The Errand to the Garage Before the Graduation Trip

This happened three years ago, during the last week before the graduation trip. I was twenty-one and didn't have any classes: we were in those strange days when everything was paperwork and nothing mattered too much. I went downstairs for breakfast after nine, and my dad was waiting for me with the kettle in his hand.

“I need a favor,” he said. “Could you take some money to Aníbal, at the garage? Mom went to Catamarca for work, and I got stuck with a complicated day.”

I asked him if I could go at noon. He said it didn't matter, but that it absolutely had to be today: in three days he was leaving for Tucumán for work and needed the engine ready. I took the two envelopes tied together with a rubber band.

It was unbearably hot, so I put on a light linen skirt and a white spaghetti-strap tank top. I didn't put on a bra: with that fabric, the underwire would show. Yes, my nipples were visible, but I also liked the way my breasts looked without support, round and slightly lifted. I put on a salmon-colored cotton thong for the first time. My skin prickled when the fabric settled between my buttocks and I felt the seam slip just slightly into the cleft of my ass. Flats on my feet. I put the envelopes into a backpack strapped close to my body.

Before leaving, I put on enormous black sunglasses, the kind that covered half my face. They made me feel free, grown-up, outside the routine of classes. The skirt floated in the breeze. No one had ever looked at me so much: I felt men's heads turning as I passed. My hips took on a different rhythm without my deciding to. I smiled and swayed my waist more, winding along the sidewalk as if the whole street belonged to me.

At a corner, the wind lifted my skirt and I slapped it back down. “What an ass, baby!” the passenger in a Corsa waiting at the light shouted. I blushed, but laughed with my head lowered and kept walking. Something in my chest was beating differently, and something lower down was too: the thong's soft fabric rubbed me with every step, and I felt the lips of my pussy growing wet for no reason.

It had been about two years since I'd set foot in the garage, but I recognized the green gate as soon as I turned the corner. I went in. It was dark inside, with that smell of grease and metal that sinks into your clothes. One of the guys dropped his tool and came over. He looked at my legs before speaking.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“I'm looking for Aníbal. I have to leave something for him from my dad.”

“Aníbal didn't come in today. But Mateo's here.” I looked at him, not understanding. “His son. He's upstairs. Want me to let him know?”

“Okay, yes. Thanks.”

He went up a narrow staircase. The other guys stopped what they were doing to look at me and then went back to work, but I caught them. Every so often a metallic bang made me jump. The upstairs office had a door with frosted glass and, beside it, a window with Venetian blinds. I saw a couple of slats open and two eyes peering down at me. The guy came back like a dog carrying a stick.

“He says you should come up.”

I looked at the staircase. It was tall and metal, and the steps were perforated sheet metal with a diamond pattern. The bottom was open. I grabbed my skirt and pressed it against my thighs, but it still wasn't enough. I climbed slowly; I didn't dare look down, but I could already feel the stares crawling between my legs like ants, searching for my thong between my buttocks. I reached the top and knocked on the glass with my knuckles.

“Yeah, come on in,” a voice answered, moving around.

The doorknob was loose. When I went in, I found him standing on a chair, taking some posters down from the wall. I caught a glimpse of a blonde model's face, one of those calendar girls, before he rolled it up.

“I'm taking her down so she won't get jealous of you,” he said, and I laughed.

He was much younger than his father, no more than twenty-eight. Thin, with an open-necked shirt and a huge smile showing very even teeth. A tribal tattoo stood out on his forearms and climbed to his elbows.

“I'm here on behalf of Bohdan Kovalenko,” I said, reading part of the envelope.

“The Ukrainian? Yeah, I know.”

“Ukrainian, yes. Not Russian, mind you, or he gets angry.”

“You can tell, though, huh? You're a little Russian girl just like him. Whiter and blonder would be impossible.”

We both laughed. He looked closely at my face and furrowed his brow.

“Seriously, you don't remember me?”

I remembered going to the garage when I was ten or eleven, sitting at a desk drawing, but I didn't remember him at all.

“You were tiny. We'd bring you into this same office and give you paper and pencils. It was obvious you'd grow up beautiful. Your hair's gotten a little darker, but that porcelain skin is just the same. You were skinny; now you've got more curves than the Suzuka Circuit.”

“I don't know it,” I laughed. “Yes, I remember the drawings.”

“Well, leave your backpack there, on the sofa behind you.”

I left the little backpack on the brown faux-leather sofa. I came back, and he invited me to sit across from his glass desk. We chatted for a while. He asked about college, and I told him that in a week I was going south with all my classmates for our graduation trip.

“Oh, the trouble you're going to cause,” he said, laughing.

