What the Stranger in the Garage Saw That Morning

Imagine it this way, because it’s only a fantasy and no one here is judging you. You’re a thirty-four-year-old woman, renting a place in a quiet development on the outskirts of Cártama, with your own parking space in the basement garage—the one where you park your car every morning before heading to work.

That Tuesday, you go down earlier than usual. The elevator smells of damp cement and cold gasoline, and when the doors open on the second basement level, the garage is half-dark, with those ceiling lights that flicker before coming fully on. You can’t hear a soul. Only the distant hum of an extraction fan and your own heels against the concrete.

It’s a place you know by heart and yet, at this hour, becomes something else. The empty spaces seem larger. The yellow pillars cast long shadows that cross over the floor. There’s something about going down alone, before the building wakes up, that has always made you a little nervous and a little alert, as if the silence were hiding something that hasn’t happened yet.

You’re wearing a long dress, the kind you like for summer: a wide, pleated skirt that reaches almost to your ankles and moves on its own with every step. You slept terribly and left without breakfast, with only strong coffee in your system. And halfway to your car, without warning, you’re seized by a desperate need to pee.

I’m not going to make it. I’m not going back up two floors and wet myself.

You stop dead. You look one way, toward the exit ramp, and see nothing. You look the other way, toward the row of yellow-painted pillars, and nothing there either. The garage seems deserted, full of sleeping cars and shadows. You tell yourself it’ll only take a moment, that nobody comes down this early, that your dress covers you more than enough.

So you do it. You slip between your car and the pillar, hike your skirt up with both hands, pull your white panties down to mid-thigh, and squat. The relief is immediate and almost embarrassing—that physical relief that makes you close your eyes for a second.

What you didn’t see, because you hadn’t looked carefully, was that two spaces away, inside a dark car with tinted windows, there was someone. A man. And that man had been watching you for some time without your realizing it.

***

You notice him too late. A movement at the edge of your vision, a reflection in the polished bodywork of the car beside you. You turn your head and then you see him: a guy sitting behind the wheel of a gray sedan, the window down and his eyes fixed on you. One hand is busy in his lap, moving slowly, and he makes no attempt to hide it. He’s jerking off while watching you piss, his cock out, thick and purple, his fist sliding up and down it with obscene calm.

Your breath catches. You’re still squatting, still not finished, and the urge won’t let you straighten up all at once. You try to stand, to pull your skirt down, but your body doesn’t obey and you’re left halfway up, trapped between urgency and shame. You feel your own nipples harden beneath the dress, and a hot stab between your legs that has nothing to do with needing to pee.

The sedan door opens. The man gets out unhurriedly, tall, his shirt hanging outside his trousers and wearing an expression you can’t quite read. He isn’t threatening. More curious, rather—hungry, like someone who has found something unexpected and doesn’t intend to let it get away. He walks toward you with his fly open and his cock swinging free, hard and pointing at you.

By the time you manage to stand, he’s already on top of you. The distance between the two cars vanishes in three steps, and before you can say anything, one hand brushes your cheek while the other pulls his zipper all the way down, drawing his entire cock out so you can see it up close. It’s enormous. Thick and veined, with a swollen head and a bead of pre-cum shining at the tip. Your mouth goes dry at once.

And then you think it, quickly, with that twisted logic that only appears in the middle of fear and desire.

I’m not going to waste an opportunity like this. You never get a chance like this twice. And the guy has the kind of cock that makes you think.

As the thought crosses your mind, you’re already on your knees with your mouth open. He doesn’t need to push you. His cock slips between your lips and you take it as though you’d been waiting for it all morning, sucking slowly at first, measuring it with your tongue, its girth forcing you to open wider than you’d imagined. You taste the salty pre-cum on your palate, feel the pulse of the thick vein running along its underside, and start sucking for real, moving your head back and forth, letting the head bump against your throat.

Your mouth fills with saliva. It dribbles from the corners, runs down your chin, and drops onto the neckline of your dress. You pull him out for a moment, grip him in your hand, and slap him against your own tongue, a wet smack-smack ringing through the garage’s silence. Then you take him back into your mouth, this time all the way, gagging when he hits your uvula, your eyes watering and a thin strand of spit hanging down.

