My Classmate’s Father Came Looking for Me in the Bathroom

I’m telling it now because enough time has passed, because I was a fully grown adult even though they still saw me in uniform, and because I still remember that night whenever I smell men’s cologne mixed with cheap disinfectant. It happened at the dinner marking the end of a stage of our studies, in a huge rented hall, with families, music, photographs, and that strange feeling of finishing something important while inwardly thinking only about escaping the whole performance for a while.

Since morning, we had been going back and forth to the venue to help with the arrangements. Some of us had to clean, while others hung fabrics, moved tables, tested the lights, and handed out drinks. I was tired, disheveled, and in a bad mood at first, until he appeared: a classmate’s father, a mature, self-assured man, the kind who jokes with everyone without becoming annoying.

“Good morning. I don’t see you working,” he said as soon as he saw us resting in some chairs. “I’m going to report you so they take points away.”

We laughed. A friend replied with something similar, and he kept up the game every time he crossed paths with us. There was nothing strange about it. Or at least that was what I told myself several times while watching him carry a ladder, stretch to adjust a curtain, or wipe the sweat from his neck with the back of his hand.

He was considerably older than me, yes, but not old. He must have been just over forty, with broad shoulders, strong arms, and the kind of quiet confidence that many younger men pretended to have but didn’t. He talked to everyone, bought soft drinks, and gave advice about careers, work, and not accepting the first option just because you were afraid. I listened and nodded, but I also watched his mouth when he smiled.

I shouldn’t be looking at him like that.

I went home in the afternoon, showered, got dressed, and returned to the event with my family. I was wearing the regulation skirt, a light-colored shirt, a dark jacket, and black underwear underneath. I remember it well because that night I ended up hating that fabric for how wet it became. As soon as I arrived, they stationed me near the entrance to welcome relatives and guide them to their tables.

He appeared with his wife, his daughter, and other relatives. As soon as he saw me, he gave me a sidelong smile.

“Not cleaning again,” he said quietly, as if it were a secret between the two of us.

“We’d already finished when you arrived late,” I replied.

We smiled at each other for a second longer than necessary. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but I felt something stir in my stomach. After that, everything continued: the greetings, the photographs, the speeches, the medals, the applause, relatives recording on their phones, the ordinary nerves of a night like that.

In the middle of a presentation, I felt like going to the bathroom. The ones in the main hall were occupied, and I remembered another set of bathrooms farther away, near the parking lot, behind a side wall of the hall. I went there intending to pee in peace, touch up my makeup, and return before they called my group again.

The place was half-dark. One light was on, while the rest was in shadow. I saw two women come out and went in without thinking. There were several stalls in a row, a long mirror, old sinks, and an access door that didn’t close properly. The place had that echo of tile and fluorescent tubing that makes every sound seem louder.

Then I remembered him and his jokes about cleaning. I texted him just to tease him: the bathroom was dark, so there was no way to tell whether they had left it in bad shape or simply forgotten to install a light. He replied almost immediately, laughing and asking where I was. When I told him which bathroom it was, he said it supposedly wasn’t in service.

I wrote back that he should go put up a sign, since I had already seen people going in.

And he did.

I saw him appear with a handwritten sheet of paper. He stuck it to the entrance, and I made fun of him for not doing it earlier. He continued the joke, saying that if we had cleaned better, it wouldn’t have happened. I went into one of the back stalls and told him to wait outside for a moment, that I’d be out soon.

I peed, stayed seated looking at my phone, and, purely to provoke him, sent him another message: there was no toilet paper. It was a lie; there was some. I just wanted to see how far he would keep playing along. He replied that he would get me some. I smiled to myself and wiped anyway, but I didn’t pull my clothes back up. I stayed seated, my skirt raised over my thighs and my underwear around my calves, listening to my own heartbeat.

He knocked on the stall door.

“I brought you paper,” he said quietly.

I opened it just a crack and held out my hand. He tried to give it to me without looking, respecting a distance that turned me on even more. I thanked him. I could have ended it there. I could have pulled myself together and gone out. Instead, I opened the door a little wider.

“You can’t see anything,” he murmured, nervous for the first time.

“Then come in and keep me company,” I said, almost in a whisper.

He came in.

The silence was immediate and heavy, the kind that falls when two people cross a line and both of them know it. I was still sitting there, my legs spread just enough, my skirt gathered up and my underwear down. He looked at my face first, then lowered his eyes and looked at me again, as if waiting for me to stop him.

