What Happened in the Store Room with the Delivery Boy

Carla was thirty-one, and the routine weighed on her like a wet coat. Every morning she dropped her son off at school, walked back home, and raised the curtain on her little clothing shop. It was the only thing she had after the divorce, and the child support her boy’s father paid didn’t even cover half the bills.

The business devoured her time. Open, sweep, serve customers, sort the stockroom, close. She had no time left to go out, no desire, no one to go with. Since she had split up, her sex life was practically a memory: a glass of wine on Fridays, a video on the bedroom TV, and her own fingers. Nothing else. And though she told herself she was fine like that, there were mornings when her body demanded something different.

That Friday she woke up without her usual rush. The boy had no classes, and his father was coming to pick him up to take him for the weekend. Carla packed him a small backpack, hugged him at the door, and when her ex’s car pulled away at ten sharp, she was left alone with the shop and a silence that suddenly felt too large.

She put on music, served the first customers, and let the morning drift by. But between one sale and the next, an old conversation with her friends came back to her. One of them, laughing, had once told her the solution was simple: seduce some customer who came in looking good and take him into the stockroom. A quick little while, no names, no commitments.

The memory warmed the back of her neck. Three years, she thought. I have every right in the world to have a good time.

Before she could change her mind, she locked the glass door and hung up a sign that said “back in ten minutes.” She went to the back, rummaged through the newly arrived boxes, and pulled out a lace top with sparkles and a pair of fitted pants. “All right, I’ll just take it out of the profits,” she told herself, biting back a smile.

She took off her blouse and bra and put on the top, which left her stomach bare. She changed her skirt for the pants, which hugged her legs and lifted her ass. She looked at herself in the stained mirror in the stockroom, fixed her hair, and went back to the counter with her heart beating a little faster. She took down the sign, opened up, and waited.

***

Hours passed, and luck wasn’t on her side. Women came in, couples, the occasional teenager looking for something cheap. The few men who showed up came accompanied. By midafternoon, disappointed, she gathered her things, pulled down the shutter, stopped by the supermarket, and bought a couple of things and a bottle of wine.

At home she ate whatever was on hand and went upstairs with the bottle and a glass. She turned on the TV, connected her phone, and took advantage of being alone to give herself a little attention. She poured herself a drink, found the right video, stripped naked, and lay back on the sheets.

She drank slowly, glass after glass, while her fingers sank into herself, imagining the woman on the screen was her. It was a long, good night. She came three times and ended up exhausted, with the empty glass on the floor and a warm feeling that wouldn’t quite go away. She wiped herself off with her own blouse and fell asleep naked, uncovered.

***

The alarm went off on time. She got up with a slight headache, a cheap-wine hangover, and stepped into the shower. Before turning on the water, she noticed her body was still lit up: her nipples hard, her skin more sensitive than usual. She barely touched herself and a shiver ran down her back. She turned the water on almost cold on purpose, as if she wanted to put out something that wouldn’t go out.

She came out, put on a black thong that covered just enough, tight blue pants, a dark bra, and a pink sleeveless blouse with a neckline bolder than she normally allowed herself. She ate a quick breakfast and headed to the shop with that restless feeling still lodged between her legs.

At eleven, Doña Lucía arrived, the older woman who cooked for the businesses in the passageway and sold them delivery meals. Carla placed her order for the day and the woman left. The shop was empty again, and the fantasy returned, persistent: someone, anyone, walking in, and being able to do it right there. Without realizing it, she caught herself brushing over her clothes, squeezing one breast discreetly every time the little bell over the door didn’t ring.

Near one o’clock she spotted a familiar figure through the glass. It was Adrián, Doña Lucía’s eldest son, a boy of about twenty who helped his mother with the deliveries. Shy, quiet, one of those who look at the floor. Carla smiled to herself. In her mind she was already putting something together, though she assumed the boy had little or no experience.

A little later the bell rang and Adrián came in with the food bag.

—Hi, Carla, I brought today’s order —he said, and his eyes went straight to her cleavage.

—Thanks, leave it here —she answered, pointing to the desk.

Carla noticed perfectly well how the boy’s gaze would not quite pull away from her chest, and that, instead of making her uncomfortable, raised her temperature. She decided she wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass her by again.

