The Young Mechanic and What Happened in His Office

This happened a couple of years ago. We were in the last week before winter vacation; the following month I was starting my first job at a shop downtown. That morning my dad called me from the staircase and asked me for a favor: he needed me to take some money to the neighborhood mechanic, because the guy needed it to buy parts and my mom was away in Córdoba on business.

“Can’t it wait?” I asked.

“It can’t. He needs the car to go north next week.”

I took the envelope. It was thick, with two bills bulging more than the others, poking out from the fold.

***

It had been hot since early morning. I put on a lightweight navy-blue skirt and a white tank top without a bra. I didn’t want to die walking the ten blocks to the garage. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror: my nipples showed a little, but I decided it didn’t matter. I tied my hair back, grabbed my little backpack with the envelope inside, and left.

Men had never looked at me so much in the street. Or maybe they always looked at me and I just noticed it more that day. I walked slowly, the sun on the back of my neck and the feeling that every man I passed kept his eyes fixed on me for two seconds too long. A pickup truck slowed down as it went by. I said nothing and kept walking.

Raúl Domínguez’s garage was on the corner of two avenues, the same place I had visited as a girl with my dad. The entrance smelled of burnt grease and old oil. Inside, two men were working on a car raised on a lift; another was welding something in a corner. One of them stood up and approached me, wiping his hands on a black rag.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Raúl. I’m here on behalf of my dad, Víctor Ferreyra. I have to leave something for him.”

“Raúl isn’t here. But his son, Marcos, is. Want me to let him know?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He went up a metal staircase while the others stared at me without making any effort to hide it. He came back a little while later.

“He says to come up.”

I looked at the staircase. It was tall, made of metal grating with diamond-shaped wire mesh. I held onto my skirt with one hand and went up slowly, not daring to look down at the men below. I reached the top and knocked on the glass door marked “Administration.”

“Yes, come in.”

***

Marcos Domínguez was much younger than his father. The first thing I noticed was his smile: broad, white, genuine. He was taking down some rolled-up posters and stacking them on the glass desk. When he saw me, he dropped the roll and fixed his hair.

“Ah! The Gallego Ferreyra’s daughter. Look how grown-up you are.”

He laughed. I wasn’t quite sure what to say. He asked if I remembered him; I didn’t. He said that when I was little, I used to come with my dad and he would bring me into the office with blank sheets of paper so I could draw while the men talked about cars.

“You were a skinny little thing,” he said. “Now you’re different.”

He had a tribal tattoo on his forearms, almost faded away. The shirt with the sleeves rolled up made him look even younger. He invited me to sit on the other side of the desk, and we chatted for a while. He asked what I did; I told him I was finishing high school and would start working in August. He said he had done something similar at my age.

“The people with cars pay for your education,” he said, laughing at something I didn’t entirely share but that still drew a smile from me.

***

As noon approached, he suggested that I stay for lunch.

“I ordered something. My treat. You’ve already missed the bus schedule anyway.”

I hesitated. I accepted.

The food arrived in Styrofoam trays. He set the makeshift table up on the desk: two forks, two glasses of cold water. He served me first. At first we ate in silence, a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable. He talked about customers who didn’t pay, the price of spare parts, how the neighborhood had changed.

I cut the meat carefully because my skirt rode up when I spread my legs. I had to use both hands to cut it, and at those moments I couldn’t pull the skirt down. Once I looked up and saw him watching. I didn’t look away when our eyes met.

“How many boyfriends do you have?” he asked suddenly.

I choked. I drank some water quickly; a little spilled onto my thigh. He stood up, found a clean rag, and bent down to wipe me off. His hand brushed the damp fabric, then brushed my skin. He stayed still for a moment, his fingers resting on the inside of my thigh. I didn’t move.

“Sorry,” he said.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I answered.

He raised his eyebrows as if I had given him valuable information. He returned to his chair. The silence changed texture.

***

I remembered the envelope when I realized that the two of us had stopped talking and were staring at the empty table.

“I’ll give you the money,” I said.

“Sure, whatever.”

I went toward the corner, crouched down to open my backpack, and heard him make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

“Stay like that,” he said quietly.

I realized my skirt had ridden up and that from where he was sitting he could see the beginning of my ass and the edge of my thong. Instead of standing up, I stayed crouched and began taking the envelope out very slowly. I heard him stand and walk toward me.

He crouched beside me. I handed him the envelope. His fingers brushed mine; then they traveled up the back of my thigh and slipped beneath my skirt. His open palm squeezed one entire cheek of my ass. I didn’t move. I felt his middle finger move down along the thong’s elastic and barely touch me through the fabric. I was wet. He noticed.

“Well, well,” he murmured.

I stood up. We ended up standing very close together. He opened it without taking his eyes off me.

“Half is missing,” he said.

My hands began to tremble. It was true: my dad had sent only half.

“Can you start anyway? I’ll bring it tomorrow, I swear.”

“It’s not up to me. The supplier wants the money today. He’s coming with the part in an hour.”

