The Afternoon I Let My Dog Walker In

I never told anyone in my family about this, and I doubt I ever will. But for months now it’s been going round and round in my head, and I need to get it out somewhere, even if it’s only by writing it here, without my real name, for people who don’t know me.

I still live in my parents’ house. We have a dog, a little poodle that I adore but that exhausts me, and about a year ago we hired a dog walker who comes three times a week. His name is Damián. Well, that’s not really his name, but I’m going to call him Damián.

I almost never talked to him myself. My parents and my brother handled everything: they’d let him in, hand over the dog, pay him at the end of the month. At most I’d run into him at the door, nod hello, and keep going. He was a big guy, about forty, with a short beard and those huge hands that belong to people who work outdoors. He wasn’t handsome in the classic sense. And yet there was something about him.

That afternoon I was alone. My parents had gone to my aunt’s house in another city and my brother was at university. I was in my pajamas, hair a mess, watching series on the sofa, not thinking about anything. And then the doorbell rang.

I had completely forgotten it was walking day.

I opened the door halfway, embarrassed by my state, and there he was with the leash slung over his shoulder.

“I’m here for the little guy,” he said, nodding toward the inside, where the dog was already running around like crazy.

“Yeah, sure, come in,” I replied, stepping aside.

He clipped the leash to the collar, but the dog was too worked up and got tangled up in his legs. Damián laughed, bent down, and while he untangled him he asked if I’d mind if he stayed a minute to drink some water, that it was scorching hot outside.

“Help yourself,” I said, and went to the kitchen to pour him a glass.

It’s nothing, I told myself. It’s just water.

When I came back, he was sitting on the edge of the sofa, elbows on his knees. I handed him the glass and he kept looking at me for a second too long while he drank. I folded my arms, suddenly aware that I wasn’t wearing anything under my pajamas. No bra, no panties. My nipples were showing through the old T-shirt and he saw it, I know he did, because his eyes dropped for a second before meeting mine again.

“I always see you in passing,” he said, setting the glass on the table. “I never even say hello properly.”

“I’m always in a hurry,” I lied.

“Or hiding.”

He said it with half a smile, no malice in it, but it made the heat rise to my face. I didn’t know what to answer. I sat down at the far end of the sofa, far away, as if drawing a line I didn’t really want to draw.

The dog had curled up in his corner, indifferent, as if he knew the walk could wait.

***

We talked about nonsense for a while. The heat, the neighborhood, how difficult the dog could be when he got stubborn. But at some point the conversation died away and there was only that thing that happens when two people know what’s about to happen and neither one dares say it.

Damián moved a little closer to me. Not much. Just enough for me to feel the shift.

“Am I bothering you?” he asked, and the question itself was already a caress.

“No,” I said, and my voice came out thinner than I expected.

He put a hand on my knee. A big hand, warm, heavy. I stayed still, looking at it, as if it belonged to someone else and not to me. I should have stood up. I should have told him to take the dog and leave, and that would have been that. Instead I stayed there, feeling his thumb draw slow circles on my skin.

He leaned in to kiss me and that was when I reacted. I turned my face away.

“Not that,” I said.

“Okay,” he answered at once, without pushing, pulling back a few centimeters. “Whatever you want.”

And I think that was the part that turned me on the most. That he didn’t force it. That he respected the no to the kiss as if it were the most natural thing in the world and let me decide the rest. Because then the decision was mine, entirely mine, and that gave me a power and a vertigo I had never felt before.

His hand slid a little higher up my thigh, over the fabric of my pajamas. Then down to my hip and drew me in just a little. I let him. I let him, and I moved closer too, until I was half leaning against his side, smelling the sun and sweat on his T-shirt.

“Turn around,” he murmured.

I did. And he grabbed my ass with both hands, without asking permission, squeezing like he’d been thinking about it for months. I should have been offended. I wasn’t. On the contrary, it tore a sigh from me that I couldn’t hide, and that only made him bolder. He slipped his fingers under the elastic of my pajamas and yanked them halfway down my thighs in one pull, leaving my ass bare right there in the living room. I felt the air on my skin and then the heat of his rough palms kneading all over me, opening me, closing me, with a calmness that made me close my eyes.

“Look at that ass you’ve got,” he said under his breath, more to himself than to me. “I’ve been looking at it for a year every time you walk by.”

My face went hot hearing that. One of his fingers slipped between my cheeks and went down, slowly, until it found my cunt already wet. He gave a small, satisfied laugh and dragged his fingertip along my lips from top to bottom, smearing his fingers in the mess running from me.

“You’re soaking, baby.”

“Shut up,” I whispered, mortified, but I opened my legs a little more without even realizing it.

He rubbed me against his leg for a while, slowly, measuring me. And that was when I felt it through the shorts, with my own hip moving on its own against the tight muscle of his thigh, soaking his jeans against my will.

***

It wasn’t huge in length. But it was thick, in a way that truly shocked me, pressing against the fabric with an insolence that dried my mouth out. I looked down before I meant to, and he noticed.

“What?” he said, amused.

“Nothing,” I answered, but I couldn’t stop looking anymore.

I shifted until I was kneeling on the floor between his legs, without fully thinking it through, carried by a curiosity stronger than embarrassment. He leaned back against the sofa and opened his knees a little wider, giving me space, letting me do it.

