I Became Obsessed with My Best Friend’s Father

All the way there, my mind sank into a chaos of delusions and reproaches. “He was always out of your league, idiot. What were you expecting? Did you really think he’d wait for you, immaculate, until you turned twenty? That between your weirdness and your shortcomings you’d find something capable of erasing the age gap and the insignificant detail that he is none other than your best friend’s father?”

I walked thousands of steps through wet, dangerous streets, thousands of steps in which I questioned every decision that had brought me there. A prudent little voice whispered that I should go home with my tail between my legs and the little dignity I had left, before someone hurt me. My sore feet, however, kept moving almost on their own.

The rubbing of the edge of my shoes had torn through my stockings and was starting to skin my heels. Every step was a small penance, but I didn’t stop. I was blinded by the idea of seeing him one last time, my heart overflowing with the filthy jealousy that painted him in the arms of any mature woman, in scenes my way-too-young head insisted on imagining in sickening detail: I saw her kneeling before him, mouth open, Mr. Linares’s cock sinking between her painted lips; I heard him growling softly while he gripped the back of her neck; I imagined her standing up to offer him her mature tits, so he could bite them, so he could grope her ass with those big hands I had so many times watched in secret. Jealousy burned my stomach as if I’d swallowed a live coal. I, still a virgin in all that mattered, had spent months fantasizing about that same cock, those same hands, and some random woman was stealing him from me tonight.

In the distance I heard suspicious whistles, almost a code among voices I didn’t recognize. The dark alleys invited me with whispers to lose myself inside them. I just pressed the image of his face to my chest and kept walking.

The liquor I’d stolen from my mother was thickening my thoughts. When I moved my hand in front of my face, I could see it leave a trail behind. I was worse off than I wanted to admit.

***

I finally arrived at the gatehouse of the housing complex where Mr. Linares lived. I had no argument to get them to let me in, but in my disordered head there was only one idea: to confirm once and for all whether he felt anything for me or whether it had all been invented by a girl barely into her nineteen.

The guard asked me, looking thoroughly put out, which house I was going to and why. I stammered, got tangled up, and when he turned to call the police, I took advantage of the moment to slip away into the shadows.

Unaware of the level of madness I was committing, I stood there like a psychopath in the dark distance, assessing every meter of the fence for a weak point. There wasn’t one.

Desperate, I dragged myself toward the least lit corner of the wall. A wooden panel for climbing vines became, unintentionally, my improvised ladder. I started climbing with more clumsiness than usual. My body felt heavy, exhausted by the tingles and shivers that stole all my strength. My dress snagged again and again on the slats, forcing me to yank it free, each pull breaking my heart a little more.

It took forever to reach the top edge. Waiting there for me was the worst part: a security camera pointed at my face and the guard shouting at me to get down immediately. I understood I wasn’t going to make it to the other side without being caught, so I closed my eyes and jumped.

I landed on what seemed to be a bush and prayed it would soften the blow. It didn’t. Instead of landing on my feet, I ended up sitting on the branches, sunk in up to my waist. Leaves caught on my dress. Thorns caught on my skin.

The larger guard was running toward me. I had no time to check whether I’d broken anything. I got to my feet with a stabbing pain in my tailbone and ran, feeling warm threads sliding down my legs and my dress ripping on every jutting edge. Dogs barked, motion lights snapped on as if this were the set of a bad movie. I jumped fences, dodged a swimming pool, fell twice, hid among the bushes.

When I finally reached his door, I rang the bell again and again, begging him to open before they dragged me out by force.

***

The tallest of the guards caught up with me and grabbed my forearm with a force that turned me into a dry branch. He started pulling to drag me away and I resisted with the little strength I had left, bracing my feet against the paving stones.

—I just want to see him! Let me see him! —I shouted, beside myself.

The door opened. For a moment all my hopes came back to life. The warm light spilling out from inside drew a smile onto my broken face.

—I just want to see him… I just want to see him —I muttered like a broken prayer.

Until an invisible dagger pierced my chest. In the doorway, instead of Mr. Linares, stood a mature woman with voluptuous curves, wrapped in a badly tied silk robe that revealed the beginning of a pair of heavy, brown breasts, wearing the expression of someone whose night had just been ruined. One look was enough for me to know she wasn’t wearing anything under that silk, that Mr. Linares had been pawing her for hours, that he’d probably already had his cock inside her. Jealousy rose to my throat with the taste of stale liquor.

I looked at the house number, wanting to believe I’d gotten the address wrong. It was right. “This is his house, yes. And he’s not alone.”

I stopped fighting. When the guards cuffed my hands behind my back, the rotating light of a patrol car was already waiting at the entrance. I imagined myself in handcuffs, taken to the station, then torn apart by my mother.