He explained that the guys from the garage were about to go downstairs to eat in the lower office, and asked whether I'd stay for lunch with him. He'd order something; it was his treat. I hesitated for two seconds and said yes. He ordered steak salad for both of us.

When the food arrived, he poured me ice-cold water. I drank it in one gulp, trembling a little. A drop escaped from the corner of my mouth. He ate behind the glass desk, and every so often his gaze slipped to the edge of my skirt, where my quadriceps began. I tugged the fabric down slightly with my left hand. When I had to cut the meat, the skirt shifted and I had to use both hands. His gaze went straight in, without even pretending otherwise, underneath me, searching for the salmon triangle of fabric between my legs. I crossed my legs; I didn't care anymore. I looked at his trousers and noticed that he was swollen, stretched tight, with a thick bulge pushing his zipper outward. I felt heat start at my feet and climb up my calves to my thighs, and realized that my thong was getting wet again, seriously this time.

“It's good, isn't it? How many boyfriends do you have?”

I choked on a piece of tomato. Laughing, he poured me more water, and I drank quickly again; once more some spilled onto my skirt and a little stream ran down my leg. He stood up, went to get a dish towel, and dried me. When he wiped my leg, he accidentally left a grease mark. He sighed, apologized, and removed it with his palm. It was warm. I shifted farther back in the chair and arched my spine, not entirely unintentionally. His palm lingered a second too long on my thigh, very close to the skirt's edge, and I felt my skin spark beneath his thumb.

“It was just a question,” he said, standing to pick up the plates.

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

He raised his eyebrows and, looking at the triangle formed by my skirt between my legs, said it was incredible. To break the silence, I hurried on.

“I'll give you the money.”

“Sure, whatever you want,” he replied, sitting down.

I walked to the sofa. I bent over to open the backpack.

“Oh, no. Stay like that forever,” he said from behind me, his voice lower.

I realized that my skirt had ridden up, giving him a view of the beginning of my ass, with the salmon thong pulled tight down the middle, surely showing how wet I was. I stayed there. Instead of lifting the backpack, I opened the zipper right there on the sofa and began slowly taking out the envelope. I heard him stand and walk toward me. I dropped the envelope and reached for it again deliberately, arching my back farther so my ass opened beneath the fabric.

“That's a lot of money,” he said softly into my ear, his voice penetrating. “You smell good.”

I caught the smell of metal and grease clinging to his clothes. I stood up, and we faced each other, the envelope between his chest and mine. He took it, and his fingers barely brushed the tops of my breasts. They felt heavy and hard, as if they had a life of their own; my nipples pressed against the tank top until they outlined two thick points that he never stopped looking at. I bit my lip without thinking, and he laughed. He dropped onto the sofa, opened the envelope, and began counting the bills. He asked me to get him a sheet of paper from the desk. I thought he wanted to see me from behind. I walked slowly, took it, and brought it to him.

“There's only half here.”

A real tremor went through me this time.

“But you can start anyway, can't you?” I said, stammering slightly.

“No, I can't do it like that.”

“I'll call my dad and tell him to bring you the rest.”

“No, forget it. The parts guy is coming in an hour and I have to pay him. It doesn't matter; we'll start another day.”

“No, please. I swear my dad needs it for Thursday's trip. Can't you ask the parts guy to leave it for you, and I'll bring you the difference tomorrow?”

“No, I was perfectly clear with him. This guy won't leave me anything, especially with the way things are in this country. They want the money now.”

“I'm sorry, but don't you have something here that I could take and bring back tomorrow without fail?”

“I don't know, what do I know?”

I began begging him. I knelt without thinking much about it, out of instinct. I came closer on my knees. He watched me with a furrowed brow. I rested my elbows on his knees. I felt his erection stretching the fold of his jeans, a thick, hard bulge pushing the fabric toward my face. I looked at it. He realized that I had realized. I slid my hands along the sides of his legs; he cleared his throat and shifted in the chair, and the bulge jumped a little higher, seeking an escape.

“I don't know,” he said in a trembling voice. “Maybe I've got something put away in petty cash.”

“Yeah?” I murmured, resting my head on his right knee and looking at him with my eyes wide open.

I slowly dragged my left hand toward the bulge in his trousers. I lifted it and held it a millimeter from the fabric; only the heat touched, my skin and his bulge, without contact. He snorted. He lowered my hand with his own and made me press my entire palm against his cock over the jeans. I felt it pulsing against my lifeline. With his other hand, he opened my lips; I felt his thumb touch my teeth, which parted like an automatic door. I welcomed it with the tip of my tongue, sharp as a spear, and sucked his entire finger to the knuckle while looking him in the eyes.

