What Went On in the Shoeshine Stand

There was a period, a few years ago now, when my favorite routine was getting off the bus two stops before mine and walking to Hilario’s stand. He shined shoes on a broad avenue downtown, one of those they’d called a “traffic artery” ever since they changed the street nomenclature. He’d been there since the old trolleybuses still ran along that street, and he knew the office workers’ boots from around there as if they were faces.

The stand was spacious for what it was. Along the side wall, he’d built a raised platform with two stations: seats with curved backs where the customer sat at the perfect height for him to work without bending over. Below, two metal plates blackened by years of shoe polish served as footrests. At the entrance, a vertical display case filled with chewing gum, single cigarettes, and mint candies blocked the view from the sidewalk. It served two purposes: hiding the customer from passersby and, above all, letting Hilario know who was coming in before the other person could see him.

I sat there whenever I had time to kill between classes. I paid for the shine and stayed to read the comics he kept in a box beneath the platform. Sometimes, if the dead hour hit—between one and two, when the office workers ate lunch—he’d pull a couple of magazines from a different drawer, magazines that weren’t comics. He’d leave them on my thighs without saying anything, like someone commenting on the weather, and go back to work. I’d leaf through them pretending indifference, looking at pussy lips spread open with two hands, enormous tits with hard nipples pointing at the camera, old women kneeling with other men’s cocks in their mouths, and I’d let the blood quietly pool until my dick showed through my denim like a steel rod.

“I’m not lending you anything anymore,” he told me one afternoon, looking openly at the bulge in my trousers. “Apparently, you don’t have what it takes to calm down all that restlessness.”

As he said it, he ran his palm over the fabric. A firm caress, without asking anything, as if it were part of the service. His fingers traced the length of my cock pressed against my thigh, measured it through my trousers, and finished with a slow squeeze of my balls. The first time it threw me off, but instead of closing my legs, I spread them a little farther.

“And what’s gotten into you?” I said, unable to manage the reproachful tone I’d intended. “Do you have someone to take care of you?”

“Me? No,” he answered, and his smile disappeared all at once. He went back to concentrating on the shoe. “I don’t have anyone anymore.”

It surprised me. I’d been dealing with him for months and had never seen him lose his spark. Half joking, I asked if he was married. He nodded without looking at me.

“I was. Seven months ago I threw my wife out of the house. She was a whore.”

I didn’t press him. But after a while in silence, he took a photograph from his shirt pocket, its edges worn, laminated at some kiosk so it wouldn’t fall apart completely.

“This was us at Las Estacas water park, down in Morelos. Imagine her without the bathing suit. I swear she’s better than any of the old broads in the magazines I lend you.”

He put the photo in my hands. She was a light-brown-skinned woman with very long black hair, sitting on a towel with her back straight and her breasts threatening to spill out of her white bikini. Her hips strained the fabric of her panties, and you could make out the slit of her pussy marked in the seam. Beside her, Hilario smiled awkwardly, one hand on her waist and a beer in the other. He was right: his wife’s figure beat the pale, fatless girls who appeared on the yellowed pages of the magazine, those who happily impaled themselves against cardboard backdrops.

“Her name is Aurora,” he said. And then he began to tell me.

They’d been married for almost three years, fucking every single day without fail: when they woke up, while she was still warm and he fucked her from behind like a spoon, coming inside her before leaving for work; at noon, when she welcomed him at the door already without panties, ready for him to fuck her on the kitchen table before lunch; and at night, when he came home, she’d straddle him and wouldn’t let him pull out until he emptied the day’s last load into her pussy. One morning she asked him if they could take in her younger brother, who had arrived from a mountain village looking for work in the capital. It would only be for a while. He agreed.

The first thing that changed was the rhythm. They started fucking less, making less noise, muffling Aurora’s mouth with a pillow when she came. Practically all he had left was the noon session, when his brother-in-law went out knocking on doors. Then not even that: the kid started coming back before one, just in time to ruin the only safe hour, with Hilario still halfway inside her and her halfway to coming.

“One day,” Hilario continued, without looking up from the brush, “the neighbor next door pulled me aside in the courtyard and told me he’d thought the brother was me. He said he heard a lot of racket during the week, at strange hours. That Aurora howled like a bitch in heat, begging him to put it deeper inside her.”

