My Confession About the Seventh-Floor Doorman

My name is Carolina, I’m thirty-three years old, and I live on the seventh floor in downtown Barranquilla, where the heat hits like a sharp blow the second you cross the building’s front door. People around here say I’ve got the Caribbean in my hips, and I don’t make any effort to deny it. I dance well, I laugh loudly, and this body I’ve got, with my narrow waist and everything else generous, does not go unnoticed at family parties. I watch what I eat, yes, but who says no to a butifarra in the middle of the afternoon or a cold beer when the sun slips through the blinds?

At my age I’ve already learned that a good man isn’t measured by height or carved abs, but by how he treats you when you come down from the clouds and ask him for a glass of water. That doesn’t mean that in bed I don’t like a secret well hidden under denim. Those rough, quiet men who, when they unbutton their pants, pull out a cock you weren’t expecting, thick, heavy, the kind that makes your eyes widen and you swallow hard before you take it in your mouth. That feeling of being wrecked the next day, with heavy legs, an irritated cunt, and a stupid grin, is poetry to me.

That’s why, even though I’m single, my life is not exactly calm. Why give things names? I’ve got Mateo on Wednesdays, brutal and fast, who throws me face-down, spreads my ass cheeks and fucks my hole without asking much; and I’ve got Esteban on Sundays, slow as a bolero, who licks my cunt for half an hour before he puts it in. The two of them organize my week better than any planner. And that was that. It seemed like enough until the elevator incident.

It was an ordinary Tuesday, one of those days when the humidity clings to your dress and downtown smells equally of sancocho and sewage. I was coming home from work with swollen feet, a shopping bag in each hand, and heels digging into me. The elevator had been broken for three days. Three days.

—Don Hernán! —I shouted from the lobby, sweating as if someone had sprayed me with a hose—. Is this damn thing broken again? What the hell are they charging maintenance for here?

Don Hernán came out of his little room by the entrance, that sort of cubicle that always smelled of black coffee and wet earth. He’s a man in his fifties, lanky, broad-shouldered from years of carrying moving boxes and furniture. His skin is weathered by the sun, his hands are large, and he has a crooked smile because he’s missing a molar on the left side. He’d always been kind to me, but respectful, never overstepping.

—Easy now, Ms. Carolina. I already called the technician. He says he’ll come tomorrow.

—Tomorrow! —I exclaimed, exaggerating my accent, because I know people from the Caribbean get even more Caribbean when we’re pissed off—. Tomorrow I’ll wake up with my legs in pieces!

He scratched the back of his neck and looked at the floor. I’m not blind: I know when a man is trying not to look. And Don Hernán was trying with all his might not to look at my legs.

—Want some help with the bags?

—Oh, yes, please. God bless you.

He took the two heaviest bags, the ones with potatoes and cassava, and started up the stairs with me behind him. I walked ahead on purpose, feeling his gaze on my back, on my hips, lower. I’m not going to pretend it bothered me. A woman knows when she’s being measured. And at thirty-three, I still like knowing the light hasn’t gone out.

When we got to the seventh floor, I was panting and his uniform shirt was soaked through. I pulled a large bill from my purse.

—Here.

—No, Ms. Carolina. That’s what I’m here for.

—Don’t be stupid, take it —I insisted, and I shoved it myself into his pants pocket.

Our hands brushed. It was half a second. But in that half second something happened. I looked at him. He looked at me. I saw his jaw tighten, his forehead shine, the muscles in his forearms standing out beneath the fabric. And I noticed something else: when I put the bill in his pocket, my knuckles had brushed a hard, thick bulge that was not his wallet. I pulled my hand away slowly, but he saw that I had seen. There was an odd silence, thick. He coughed, looked away, and went down the stairs almost at a jog.

I stood there in the hallway, key in hand, my heart beating a couple of pulses faster than normal and a warm dampness between my thighs that had nothing to do with Barranquilla’s heat.

***

After that, everything got weird. Don Hernán started greeting me while staring at the floor, or the ceiling, or the plant in the lobby. Anything but me. And me, being the bitch that I am, instead of leaving him alone, I started tightening the screw. Out of boredom, to see how far he’d take it, to test whether I still had a lit fuse.

I’d come down in shorter dresses, some days with no panties on, knowing that if I bent over enough his view would be full of my shaved cunt. I’d bend to pick up mail and let him see down my neckline to the nipple. I’d ask him about the Sunday game just to hear him stammer. He’d turn red as an overripe tomato, discreetly adjust the cock growing thicker inside his pants, and answer in monosyllables.

One afternoon a huge box arrived with my name on it. A coffee table I’d ordered online.

