I Caught My Father with Another Man in the Bakery
My father has spent twenty-two years kneading bread in the bakery on Calle Tabernillas. He starts at three in the morning every night, like clockwork. I never asked him what he did in those dead hours before the neighborhood woke up. I thought it was bread. Just bread.
That morning I was coming back from a dive in Malasaña, my ears still ringing and two too many drinks in my body. A classmate from my degree dropped me off at the corner of Cava Baja, and from there I walked down to La Latina. It was a little past four. My shorts stuck to my legs from dancing sweat, and my cotton T-shirt smelled of other people’s tobacco smoke and cheap perfume.
Before going upstairs I thought I’d stop by the bakery. My father always saved me one of the first croissants, the ones that come out of the oven at four thirty with the butter still bubbling in the crust. I had a drunk’s hunger, and the bakery was two doorways down from ours. The service door, the one that opens onto the alley at the back, was almost always open at that hour.
I pushed it carefully so I wouldn’t startle him.
What I saw pinned me to the floor.
***
My father, Rubén, was standing in front of the central table in the bakery, with his white apron fallen to his knees and his pants around his ankles. Beside him, Hakim, the Moroccan assistant he had hired last winter, was in the same position. They weren’t kneading. They weren’t baking. Their hands were busy with something else: each one had his cock out, hard, thick, and their fists were moving up and down the shaft with a soft slap of skin against skin wet with saliva.
My brain took a long three seconds to process it. The two men, shoulder to shoulder, working themselves next to each other in front of the marble table I had seen since childhood covered in flour. My father, his blond beard beaded with sweat, broad hairy chest rising and falling fast, his stiff cock pointed at the ceiling with the purple head peeking between thick fingers. Hakim, his dark skin shining under the yellow light of the extractor fan, his black beard cut very short, eyes closed and lips parted, murmuring something that sounded like Arabic while his cock, long and very dark, slid in and out of his fist with a thread of precum hanging from the tip.
They didn’t see me. They were too absorbed.
I stayed in the doorway, one hand still on the latch, unable to breathe. The air in the bakery was thick and hot, smelling of yeast, male sweat, and semen about to spill. Through the skylights in the ceiling came the distant hum of a garbage truck.
I felt my pulse hammering at my temples. And, without meaning to, I also felt my own cock swelling inside my shorts, pushing the fabric forward.
***
The first thing I thought was to turn around and disappear. The second, to go upstairs and get even more drunk so I could forget it. The third, the one that made me stay, I didn’t fully think through. It was a current that climbed up my spine and forced me to stand still, breath cut short, staring.
My father was fifty-two, but built like a guy who carries sacks of flour every night. Broad shoulders, full arms, firm legs, his white hairy ass clenched tight. I had never seen him naked below the waist, not even as a child. He had his cock in his hand, thick and slightly curved upward, the veins standing out from base to head, and he worked it with a calm, almost methodical rhythm, pulling the foreskin down until the shiny head was fully bared and then sliding back up with his thumb brushing the crown. A fat drop hung from the tip, stretching and falling onto the floured marble in a slow thread.
Hakim was different. Younger, maybe thirty-five. Thinner, more wiry, with a flat stomach and a line of black hair running from his navel down to a pair of big, dangling balls. His was darker, straighter, longer than my father’s but less thick, and he gripped it with one hand closed around the base, working the skin with hard strokes that made a wet sound, slap-slap-slap, in the bakery’s silence. Every so often he spit into his palm without taking his eyes off his cock, took hold of it again, and kept going. Now and then he turned his head a millimeter toward my father, as if measuring the other man’s rhythm so he wouldn’t finish first.
“Slowly, Hakim,” my father said in a low voice, not opening his eyes. “We’re going to run out.”
“I am going slowly,” Hakim answered, with that accent of his that dragged the consonants. “You’re the one going fast today. I can see your load at the tip from here.”
“It’s because I haven’t fucked your mother in two days,” my father said, and both of them let out a knowing laugh, the kind shared by people who know each other’s bodies. “Sorry, mine.”
“Even worse,” Hakim muttered, squeezing his balls with his free hand.
***
And then, I don’t know how, I dropped my keyring.
The keys bounced on the cement floor with a metallic noise that, in the bakery’s silence, sounded like a gunshot. My father jerked his head around so fast he almost broke his neck. Hakim let out a curse in his language and brought his free hand to his apron to cover his cock, though it was too late: I had already seen it top to bottom, the dark shaft still shining with saliva, the balls pressed tight against his body.
“Fuck, Diego,” my father said, and his voice broke in the middle of my name.
