What My Father’s Employee Asked Me for That Afternoon

Thirty-two days had passed since that August afternoon when my kitchen became a scene that still makes me blush if I remember it awake. Thirty-two days since Bouba, under the excuse of an electrical blockage my father Ramón had made up to let him into my house, pulled out that monstrous piece of dark flesh that left me breathless and my little daughter looking as if she’d never seen anything like it in her life. Thank God, she didn’t understand half of it.

A whole month of awkward silence, during which I couldn’t peel a carrot without remembering the gigantic bulge that had almost wrenched my jaw out of place. A month in which my father, that old fox, avoided the subject in front of my husband and smiled slyly at me every time he saw me putting the glasses back in the same cupboard where it had all happened.

I thought it had ended there, that it would be an episode buried between the two of us. But I underestimated Ramón. And I also underestimated Bouba, who had spent weeks so loaded, as I later learned, that you could tell from a hundred meters away.

***

That September afternoon I was home alone. Javier, my husband, always took the 7 p.m. AVE on Wednesdays for a meeting in Zaragoza and didn’t come back until the next day. The girl had gone to her cousin’s birthday party and I wasn’t expecting her until nine. I had the house to myself, the windows open, and a book I wasn’t reading because I was thinking about other things.

The doorbell rang. A short ring, as if it were almost asking the bell’s permission.

When I opened the door, I nearly fell over from the shock. Bouba filled the whole frame. He was wearing the blue warehouse uniform, dusty, but his face and forearms were clean, and he had that smell of cheap deodorant that made it obvious he’d just put some on.

—Bouba, what are you doing here? —I blurted out—. Did something happen to my father?

—No, señora Marisol. Don Ramón be fine. Iron health —he said, twisting his cap in his hands as if he could wring it out—. I come… come for another thing.

I looked at his face and his crotch almost at the same time; I couldn’t help it. The fabric of his trousers was taut in an outrageous way, as if a small animal lived beneath it and was trying to get out.

—What thing? —I asked, already with my stomach turning over.

Bouba lowered his gaze. Shame made his forehead shine.

—Don Ramón tell me to come. That I have a problem. Problem… of man.

—Of man?

—Being… loaded, señora —he let out, choosing the words as if he were walking on glass—. Many month without… emptying. My family be far away. Money be little to spend on paid women. And don Ramón tell me you be very good. That if I come washed and with respect, maybe you help Bouba to… clean the sword.

The silence that settled in the hall was absurd. A mosquito that had spent the whole afternoon battering itself against the living-room window could be heard from where we stood. I stood there with my mouth hanging open like an idiot, trying to translate my father’s euphemism. Clean the sword. Please.

Indignation rose up my throat. I was about to slam the door and tell my father to go to hell over the phone. How dare he, I thought. How dare he use a person as the messenger for his crude jokes. But when I looked back at Bouba, I saw his shoulders hunched, his head slightly lowered, his eyes pleading. This wasn’t harassment. It was a man who had gone a month without coming—why hadn’t he handled it himself? I would ask myself that later, several times—and who had shown up at my door because his boss had promised him this was an option.

And, I’m not going to lie, my memory of the previous month lit up like a bulb. The texture. The weight. The impossibility. That veiny hammer that had almost pulled a tooth out by the root. My cunt soaked right there, standing in the hall, with my panties turning into a hot, sticky pad that settled between my lips.

I looked down at his trousers again. The seam was suffering. The bulge was outlined off to one side, long, thick, running down his thigh almost to the middle, and I could even see the round shape of the glans pressing against the fabric.

—Did my father tell you to come so I’d suck you off? —I asked, without filters.

Bouba shivered.

—Please, señora, no use ugly words —he whispered—. He say “attend to it.” If you do not want, I leave now. Sorry.

He made to back away. And I, before my head could do anything useful, said:

—Wait.

He froze, one foot still on the step.

—Come in —I told him, moving aside—. Before some neighbor sees you standing there and thinks the worst.

***

I closed the door and locked it. The height difference between us was ridiculous; I barely reached his sternum.

—My father is a pig, Bouba —I said—. And you are a case.

—Don Ramón be very good. And you be angel.