—Well, my mom comes by Monday to collect payment —he said, already stepping back toward the door.

—Okay —Carla replied. And then, her pulse racing and a knot of anxiety in her throat, she added, —Hey, Adrián, can you help me carry some boxes down? They’re heavy and I can’t manage them by myself.

—Yeah, sure.

—They’re in the stockroom. Tomorrow I’m going to restock and I need to see what I’m short on.

—Sure, let’s go.

Carla locked the door, hung up the “closed” sign, and led him to the little room in back. She pulled out a small stool, and Adrián climbed up to bring down the boxes she pointed out, one by one, until they were stacked on the floor.

When he was done, the boy turned his back to brush the dust off his clothes. Carla took a deep breath. She knew exactly what she was about to do and, even so, her hands were trembling a little. She inhaled again, stepped forward, and wrapped her right arm around his waist while her left hand went straight, without any detours, to the bulge in his pants.

—And this… what’s this? —he asked, his voice breaking with nerves.

—Shhh —she whispered against the back of his neck.

She squeezed him over the fabric and felt him respond immediately, hardening under her fingers. Without letting go, she yanked down his pants and underwear in one pull, dropping them to his ankles. Adrián stood still, holding his breath, while she ran her fingertips over the full length of him and felt him already wet at the tip.

Carla took him in her hand and closed her fingers around him. She started slowly, with a firm, steady motion, feeling the boy shudder against her. She rested her chin on his shoulder to look at what she was doing, as if she needed to confirm it with her eyes as well as her touch.

—Relax —she murmured. —Just let yourself go.

Adrián swallowed. Then, almost unwillingly, he confessed that his ex-girlfriend had done it to him a couple of times, but not like this, that he had never felt it this way. Carla smiled. She brought her other hand down and started stroking him from below too, alternating, and immediately noticed the boy’s breathing deepen, his body tensing like a rope. She squeezed a little harder and sped up.

He held out as long as he could, which wasn’t very long. He let out a rough moan and came with a tremor that raised gooseflesh all over him, one hand braced against the wall so he wouldn’t lose his balance. Carla didn’t stop all at once: she eased off on the way down, tightened on the way up, milking him to the end, until he was left empty and gasping.

Adrián thought that was the end of it. He made a move to crouch down and find his pants, but she held his wrist.

—Not yet —she said.

Before he could go soft again, she took him once more and kept going, this time focused on the head, rubbing her thumb in slow circles. The boy panted from the sensitivity, an unpleasant and delicious mix that made him arch. Carla watched every reaction with an almost cruel calm, reading his body like someone learning a new language.

—You like it like this? —she asked softly, without stopping her hand.

—Yeah… —he managed to say, his voice in pieces.

The heat of the stockroom had him covered in sweat. Carla could feel against her own body how Adrián was tightening again, how a wave rose from the base and ran through him. The boy moaned again, louder, and the sound bounced off the narrow walls of the little room. When he finished for the second time, he was full, spent, relieved in a way he didn’t remember.

She gradually slowed until she stopped and let him go. Adrián turned around, still breathless, and they kissed. It was an awkward kiss at first, from someone who hadn’t expected it, and then a deeper one.

—That was good, right? —Carla said, brushing a lock of hair off his forehead.

—Yeah —he answered, out of breath.

She bent down, straightened his underwear and pants, and pulled them back up carefully, as if tucking him in. Then she took his hand and guided it to one of her breasts, over the pink blouse.

—I wanted to ask if you’d stop by tomorrow —she said.

—But you’re not open on Sundays.

—I’m going to paint the shop. I need someone to give me a hand.

—Ah… okay.

—And we’ll see in what way we even things out —she added, guiding his fingers over the fabric.

—Okay —murmured Adrián, his face flushing.

—Then I’ll wait for you here at nine. Leave before your mom comes looking for you, because I have to open soon.

—Yeah, sure.

Adrián left the stockroom with his legs still weak and his shirt stuck to his back. Carla took down the sign, raised the shutter, and went back to the counter as if nothing had happened. But inside, for the first time in a long while, she felt the next morning was worth waiting for. And that Sunday, whatever it was, was not going to end with painting walls.