They didn’t pull up their pants. They didn’t run to hide. They both stayed frozen, cocks still hard and throbbing in the hot air of the bakery, pointing at me like two thick, veined fingers, looking at me like a pair of animals caught in the headlights of a car on the road.
I didn’t move either.
“I…” I started, and couldn’t find the sentence. My voice came out rough, almost childlike. “I came for a croissant.”
My father let out a laugh that sounded more like a cough. Hakim closed his eyes and murmured something that sounded like a prayer or a curse. The situation was so absurd, so ridiculous—the two men standing there with their cocks out in front of the kneading table, my father’s cock dripping slime onto the flour—that for a full second I thought I was in one of those nightmares where you show up to class without pants.
“Close the door,” my father said at last, getting his voice back. “And lower your voice, your mother’s upstairs.”
I obeyed without thinking. I closed the service door with my foot and took two steps forward. The keys stayed on the floor.
***
“This isn’t what it looks like,” my father began, and stopped short when he realized it was exactly what it looked like. “Well, it is what it looks like, but it’s not…”
“Not what?” I said, unable to stop a nervous half-smile, my eyes fixed on my father’s cock, which refused to go down.
My father looked at Hakim. Hakim looked at the floor. Both cocks were still up, stubborn, twitching every few seconds as if they had a life of their own.
“Listen, Diego. It’s something that happens sometimes. The nights are long, the bakery is hot, one gets bored. It started as a joke months ago, a wank next to each other to laugh a bit, and… that’s it. Nothing more.”
“Are you gay, Dad?” I asked, not wanting to be cruel, just confused.
My father laughed again, this time more freely, and squeezed his cock against his thigh as if it had suddenly become heavy.
“No, I’m not gay. And neither is Hakim. Hakim has a wife and three kids in Tetuán and jerks off every night thinking about her. I have your mother. This is… something else. We get each other off. That’s all.”
“It’s a release,” Hakim said, lifting his head for the first time. “Like a coffee. A cock doesn’t care whether there’s a woman or a coworker next to it—if it gets you hot, it gets you hot.”
“Exactly,” my father finished. “Like a coffee.”
I nodded slowly, as if I understood. The truth is I did understand, and that was what scared me most: I was drooling looking at them, and my cock was bulging under my shorts like a tent.
***
“Can I… can I stay a while?” I asked.
The words came out before I could stop them. My father frowned. Hakim raised his eyebrows so high they nearly disappeared into his hair. There was a long, dense silence, during which I heard the hum of the oven, the drip of a badly closed tap, and my own heartbeat thudding in my throat.
“Diego,” my father said very quietly, “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” I added quickly. “I won’t touch anything. Just… let me stay. Please.”
My father looked at Hakim. Hakim shrugged, ran his hand over his cock with no shame at all, and said something in Arabic I didn’t understand but that sounded like “let him stay, let him watch.” My father let out a long sigh.
“Sit in that chair. Don’t touch yourself. And if you make a single sound, I swear I’ll throw you out on your ass.”
I sat on the metal stool where my father took off his shoes when he got in. From there I could see them both in profile, broad backs leaning slightly forward, hairy naked asses tightening every time their hands rose, hands returning little by little to their work.
***
At first they were careful, glancing at me every few seconds. But soon their breathing started to quicken again and my presence ceased to exist for them. Hakim closed his eyes and tipped his head back, spitting again into his palm so he could slide it better over the dark cock, which by then was shining all over. My father braced one hand on the marble table and spread his legs a little wider, seeking balance, his big dangling balls swaying between his thighs with each tug.
“Get the flour,” Hakim murmured suddenly, without opening his eyes. “The tip’s already burning.”
My father dug two fingers into the pile of flour on the table, then spat into his palm, mixed the two into a thick white paste, and smeared it all over his cock. His hand started sliding with a sticky sound, thwock, thwock, thwock, that filled the bakery. Hakim did the same, copying him, and within seconds both of them were jerking off with a milky fist that left white clumps all over the shaft.
“Fuck, that feels good,” my father gasped. “What a hell of an invention, you Arab.”
“Shut up and stroke it,” Hakim answered in a broken voice.
The bakery filled again with that hot, animal smell, mixed with the yeast of bread resting in the pans and the sharp stink of two men about to come. Golden light escaped through the oven slit and lit them both from the waist down, leaving their faces in shadow: two hard cocks, two pairs of clenched balls, two fists working in parallel, faster and faster.