For some reason, you think of the lollipops you ate as a child, the ones that lasted an entire afternoon. Except this is much thicker. Much hotter. And much more forbidden. You grab his balls with your free hand, weigh them in your palm, and squeeze them carefully while you keep sucking, drawing a hoarse growl from him that soaks the panties you’re no longer wearing.

Between sucks, you look up at him. You need to know before you go on.

—Hey—you murmur, your voice hoarse and your chin shining with saliva—you’re not going to do anything weird to me, are you?

—No, sweetheart—he replies, almost laughing. If you want, we can fuck. That’s all.

And the world opens up. All the tension of the past few minutes, that knot of thinking he had come down with bad intentions, comes undone at once. His intention had been to ask whether you wanted it. Nothing more.

—Of course I want to—you answer, with a swagger you didn’t know you had in you. I want you to fuck me right here. I want that cock inside me now.

***

You straighten up completely. You take off your white panties, which have been left in a tiny puddle on the concrete, and leave them there, forgotten. You don’t care. A moment ago you were dying of embarrassment at the thought of someone seeing you pull them down in secret, and now you’re going to fuck in broad daylight, on the floor of a garage, with a complete stranger. Your mind can’t quite keep up with your body, and for once you decide not to force it.

You take his cock firmly in one hand and guide him as he lets himself fall backward onto the cold garage floor, his shirt crumpling beneath his weight. Before climbing on top, you crouch down again and give him one last long lick from his balls to the tip, coating him well with saliva. He slips two fingers beneath your dress, feels your pussy, and lets out a low laugh.

—You’re soaked, you slut.

—Shut up and let me climb on.

You straddle him. You feel the rough concrete beneath your knees, the brush of your pleated dress falling over your thighs like a curtain, and lower yourself in one thrust, burying him completely inside you. Your pussy creaks. You feel him forcing you open, filling you to a point you hadn’t known existed, the head slamming into your cervix. The moan that escapes you isn’t elegant. It’s real—a guttural howl that rebounds off the pillars.

—Fuck, fuck, you’re so big—I gasp. You’re splitting me open.

For a moment you stay still, sitting fully on him, feeling him pulse inside you. Your head spins with the absurd mixture of the situation: the cold floor, Tuesday morning, a man whose name you don’t know, the smell of rubber and oil in the garage, and you spread open on top of him with an unknown cock buried to the balls, as though you’d been fucking for years. You’ve never felt so exposed. You’ve never felt so free.

And you start moving. A frantic rocking, shameless, your hips rising and falling at a pace neither of you controls anymore. Every time you drop down, the slap of your ass against his thighs sounds like a sharp smack in the garage. He holds your waist, setting the rhythm, while you brace your open palms against his chest for leverage. Your breasts spill out of your neckline and he grabs them with both hands, pinching your nipples and twisting them until you moan louder.

—Keep going, don’t stop, give me more—you beg him. Fuck me hard, goddamn it.

He obeys. He plants his feet on the floor, grips your hips with both hands, and starts thrusting up into you, lifting his ass from the concrete to drive himself deeper, using a savage rhythm that shakes your entire body. The wet slap of your soaked pussy against his groin is obscene, a rhythmic squelch-squelch mixing with your cries. You feel yourself dripping down your thighs, soaking his balls, every thrust knocking the breath out of you.

He changes position. He grabs you, turns you around without pulling all the way out, and puts you on all fours on the concrete, your pleated skirt hiked up over your back and your ass in the air. He spreads your cheeks with his thumbs, pauses for a second to look at your open pussy and your tight asshole, and spits on you before driving into you again in one deep thrust.

—Take it, slut, take it. You like it this way.

—Yes, fuck, yes, like that.

He fucks you from behind with a fury you’ve never felt before. His open palm lands on your ass, smack, and the sting blends with the pleasure. Another slap. Another. Your skin turns red, and you push your ass backward to ask for more, impaling yourself on every thrust. He bends over your back, grabs your hair, pulls your head back, and bites your shoulder through the fabric of your dress.