—Less angels and more soap —I cut in—. You come from work and, with all due respect, you smell like a tiger. If you want me to help you with your problem, you wash first. I don’t put anything in my mouth that isn’t clean.

I pointed him toward the bathroom at the back. I showed him the towels and the good bar of soap, the glycerin one. Bouba nodded as if I had just given him a military order. He closed the door behind him, but didn’t lock it. I heard the water running and leaned against the hallway wall. What the fuck am I doing? I thought. The answer was throbbing between my thighs without asking permission; I could feel the moisture running down my inner thighs, my clit hardening against the seam of my jeans, my nipples standing out beneath my bra like two hard chickpeas.

I pushed the door open with the tip of my finger. Bouba was turned away, shirtless, with his trousers and briefs around mid-thigh. His back was a dark geography of muscles moving under the skin as he bent over the sink. And between his legs, even at rest, that thing hung there: heavy, thick, swaying slowly with each movement of his hips, with his balls swollen like two plums locked in a wrinkled dark sack.

—Can I come in? —I asked, and my voice came out rougher than I expected.

He turned. He didn’t cover himself. His hands were full of white foam that coated his crotch, and even so the foam wasn’t enough to hide everything. The glans, dark and huge as a child’s fist, peeked out above the foam.

—I wash well, señora. For you.

—Let me see if you do it right. I don’t trust men and their hygiene.

It was a miserable excuse. We both knew it. I lowered the toilet lid and sat down there, legs crossed, as if I were going to judge an exam. Bouba went back to work, giving me his profile. Under the warm water and the friction of the soap, the thing started waking up. It wasn’t fast. It was like watching a garden hose filling up: first a new heaviness, then the uprightness, then the thickness. A thick vein ran up along the side like a highway under his dark skin, and the glans, broad, shiny, dark as a ripe plum, ended up pointing at the mirror.

—Sorry if grow —he murmured—. Hot water and you watching make it hard to stay asleep.

—Clean the base well. And the balls.

He obeyed. He lifted one leg and rested it on the bidet edge. He soaped his scrotum with almost religious care, as if washing a piece of jewelry. With his fingers he separated the balls, lifted them, rubbed them one by one, and his hand looked small wrapped around those two oranges. When he rinsed everything with the bidet sprayer and dried himself with gentle pats, his member was still there, standing, slightly curved to the left and upward, throbbing with a rhythm of its own. It was almost the length of his forearm to the elbow, and so thick that Bouba’s fist didn’t fully go around it. A thick, transparent drop trembled at the tip and slowly slid down, hitting the floor with a heavy plop.

—There, señora. Clean.

—To the living room. We’ll be more comfortable on the sofa.

***

He walked down the hallway with his trousers still at his ankles, holding his erection with one hand so he wouldn’t hit anything. It was a ridiculous image, but I wasn’t in any mood to laugh. He sat on the edge of the sofa, spread his legs, and that tool stayed pointed at the living-room ceiling like a mast someone had forgotten to fold down. His balls hung between his thighs, heavy, swollen from so much waiting.

I let my ponytail down and tied it back up again, that “let’s get to it” gesture any man recognizes instantly. I took off my T-shirt too and folded it over the sofa arm so it wouldn’t get ruined; I was left in my bra, a basic white one I hadn’t chosen for anyone and that now clung to my chest because I was sweating from nerves alone. Bouba gave a soft moan just seeing me.

—My father was right about one thing —I said, kneeling between his legs—. This should be illegal.

—It’s genetics, señora. My father’s fault —he replied, with a humility that made me burst out laughing.

—Shut up, dummy, that was a compliment.

The smell was glycerin soap and, beneath it, a clean man, warm skin, loaded balls. I stuck out my tongue and licked the tip. A thread of precome stuck to my tongue, salty and thick, and I swallowed it before repeating the gesture. Bouba threw his head back against the backrest and let out a sound halfway between a sigh and a prayer.

—Holy mother of God, señora… you have a velvet tongue.

I started slowly. Kisses along the shaft, one after another, going up and down that thick vein that pulsed as if it had a life of its own. I licked the frenulum in circles, and the glans swelled even more, turning a deep purple, almost black. I went down to his balls and took one whole into my mouth, then the other, sucking them slowly while I pumped the base with my hand. Bouba jerked and let out a curse in his language that I didn’t understand but that sounded like a blessing.

