What Happened at Octavio’s House That Noon

I spent three days waiting for my lawyer to call me back. He never showed up again, and I didn’t insist either. I was tired of the empty house and of always thinking about the same thing, so one afternoon I logged onto a dating site with no clear intention, just to do something with my hands.

That was where I found Octavio’s profile. It was a backlit photo showing the outline of a broad torso and nothing else. His message was brief: «If you’re up for it, come over today. Lunch and conversation. We’ll see about the rest». He gave me an address near the port, in an area I didn’t know well.

I left without thinking too much about it. I took a taxi and got out in front of a three-story house with a white façade and a large solid-wood gate. I rang the bell, and he himself opened the door.

He was tall, dark-haired, with shoulders like beams, his skin still smelling of soap. He looked about fifty, but carried himself like a man twenty years younger.

—Come in, the table’s already set —he said, without quite smiling.

Inside, the house smelled of stew and old wood. He led me to a spacious dining room with a large window overlooking an interior courtyard full of plants. He had made chicken and rice, an avocado salad, and there was a bottle of cheap red wine waiting on the table.

While we ate, I told him more than I’d intended to: about the lawyer, my last partner, how I had reached this point where I no longer knew what to do with my afternoons. I embellished a couple of things so I wouldn’t seem quite so lost. He listened with his jaw resting on his fist, his eyes fixed on me.

—I rent out rooms on the upper floors —he said at one point—. I live alone. My mother comes to see me on Sundays. The rest of the house is mine.

When we finished eating, he gestured toward the sofa in the living room.

—Wait for me there. I’m going to change and I’ll be right back.

I sat down. The leather was worn and smelled of old tobacco. I turned on the television with the remote without knowing what I was looking for. Perhaps four minutes passed.

He came out of the room naked.

I don’t want to exaggerate, but I had never seen anything like it outside a screen. His cock hung heavily between his thighs, thick as a resting forearm, his balls enormous, his skin dark and polished. He walked with the calm of someone who knew what he was carrying. He stopped in front of me, leaving my eyes level with his navel.

—Can you handle this, my love? —he asked.

I swallowed.

—Yes —I said, without really knowing what I was agreeing to.

He undressed me himself, patiently, one garment at a time. He pulled down my pants first, then my underwear, looking at me as if he were unwrapping a delicate package. He folded my clothes over the arm of the sofa. Then he forced my legs apart with a firm hand on my knee, slipped two fingers beneath my buttocks, and lifted me in one motion, carrying me against his chest as if I weighed nothing. I felt the roughness of his strength, the heat coming off him, the enormous bulge of his cock pressing against my belly, and that contact left me breathless. He carried me down a hallway to his room, holding me with obscene ease.

The bed was enormous, made up with white sheets. In front of it was a large mirror propped against the wall on the floor, tilted slightly.

—I want to see you —he said when he set me down on the mattress.

***

He climbed on top of me and made me open my mouth with one hand buried in the back of my neck. Only the glans fit. I tried, I swear I did, but whenever it went barely a finger past the edge of my teeth, I gagged. He didn’t get angry. He stroked my hair slowly, like a child being taught to eat on his own, but his cock remained there, wet, forcing my throat open with short thrusts. The tip brushed my tongue; it tasted of salt, skin, clean sweat. When I managed to relax my jaw a little, he pushed it deeper, and the air caught in my chest. I felt the pressure against my tongue, the thick weight of the flesh, the pulse of the vein throbbing in my mouth.

—Your mouth isn’t very big, love —he said, almost tenderly—. But it works.

He turned me over. He buried his face between my buttocks and licked me from below, slowly, with a flat tongue, opening me patiently, parting the skin with his mouth. He grabbed my hips and pulled me toward him until I felt his hot breath on my ass. First it was a broad, wet, insistent lick; then he pressed his tongue against the opening and made my whole body tremble. The mirror gave me back the image of my own humiliation: my body tense, my legs spread, him kneeling between them as if he were sampling a meal. One finger entered afterward, slowly, coated in saliva, and the pain made me arch my back. Then the second opened me wider still, and I felt the dry pressure, the internal tug, my flesh resisting.