“Please,” I said. “My dad absolutely needs it.”

He didn’t answer. He sat down in the swivel chair and leaned back, the envelope in his hand, staring straight at me. I didn’t know what else to say, either. There was a moment when the air in the room changed, grew thicker. I knelt down. I don’t know whether it was a decision or whether it simply happened, but I knelt on the wooden floor in front of him and rested my elbows on his knees.

He watched me with a furrowed brow. He didn’t move.

I slid my hands upward over his thighs. I felt something tense beneath the fabric of his pants. I looked at him. He lowered his eyes toward me, and I saw him swallow.

“Maybe I have something put away,” he said in a different voice.

“Yeah?” I leaned a little closer. I rested my cheek on his knee and kept looking at him with my eyes wide open. “How much do you have?”

My right hand moved on its own. I held it an inch from the bulge. Only the heat touched: his body and my palm. He exhaled slowly. He gently took my hand and pressed it against his cock over his pants. It was hard, thick, throbbing. I squeezed it. Then, with his other hand, he parted my lips with his thumb and put it in my mouth. I sucked it while looking at him. He pulled out his wet thumb and ran it over my cheek.

“Let’s see if you deserve me doing you this favor,” he said.

***

I undid his belt with clumsy fingers. I pulled down his zipper. His cock sprang against the fabric of his briefs, outlined beneath them, and I tugged the elastic down until I freed it. It was thick, more than I had imagined, with a pink head and a clear drop emerging from the tip. I stared at it for a second. My mouth began to water.

I gathered saliva on my tongue and showed it to him before moving closer. He threw his head back but quickly brought it forward again, because he didn’t want to miss anything. I ran my tongue underneath it, from his balls to the tip, very slowly. I gathered the clear drop with the edge of my tongue and swallowed it. He let out a short sound through his teeth.

“Put it in your mouth,” he said. “All of it.”

I opened my mouth and pushed it inside. It reached the back of my throat and made my eyes water. I pulled it out with a string of saliva hanging from it and went down again, this time more slowly, helping myself with one hand at the base. I moved my tongue in circles around the head every time I came back up. He tangled his fingers in my hair. At first he left them there, resting, but then he began setting the rhythm, pushing me down when he wanted me deeper and easing up when he wanted me to breathe.

“That’s it, slut. That’s it.”

The word went straight through my belly. I sucked harder. I grabbed his balls with my other hand and kneaded them while I kept sucking his cock. His legs were spread, stretched out in front of him, and he was breathing through his mouth. Every so often he pulled his cock out and rubbed it against my lips, my cheeks, my nose. Then he put it back in my mouth.

“Spit here,” he said, tapping the tip.

I gathered saliva and spat it onto the head. His cock turned glossy. I went down again and sucked it all the way to the base, breathing through my nose against the black hair of his pubis. I gripped his thighs with both hands so I wouldn’t fall.

He stood up suddenly. He lifted me by the shoulders, turned me around, and began kissing my neck as he ripped my tank top over my head. My tits were left bare. He took them from behind with both hands, squeezing them and pinching my nipples between his fingers. I rested my head against his shoulder and arched my back.

One hand moved down. He raised my skirt to my waist and slipped his fingers inside my thong. He ran them over the lips of my pussy, up and down, and my knees began to tremble. I moaned against the window. I was soaking wet. He pushed two fingers inside me at once and curled them, searching for the spot. With his other hand he squeezed my neck, not hard, but firmly.

“Keep it down,” he whispered in my ear. “The guys downstairs can hear everything.”

“Fuck me,” I begged. “Fuck me now.”

He positioned me against the desk. My back to him, my arms braced on the cold glass. He hiked my skirt all the way up, moved my thong aside, and knelt down. He started from below, with his mouth. He pushed his entire tongue inside and used his fingers at the same time, sucking my clit until everything went blurry. I felt his tongue rise to my asshole and come back down. I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming, because the people in the garage were still downstairs, hammering something in a steady rhythm.

“Fuck me now,” I begged, and it came out more pleading than I wanted.

He stood up. I heard the sound of fabric falling. He turned me around. He pressed me against the glass facing forward; my nipples hardened from the cold. We kissed with our tongues, and I felt the tip of his cock pushing between my thighs, searching for me. He grabbed one of my legs, lifted it, and hooked it around his hip. Then he shoved it in without warning.

He opened me up completely. I let out a whimper against his mouth. He stayed still for a second, buried all the way inside me, feeling me squeeze him. Then he began to move, first with short thrusts and then longer ones, pulling almost all the way out and pushing back in. The glass desk creaked against the wall every time he thrust.

“You’re so tight, goddamn it,” he panted against my neck. “I’m going to tear you apart.”

“Yes,” I answered without thinking. “Tear me apart.”

