The Massage My Neighbor Asked Me for at Siesta Time

I’ve worked as the same building’s doorman for almost nine years, and if I’ve learned anything in this trade, it’s that people end up trusting you with things they wouldn’t tell even their doctor. They see you every morning, greet you in a robe, ask you to change a lightbulb or receive a package for them, and little by little they let their guard down. This is a confession I never told anyone, because the woman I’m about to talk about still lives three floors above the concierge desk.

Her name was Dora. She must have been around fifty, widowed for just over a year, though she still wore her ring out of habit. She lived on the fourth floor with her sick husband, a man who slept almost all day and barely ever came out onto the landing. She, on the other hand, always came down with some excuse: a jammed key, the elevator making a strange noise, a little coffee left in the thermos.

One Thursday, on one of those days when the building falls silent, she came down with a jar in her hand and a smile I already knew.

“Good morning, Andrés,” she said, leaning on the counter. “Did you know I used to give massages when I was young?”

“I had no idea, Dora.”

“For rehab and relaxation. I gave it up when I got married, but my hands still remember. —She lifted the jar to eye level—. I’ve gotten a new oil and I need someone to be my guinea pig. Up for it? This afternoon my husband will be asleep for his siesta, nobody will bother us.”

I stared at her for a second, not knowing what to say. I don’t know why, but I had a feeling this wasn’t just about some oil.

“I don’t want to take up your time,” I said, just to say something.

“You’re not taking anything, man. You’ll see how brand new I leave you. Besides, that way I can practice. Come upstairs at four, when he’s asleep.” And before leaving, already in the elevator, she added with a laugh, “Don’t eat too much, in case you get indigestion.”

***

I spent the whole morning turning it over in my head. The truth is, Dora surprised me. Dressed, you couldn’t tell; she always wore those loose sweaters, but that day she had on a tighter blouse and you could make out a pair of enormous tits, the kind I’d never had in my hands before. I signed for the mail, sorted the parcels, delivered a couple of notices to the mailboxes, and checked the clock every ten minutes like a kid waiting for recess, my dick half-hard just from imagining her.

At five to four I locked the concierge desk with the “be right back” sign, changed my shirt for a cleaner one, and went upstairs. I rang twice, softly, as if knocking hard might give us away.

“Hi, Andrés,” she whispered when she opened the door. “Come in, come in. He’s asleep, so we’ll keep our voices down.”

She’d set up a folding massage table in the back room, away from the bedroom. It smelled of sandalwood and something sweet I couldn’t identify. She closed the door carefully and rubbed her hands together.

“Get naked and lie face down,” she said, without looking at me. “I’m going to get the oils.”

She left just as I started taking off my clothes, as if she needed to give me privacy or herself some. I got naked and waited lying down, my face sunk into the hollow of the table and my cock pressed against the towel, already half-stiff just from smelling her. When she came back, I heard her breathing before I heard her footsteps. She was breathing the way someone breathes when they’re nervous and don’t want it to show.

The first drops of oil fell warm across my back. And then her hands appeared.

They were, honestly, glorious. She started at my nape, pressing with her thumbs on either side of my spine, opened up my shoulder blades, and ran her whole palm over the lower part of my back. Then she went on to my thighs, my calves, all the way to my toes, one by one. When she came back up the inside of my thighs, her fingers lingered a finger’s width from my balls, brushing the crease of my groin again and again, until I felt my cock driving hard against the table. I’d never felt anything like it in my life. I wished it could go on forever. But after a few minutes her voice changed.

“Turn over, I’m going to work the front.”

That was the problem. My body had been making decisions on its own for a while, and when I rolled over my cock was pointing at the ceiling, hard as a rock and already wet at the tip. There was no way to hide it. I turned red to my ears.

“Well, look at that, Andrés,” she said, without taking her eyes off my dick. “What a body you’ve got. And what a cock. Nobody’d guess you spend all day sitting in a booth.”

“I try to take care of myself,” I answered, with a voice rougher than I meant it to be.

She started on my shoulders, moved down my chest, my stomach, and left her hand resting exactly where there was no turning back. She didn’t say anything. Neither did I. She simply closed her fingers around my cock and started jerking me slowly, her hand slick with oil, looking me in the eye as if daring me to stop her. She slid up to the head, squeezed it with her thumb, gathered the drop of precum that appeared and used it as lubricant, went back down to the base and squeezed my balls with her other hand. I didn’t stop her.

“Your husband…” I began.

“He doesn’t know a thing, he hasn’t known a thing for months,” she cut in softly. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s fucked me, Andrés. A long time. Not him, not anybody.”

She didn’t need to say anything else. I lifted my hand and stroked her thigh under the skirt, went up to the inner side, and when I reached her panties I found them soaked, hot, stuck to her pussy. She sighed as if she’d been holding that sigh in for years. I unbuttoned her blouse one button at a time, unhurried, alert to the slightest noise that might come from the hallway. When I unhooked her bra, that pair of tits I’d imagined so much fell warm and heavy into my hands, the nipples already rock hard. I squeezed them, kneaded them, took one into my mouth and sucked it while with the other hand I kept pulling her panties aside and sinking two fingers into her wet cunt.

“My God,” she murmured, clutching my shoulder. “It’s been so long since anyone touched me like that… put them in, Andrés, put them in all the way.”

I shoved my fingers in to the knuckles and she started moving her hips against my hand, impaling her pussy on each thrust, biting her lip so she wouldn’t moan. I could hear the wet slap of it, feel her tightening inside every time my thumb brushed her clit, and all the while I had to keep reminding myself there was a husband sleeping on the other side of the hall.