—You have to be open, my love, or this isn’t going to fit.

He tapped my opening with the tip, again and again, feeling out the closed door with a brutality that made me clench my teeth. The glans brushed me from outside, broad and hot, each touch leaving a current of panic and desire. My head told me: get up, get dressed, leave. But my body didn’t want to obey.

—What’s wrong, are you nervous? —he said, not angrily, not exactly.

I managed to turn beneath his weight.

—Let me do it —I begged—. Lie down.

He lay down. His cock pointed at the ceiling, hard, throbbing on its own, enormous, the foreskin taut and gleaming. I climbed on top of him, took it in both hands, and began lowering myself slowly. I felt it split me open inside. It isn’t a metaphor. The glans entered first with unbearable pressure, opening me like a wedge. I stopped, breathing in short gasps, and he held my waist while I trembled over his body. I continued lowering myself a little farther, and the pain tore a muffled moan from me; my flesh burned, seared, tore along a hot line. With every inch, my ass stretched, closed, and gave way again, and I cried without sobbing, my face twisted, clinging to his sweaty chest while he murmured that’s it, that’s it, not to stop.

Every millimeter was a step that burst something inside me. I held my breath, crying silently as I sank a little deeper, a little deeper. Octavio’s hands were on my waist, but he didn’t push; he let me choose the pace. That was almost worse: that the choice was mine and yet I still couldn’t stop. When he reached the bottom, I felt his pubic bone striking my ass and a sharp jolt run up my spine. I stayed impaled there, full, my breathing broken and his cock pulsing inside me, alive, taut, rubbing against my inner walls.

He began to move when I was completely seated on him. Slowly at first. I breathed through my mouth, my eyes closed, my legs trembling as if cold had been pushed into my bones. He barely lifted his hips and sank back down, pulling his cock out and pushing it in with a wet, sticky sound of battered skin. Each rocking motion opened that unbearable burning a little wider, until the pain began to mingle with a filthy, deep pleasure impossible to name without shame. Then he sped up. He grabbed my buttocks with both hands, spread them apart, and pounded me with short, powerful thrusts that made the bed jump. I felt his breath on the back of my neck, his thighs striking mine, sweat sliding down my chest and falling onto the mattress.

Every thrust tore a groan from me that I tried to swallow. Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream, I repeated to myself, without knowing whom I wanted to hide it from. But the truth was that I was already broken, opened, soaked in sweat and saliva, my spine arched and my fingers digging into the sheets. Octavio drove in and out of me with controlled violence, as if measuring how much I could take before breaking completely. His glans rubbed against my insides, brushing the same spot again and again, and the heat began to rise from my abdomen to my throat like a fire.

He came inside me. I felt it hot, a lot of it, as if someone had opened a faucet in my entrails. His orgasm filled my ass in thick, violent pulses, and every one of his spasms forced me to open wider. And he roared. He roared like a bull released from the starting pen, with his whole body, the veins in his neck bulging, his teeth clenched. I remained seated on him while his semen covered me inside, overflowing at the base of his cock, sticky and burning, mixed with the sweat pouring off both of us.

***

—Don’t get up —he told me afterward, still inside me.

He carried me like that, impaled, his cock inside me, and put me on all fours at the foot of the bed. I begged him not to, that I couldn’t anymore, please. I felt his cock slide as I adjusted myself, barely coming out and then entering again, and that friction made me moan with anger and relief at the same time. He spread my buttocks with one hand and slapped my ass hard with his open palm. The smacks sounded like boards striking other boards. He thrust into me again, suddenly, deeper, and left me breathless. The bed creaked behind me; the mirror reflected his enormous body pressed against mine, his belly against my back, his hips striking me again and again. He came again. That second time I could no longer distinguish pain from heat; I only felt another thick stream filling me, running between my thighs when he pulled halfway out, leaving white and reddish strands that fell to the floor.