***

At one point he lifted me, grabbing me beneath the ass, and sat me on the desk. We stayed that way for quite a while, facing each other, his hands on my waist setting the rhythm and me clinging to his neck. His cock slid in and out with a wet, obscene sound. He sucked my breasts, one and then the other, tugging on my nipple with his teeth until I moaned. He put his hand in my mouth, and I sucked his finger without him having to ask. Then he pulled it out and slipped it between my tits, wet with saliva, and kept thrusting against me with his hips.

“Look at me,” he said. “Look at me while I fuck you.”

I looked at him. His eyes were dark, his jaw clenched. He gave me a light slap on the cheek.

“Harder,” I said, and he did it again, a little harder. The heat rose in my face and my pussy at the same time. I felt my orgasm building in my pelvis, throbbing. I began grinding myself against him, moving on his cock.

“I’m going to come,” I warned him.

“Come. Come all over me.”

He dug his fingers into my hip and sped up. I screamed against his shoulder, biting him to muffle the sound. The orgasm shattered me from the inside in waves, and I felt myself squeezing him so tightly that he had to stop for a second to keep from coming right then.

He pushed the chair backward, lifted me off the desk, stood me up, and turned me around. The glass was cold against my breasts again. He bent me forward until I was braced on my elbows, my ass held high.

“Stop,” I said.

“Shut up,” he answered, and knelt behind me.

What he did then was violent and wet and necessary. He spread my cheeks with both hands and used his mouth without asking permission. I felt his hot tongue run over my pussy and rise to my asshole, pushing there, wetting me completely. My legs were trembling. He pushed his fingers inside me from the front while he sucked me from behind, and I had to grip the edge of the desk so I wouldn’t fall.

When he stood up, I heard him spit into his hand and felt him enter me from the front again, this time more roughly, while a wet finger began circling my asshole. I tried to grab his arm with mine; he caught it and brought it forward, pressing it against my back.

“Stay still,” he said. “Relax.”

The finger entered slowly. It hurt. A dry burning that rose all the way to the back of my neck. But I didn’t want him to stop. He moved his cock in front and the finger behind, in opposition, and after a few seconds I was biting my forearm to keep from screaming. He inserted a second finger. Then a third. I felt him opening me in a new way, felt the sensations merging, my pussy and my ass throbbing to the same rhythm.

“Now I’m going to put it in here,” he said, pulling out his fingers.

“Slowly,” I begged.

He spat into his hand again, ran it over my asshole, and pressed the tip against it. He pushed. The head went in with a burning sensation that made me close my eyes. He stayed still. I heard his ragged breathing above me.

“Relax,” he repeated. “Breathe.”

I breathed. I relaxed. He pushed a little farther. A little more. Until I felt his hips against my cheeks and knew he was completely inside me. A shudder ran through me from head to toe. He stayed like that for a few seconds, motionless, letting me get used to it.

Then he began to move.

The volume of my moan rose as the pain turned into something else. Our movements fell into sync. He reached underneath me and began rubbing my clit with two fingers in quick circles. I heard his breathing speed up at the same pace as mine. Sweat ran down my back. I rested my cheek against the cold glass and closed my eyes.

“What an ass, goddamn,” he panted. “What an ass you’ve got.”

I came again, differently, more deeply, with spasms that made me squeeze him so hard that I heard him moan aloud for the first time. His cock grew even harder inside me.

When I heard him reach the edge, he grabbed me by the hair. I understood. He pulled his cock out of my ass with a wet sound, turned me around, and pushed me downward. I got onto my knees. He took hold of himself and jerked off with both hands in front of my face, panting through clenched teeth.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered. “Stick out your tongue.”

I opened my mouth. I stuck out my tongue. He came all over my face in three thick spurts: the first landed on my forehead and hair, the second streaked across my cheek and mouth, and the third landed on my tongue, hot and thick. I closed my lips and swallowed. I wiped him from my cheek and eyebrow with my fingers and sucked my fingers one by one. I looked up at him and smiled.

“Slut,” he said, smiling too, breathless. “You’re a beautiful slut.”

***

We stayed silent for a few minutes. He found me a paper towel and carefully cleaned my face, almost tenderly, as if only now he remembered that there was a person beneath all of that. I found my thong, put it back on, and adjusted my tank top over my tits. The room smelled of sex and cold food.

“The people downstairs…?” I asked.

“They’re in the office downstairs. They didn’t hear anything.”

I didn’t know whether to believe him.

I looked for my cell phone in my backpack. It was two-thirty. I saw the envelope, its rubber band broken beside it.

“I don’t dare go outside,” I said.

“You can leave without worrying. And the money doesn’t matter; tell your dad we’ll start the work anyway. He can come by when he can.”

I gave him a short kiss on the mouth. I could still taste him on my tongue. I grabbed my backpack and left.

Everyone looked up when I came down. One man whispered something into another’s ear. Someone let out a short laugh. I watched the diamond-shaped wire mesh of the staircase as I descended, and a man standing below slowly looked away. I thought about covering my face with my backpack. I decided not to.

I went out into the street. The sun was still just as strong. I put on my sunglasses and walked home slowly, my legs tired, my thong sticking to me, the heat rising from my feet.