I felt our breathing quicken, but at different rhythms. He hurried and reached for the button of his trousers. I stopped him. I shook my head and told him no without words. I opened his legs and moved completely between them. I looked at him with my chin tucked to my chest and unbuttoned him myself. The zipper gave way on its own under the pressure of his cock. I slipped my hand inside his underwear. There was a clash of heat: mine warm, his burning, heavy, pulsing against my fingers. It was thick, still slightly soft, with that thin-skinned texture that stretches when it hardens. I pulled it out by forcing the fabric of his trousers aside, and a long cock appeared in front of me, dark at the base, with a pink, shiny head emerging from between the foreskin. A clear thread hung from the tip. I grasped it with both hands, one above the other, and realized that even both hands weren't enough to cover it completely. I began massaging it up and down, feeling it harden in my fist, pulse every two or three seconds, the foreskin sliding back and leaving the head completely exposed, wet and gleaming. I gathered saliva and let it fall from high above, a white thread landing right on the glans and running down the sides to my fingers. My hand slid more easily now, and I squeezed up and down, twisting my wrist slightly on every downward stroke.

“Can you?” I murmured.

“Yes,” he answered in a thin, drawn-out voice.

“Good.”

I brought my face closer. I gathered more saliva, stuck out my tongue, and showed him how a thread fell onto the pink head. He threw his head back, but brought it forward again at once; he didn't want to miss anything. I ran my tongue in circles around the glans, slowly, wetting the tip until it shone as if varnished. Then I kissed it with very soft lips, without opening them, a girlfriend's kiss. Then I opened my mouth and began taking it in, slowly, pressing the skin with my lips, feeling the heat of his cock fill my mouth to the roof. I took more and more of it, until I felt the head strike my throat and tears blurred my eyes. He grabbed my head, and I pulled his hand away: I wouldn't let him control the rhythm. I pulled the skin back with one hand, kissed the tip, and let saliva fall, mixing with what he was producing himself. Saliva ran down my chin and fell between my breasts, wetting my tank top.

I pulled it all the way out with a wet sound and licked the entire underside, from top to bottom, long and insistently, as if it were an ice cream melting in my mouth. I grabbed his balls with my free hand and squeezed them gently, playing with them between my fingers. I lowered my mouth to his balls and sucked one, then the other, while my hand kept making a fist around his cock. I brought my mouth back to the head, and this time buried it all the way in, until my nose touched his pelvic bone. I stayed there, choking for a second, feeling his pulse on my tongue. Then I pulled away sharply, and a thick strand of spit hung from my lip to the tip of his cock.

“You can't be such a slut,” he murmured.

“See?” I said, looking up at him, mouth open, tongue out, his cock resting on it like a flag.

I put it back in my mouth and began sucking him quickly, my hand keeping pace with my mouth, twisting my wrist at the base while my lips moved up and down. I felt his hips moving on their own against my face and knew that if I kept going, he'd come in two minutes. I didn't want that. Not yet. I pulled my mouth away with a smack and blew cold air over the wet tip. His entire cock shuddered, and a tight moan escaped him.

He stood up and lifted me. He turned me around and began kissing my neck, while his other hand slid down the front of me beneath my skirt. I felt his large fingers pass over the lips of my pussy, slipping just between them, discovering how wet I was down there. “Fuck,” escaped him when I drenched his hand at the first touch. He searched for and found my clitoris; he squeezed it between two fingers and rotated the pad of his finger in circles over it. My knees knocked together, and I moaned for the first time, a long moan muffled behind my tightly closed mouth. He thrust two fingers all the way inside me, and I felt him opening my pussy, his palm striking my clitoris each time his fist entered completely. With his fingers inside me, he began moving them as if making a “come here, come here” gesture against the front wall. My legs trembled, and I had to brace myself against the desk so I wouldn't fall.

He lifted my skirt all the way and left it rolled around my waist. He pressed his cock against the coolest part of my ass. We moved backward until we were against the desk. My hands ended up against the cold glass. He pulled down my tank top, leaving my breasts bare. He grabbed them from behind, one in each hand, and pinched my nipples until I screamed. He moved my thong aside; underneath, it was already soaked, the fabric dripping. He began kissing me from the waist down, descended to my buttocks, and pushed his whole head between them. I felt his warm tongue run along my cleft from top to bottom, from my waist to my asshole and from my asshole to the lips of my pussy. He paused at my ass for a moment and made me jump. Then he lowered himself and licked my entire pussy in one long stroke. His fingers slid inside and opened me with his thumb and forefinger while his tongue searched for my clitoris. I moaned louder, unable to cover my mouth. I felt him trying to reach me with his tongue from behind and failing; his fingers went in, and I contracted my entire pelvis around them.