—Ms. Carolina, should I leave it in the lobby so they can bring it up later?

—Oh no, Don Hernán, help me with it. I can’t carry that alone.

He sighed, resigned. He carried it up all seven floors with the box on his shoulder and me behind him, watching his broad back, taut arms, shiny neck. When we got to the apartment, I pointed to the living room.

—Want me to get you some water? You earned it.

—Don’t worry, Caro… —he cut himself off abruptly. Caro. He had never called me Caro. Always Carolina, Ms. Carolina, everything in its place. It was a tiny slip, and huge at the same time.

We looked at each other. The air in the living room grew heavy. All you could hear was the hum of the air conditioner and the distant drip of traffic from the avenue.

—Caro? —I repeated, smiling slightly—. And since when are you so familiar, Don Hernán?

He blushed and looked at the door as if calculating the distance to the exit.

—Sorry. My bad. I didn’t mean to.

He was about to bolt. I got ahead of him, closed the door, and heard the latch click like a gunshot in a movie.

—Don’t apologize —I said quietly—. I liked it.

He froze as if someone had nailed him to the floor. I could see his pulse beating in his neck. He smelled of sweat mixed with cheap soap, and Jesus, that turned me on. That solid, quiet, nervous man standing in my living room doorway like he’d wandered into a church turned me on.

—Ms. Carolina… this shouldn’t… —he murmured, not moving.

—Shouldn’t what? —I moved closer until I was an inch from him. I brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulder—. You’re a hardworking man. Honest. Strong.

My hand stayed on his arm, on that hard biceps. He closed his eyes and breathed out shakily. I slid my hand down the forearm, down to his hip, and without thinking too much I rested it on his fly. There it was: hard, thick, throbbing under the uniform fabric. A rough groan escaped him when I squeezed over the cloth.

—I’ve been watching you look at me for weeks —I went on, my mouth near his ear, still not letting go of his cock—. Do you like what you see?

—Ms. Carolina, please… —and his voice came out halfway between pleading and surrender.

—Yes or no, Don Hernán.

He opened his eyes. There was no nervousness left. There was hunger. The same hunger I had, and which surprised me by being so close to the surface.

—Yes —he growled—. Yes, I like it. It drives me crazy. I’ve spent weeks jerking off thinking about you.

That confession was like undoing a tight closure that had been clenched for weeks. I took his rough hand and placed it on my hip, on the curve he’d been measuring in silence for so long. He squeezed with a force that stole my breath. Then he slid lower and grabbed a whole ass cheek beneath my dress, squeezing with those brute hands used to carrying furniture. He growled when he discovered I wasn’t wearing panties.

—You fucking bitch —he muttered—, you came down like this?

—I came down like this all week —I told him, biting his lip.

The other hand hooked my waist and pulled me hard against him. His mouth tasted of coffee and tired man, and we kissed with the urgency of two people who’d been holding back too long. His tongue was thick, heavy, pushed into my mouth without asking permission, and I sucked it like it was an advance on what I’d be sucking later.

His hands roamed me without permission and without patience. He yanked down the neckline of my dress and pulled both tits out. He stared at them for half a second, like someone discovering treasure, then bent down to suck them with hunger. He took one nipple whole into his mouth, bit it, licked it, while his other hand squeezed my other breast until I complained. There was no tenderness in what he did: there was stored-up need and a certain astonishment that this was actually happening.

—I’ve dreamed about these tits —he muttered against my chest—. When you bend over to pick up the mail, I get hard just looking at them. Then I lock myself in the bathroom and jack off thinking about you.

—Tell me more —I panted, grabbing his head against my chest, grinding myself against the hard bulge pushing between my legs.

—I imagine fucking you from behind in the elevator —he went on, his mouth full of my tit—. Hands on the mirror and your dress hiked up. I think about that fucking all night.

—Shut up and do it.

I didn’t have to repeat myself. He turned me halfway around, planted my hands against the wall near the entrance, and hiked my dress above my hips. A rough groan escaped him when he saw there was nothing there, just my ass and my already soaked cunt shining between my thighs. He crouched down at once, spread my ass cheeks with both hands, and buried his face. His tongue went in one stroke, thick, wet, licking from bottom to top, from cunt to asshole and back. I pressed my forehead to the wall and let out a long moan, trembling on my heels.

—Ah, you fucking bastard —I panted—, like that, like that, don’t stop.

He ate my cunt like he had months of delayed hunger to make up for. He pushed his whole tongue in, pulled it out, sucked my clit with his lips, shoved it in again. He jammed two thick fingers inside me while he licked me, curling them deep, searching for that spot that makes my knees rise. I shoved my ass against his face without shame, riding his mouth against the wall.