“And what did you do?”

“I got pissed off. The next day, instead of coming to work, I went into the neighbor’s apartment.”

They didn’t have to wait long. Twenty minutes later they began hearing the bed creaking on the other side of the wall, a rhythmic, heavy pounding, and then Aurora’s moans, growing higher and higher, slipping through the masonry as if she were in the same room. “That’s it, Daddy, that’s it, put that whole cock inside me, split me open, don’t pull out, fuck me the way you like.” The neighbor grabbed his arm when he saw him make as if to leave. “Relax,” he told him. “Let’s take it slow. Let’s catch them in the act, not halfway through.” They went down to the courtyard, opened the door to Hilario’s apartment with the key he was carrying, and went in without making a sound. They found Aurora riding her brother-in-law on the unmade bed, both heads tilted down and her breasts hanging over his face, moving up and down with her ass clenched and her brother-in-law’s cock buried to the hilt, shining with her fluids.

“He was a handsome guy,” Hilario said, almost with cold admiration. “And he had a bigger one than me. A thick, brown piece of cock, with a huge mushroom head, going in and out of Aurora, dripping. His balls too—I saw them from under the table, because we both hid there at first so we could listen to her beg. Two heavy balls bouncing against her ass every time she dropped down.”

Aurora begged him to suck her tits, bite her nipples, and not dare pull it out. Her brother-in-law ran his tongue over her dark nipples, sucked them whole until they disappeared into his mouth, while she dropped herself all the way down, again and again, with a wet splashing sound each time her pussy swallowed his entire cock. “I’m going to come, Aurora, I’m going to come inside you.” “Come, Daddy, fill me, I want to feel it hot.” Hilario told me that he felt his cock get hard from the sheer fury mixed with the image. He had it pressed against his trousers, throbbing, damp with pre-cum, while he watched his wife impale herself on her brother-in-law’s cock a yard from his face. But the anger won out. He came out from under the table and lunged at his brother-in-law, who barely had time to grab his trousers and the rest of his clothes before running almost naked down the hall, his cock still hard and bouncing between his legs, a thread of semen hanging from the head. Aurora clung to Hilario’s neck to stop him from following, naked, her tits crushed against Hilario’s chest and her pussy running down her thighs. The neighbor, his own cock also outlined in his trousers as he stared at the naked woman, helped hold him back and then sat him on the bed so he could calm down.

“I threw her out that same night,” he said. “Before I had a chance to put my hands on her. Or worse, fuck her one last time and stay there like an idiot.”

I stayed quiet. He cleaned the shoe with a soft cloth, his eyes shining. He wasn’t crying, but it was hard for him to continue.

“The worst came afterward,” he went on, almost in a whisper. “About a week later, I went to turn the mattress over. When I lifted it, there was a pile of used toilet paper underneath. She cleaned herself with it after her brother-in-law came inside her. Balls of paper full of dried semen mixed with her fluids. The smell hit me like a blow. Another man’s semen and my wife’s pussy, all mixed together. My cock sprang up right there, kneeling beside the bed, smelling it. Remembering how she fucked, how she moved, how she came.”

“Hilario…”

“Don’t say anything. I pulled my cock out and jerked off over those papers, my nose buried in the bundle, smelling the other guy’s semen. I came in streams over the same balls of paper, adding my own to her brother-in-law’s. And I kept them. For months I used them to come, smelling them, imagining her spread-legged, screaming at him the things she used to scream at me.”

He sighed deeply and handed the photo back to me so I could look at it more closely. Aurora smiled at me from the water park as if she knew what he was telling me, as if she enjoyed knowing I had a hard-on on the platform.

“And you never saw her again?”

“Three weeks ago, at the market. She asked me to get back together. ‘I don’t have any brothers anymore,’ she told me. The nerve.”

He gave a dry laugh and put the photo back in his shirt pocket. When I climbed down from the platform, I paid him with a bill and gave him a couple of pats on the back, as if that could make up for anything. He took the photo out again as soon as I left.

***

The next time I went by the stand, I sat down with the feeling that something had changed between us. I couldn’t have explained what. He confirmed it at once.

“Comics or the other magazines?” he asked.

“The other ones. But I also want to see Aurora’s picture.”