My hands circled the base and I realized my fingers didn’t meet around it: the thickness was absurd. I needed both hands, one on top of the other, and there was still cock left above for me to put in my mouth. Bouba rested his hands on my head with incredible gentleness for a man his size, not pressing, almost asking permission with each caress.

—I’m going to try to take it in, Bouba. But you stay still. If you shove me, you’ll go through my skull.

—I stay still. I statue. I stone —he promised.

I opened my mouth as wide as I could, until my jaw creaked. The entry was slow. It was hard for him. Hard for me. The glans stretched my lips until they went white, and I felt the skin at the corners tighten so much I feared it would split. I moved forward a couple of centimeters, three, just enough to fill my mouth completely without even getting past the broad part. My tongue no longer fit; it was flattened against the floor of my mouth, pressed down by the weight of that cock sinking into me centimeter by centimeter. I hollowed my cheeks and started moving, up and down, at the only possible pace: slow. Every time I came up, saliva spilled from the corners of my mouth, dripped in two thick threads down my chin and soaked his balls.

Bouba breathed through his nose, loud, like a tired bull. His eyes were closed, but every few seconds he opened them to look at me, and each time he did he gripped my hair a little more. I could feel he was on the edge of something, holding back, not allowing himself to push. That was the most exciting thing: the controlled danger. The feeling that that man could tear my throat apart if he wanted, and he didn’t.

—Can I… raise hips a little? —he asked, his voice breaking—. Permission, please.

I nodded with a nasal sound. Bouba lifted his hips and the tip hit the back of my palate, pushing against my uvula, slipping a couple of centimeters down my throat. My eyes filled with tears. I gagged for a second and held on, feeling the glans seal off the entrance to my gullet completely, feeling my throat stretch around that purple head like a ring.

—Señora! It’s… blessed glory! Don Ramón was right! —he panted.

I pulled back for a second to breathe, leaving a glossy thread between the glans and my lower lip. I sucked air through my mouth, gasping, my chin completely wet, and while I caught my breath I kept pumping his shaft with both hands, twisting them each time I reached the top, as if wringing out a rag. The cock shone, wet with saliva, and with every pump I gave it the central vein stood out more.

But then, before I expected it, his control broke. He grabbed my head with both hands, buried his fingers in my hair, and started guiding me with rhythmic thrusts, setting the depth himself. For a few seconds I let him, feeling the glans hit the back of my palate again and again, feeling saliva start to foam in my mouth and dribble in thick clumps over my tits, but the rhythm was too much for me; I gagged, real tears ran from my eyes, and my face, already red, turned a shade that promised fainting.

I knocked his hands away and pulled back.

—Hey, stop, stop —I told him, coughing and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand—. You leave the rhythm to me, okay? I’m not a toy.

I was almost about to add that if it was brutes I wanted, I already had enough with my father and with Lucas, his warehouse boss, but I bit my tongue in time. Bouba blinked as if coming out of a trance, and asked forgiveness with his eyes before he could do it with his mouth.

—Sorry, señora. Very sorry. I lose myself.

—Yeah, yeah. Easy. But now you let me do it.

I lowered my head again, calm this time. His hands brushed my hair now, almost without touching it, a guide and not a grip. I combined licks on the glans—wrapping it completely with my lips and rolling my tongue around the rim of the crown—with firm two-handed pumping on the shaft. I stuck out my tongue and ran it underneath, from his balls to the tip, in long, flat licks, leaving the whole cock shiny with spit. I took it in as far as I could, pulled it out with an obscene pop, spat on the glans, and went back to pumping with my hands until the saliva churned and made bubbles at the base.

With my other hand I stroked his scrotum, took it to my mouth, first one ball, then the other, while my free hand kept pumping that rod. I sucked them slowly, held them in my palm to feel the weight—they weighed, damn if they weighed, like two ripe fruits about to burst—and felt them rising, pressing against his body, an unmistakable sign he was about to explode. Bouba started trembling in a different way. His thighs went taut like granite, every muscle in his abdomen stood out, and his toes curled against the carpet.

—Señora Marisol… I warn you. I be close. Cannot stop.