—Put it in me already —I begged—, put it in me already, I can’t take it anymore.

He straightened, unbuttoned his pants with clumsy fingers, and tugged them down to mid-thigh. I looked over my shoulder and let out an accidental “oh damn.” It was thick, brown, veined, heavy. He grabbed his cock with one hand, rubbed it up and down through my soaking cunt, slicking it with my fluids, and with the other hand on my hip he took me in one shot. Deep, brutal, no lead-up. A scream escaped me that wasn’t only pleasure: it was surprise, the sheer rawness of the moment, feeling him open me from the inside to the very bottom.

—Goddamn, you’re huge —I panted, arching my back.

—And all yours —he growled, gripping my hips with both hands.

He started moving with a firm rhythm, each thrust knocking me against the wall, my tits bouncing out of the dress. He’d almost pull out completely and slam back in, all the way, until his balls hit my cunt. I bit my hand so I wouldn’t scream, my heels dug into the floorboards. You could hear the wet slap of flesh hitting flesh, the splash of my soaked cunt, his guttural pants in my ear.

—I’ve wanted to do this to you for weeks —he said in my ear, sweaty, never stopping—. When you bend in the lobby, when you walk by in those little dresses, when you smile at me… I was going to split you in two, you fucking bitch.

—Then split it —I shot back, pushing my ass back—, split it all the way to the bottom.

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my head back, never stopping fucking me against the wall. With his other hand he found my clit and started rubbing it in circles while he drove his cock all the way to his balls. It took a minute: I felt the current rising up my legs, the trembling in my belly, and I came screaming into his hand, clamping down on his cock in spasms he felt and answered with a roar.

—You’re squeezing me all over —he moaned—, I’m gonna come, where do I put it?

—Inside —I said without thinking—, come inside, bastard.

That was enough. He sank his fingers into my hips, slammed his cock all the way in three, four times, and finished with a muffled roar against my shoulder. I felt the hot stream hitting inside me, beat after beat, while he kept thrusting, emptying himself completely. My legs trembled. We stayed stuck to the wall, panting, his chest soaking my back, his cock still hard and buried in me.

When he pulled out, a thick thread of semen and slick ran down the inside of my thigh. He saw it and I watched his eyes darken again, as if he wanted to start all over. But the silence was awful. He quickly adjusted his uniform, avoiding my gaze, and shame returned to his face like a tide.

—I… I’m going.

And he almost fled the apartment without looking back.

I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, my dress bunched at my waist, my tits still out, my cunt dripping onto the parquet. My legs trembling, my head empty. What the hell had I done? With the doorman? In the living room? I got a fit of laughter and a hot flush at the same time.

***

The days that followed were polite hell. Don Hernán went back to greeting me with exaggerated formality, now tinted with fear. I understood him and I didn’t. What had happened had been wild, scorching hot, but also empty. And against all odds, I wanted more. I wanted to see if behind the nervous man in the little room there was something more than Catholic guilt and a body ready to go with a cock that had left my cunt sore for three days.

A week later, I went down under the excuse of asking about the water. He was inside, watching a game on a small TV perched on a shelf. When he saw me, he stiffened.

—Ms. Carolina.

—Don Hernán. We need to talk.

—Look, what happened… was a mistake. I shouldn’t have. You’re a lady and I’m…

—Shut up —I said, going in and closing the door behind me.

The little room was tiny. A narrow bed, a small table, a chair, and in one corner a battered fan. It smelled like him everywhere: cheap soap, honest sweat, reheated coffee.

—Do you think I did it because I felt sorry for you? Or because I was horny and had no one else nearby?

He didn’t know how to answer.

—I did it because I liked it —I said—. I like the way you look at me. I like your strength. And I liked what happened in my living room, even if afterward you ran off like I was some offended saint. I’ve had your cock in my head for a week, do you hear me?

His eyes lit up for a second. Then they clouded over again.

—Ms. Carolina, this can’t be. You and I are from different worlds.

—Worlds? Please, Don Hernán. The only worlds here are the seventh floor and this little room. And I find this little room more interesting.

I knelt in front of him, seated in the chair with his hands gripping the wooden arms. He looked at me as if I were a vision.

—Are you going to tell me you haven’t thought about that since that day? That you haven’t wanted it to happen again?

He swallowed. He didn’t lie.

—Every day —he said, almost in a whisper—. Every night. I jerk off thinking about how you squeezed.

—Good. Then stop acting crazy.