I said nothing. I simply reached for his belt.

I felt his abdomen tense when I undid his pants. I lowered the zipper slowly, slipped my hand inside, and grabbed his cock through his underwear. It was already half-hard. He exhaled sharply through his nose, like someone who had been restraining himself since before.

“This is wrong,” he murmured, but he didn’t move.

“Then leave,” I answered.

He didn’t.

I pulled down his underwear and took out his cock. It was thick and hot, and it finished hardening in my hand. I began to jerk him slowly, moving up and down with both hands while I watched him. He braced one hand against the stall door and placed the other on my shoulder, without touching me any further, as if he was still trying to convince himself that this wasn’t happening.

I was convinced. I leaned forward and licked the tip. He moaned softly, a hoarse sound that went straight to my pussy. I licked him again, opened my mouth wider, and slowly took him in, feeling his weight on my tongue. I pulled him out, ran my tongue in circles around the head, and took him deeper again. Every time my mouth went down, he clenched his jaw to keep quiet.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Don’t do that if you want me to stay in control.”

I did it anyway.

I sucked him eagerly, swallowing to make it easier for him to slide in, one hand at the base and the other stroking his balls. He was breathing heavily now. He gripped my hair without being rough, just to hold me in place while I moved my mouth up and down. I looked up at him and saw something on his face that aroused me even more: it wasn’t just desire; it was hunger.

When I felt he was about to come, I pulled away. I stood up, turned around, and braced my hands against the stall door. I pushed my ass back. I didn’t have to tell him what I wanted. He understood immediately.

He raised my skirt higher, moved my underwear aside, and ran two fingers between my lips. I was soaking wet. Truly drenched. His fingers slid inside effortlessly, and he made me bite my lip to keep from moaning.

“Look at you,” he whispered in my ear. “You got wet just from making me come in.”

“Fuck me already,” I begged.

He positioned himself behind me, spat into his hand, and rubbed his palm over his cock. Then he found my entrance with the tip and pushed. He entered slowly at first, opening me with that thick pressure that hurts a little and feels good at the same time. I let out my breath, pressed my forehead against the door, and gripped the latch tightly.

When he had sunk all the way inside me, he stayed still for a second. I felt his pelvis pressed against my ass, his breathing against my nape, and the fabric of his half-lowered pants brushing my legs. Then he began to move. Short, measured thrusts at first, testing the waters. Then deeper.

Every thrust made an impossible-to-hide wet sound. The mixture of my arousal and his cock sliding in and out sounded clear inside the stall—obscene, dirty, real. I tried to keep quiet, but a moan escaped anyway when he drove all the way into me and gripped my hips.

“Keep quiet,” he told me, giving me another harder thrust.

I nodded, but my body betrayed me. The more I tried to hold myself back, the weaker my legs became. He began fucking me at a steady, dry, firm rhythm, striking my ass with his pelvis. I could feel the head of his cock rubbing an inner spot that made me tremble.

“They’re going to hear us,” I whispered.

“Then grit your teeth.”

And he kept going.

He bent me farther forward and changed the angle. That made a clear moan escape me. He drove his cock fully inside and pulled almost all the way out before burying it again. The stall vibrated with the impacts. Outside, the event’s music and the presenter’s voice sounded distant, as if the world were continuing while I was being split open back there.

I felt close to coming, but at that moment the speakers called our group for a photograph. I told him through clenched teeth, almost begging him to stop. Instead, he sped up, thrusting into me rapidly several times before remaining buried inside me, gripping my hips hard.

I felt him tremble. He didn’t pull out. He came inside me.

His breathing became a deep pant against my neck. I stayed still, his cock still inside me and a thick heat filling me. When he finally withdrew, it came out softer. I pulled my underwear up as best I could, straightened my skirt, and went out first. There was no one nearby. I returned to the hall with my face burning and my legs weak.

I went to the front for the photograph, smiled, ate dinner, greeted relatives, and pretended to be normal. But every time I moved, I felt something wet between my legs, a trace reminding me of what I was carrying inside me. In the car on the way home, I spread my legs slightly and slipped my fingers beneath my underwear. They came out wet and slippery. That was when I knew he hadn’t come outside or in the toilet, but inside me.