“You’re a fucking bastard,” he said, and ran his hand over my trousers, squeezing the cock that was already getting hard just from hearing her name. This time I didn’t pretend to be uncomfortable. I spread my legs, and he settled more comfortably between them, kneeling on the metal plate.

Without stopping the palm rubbing me, he took the photo from his pocket and placed it between my fingers. He squeezed my testicles through the fabric with a goldsmith’s delicacy, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger, while I soaked myself in the woman’s brown smile. Then he pulled down my zipper. I made as if to stop his hand.

“Relax,” he said. “You’re going to like it.”

He took two Polaroids from the same pocket, ones I hadn’t seen before. They showed Aurora completely naked, leaning against the wall of a room that seemed to be hers. In one she was smiling, her large tits exposed, her dark nipples hard and erect, one hand cupped beneath a breast, offering it to the camera. In the other she spread her legs, looking at the camera without shame, sitting on the edge of the bed, two fingers pulling apart the lips of her pussy so everything could be seen: the pink flesh inside, glistening, her clitoris outlined, the dark patch of trimmed hair bordering the nakedness. My mouth went dry.

He put his hand inside my trousers, pulled out my rock-hard cock, and held it for a moment in his fist, measuring it, squeezing from the base to the head until he made a clear drop bead up, which he immediately licked away with the tip of his tongue. Then he bent fully over me and took me all the way into his mouth, until I felt the back of his throat close around the head. I shut my eyes, spread my fingers over my thighs, let the Polaroids slide down into my lap, and concentrated on imagining that it was Aurora with her mouth on me, that it was her brown lips moving up and down, her tongue wrapping around me, that it was her black hair spilling over my legs. Hilario sucked me with practiced skill: he rose to the tip, paused to circle his tongue around the head, sucked the frenulum with tightly pursed lips, and went back down to the base, gagging without complaint. With his other hand he worked my balls, squeezing them and pulling them downward. I didn’t last long. I felt the pull rising from deep inside, squeezed my thighs against his face, let out a grunt, and came on his tongue in several thick streams, which he took without pulling away. He swallowed it all, ran his flat tongue over the head to collect the last drop, wiped me with the polishing cloth, and put everything back in place. Then he went back to shining the shoe as if nothing had happened, and at that moment a man in a suit came in asking for a double shine. I climbed down and went out onto the avenue on weak legs.

***

A month later I arrived at the stand during the dead hour. Hilario was serving a young woman, not yet thirty, wearing a short skirt and a blouse unbuttoned two buttons too far. She was sitting in the other station, crossing and uncrossing her legs every three minutes. When she crossed them, her skirt rode up and showed the beginning of her thigh. When she uncrossed them, she showed too much: one time I caught sight of the fact that she wasn’t wearing panties, the dark stain of her pubic mound barely covered by the edge of her skirt. I tried to concentrate on the comic book he handed me, but every time she moved, my eyes wandered and my cock hardened inside my trousers.

“Wait for me, I’ll get to you in a minute,” Hilario said, amused.

When she was finished, she leaned over the platform and kissed him on the cheek. She smiled at me, looked me over all the way to the bulge in my crotch, and gave me a lazy wave before walking out onto the street.

“A new conquest?” I asked.

“One of the girls from around here. She’s been my client for months. That’s why she likes to put on a little show: she fishes for new clients here.”

“Well, well.”

“I’m tired. I have to go eat at home. Are you coming?”

I guessed the other intention beneath the words. The little whore had turned me on, and I wasn’t in the mood to walk home alone with my cock squeezed sideways inside my trousers. I nodded.

We walked five blocks to an old tenement, one of those with a central courtyard and one-room dwellings packed together, separated by thin masonry walls and asbestos-sheet roofs. Then I understood why his neighbor had heard Aurora in such detail: there, a conversation in a normal voice from the next room carried without losing a word, much less the moans of a woman whose pussy was being split open.