The walk to the car was the most humiliating march of my life. Neighbors in pajamas stabbed me with their eyes and spit out their conclusions. I couldn’t blame them. I just begged to be put in the car quickly and taken far away.

***

Inside the patrol car, through the fogged-up glass, I managed to make out his figure. Mr. Linares was forcing his way through the crowd to argue with the officer. I watched him gesture, agitated, while everyone pointed at him as if he were responsible. Instead of washing his hands of it, he defended me before the tide of enraged neighbors.

A cop yanked open the vehicle door and leaned toward me.

—Do you know that man? —he said, pointing at him.

I nodded, stunned, my eyes wet.

—Were you coming to see his daughter?

I nodded again, even though that was nowhere near the truth.

—Do you know what time it is? Do you know what kind of scare you gave everyone?

My eyes stayed fixed only on his disappointed face, in the distance.

—Are you on drugs or something?

I shook my head.

—Look at me and talk to me. If you want out of this, start using your mouth.

—No, sir, I’m not —I said, trying to hide my numb tongue.

—Get out. He’ll take care of it. Get lost before I change my mind!

***

When I got close to him, I didn’t dare look him in the face, much less hug him. Even though I was dying to take refuge in his chest, I reached his side with my head down, more ashamed than at any other moment in my life. He took me by the back of the neck like a punished puppy and dragged me into his house, making his way through the onlookers and shooting them sharp looks with his green eyes.

All the way to the entrance he never let go of the back of my neck, nor did he say a single word. And yet, with just that big hand pressing into my skin, I felt a hot tug between my legs that made my panties wetter than they already were. I hated my own body for reacting that way at the worst moment of my life.

When we went inside, the woman was waiting in the hall with the most repulsive expression I had ever seen on someone. Her robe had opened a little more and I could see nearly one whole breast, the nipple dark and thick, hardened by rage or whatever they’d been doing before I arrived. Mr. Linares closed the door behind us and left me in the living room with a curt:

—Sit down. I’ll be back.

They went into the kitchen. I could hear them arguing in low voices.

—What is that kid doing here? Who is she?

—She’s Renata’s friend.

—Your daughter’s friend? And what the fuck is she doing here alone at this hour?

—I’m not sure.

—Tell her to leave. Call her parents. We’re busy.

—Marcela… it’s complicated, okay? Let me make sure she’s all right.

—Make sure she’s all right? Look at her, please! She’s a wreck. She looks drunk, like she’s on something.

—Shh. Don’t shout. I know. That’s why… let’s call it a night. I’ll make it up to you next weekend, I swear.

—Have you lost your mind? Tonight was supposed to finally happen! I’ve had three glasses of wine waiting for you to fuck me properly, and now you’re telling me to leave!

—I know. But what do you want me to do? She’s practically like a daughter to me. I can’t abandon her like that.

—Then why didn’t you let the police take her? Are you seriously going to give her priority over me, over this cunt you’ve been wanting to fuck for months?

—She’s a kid. She’s my daughter’s friend. Excuse me.

—Whatever. You’re an asshole, just so you know.

Marcela crossed the living room to grab her bag and shot me a look of pure hatred. The door slammed so hard it nearly knocked a painting off the hallway wall.

***

Mr. Linares finally appeared in the living room. He stood there watching me in silence for a few seconds, taking in the disaster. His green eyes made me tremble so hard that mine didn’t dare meet them.

—Come on. I’ll take you to the hospital and then home —he said, reaching for the keys.

I didn’t move. I stayed glued to the sofa, petrified.

—Shit —I heard him mutter before leaving the room.

He came back with a first-aid kit in his hand. He put on gloves and, without looking me in the eye, said:

—Take off your stockings.

I obeyed, trembling, trying with all my strength to keep anything inappropriate from showing. I pulled the stockings down my thighs in clumsy coils, aware that every centimeter of bare skin I exposed was betraying me, because beneath the torn dress my thighs were sticky: it wasn’t all blood; a considerable part of it was something else, thicker, hotter, more shameful. He took my right leg and lifted it with a professional gesture, frowning each time he uncovered a new wound.

—Lie back —he gave the sofa two taps.

My insides racing, I obeyed. He sat at my feet and started with the front wounds, almost all of them below the knees. I held the skirt tight between my thighs in a modest, rigid posture. He cleaned every scrape meticulously and covered them with gauze and bandages. Each pass of the wet cotton made me squeeze my thighs harder, because between them the heat kept building and I could feel my panties slowly soaking through, a ridiculous little puddle growing every time his gloved fingers brushed my skin.

—Are you going to tell me what the hell you were thinking now? —he asked without looking up.

I stammered something pathetic, searching for an excuse my fogged-up head couldn’t find. All I could find was an image: him leaning between my knees and burying his face in my cunt instead of cleaning my scrapes.

—Turn over.

