait,” I said, more from reflex than anything else. “I’m going to come.”

“Shut up,” he replied, and smacked my ass so hard I let out a muffled cry. “You come when I say.”

He knelt behind me, spread my buttocks with both thumbs, and put his tongue straight into my ass. It was violent and necessary. I felt the tip pushing, entering, withdrawing, circling my asshole while one finger slipped into my cunt. My legs trembled. I was falling apart. He stood, spat on his hand, and plunged back into my cunt in a single thrust, all the way to the balls. At the same time I felt him trace my anus with one finger, first barely, wet with my own juices, then with more confidence, pushing the fingertip past the ring.

I tried to pull his hand away with my arm, and he brought it forward, twisting it gently against my back. The finger went in to the knuckle. It hurt, but it was a kind of pain that blurred into everything else, mixing with the cock opening my cunt, with the fire I could no longer tell where it came from. I raised the volume and thickness of my moan as he moved in and out everywhere. His other hand sought my mouth, put a finger inside, and I bit it. I bit too hard, and he complained.

“Now I’m going to put it in your ass,” he told me, almost calmly. “Yes?”

“Yes,” I answered without thinking. “Put it in me.”

He pulled out of my cunt, dripping, spat on his hand, and spread it up and down the shaft. With the other finger he finished opening my anus, moving it in circles, then pressed the tip of his cock against the hole. He pushed slowly at first. I brought my knees together from the pain and let out a muffled scream that he covered with his hand. The head went in suddenly, and I felt as if he were splitting me in two. I stayed still, mouth open against the glass, holding my breath. He didn’t move either.

“Stay still, stay still,” he murmured against my nape. “Relax. Relax your ass, come on.”

I took two deep breaths and felt the muscle give way. He began to enter farther, millimeter by millimeter, until he sank all the way in and I felt his balls resting against my cunt. The first minute was slow and hard. He moved only slightly, pulling out halfway and then entering me completely again. Afterward it became natural. The pain turned into something else, a dull, deep pleasure that was opening me from within. He put two fingers in my cunt and began fucking me from both sides at once.

I heard the sound of his pelvis against my ass, a constant wet slap, my palms dragging across the glass, his fingers moving in and out of my cunt with a muddy noise. He said crude things that I only tried to choke back in my throat. That he was leaving my asshole wide open. That I’d walk like a duck the following week. That I’d walk along the beach with my friends thinking about his cock. I pressed my cheek against the cold desk and let myself go. His fingers found my clitoris just as his cock pounded my ass, and I felt everything coming down on me, the current rising from the soles of my feet to the nape of my neck. I came screaming against the glass, biting my own forearm so no one downstairs would hear, while he kept thrusting without pause.

When he felt himself coming, he pulled out with a jerk, and he tugged my hair. I understood. I knelt, still trembling, my legs weak. He stroked his cock inches from my face, quickly, his hand closed in a wet fist, and finished by painting me with warm white. The first spurt hit my forehead and ran down the bridge of my nose. The second hit my cheek and lip. The last ones spilled over my chest, over the tits still marked by the glass. I stuck out my tongue and licked whatever I could reach, swallowed it, and with two fingers gathered what was dripping from my chin and brought that to my mouth too. I looked up at him and laughed.

“I got to do the painting,” he said, still breathless, and handed me a towel from the drawer beneath the desk.

I wiped my face slowly. Only then did I hear the noise of tools from the garage downstairs, which had started up again.

“Are people there?”

“Yeah. They’re eating in the downstairs office. They probably didn’t hear anything.”

I closed my eyes and felt the embarrassment hit me all at once, behind my eyes. I searched for my thong and found it against one leg of the couch, with a small tear in the seam. I put it on anyway, feeling the wetness and semen running down the inside of my thigh, trying to hold it in with the cotton.

“I’m dying. Well, I’m leaving. I’ll bring you the other half tomorrow.”

“No, forget it. It’s a gift, for your trip. Come back whenever you want.”

I gave him a tight peck without opening my mouth. When I picked up the backpack, I saw the empty envelope and the broken rubber band inside.

“I don’t dare go outside.”

“Relax.”

He sat behind the desk and opened a notebook as if nothing had happened. I went out, closed the door, and slowly descended the diamond staircase. I felt everyone looking at me from below. One elbowed another and muttered something. I thought about covering myself, but decided to smile and keep going down. My legs burned as if I’d run an entire block. I put on my glasses in the street and walked home with the midday heat pressing against the back of my neck.

I didn’t tell anyone, not that afternoon or afterward. My father never asked how the errand had gone. A week later I was on the end-of-degree trip, in a room full of my friends, listening to one of them tell the craziest thing she’d ever done in her life. I kept looking at the ceiling, silent, with a smile none of the girls would have understood.