I lowered his zipper with a calm that even surprised me. I reached in and pulled his cock out. It was already half hard, thick, warm against my fingers. He didn’t protest. He only let out a low moan, like a sound halfway between surrender and gratitude, and his fingers tightened on the chair’s wooden arms. I ran my thumb over the tip, playing with the clear drop already beading there, and spread it over the whole head.

—Caro… not here… they can see us… —he murmured, panic and desire tangled in his voice.

—Shut up —I said softly, and leaned in.

When I took him in my mouth, a shiver ran through him from head to toe. He let out a guttural groan that didn’t sound like him. The tip filled my mouth with a taste of skin and salt, and I went down slowly, taking him as deep as I could, feeling him grow against my tongue until he was hard as a rock. The TV kept narrating the game, an absurd counterpoint to what was happening at his feet. I worked with a determination I didn’t know I had, savoring him, moving up and down with my whole mouth, pressing my lips around the ring of the glans, spitting on him to lubricate, and gripping the base with my hand.

I sucked him slowly at first, then faster, making noise on purpose, letting the thread of saliva run down his balls. I licked his thick vein from bottom to top, kissed the tip, took the whole cock in until it hit my throat and I gagged. He let out a long, trembling breath.

—Fuck, no… like that… I can’t take it…

I pulled his cock out of my mouth and smiled at him, lips shining.

—That’s the point, Hernán.

I grabbed his balls with one hand, kneaded them slowly, and took him back into my mouth. I sucked the tip like candy, my tongue circling the glans, and then swallowed him whole again. I could feel his thighs tightening. He raised his hands hesitantly and placed them on my head, not to guide me, but to confirm that this was real and not another one of his dreams. Then, fully surrendered, he gripped my hair and started pushing my head gently, setting the rhythm.

—Like that, baby, like that —he moaned, almost to himself—. Suck it like that.

I could see his face transformed. He was no longer the shy doorman. He was a male about to come in the mouth of a woman who had dropped to her knees without being asked. I sped up. I slid my finger underneath, between his balls and his asshole, pressing there, and he let out a muted roar.

—I’m going to… —he barely got out.

He didn’t pull away. I gripped him harder, sped up my rhythm, until his whole body went taut. I felt the first rope hit the roof of my mouth, thick, hot, and then another, and another, while he let out a long, muffled moan, trapped between his teeth so he wouldn’t wake up the building. I swallowed as much as I could. A little spilled from the corner of my mouth and fell onto his pants. I kept sucking the tip until I was getting the last drops out, and he had to pull my head away because he couldn’t take it anymore.

He collapsed against the backrest, panting, staring at the ceiling with a face of absolute amazement.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and straightened up. I saw shame start to surface again. I cut it off first.

—If you apologize to me, I’m really going to get mad, Hernán.

Hearing his name without the “Don” made him blink. He sat up straight and buttoned his pants with clumsy fingers.

—It’s just… I don’t understand, ma’am. What do you want from me?

—To start with, I want you to stop calling me ma’am when we’re alone —I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. The blanket was rough and smelled like yellow-bag fabric softener—. And second, I want to know what’s behind the quiet man at the front desk.

For the first time I saw a real smile on him. Shy, a little awkward, but it softened his whole face.

—There isn’t much, Caro… work, sleep, sometimes I watch the game.

—And you think about pinning me against the wall in my living room —I completed, as seriously as I could manage.

He flushed all the way to the roots of his hair, but this time he held my gaze.

—Yes. That too. And fucking you from behind in the elevator. And riding me on this bed.

—Careful what you say —I told him, crossing my legs and letting my dress ride up enough for him to see I still wasn’t wearing panties—, because I’ll make you pay for it.

The ice broke there. From that day on we started inventing excuses to see each other. I’d go down to “check the mailbox” at odd hours, or ask about a package that I knew perfectly well hadn’t arrived. He, growing bolder, would sometimes come upstairs with some story about checking a dripping faucet or a flickering light, and would end up with his face buried between my legs on the kitchen table, or with me riding him on the couch, my tits bouncing in his face. The meetings in his little room were short, full of the urgency of not being discovered. Quick and dirty: me bent face-down on the narrow bed, him behind me driving it all the way in with a hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t scream while some neighbor passed through the lobby. But it was no longer just raw sex against a wall.

Sometimes, afterward, we’d stay five minutes talking. He’d tell me about his hometown, about a grown son who lived far away with his mother, about the winters in Bogotá when he worked as a security guard. I’d tell him how boring the office was, how empty the nights felt on the seventh floor when I turned off the lamp and heard the silence of the whole building.

And sometimes, there, sitting naked on a narrow bed that smelled of cheap soap and the two of us, with his semen still running between my thighs, I felt that confession I could never make to anyone was, for once, mine.