I turned carefully. In the back there were deeper wounds, too close to the boundary where the thigh meets the ass. His hands started with the lowest ones and worked upward. I wanted the situation to have another cause, a less humiliating one, anything that would let me enjoy his touch. But guilt wouldn’t let me feel anything other than shame. Shame, and a wet arousal that was dripping between my clenched cheeks and staining the little triangle of white fabric until it was nearly see-through.

—Do you have more up there? —he asked when he reached the limit of what was permitted.

I swallowed hard.

—No… I’m not sure —I lied, despite the stabbing burn in my right ass cheek.

—Touch it and tell me if it hurts.

I reached a hand back and ran my fingers over the cheek. I confirmed the pain immediately, but I confirmed something else too: my panties were soaked, so wet that if he touched them he’d realize instantly what was happening to me. My mouth stayed cowardly.

—No… I don’t know.

—Come on, let me check.

I almost fainted when his hands lifted the skirt without hesitation, exposing my ass barely covered by a pair of white, childish panties, battered by the fall and by the small accident that marked them wet. A treacherous breeze raised goosebumps on my skin. I knew exactly what he was seeing at that moment: two young, round buttocks, still unmarked by adult life, crowned by a dark stain of moisture that no lie could explain. Blood and sweat could disguise many things, but not that.

—Yes, sweetheart. You’ve got a wound there —he said with the most carefully natural voice in the world. His voice trembled just a little at the end. A tiny tremor, but I heard it.

I wasn’t able to answer. I just let him continue while I sank into a mixture of arousal and shame I had never felt before. I felt the cold cotton brushing the upper edge of my ass cheek, very close to where the crease began. Every touch sent a tug through my legs, a hot pulse that made me press my cunt into the sofa to try to stop it. Worse: every time I squeezed, the same motion made my soaked panties slide against my swollen clit, and a tiny gasp escaped my mouth, muffled by biting into the arm of the sofa.

—You landed hard. You’ve got a horrible bruise on your lower back. What were you thinking?

The brush of his hand started to feel wickedly delicious. I didn’t want him to stop for anything in the world, and at the same time I was dying for him to finish. Things escalated when, for ease, he pulled my panties and left them tucked between my cheeks as an improvised restraint. I nearly passed out from the impact. I felt the tug of the wet fabric settling into the cleft between my ass cheeks, the elastic grazing the edge of my anus, the moisture now dripping without any barrier onto the sofa. His gloved fingers had just brushed the most intimate skin any man had ever touched on me in my entire life, and he had done it as if nothing, like someone straightening a napkin.

My face burned. My body was boiling despite the cold night. The moans were getting harder and harder to smother. My teeth sank into my own forearm until I left marks, and between my legs unfamiliar swellings pressed together, throbbing to the beat of my heart. I could feel my cunt opening and closing on its own, contracting around emptiness, crying out for something to fill it. I could smell myself: a sweet, heavy, sexual smell that filled all the air around the sofa and that he, with his nose so close to my ass, had to be smelling too. The mere thought made another hot gush spill out and wet my thighs even more.

When the cold cotton passed right along the edge of my ass cheek, almost touching the fold, I thought I was going to come right there, with nobody touching me where it mattered. I bit my arm so hard tears sprang to my eyes and held the gasp in my throat.

—And what the fuck did you take? What did you drink? —his voice sounded rougher than before.

—A liquor… from my mom.

—And why would you do such a thing, little one?

—I’m sorry, Mr. Linares. I just… got really sad about something.

—Sad about something? That doesn’t justify how irresponsible you were. Walking all that distance, at this hour, through dangerous places, in this state. What drove you to commit such stupidity?

—I needed to see you.

—See me? Why? What was so urgent? Do you know what kind of trouble you could have gotten into… what kind of trouble you can still get me into by having you here alone with me? —one of his fingers, still gloved, had gone still on the upper part of my thigh, very close to the fold of my ass. It didn’t move. It didn’t retreat either.

—I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I was completely stupid —the tears were starting to overflow.

—What was so urgent? Why did you have to see me at this hour and in this state?

My heart was pounding against my ribs. The torturous voice that lived in my head was screaming at me: “Tell him, idiot! Tell him once and for all!” Fear paralyzed me. The finger was still there, resting, motionless, and I didn’t know if it was an accident or his first confession.

—What’s wrong, little one? You’re shaking. You’re scaring me. Talk to me, please.

He helped me sit up on the sofa with a tenderness that split me in two. When I turned, the skirt was caught a little higher on my hip and the panties, still tucked between my cheeks and soaked, showed for a fraction of a second before I awkwardly adjusted them. He pretended not to look. But he did. I saw his green eyes drop just a little, a blink, and then rise again. I also saw something in his pants, a bulge that I would have sworn hadn’t been there before, pressing the fabric tight against the inside of his thigh.