—Don’t stop —I said, swallowing the glans again with greed—. Give me everything. Let it be said that in this house we are not lacking hospitality.

—Hospitality! Yes, señora, hospitality! —he shouted, a phrase so absurd at that moment I almost laughed with my mouth full.

His whole body shook. His hips gave a hard jolt he couldn’t hold back this time, and the first jet struck my palate like a blast of pressurized water. Hot, thick, abundant, with a strong salty taste of a man who had gone a month without emptying. I swallowed once, feeling that dense mass go down my esophagus. I swallowed twice, and another equally thick burst filled my mouth to the gums. I swallowed three, four times, but it was too much: weeks and weeks in a single assault, jet after jet after jet, with no end in sight. My mouth overflowed and started leaking from the corners, running down my chin in two thick trails, spilling onto my cleavage, slipping through the valley between my breasts to my navel, staining my white bra and dripping onto the sofa.

I pulled it out of my mouth when I couldn’t swallow any more, and the last couple of spurts caught me point-blank, one on the upper lip, another crossing my face from cheek to temple. I stayed on my knees, gasping, with my hands still wrapped around the base of that cock that kept convulsing, spitting white threads that ran down the shaft and reached my fingers.

—Sorry, señora, sorry for making a mess! But so fucking good, so fucking good! —he shouted, not really knowing whether to pray or apologize.

I ran a finger along my chin, collected a thick lump, and put it in my mouth without thinking. I held his gaze while I swallowed it. Bouba gave one more spasm and a final thick drop rolled from the glans and landed on my chest.

***

When he finished, he slumped back against the sofa, breathing like he’d pushed a truck uphill. That thing, still throbbing inside my mouth—or rather outside, against my face—began to go down slowly. I pulled away and wiped my face with the back of my hand. I was a mess: hair loose and stuck in strands to my cheek, bra turned into a semen-soaked rag, cleavage glistening, chin still dripping.

Bouba opened one eye, saw me like that, and threw his hands to his head in horror.

—Oh, señora! How leave you like this! I clean! —he tried to get up with his trousers still at his ankles and almost fell flat on his face.

—Stay there, man. This washes off.

I went to the kitchen and came back with the paper towel roll. I handed him several sheets and wiped my own cleavage and neck. Bouba cleaned his member, which was descending from the heights with the melancholy of a hot-air balloon landing, and hurriedly pulled his clothes back up, buckling his belt as if he wanted to cover up the evidence of the crime before the police arrived.

—I do not know how thank —he said, standing in the middle of the living room, shy again—. You save my life. I feel light. Like feather.

—Don’t thank me. Let’s say we settled the electrical blockage debt.

He nodded several times, vigorously, and put a hand in his pocket, pulling out a crumpled five-euro bill.

—This be for… water, soap, paper. I want pay expense.

I let out one of those laughs that hurt your stomach. I pushed his hand away with a tenderness I hadn’t expected from myself.

—Keep that, big guy. Buy yourself a sandwich tomorrow. And go home before my husband gets here and we have a real problem.

Bouba put the bill away. He thanked me with a small, awkward bow. Before leaving, with his hand already on the knob, he turned back one last time:

—Señora?

—What?

—If next month I have problem again, and don Ramón say… can I come back? I promise wash twice.

I leaned against the living-room doorframe. I could still taste him on my palate, thick, insistent, and there was a persistent wetness between my legs that soaked my panties from side to side and that I was going to have to take care of myself as soon as I closed the door—I could already picture myself hiking up my skirt, sitting on the same sofa where I’d just knelt, sliding two fingers deep inside while remembering how that glans stretched my lips. I smiled a crooked smile I recognized at once: it was the same one my father had.

—If you come that polite and that clean… we’ll see, Bouba. We’ll see.

He went out into the night whistling softly, his step much lighter than when he’d arrived. I closed the door and stood against it for a few seconds, with one hand already inside my pants, two fingers making their way into a cunt so wet it made indecent sounds at the slightest touch. I came right there, standing against the door, biting my lip, legs trembling and Bouba’s taste still on my tongue. Then I went to fetch the stain remover for the sofa before Javier got home and asked me questions I couldn’t answer.

Dad, you’re a son of a bitch, I thought, with a mix of affection and rage, while scrubbing the stain on the leather. But you were right.