My father lowered one hand and started massaging his balls with his palm, tugging them downward, while with the other he kept jerking himself off in shorter and more frantic motions. Hakim brought two fingers to his mouth, licked them thoroughly, and slipped them behind, between his dark buttocks, searching for his own hole. When he found the spot he let out a low grunt and started pushing them in and out at the same rhythm as he worked his cock.
“There he goes with the Arab finger up his ass,” my father muttered with a crooked smile, never stopping his cock work.
“Try it and you’ll see,” Hakim gasped. “You’ll come sooner.”
My father shook his head, but spread his legs farther and sped up. His cock looked thicker and thicker, the veins swollen, the purple head ready to burst, and his balls had drawn up tight against his body, tense, ready.
I didn’t touch myself. My cock was hard as a rock under my shorts, soaking the fabric with precum, and my hands were clenched on my thighs, but I didn’t touch myself. I wouldn’t have been able to even if I’d wanted to. Watching was already too much.
“Hakim…” my father whispered.
“Yeah.”
“Almost.”
“Me too. Let’s go together, Rubén, fuck, let’s go together.”
“Count.”
“Three… two… one…”
I saw them finish almost at the same time. First Hakim, with a dull groan he bit off halfway between his teeth, arching his back and shooting the first long white rope onto the floured marble. The second shot reached the edge of the table, the third slid through his fingers, and he kept shaking his cock, squeezing out fat drops until there was nothing left. Then my father, with a long guttural gasp and a hard slap of his free hand against the table. His load came harder, in thick spurts that splattered the marble, the flour, Hakim’s wrist, even one drop that reached the apron fallen to his ankles. Five, six, seven spurts. His cock kept throbbing in his hand long after the last one, and he squeezed it from base to tip, drawing out the final pearls.
They both stayed still for a few seconds, panting, cocks still in their fists, now soft but shining with semen and saliva, their backs glistening with sweat under the yellow light of the extractor. On the kneading marble there was a white constellation of semen mixed with flour, two puddles joining in the center.
***
“Clean that up,” my father said at last, handing Hakim a rag.
“You clean it,” Hakim answered, not yet letting go of his dripping cock. “Today it’s my turn to knead.”
“Then don’t knead with that,” my father said, pointing at the smeared marble, and both of them chuckled under their breath.
My father wiped the marble, dragging the thick mix of semen and flour to the edge, dropped it into a bucket, wiped his soft cock with another cloth, pulled his pants up, adjusted his apron, and went back to work without looking at me. Hakim did the same, tucking his dark, still-dripping cock back into his briefs with a quick gesture. As if the last ten minutes had never happened. As if I wasn’t there, my shorts about to burst and my mouth dry.
I got off the stool, picked up the keys from the floor, and walked to the door. Before leaving, my father called my name.
“Diego.”
“Yeah?”
“Take a croissant from the tray on the left. The ones on the right are for the first batch.”
I took one. It was still warm, almost burning. I put it in the paper bag Hakim handed me without saying anything, though he did wink and look me up and down, pausing for a long second on the bulge in my shorts.
“And Diego,” my father added, without lifting his eyes from the dough, “if you come back another night, call first.”
I nodded. I went out into the alley. The cool dawn air hit my face and, for the first time in an hour, I became aware of the hardness under my shorts, of the mess of my own precum sticking my briefs to my head.
***
I went upstairs without making a sound. My mother was asleep. I got into the shower with the water almost cold, grabbed my soaked cock, and started jerking off furiously, my forehead against the tiles, biting my lip so I wouldn’t make noise. Four tugs were enough. I came in spurts against the shower wall, watching on repeat my father’s broad hairy back, Hakim’s fingers going in and out of his own ass, both white streams spitting at once onto the floured marble. My orgasm lasted so long I thought it would never end, and when it finally passed I had to lean against the wall so I wouldn’t fall.
That night I barely slept. I replayed every detail in a loop: my father’s curved cock dripping slime, Hakim’s dark, long shaft, the rhythm of the two hands working in parallel, the thwock-thwock of flour and saliva, the knowing look when they laughed under their breath, my father’s seven spurts splashing the table. And the last line: “if you come back another night, call first.”
It wasn’t a threat. It was an invitation.
I’ve been back four times since then. I always call first. And I always bring the croissant back home, still warm, so my mother finds it in the morning on the kitchen counter.
She never asks what time I go down. My father never asks what I’m doing there. Hakim sometimes winks at me from the other side of the marble table while he pulls out his cock and starts jerking off without taking his eyes off me.
And I keep sitting on the metal stool, hands on my thighs, watching two men come together over flour every dawn, with a hard cock and a closed mouth.