I texted him as soon as I got home. I bluntly reproached him for doing it without warning me. He replied immediately, apologizing and saying he had lost his head, and that the next morning he would bring me a pill so we could be at ease. We agreed to meet early, before a rehearsal I had.

***

The next day I went out alone and headed to his house. It wasn’t far from the route I had to take, so the excuse was easy, even for myself. He was already waiting for me. He ushered me inside quickly. He was alone. There is something special about the silence of an empty house at that hour, as if everything invites you to do things you normally wouldn’t.

He gave me a glass of water and the pill. I took it in front of him. He apologized again, more seriously this time, and I told him it wasn’t such a big deal, that the only thing that bothered me was not knowing about it at the time. He looked straight at me, took a step toward me, and wrapped his arms around my waist.

“I couldn’t help myself,” he whispered in my ear. “You were too fucking delicious.”

That was enough.

I lifted his face and kissed him. It wasn’t like in the bathroom, quick and animalistic because of the urgency. It was a long, wet kiss, with tongues, as we truly explored each other. His hands moved to my hips and then to my ass, squeezing it over my clothes. I undid his shirt while he bit my lower lip.

“Do you want this?” he asked, still giving me room to back out.

I told him yes.

He took me by the hand to the bedroom. The bed was unmade. He shut the door and kissed me again, hungrier this time. He pulled off my pants and left me in my underwear. I took off his shirt completely, then his pants. This time there was no darkness, no party noise, and no immediate fear of someone opening the door. I saw him fully naked, aroused, with a more carefully maintained body than you would have guessed at first glance.

He pushed me onto the bed and climbed on top of me. I liked his weight. He kissed my neck, my cleavage, and my breasts still covered by my bra, until he undid it and began sucking my nipples one at a time. I arched my back to press myself closer to his mouth. He had a way of licking and gently biting that left my legs spreading without me realizing it.

He moved slowly down my stomach, kissing me intermittently, and pulled my underwear aside. He stared at me for a second.

“Yesterday I couldn’t taste you the way I wanted,” he said.

And he buried his face between my legs.

He spread me wide with his fingers and began eating my pussy without any pretended delicacy. First, he used his flat tongue from bottom to top, again and again. Then he focused the tip on my clitoris while holding my thighs so I couldn’t close them. I writhed immediately. His short beard scraped the insides of my thighs, which turned me on even more.

“Like that... like that...” I managed to say.

He slipped two fingers inside me while continuing to lick me. He opened and closed them inside me, finding a rhythm with his tongue. Every time he rubbed my clitoris while fucking me with his fingers, my abdomen tightened. I began moaning without trying to hold back. There was no need anymore.

I came in his mouth. It wasn’t an elegant or silent orgasm; it shook my hips and left me breathless. He didn’t pull away. He kept licking a little longer, taking advantage of every contraction, until I was the one who grabbed his hair and made him come up.

I kissed him and tasted myself in his mouth. I loved it.

He gripped his cock, positioned it at my entrance, and pushed it into me in one stroke. I spread my legs wider reflexively and let out a long moan. He stayed above me, looking at me, and began fucking me with deep thrusts, unhurried at first, as if he wanted me to feel every inch.

The bed creaked with the movement. I wrapped my legs around his back, and he took advantage of it to go deeper. Every time he pulled almost all the way out and pushed back in, he drew a cry from me. He caught one of my wrists, held it against the mattress, and began fucking me harder.

“Yesterday you were desperate for me to fuck you,” he said between breaths. “Today I’m going to give it to you however I want.”

Hearing him say that turned me on. I asked for more. He put me on my side, then turned me onto my back, then sat me on top of him so I could ride him for a while. I held onto his shoulders and began moving over him, feeling his cock open me and fill me with every downward motion. He gripped my buttocks and guided my rhythm, watching my tits bounce.

“That’s it, move,” he told me. “Show me how you like it.”

I rose and fell on his cock until my legs burned. He took the opportunity to sit up a little and suck one of my nipples while continuing to enter me from below. The combination was taking me to the edge again. Then he made me come down hard and laid me on my back.

He knelt near my face and ran the tip of his cock over my lips.

“Open that mouth for me.”

I obeyed.

I sucked him while he slowly jerked himself off. He didn’t fuck my mouth roughly; he gave himself to me as he pleased, rubbing the head against my tongue, sinking it in until he made my eyes water, then pulling it out so I could breathe. I grabbed his ass and pulled him closer. The taste, the smell, the sight of his saliva-covered cock in front of my face made me even hotter.