I nearly fainted when I confirmed it. Mr. Linares was hard. He was hard for me, or for what he had just touched, or for both things.

—Mr. Linares… I… I… —I closed my eyes. Everything was spinning—. I feel things for you, Mr. Linares.

When the words came out of my mouth I turned my face away, unable to look at him. Silence. Long, awkward, lethal. And yet, it felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from my chest.

—But… do you mean things in a romantic context? —he asked at last, trying to hold on to his role as the calm, adult man.

I opened my teary eyes and nodded.

—Sweetheart, our minds can be treacherous. Sometimes they make us believe things that aren’t real, especially at your age. Maybe you’re just confused.

I shook my head while the tears committed suicide down my cheeks.

—Sweetheart… it’s not possible.

I lowered my gaze to the floor, my face dead. I wanted to answer “I know,” but the air wouldn’t come. My eyes, against my will, lingered for an instant on his crotch. The bulge was still there. Thick. Long. Strained against the fabric of his pants. My whole life I had fantasized about that, about the exact shape of Mr. Linares’s cock, and there it was, swollen because of me, a meter from my face, and he was telling me it wasn’t possible.

He laid his hand over mine and arranged our hands together on my knee.

—Don’t take it like that. Out there, there are plenty of boys for you. Just be patient.

I couldn’t bear the disappointment. I couldn’t accept the reality I feared so much: the one in which anything between us, no matter how small, was impossible. I broke into the most heartbreaking sobbing.

His hands went to the back of my neck and drew me against his chest. I hugged him tightly. I wanted him to be mine, at any cost, and it hurt me to the bone to know he couldn’t be. Holding him so tightly, my thigh pressed against his and I felt, unmistakably, the hot beat of his hard cock against my leg. I held back a gasp. He held back his breath.

—Ssh, ssh, calm down, sweetheart. It’s all right —he whispered, his voice breaking too—. But this is how things have to be. I’m a bitter old man, tainted, dead inside. You’re in the bloom of your life. You deserve something the same.

I wanted to scream at him that age didn’t matter to me, nor the problems, nor what people would say. I only wanted to be with him, with nobody else. I wanted to tell him that his cock against my thigh was the most honest thing that had happened that night, that my panties were still soaked under my dress and it was because of him, no one else. But once again, my mouth lacked the courage.

He guided me so we lay back together on the sofa without breaking the embrace. I buried my face in his chest and used his arm as a pillow. One of his hands was gently stroking my lower back; the other was patting me softly. At some point, the hand on my lower back slid a centimeter lower than was strictly paternal. It settled right at the start of my ass cheek, over the fabric of the dress, and stayed there. I felt the weight of that hand as if it were branding me.

—I love you, Mr. Linares —I told him through sobs, without lifting my face.

—Oh, my little one… don’t make this harder for yourself. You’re suffering too much over something impossible.

The crying came back full force.

—Please, sweetheart, you’re going to make me cry too. I can’t see you suffer like this. You’re a wonderful girl who deserves the be… —I cut him off.

—Tell me! Tell me I’m not crazy! Tell me you feel something for me, even if it’s only a tiny bit! I beg you! I’m sure I felt it!

—Sweetheart, I…

—Tell me you didn’t open your house to me out of pity! Tell me you wouldn’t do this for just anyone! Tell me you really do feel something, that you’re just afraid of hurting me or getting us into trouble! But tell me, please! I can’t stand the uncertainty anymore! —as I shouted, I pressed my whole body against his, and his hard cock again marked my thigh, even more swollen than before, throbbing against my skin. We both felt it. Neither of us said it.

He sighed heavily. And at last, he gave me the answer he’d been keeping to himself for months:

—No, sweetheart.

Funeral silence. Even the sobbing stopped from the shock.

—You’re not wrong.

Air came back into my lungs.

—Yes, I feel things for you too.

I held him with the little strength I had left, grateful to life for having him, despite the obstacles rising between us. His hand at the start of my ass cheek tightened just a hair, almost imperceptibly, like a spasm that slipped from his fingertips. It was the most eloquent gesture of the whole night.

—But, sweetheart… it’s impossible.

I looked at him. I just looked at him. Nothing else mattered to me.

—Sweetheart… don’t do this to me, please —his eyes grew wet along with mine.

I started stroking his cheek without taking my eyes off his.

—I’ve been having a hard time with this too.

My thumb toyed at the corner of his mouth.

—It’s… it’s… it’s impossible, my little one —his voice completely broken.

I smiled with tears in my eyes. I was still dying because something between us wasn’t viable. But confirming one of my deepest longings, hearing it at last from his own mouth, feeling his hard cock throbbing against my thigh and his hand trembling on my ass cheek, had given me a reason to keep breathing.