When he pulled out, the semen spilled onto the floor in thick spurts. I heard him chuckle softly, satisfied.

—Look what I did to you. That’s how I like to see you.

I reached back and touched the edge of myself. When I looked at my fingers, there was blood mixed with his wetness. I raised my eyes, and ours met in the mirror. I didn’t know what expression I had made, but he found it amusing. He brought me a towel.

—Take a bath, my love. Warm, not hot. It’ll sting.

The bathwater felt like something new. I leaned against the tiles for a long while, letting it fall over the back of my neck, feeling the burning between my buttocks, the inside tender and open, as if I still had his cock inside me. The soap stung my skin and made me close my eyes; I carefully brought my hand to my ass, parted my buttocks slightly, and felt the wetness mixed with his semen, with a thread of blood running down the drain. There was no tenderness in it, only a brutal, physical truth that left me trembling.

When I returned to the room, he was already asleep on his back, one arm over his forehead. I lay down beside him carefully. He slipped his free arm beneath me and pulled me close, pressing me against his chest. His cock was still half-hard, heavy against his thigh, and every time he moved it brushed my belly with warm insistence. I fell asleep still feeling something large throbbing inside me, even though it was no longer there.

***

He woke me around seven in the evening, shaking my shoulder.

—Let’s go to the living room. Dinner’s ready.

I instinctively looked for my clothes. They weren’t where we had left them.

—I put them in the washing machine, my love. Your smell was everywhere. They’re almost dry. In the meantime, I want to see you like this.

I walked behind him down the hallway, trying to hide my body even though I knew there was no way. He walked ahead, his cock moving with every step, indifferent, like a slow pendulum.

—How did you stand it? —he asked over his shoulder, amused—. Honestly, I didn’t think you could.

I didn’t know what to say. I ate sitting on the edge of the chair, almost sideways. He had made noodle soup and grilled fish. We ate while watching an old horror movie on a small screen sitting on the sideboard. He held me around the waist with one arm. I barely touched my food.

—You’re staying the night with me today —he said, without really asking.

I nodded.

When the movie ended, he picked me up again. This time at the edge of the bed, once more. It didn’t last as long as the first time. Maybe he felt sorry for me; maybe he was simply more tired. He pushed it in slowly at first, then deeper, and made me arch while holding me by the hips. The friction was so intense that I ended up panting against the pillow. He came inside me again. Milk mixed with blood came out again when he pulled away.

He brought the cloth himself and cleaned me this time, without any funny comments. He said things to me as he cleaned me, little words— I love you, you feel so good, you take me so well. I felt a pulse of my own in a part of me I hadn’t known could throb by itself. He let me lie on my back, my legs still spread, my ass burning, and settled on top of me for a while, rubbing his cock against my thigh until it softened completely.

We both slept, that time facing each other, his arms around my back, my legs nestled between his. If I moved, it hurt. If I didn’t move, it hurt just the same. But I no longer wanted to leave.

***

The next morning, sunlight coming through the bedroom window woke me. Octavio was still asleep, barely snoring, his mouth open. I dressed in silence. My clothes smelled of fabric softener and a house that wasn’t mine.

I left his phone on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. I touched his cheek with my fingertips. He opened one eye.

—You’ll come back —he said. It wasn’t a question.

—I’ll come back.

I got up before I could think about it any longer. At the door, he stopped me for a second: he kissed me on the lips again, slowly, calmly, as if the night had never happened and we were starting something all over again. He closed the door without saying anything else.

I walked to the avenue looking for a taxi. Every step reminded me: a small electric jolt between my legs, a low vibration in my back. The lawyer still hadn’t called. And I, for the first time in weeks, had stopped waiting for him.