“You have such a good mouth,” he murmured.

He increased the pace. He held my head firmly with one hand at my nape and came in my mouth. I felt his cock jerk before I felt the hot semen. I didn’t turn my face away. I took it all, and when he withdrew, I swallowed slowly. He looked at me with surprise that immediately turned into a satisfied smile.

“You swallowed it.”

“It was already in my mouth,” I replied.

He laughed, kissed me, and I thought that would be the end. But I still wanted more. So much more. I touched myself between my legs and was still wet, sensitive, open. He went to get some wipes from the drawer and returned to the bed. I got on all fours before he could approach.

“Don’t clean me yet,” I told him. “Better help me another way.”

He stared at my exposed ass and pussy. He ran his fingers between them, playing with the moisture that was still there. He spread my cheeks with one hand and stroked my anus with his thumb. My whole body prickled.

“Do you want this too?” he asked, rubbing in circles.

“Yes.”

First he slipped in one finger, well lubricated with my own wetness. Slowly. He pulled it out to relax me, then pushed it in again. Then he added a second. I closed my eyes and rested my forearms on the bed. He wasn’t being violent; he was preparing me, opening me patiently, pushing and waiting, pushing and waiting again, until my body yielded.

When I felt ready, he withdrew his fingers, and I felt the tip of his cock pressing against me from behind. That made me tense completely. He noticed at once.

“Breathe,” he told me. “I’m going to put it in slowly.”

I gripped the sheet and exhaled slowly. The head entered little by little, burning and opening me. It hurt, yes, but it was an exciting, controlled pain. He stayed still for a moment, letting me adjust. Then he advanced a little farther. And a little more. Until he was completely inside me.

“Fuck,” I moaned, my face buried in the pillow.

“Look at you, taking it,” he said in a broken voice. “What a delicious ass.”

He began moving carefully at first. He withdrew only slightly and pushed back in, letting my body adapt. Little by little, the pain mixed with pleasure. My pussy began getting wet again just from feeling him fuck my ass. He noticed, because he slipped one hand beneath my stomach and searched for my clitoris.

That changed everything.

With his thumb rubbing me in front and his cock entering me from behind, I began moaning without restraint. He sped up. His thrusts became firmer and more frequent. I pushed my ass backward to take him better. The wet slaps of his hand touching me and his increasingly disordered breathing filled the room.

“You like it, don’t you?” he asked, driving into me all the way.

“Yes... yes, keep going.”

He laid me facedown without pulling out and draped himself over me, heavy, pressing me into the mattress. From there he fucked me faster. My chest was crushed against the bed, his sweaty body pressed to my back, his cock sliding in and out of my ass at a wild rhythm that made me bite the pillow to keep from screaming. I masturbated myself underneath while he kept fucking me.

I came like that, with dry spasms and my legs trembling. He held out only a little longer before pulling out and coming hot between my buttocks. His semen ran down the crack of my ass, some of it trickling toward my pussy. He stayed there for a few seconds, panting and looking at the mess he had made. Then he grabbed the wipes and began cleaning me with an almost tender calm that contrasted with the brutal way he had fucked me.

“Look what I did to you,” he said, spreading me slightly with his fingers to inspect me. “So serious on the outside, and look how you open up when you get turned on.”

I laughed, still breathless. I wasn’t offended; on the contrary. I liked the mixture of shamelessness and admiration with which he was looking at me. I cleaned the rest of myself, got dressed, and ran my fingers through my hair. Before I left the room, he kissed me again, this time more briefly, as if sealing a secret.

Everything had taken little time, less than an hour from arriving, taking the pill, and ending up tangled together again. I left his house with tired legs and unbearable heat in my body. I went to rehearsal as if nothing had happened, met up with my friends, took photographs, smiled with my family, and carried on with the day. No one would have imagined that only a short while earlier I had been on all fours in a mature man’s bed, letting him fuck my ass until he made me come.

I never slept with him again after that. It was the first and last time. Maybe that’s why it stayed lodged so deeply in me. It wasn’t a love story or a long affair. It was a pure confession: two encounters born from the intersection of kink, opportunity, and desire. And although I wouldn’t do it again with just anyone, I still remember with obscene clarity the exact moment when I opened the bathroom door for him and decided to let him come in.