“Fuck me now,” I begged.

He stood up. He raised me upright. We danced slowly for a moment; my head resting against his chest, seeking to bring our mouths together. We kissed, dirty, our tongues inside each other, and I tasted my pussy in his mouth. He murmured something I didn't understand, but I knew it was brutal. I said yes with my wet eyes. He finished removing my tank top, leaving my breasts exposed. Pushing my head, he pressed me against the cold glass. My nipples swelled against the surface and flattened white. I felt him pull my thong again, to the point where there was a small tearing sound, and that strip remained tight against one side of my thigh like a broken ribbon.

“Oh, yes,” I prayed softly.

On all fours, surrendered, my ass raised, I felt his wet cock pass first over one buttock, then through the middle of my cleft, brushing my ass as it began searching for the lips of my pussy from behind. The head rested against the entrance and stayed there, pulsing. I pressed my hands against the glass. He entered slowly; I opened around him, elastic, feeling every inch stretch me inside. When he was fully in, I had to throw my head back, and a long, high “aaayyy” escaped me. He filled me so completely that I felt the impact deep inside, where nothing reached. He grabbed my hair and pulled me backward, and his hips began setting an increasingly faster rhythm. There was the slap, slap, slap of his pelvis against my buttocks and the wet splashing of his cock entering and leaving my flooded pussy. I couldn't contain my high moans, even though I remembered the guys downstairs. A drop of spit fell from my mouth onto the glass and stayed there, trembling with every thrust. He began pulling my thong down, and I helped by lifting one foot and then the other, until it lay on the floor, a stained salmon-colored rag.

He pressed a finger between my breasts to push me harder against the glass and began thrusting deeper, more slowly, twisting his hips with every stroke as if to run the tip through every corner of me. I felt the glans touch places inside me I hadn't known existed. He stretched my buttock with his free hand to see better how he entered and withdrew; his concentrated face, biting his lip, was reflected in the glass.

“Look at how your little pussy sucks me in, how it eats me,” he said behind me, his voice broken.

“Yes, come on, more, more,” I begged, pushing my ass backward toward him.

He lifted me, turned me around, and sat me on the desk. All the cold of the glass transferred to my ass. He spit on his cock, and I spread it with my hand, smoothing his saliva over the entire surface until it gleamed. Then he spit on his hand and ran it over my pussy, sliding two spread fingers along my lips and rubbing my clitoris with the pad of his thumb. We kissed. The taste of metal and sex in our mouths was delicious. Without my realizing it, his cock entered like a flaming battering ram. He expanded me; I felt the tissues stretch and the heat enter slowly. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and we found the same rhythm. He began fucking me with his hips, entering from below in short, deep thrusts that made my breasts bounce. He took one in his mouth and sucked my nipple until it reddened, while his free hand squeezed my other breast until it hurt and I liked it at the same time.

He grabbed my ass with both hands and lifted me, his cock still inside; I wrapped my legs around his waist. He walked two steps like that, with me hanging from him like a monkey, and I felt his cock run through me from top to bottom, bracing myself more each time he took a step. He sat in his swivel chair and let me drop completely onto him. There I felt his cock enter a new place, deeper inside. I began bouncing on it, pushing off with my feet to rise and dropping down with all my weight. Every time I fell, a short moan escaped me. I sucked his breasts. He put his hand in my mouth, and I sucked his finger. He slapped me lightly on the right cheek, almost like a forceful caress.

“More,” I said without thinking.

He slapped me again, harder this time. It sounded sharp, and my cheek burned.

“Yes, give it to me, give it to me.”

He grabbed my hair with one hand and wrapped it around his fist, pulling my head back until my neck was stretched. With the other, he struck my cheek while I bounced. Each slap made me squeeze my pussy around his cock without deciding to, and he felt the contraction and snorted. Everything was water: his sweat, mine, the saliva falling from my chin, the fluid running down my thighs and wetting his scrotum. I could hear the squish-squish, squish-squish of my soaked pussy accepting his cock to the hilt. The chair turned slightly with every bounce, creaking and threatening to break.

I began to cry out softly because I felt a tingling start in my pelvis, a bubbling rising inside my legs toward the center. I was about to come. I realized he was too, because his legs tensed and he gripped my hair harder. He tipped the chair backward, stood up with me on top of him, and lowered me. Surprised, I turned around. He put me on all fours against the desk again. Once more there was cold against my breasts, now both flattened against the glass, two patches of sweat around them.