Inside, the kitchen opened onto the room, and the room opened onto the bathroom. One single room, really. He opened the refrigerator, took out two large bottles of beer, and gave me one. We sat on the edge of the bed and drank them slowly. He took the Polaroids from his pocket and handed them to me. Without warning, he put his hand on my thigh and began moving it upward from the inside. This time the fabric wasn’t enough for him. He unbuckled my belt, pulled my trousers down to my knees, then my briefs, leaving me naked from the waist down, my cock standing and pointing at his face, my heavy balls resting against the edge of the mattress. He closed his hand around me and began jerking me slowly, drawing the skin up and down over the head, while his other hand played with my testicles. Meanwhile, I couldn’t stop looking at Aurora in the Polaroids: her open pussy, her hanging tits, her challenging stare.

“Imagine you’re putting it inside her,” he whispered in my ear, tightening his fist at the base. “That you’ve got her on all fours and you’re driving it in to the balls. That you grab her ass and spread her open.”

I imagined it. I imagined her panting, pushing her ass back against me, begging me for more. I felt my cock swell in his hand.

He undressed too. He pulled his shirt over his head, then yanked down his trousers and briefs in one motion. He’d been right when he said his brother-in-law had the bigger one: Hilario’s was already thick and brown, with prominent veins and a shining head, and yet he still complained that the other man had beaten him. His balls hung low and heavy. He climbed onto the bed and arranged me on my back. Then he turned around, positioned himself on top of me with his head toward my feet, and planted his balls and cock in my face while he sank into mine.

We both ended up naked on the bed, in a 69. I put the pictures aside and concentrated on him. He was right: he was well endowed. I could fit only one of his balls in my mouth at a time; I sucked them whole, the wrinkled, warm skin stretching against my tongue, while my hand worked his cock up and down, making the skin slide over the head, then pulling it back toward the base. When I dared to take him into my mouth, my jaw opened until it hurt; the fat tip scraped my palate and I felt my throat close reflexively, so I held him halfway, sucking the shaft with tight lips and working up saliva so he would slide more easily. Meanwhile, he played with both of mine at once, rolling them around with his tongue inside his mouth, then releasing them to lick my cock from root to head with his flat tongue, then sucking my entire head as if it were a candy, then going back down to take my balls into his mouth again, never letting me come. He put a finger wet with saliva into the crack of my ass and left it there, pressing against the opening without going in, while he kept sucking. I got pissed off and returned the move: I buried my tongue between his cheeks, found his clenched asshole, and soaked it completely, feeling it tighten and open. A growl escaped him with my cock in his mouth. We went on like that, each one riding the other’s face, until we watched one another come, one after the other. Me first: I came with his balls still in my mouth, thick streams filling his throat, which he swallowed without taking his mouth away. Then him: I felt his shaft swell against my lips, the first spurt hit my tongue and the next ones splashed my cheeks, nose, and chin, a hot, thick jet left hanging from the corner of my mouth.

“Do you want to feel it inside?” he asked, still breathing hard, brandishing his cock, which was growing again between his fingers, still shining with saliva and his own come.

I told him no. But I felt like sucking it again and went down. I ran my tongue over the head, collected the semen left on it, licked him from balls to tip, and took him back into my mouth, all the way this time. That was when he grabbed my head with both hands, his fingers tangled in my hair. I tried to pull away when I felt him push. He tightened his grip. He shoved me all the way down, drove his cock into my throat, held it there without letting me breathe, and came down my throat without warning, choking me, his cock trembling and shooting streams that I couldn’t even feel in my mouth because they went straight inside. I coughed, spat him out as best I could, felt the other man’s semen run down my chin mixed with saliva, slapped his thigh, and sat up, spitting onto the floor.

“You’re a fucking savage.”

He laughed. More than laughed—he howled, his cock dripping onto his belly. I picked my clothes up off the floor and dressed in a hurry without looking at him, still choking on the taste of his come. Aurora was still smiling at me from the Polaroid lying on the bedside table.

“Don’t get mad,” he said between laughs. “I swear, next time…”

“There won’t be a next time.”

I left, slamming the door. That night, in my room, I jerked off thinking about Aurora, not him. I imagined her naked as in the Polaroid, opening her pussy with two fingers, asking me to put it inside her, climbing on top of me with her tits hanging over my face the way she’d climbed on her brother-in-law. I came in streams over my belly, long and slowly, and decided, as I came, that I wouldn’t go back to the stand. And I kept my word. I changed avenues, changed shoeshine men, stopped getting off two stops early. I never saw him again.