The sounds multiply in the empty garage. The echo bounces off the pillars, the cars, the low concrete ceiling, turning every moan into something enormous, impossible to hide. At that moment, you aren’t even aware that you’re shouting “fuck me, fuck me, harder” at the top of your lungs.

Every so often you open your eyes and look around, toward the ramp, toward the elevator, almost hoping someone will appear and catch you. And you discover, with some surprise, that the idea doesn’t hold you back. Quite the opposite. The possibility of a neighbor coming down to get their car and finding you like this, on all fours with a stranger’s cock buried to your uterus, drives you to move faster, to sink down harder, to seek the end with an urgency you don’t recognize in yourself.

He lasts. He lasts in a way that surprises you, hard and erect as a rock for what you’ll later calculate was at least half an hour, letting you set the pace, stopping just when you were about to come, pulling out to rub himself against your clitoris until you moan in frustration, then starting again. He lays you on your side, lifts one leg over his shoulder, and fucks you that way, sideways, looking into your eyes as he drives into you again and again. Then he puts you on top again. Then against the car door, your tits pressed against the cold window and him behind you, gripping your neck without squeezing, simply holding you in place.

You’re sweating. Your hair sticks to your forehead. The dress has slipped off both shoulders and you don’t even bother pulling it back up. Your tits are out, moving with every thrust, and your makeup has run beneath your eyes from tears of pleasure.

When you finally come, you come with your whole body, with a spasm that bends you forward over his chest. Your pussy clenches around his cock in spasms, squeezing it like a fist, and you feel your own fluids running over his balls and soaking his trousers. You scream. You truly scream, unable to control it, a long cry that rebounds through the entire basement. That heat of yours, that sudden squeeze enveloping him, is what finally breaks him.

—I’m coming, I’m coming inside you.

—Yes, come, give me everything.

He comes with one final deep thrust, like the pop of a champagne cork that’s been shaken for too long. You feel the hot stream shooting inside you—one, two, three thick pulses filling you deep—and he keeps thrusting slowly, emptying himself completely, until there’s nothing left.

Except this isn’t champagne. When he finally pulls out, with a wet sucking sound, his come pours out of you in spurts and runs down the insides of your thighs, splattering the hem of your dress, the pleated fabric you like so much. You stay there on top of him for a moment, panting, your thighs trembling, watching a thick white thread run down to the concrete. You laugh without really knowing why.

He runs his thumb over the corner of your mouth, gathers a drop of dried saliva, and slips it into your mouth. You suck it clean without thinking.

***

Days later, you find out about the rest. Your neighbor Marisol, from the fourth floor, tells you while you’re sharing the elevator, eyeing you with a strange smile.

—Hey, didn’t you go down to the garage early on Tuesday?—she suddenly asks. Because there was such a racket all the way up to my floor. Moaning, screaming, “fuck me harder,” and everything… I thought it was a porn movie playing at full volume.

You blush, but she doesn’t seem to be reproaching you. Quite the opposite. Lowering her voice, she confesses that the noise found her alone at home, with her husband at work, and she couldn’t stop herself from putting her hand inside her panties and rubbing her clitoris until she came twice in a row while listening to you scream two floors below.

—I didn’t even know who you were—she says with a shrug. But thank God someone in this building gets fucked. My husband hasn’t touched my pussy in months. He always has that sour look on his face, as if he had his period every day of the year.

And you laugh, because you don’t know what else to do, and think that without meaning to, you’ve done half the development a favor.

***

One more thing stayed with you from that morning, besides the memory and a dress you had to take to the dry cleaner twice to remove the semen stains from the hem. Before going upstairs to change, still trembling in the legs and with his come dripping inside you, you gave the stranger in the gray sedan your cell-phone number.

In case someday, you told him half-jokingly, he needed someone to help him push his car.

Or me.

You asked him to call. And you would come down to the garage right away. Without panties this time, on purpose. And with your mouth open, waiting.