I pulled down his shorts. And what came out took me a second to take in. He had been right: thick as my forearm, heavy, hot to the touch, the head purple and shiny, a drop of fluid already beading at the tip. I grabbed it with one hand and couldn’t quite close my fingers all the way. They didn’t reach around his whole cock, and he noticed, because he let out a rough laugh.

“Use both hands,” he said. “You need both.”

I did as he said. I added the other hand, one over the other, and still the head stuck out. I started moving them slowly, feeling the skin slide up and down over that hardness, feeling the thick vein underneath throb against my palm.

“Slow,” he said, voice hoarse. “No rush.”

I didn’t entirely listen. I lowered my head and ran my tongue over the tip, collecting the salty drop, and took him into my mouth. At first it was hard. I had to open my jaw wide, be careful with my teeth, ease him in little by little, feeling my lips stretch until the corners stung. Barely a third of him had gone in before the tip hit the back of my palate and I gagged dryly. I heard him suck in a sharp breath, as if he’d been holding it since he came in.

“Fuck, like that, with that little mouth,” he muttered. “Easy, come on, breathe through your nose.”

One of his hands settled on the back of my neck. He didn’t push. It just rested there, warm, while I found my rhythm. I moved up and down with my tongue flat, pressing myself against the underside of his cock, feeling how it arched inside my mouth. I pulled it out with a wet sound, dripping with saliva, and licked the tip in circles before taking him back in. Every so often I’d let it out and go down, sucking the whole shaft from one side, biting softly, until I reached his balls. I took them in my hand, heavy, and sucked them one by one while still working him with the other hand.

“Holy fuck,” he said, head thrown back. “Don’t stop.”

I went back to the top. I took him deeper, forcing myself, feeling my eyes fill and saliva run down my chin in thick drops onto my breasts. The old T-shirt clung to my body, see-through. Every so often I’d look up and find him staring at me with an intensity that made me squeeze my thighs together on my own, rubbing them against each other to calm the pounding between my legs.

“Like that, exactly,” he said, almost voiceless. “Just like that, suck it like that, you have no idea what your face looks like.”

It turned me on more than I expected, being on my knees in front of a guy I barely knew, in the living room of my parents’ house, on an ordinary weekday afternoon. The very idea of what I was doing — me, kneeling, with a dog walker’s cock in my mouth, my pajamas half down, my ass out, my cunt dripping down the insides of my thighs — gave me a heat I hadn’t known I had. I sped up. I used both hands and my mouth at the same time, making a wet, obscene sound that filled the whole living room. I felt him get even harder, throbbing against my tongue, his balls tightening in my hand.

“Wait,” I said, pulling off for a second, a thick string of saliva hanging from my lip to the tip. “Warn me first.”

“Almost there,” he answered, and the hand on my neck tightened just a little, not forcing. “Really fucking close, baby, keep going.”

I kept going. I went back down, faster now, not letting him breathe, playing with his balls and squeezing the base with my fingers. I heard him swallow a curse through his teeth.

“Now,” he gasped. “Now, now, now.”

I took him out just in time. The first spurt hit my lower lip and my chin, hot and thick, and the amount surprised me. I finished him with my hands, pumping him fast, and the next spurts landed on my hands, on my knuckles, a little on the neckline of my T-shirt. He threw his head back and let out a deep, long sound that raised goosebumps all over my skin, while his cock kept twitching in my fist, spitting out the very last drop. He came fast. Faster than I would have wanted, honestly, because I was just getting warmed up and I was left with this strange mixture of disappointment and relief at the same time, staring at my hands smeared with his semen and not really knowing what to do with them.

Without thinking much, I licked one finger. Then another. It was salty, warm, thick. He saw me do it and let out a low groan, as if it hurt not to start all over again right then.

“You’re something else,” he said, half laughing, half panting.

***

After that there was an awkward silence, the kind that comes as soon as the adrenaline drops. I got up, pulled my pajamas back on, went to wash my hands and face, and when I came back he had already fixed his shorts and was standing there with the leash slung over his shoulder again.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and for the first time he sounded genuinely concerned, not like the confident guy from five minutes earlier.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine.”

And it was true. I was weird, yes, with my heart still pounding hard, my cunt throbbing without having gotten mine, and my head full of questions about myself. But fine.

“If you don’t want me to come back, I’ll understand,” he added. “I’ll talk to your dad, make up any excuse.”

“No need,” I answered. “Keep coming. Like always.”

He looked at me for a second, nodded, and bent down to get the dog, who finally got up from his corner, tail wagging, oblivious to everything. At the door he turned back one last time.

“Next time, if you let me, it’s your turn,” he said, with that half smile again. “I want to eat you out all the way. And then fuck you until you can’t walk.”

I didn’t answer. I closed the door and stayed leaning against it for a long while, listening to his footsteps and the jingle of the leash fade away, my legs pressed tight together and one hand already inside my pajamas, finishing what he had left half-done.

He came back, of course. He kept coming three times a week, punctual, professional in front of my parents, not a gesture out of place. And I learned to pretend just as well as he did. But that promise he left in the doorway is still there, floating every time I run into him and he nods hello like nothing at all.

He wasn’t my only experience with someone quite a bit older than me. But that one, the dog walker, the afternoon I was alone and let him in for a glass of water, is the one I can’t shake. Maybe because it was the first time I truly discovered how far I was capable of going on my own, without anyone pushing me.

That’s all. Or almost all. The rest, the next time, is for another confession.