“No, no, wait,” I said, because I was so close to coming that I almost cried with frustration.

“Shut up.”

He knelt, spread my buttocks with both hands, and began licking my anus. His tongue circled my asshole, then suddenly slipped inside, warm and wet. It was violent, messy, necessary. My legs trembled, and my empty pussy opened, waiting. He put two fingers in from the front and drove his tongue into me from behind at the same time, and I screamed; I couldn't hold back. He stood up; I heard him spit on his hand. I sighed when he entered my pussy again, more brutally now, all the way in with a single thrust. He fucked me like that for a few short, hard seconds while gathering saliva. Then he spat on my back and brought the saliva to my ass with his middle finger, spreading it around my asshole in circles. He began circling my anus with one finger. I tried to pull his hand away, but he caught it and brought it forward, pressing my palm against my own clitoris. He began slowly pushing his finger inside. It hurt. But I liked it. I raised the volume of my moan. When he had it all the way in, he left it there for a while, moving it only slightly, while his cock continued entering and leaving my pussy at the same time.

Then he pulled out his finger. He pulled his cock out of my pussy too. I felt the cold air down there. His other hand searched for my mouth, slipped in a finger, and I bit it. He pulled it out, spit, and pressed the head of his cock against my asshole. He pushed slowly. The head forced its way against the tight ring and burned me. He pushed again. And again. Suddenly I gave way, and much more of him than I expected entered in one thrust. I had to bring my knees together from the pain and screamed, a cry that came from my belly. At first it was terribly painful; I felt his cock buried in my ass like a hot iron, every pulse transmitting itself to the walls of my rectum. But there was heat, something forbidden and burning that I liked. I stayed still for a few seconds, breathing through my nose, while he stroked my waist and waited for me to adjust. Then he began moving, very slowly at first. The movement gradually became natural. My pussy was dripping, and he put two fingers there while continuing to fuck me in the ass, multiplying my pleasure tenfold. I heard his pelvis striking my ass, slap, slap, now harder and out of control. He said filthy things to me; called me a slut, told me he loved my little ass, that it was the best he'd ever fucked, that he was going to fill it all with cum. I could only try to muffle my scream against the glass. I rested the side of my head against the cold glass and saw my own face reflected there, mouth open, mascara running, while my body shook all over with every thrust. I heard him galloping toward the end: his movements grew shorter, faster, more broken. He pulled out of my ass. He yanked my hair backward and forced me to kneel quickly. I understood. I knelt and opened my mouth, sticking out my tongue. He stroked his cock ten centimeters from my face, quickly, with his fist closed. I saw the veins swell and his whole face tighten. The first jet struck my forehead and ran down my nose. The second filled my mouth and reached my throat. The third landed on my chin and streamed down my neck to my breasts. It kept coming in smaller spurts, painting my lips, tongue, and cheeks. Covered in warm semen, I looked up at him and smiled, my white teeth shining amid all that cum. I closed my mouth, swallowed what had fallen inside, stuck out my tongue, and slowly licked the tip of his cock clean.

I stood up, and we hugged gently. I felt my semen-wet breasts sticking to his open shirt.

“This time I got to do the painting,” he said, handing me a hand towel. I cleaned my face as best I could without a mirror, running the fabric over my eyes, nose, mouth, and neck. I was left sticky and tight-skinned, but at least I was clean on the outside.

I stayed listening. Downstairs, the garage had come back to life.

“Are people there?”

“Yes, they're eating in the lower office.”

I closed my eyes and felt horribly embarrassed. I searched for my thong on the floor and put it on. The fabric had torn on one side, but it still held together.

“I'm dying. Well, I'm leaving. I'll bring the rest tomorrow.”

“No, it's fine. I'll give it to you, for the graduation trip. Come back whenever you want.”

I gave him a quick kiss on the lips. I searched for my phone in the backpack to check the time and discovered that the envelope was still inside, beside the broken rubber band. I laughed to myself.

“I don't dare go out.”

“They probably didn't hear anything. Don't worry.”

He said it and sat down. He began looking through a notebook as if nothing had happened. I went out. All the garage guys looked up as soon as they heard the door open and stared at me. I saw one elbow another and whisper something. I began descending the perforated metal staircase; I looked at the diamonds in the steps and discovered that one of them was staring directly at me from below. I thought about covering myself with my skirt, but decided to smile and keep going down as if nothing were happening.

I put my sunglasses on when I left the garage and walked home slowly, my legs burning, feeling the mixture of saliva, semen, and sweat trickling down the inside of my thigh. That night in bed, it took me a while to realize that my hands were still trembling.