She leaned over the table and took my cock into her mouth. She swallowed it whole, all the way to the throat, and came back up with her tongue pressed to the head. She did it with a care and hunger you don’t learn, something that only comes out when someone’s been on too strict a diet for too long. She sucked me slowly, pressing her lips to the crown, sinking down again until a wet noise escaped from the back of her mouth. With one hand she stroked my balls and with the other she squeezed them, pulling my dick out only to lick the tip and take me again until her eyes watered. I held her by the nape, pushed her hair out of her face, and all the while we were careful not to make noise, the two of us silent, communicating only with our hands and our ragged breathing.

***

I got her up on the table and yanked down her underwear. I spread her thighs with my hands and took a moment to look at her pussy, swollen, soaked, the lips open and shining with how wet she was. I ran my fingers through her slit, already hot and eager, and lowered my head. I licked her all the way from the bottom up to the clit and she arched like I’d shocked her. I ate her out slowly, tracing circles with the tip of my tongue, slipping it inside, sucking on her lips one by one. I pushed two fingers into her and kept licking her clit until she bit the back of her hand so she wouldn’t scream. She trembled all over, clung to the edge of the table, her pussy clenching rhythmically against my face and soaking my chin with hot slick. When she calmed down, she looked for me with glassy eyes.

“Come here,” she said. “Fuck me already, please. Put it in.”

I opened her legs wide and rested the head of my cock against her cunt. I entered slowly, holding back, feeling her tighten around me centimeter by centimeter, watching her face in case I hurt her. I didn’t hurt her. She swallowed my cock in one long thrust and let the air out through her nose, mouth clenched. She dug her nails into my back and whispered for me not to stop, to shove it in all the way, that she’d been waiting years for a cock like mine.

I started fucking her with deep, slow thrusts, feeling her tits move with every hit of my hips. I grabbed one and took it into my mouth without stopping, sucking her nipple while I sped up the pace. We stayed like that a good while, changing positions without separating, her muffling her moans against my shoulder, me covering her mouth with a kiss whenever a sound slipped out. I lifted one leg and rested it on my shoulder, and from that angle my cock went in even deeper. I could feel her cunt clenching hard every two or three thrusts, a sign she was about to come again.

I turned her around and put her on all fours on the table, ass up. I spread her cheeks with my thumbs, saw her cunt open and shining, and drove it in again with one hard shove. I took her from behind, holding her by the hips, driving her onto my cock with every thrust, kneading her heavy hanging tits with both hands. I pulled her hair gently, slid my hand around to find her clit and rubbed it while I fucked her, and she stopped holding back. She trembled again, this time harder, all over, and had to press her face into the table towel so she wouldn’t wake half the building. I could feel her pussy contracting in spasms around my cock, milking it, and I held on as best I could, because I didn’t want it to end, because I knew something like that doesn’t happen every day.

“Don’t come inside,” she gasped, voice breaking. “Come outside, come in my mouth, anywhere you want, just not inside.”

In the end I sat her on the edge, got down on my knees in front of her, and she took my dick out of her cunt to put it back in her mouth. She sucked me with hollow cheeks, looking up at me from below, one hand stroking me while she blew me. It only took a few more seconds. I warned her with a grunt and she pulled my cock out of her mouth just in time to catch the first jet on her tongue. I came in bursts, in her mouth, on her chin, on her cleavage, between those huge tits that she squeezed with both hands so the cum would slide between her breasts. She didn’t look away. She watched me with a mix of amazement and gratitude I’d never seen on anyone, lips smeared with semen and a tired smile. She ran a finger along her chin, gathered a drop, and put it in her mouth. She stayed silent for a moment, catching her breath, and then she laughed softly.

“Jesus,” she said. “That wasn’t in the oil plan.”

“The oil is very good,” I answered, and the two of us laughed like kids who’d just pulled a prank.

She stood up, wiped her chest with a towel, gathered her hair, put her robe back on, and cracked the door open a little to listen. From the bedroom came the steady snoring of her husband. He hadn’t noticed a thing.

“You need to go now,” she told me, while I dressed in a hurry. “But, Andrés…” —She grabbed my arm and lowered her voice until it was almost inaudible—. “This stays between you and me. Discretion, all right? Total discretion.”

“You know I’m a tomb,” I told her. “Nothing happened here.”

“Thank you. Thank you for everything.” And she gave me a quick kiss at the corner of the lips, already with her hand on the doorknob.

“Thank you for the massage,” I answered, and went down the stairs two at a time before the elevator could make me look guilty.

***

I went back to the concierge desk, took down the “be right back” sign, and sat as if nothing had happened, though my heart was still pounding and my cock, limp but sticky inside my pants, reminded me with every movement of what had just gone down. A few minutes later a woman from the second floor came in to collect a registered letter and greeted me as normal, not suspecting that I still smelled of sandalwood and pussy from head to toe.

Dora kept coming down to the concierge desk with her excuses, and every now and then, when the building fell silent and her husband was sleeping through his siesta, she’d call me again to “try a new oil.” We never called it anything else again. For both of us it was a code, a word only we understood, and every time I heard it I got hard in the booth.

Years have gone by. Her husband died long ago and she still lives on the floor, now more alone, quieter. We still greet each other every morning with the same naturalness as always, as if nothing had ever happened between us. But sometimes, when she leaves me a coffee on the counter and our hands brush a second too long, I know we’re both thinking about that Thursday siesta, the warm little jar, her mouth full of my cum, and the secret we still keep. And that, after all this time, is still the most exciting thing of all.