What Nobody Knows About My Summers in the Village

It’s always hot in the village. Even in September, when the sun doesn’t punish quite as much, the dry air makes up for it: you walk the dusty streets with a dry mouth and your clothes stuck to your body. There’s nothing here except a tapas bar that plays flamenco no one asked for, a tobacconist run by a man who doesn’t say much, and a post office with a three-hour schedule nobody fully understands.

My friends don’t understand why I come back every year. In the WhatsApp groups I show up with a photo from here at the end of July, and there’s always someone who writes some comment about going to the end of the world. I tell them it’s to see my grandfather, that he’s getting on in years, that someone in the family has to drop by once in a while.

Half of it is true.

The other half is that when I go back to Madrid in August, I always do it with the latest phone model my grandfather has bought me. With video games I’d been eyeing from afar because of the price. With enough money not to worry for the first few months. My friends wonder how it can be that a village pensioner dotes on me so much. I’ve never given them a convincing answer, because the only true answer can’t be said out loud: Grandfather pays me to let him suck me off and to fuck him when he gets horny.

It all started several years ago, when I was already of age and spent an entire summer here with nothing better to do. There was no conversation, no proposal, no dramatic moment I can narrate precisely. It was something that happened slowly and in silence, without either of us putting a name to it. When autumn came and I went back to the city, I could no longer stop thinking about the old man’s face with my cock in his mouth.

My father says Grandfather spoils me too much. He said it last year, when he saw me arrive with the new motorbike, a rather expensive one the old man is still paying for.

—He’ll never mature like this —he snapped at Grandfather in front of the whole family—. You give him everything he asks for without him having to lift a finger.

—I don’t ask him for anything —I replied—. It’s him who wants to give it to me.

My father looked at me for a moment and then looked away. Sometimes I wonder if he suspects something. But there are things the mind won’t let itself imagine because doing so would be too much, so he probably doesn’t suspect a thing at all.

***

That day I’d left early. I rode the motorbike up to a pine-covered area on the outskirts of the village, where there are views over the valley and almost nobody ever shows up. I lay down on the dry ground with my arms behind my head and stayed like that for a couple of hours, smoking something that helps me empty my head when everything piles up too much. In Madrid I live with my jaw clenched without realizing it. Here, somehow, it loosens on its own.

When my guts started complaining, I turned on the phone. Three missed calls from Grandfather and several messages from girls in Madrid who every now and then remember I exist. I put the phone away, put on my helmet, and headed back.

Before I could put the key in the lock, the door opened. Grandfather had the smell of cooking on him and that expression he wore when he’d been waiting for hours and didn’t know how to say it without seeming like he was complaining.

—Where have you been? —he said—. I made paella, with the socarrat and everything. It’s been ready since two.

I walked past him without answering. I left the helmet on the armchair by the entrance and went into the living room.

—I went out for a ride.

—Yes, but... you could’ve let me know.

—Warm it up for me.

There was a brief pause. Then I heard his steps heading to the kitchen.

I settled on the sofa and took the tobacco from the side table. I put on some game show that was on TV and started rolling a cigarette calmly, pressing the tobacco with my fingers until it was even. I moistened the paper with my tongue, closed it with a quick motion, inspected it for a second, and tucked it behind my ear. When Grandfather came back with the plate, he set it carefully on the coaster and sat at the far end of the sofa without saying anything. He knew me well enough not to talk while I ate.

I finished. I picked up the phone and spent a while watching videos. After a bit, as if he’d been waiting for that exact moment, Grandfather cleared his throat.

—I spoke to Fermín. The one from the bar.

I’d asked him to go talk to him because I needed to make some money on my own; I couldn’t depend indefinitely on what Grandfather kept giving me.

—And?

—He says he’s not looking for anyone at the moment, but you should go by tomorrow night, after closing. Around eleven.

—At eleven at night?

—That’s what he told me.

I thought about it for a moment. It wasn’t as if I had normal hours; I went to bed when I could and got up late. Eleven at night suited me fine.

—Okay. I’ll go tomorrow.

I left the phone face down on the sofa. That was when I noticed Grandfather’s hand resting on my thigh. He did it slowly, as if he didn’t want to attract too much attention, though we both knew I’d noticed it from the first second. His fingers slowly climbed up, brushing the seam of my jeans, feeling their way until they reached near the button. When he got to the bulge, he palmed it through the fabric with an eagerness that gave away all the hours he’d been thinking about it, squeezing the outline of my cock with his fingers as if he wanted to measure it again.

I looked at him for the first time since I’d come home.

He had that face. It wasn’t exactly pleading, nor shame. It was something more direct, more primal: the face of a horny old man who’d spent the whole day waiting for me with his cock half-erect and his ass ready.

—Who told you I’m in the mood? —I asked.

This time he didn’t pull back. He pressed his hand harder over the jeans.

—I think I’ve earned it, Marcos. I’ve been thinking about sucking you off since this morning.

I didn’t answer. I looked away and let him do it. That was enough for him; it always had been.

He pulled down my zipper with hands that didn’t tremble, hands that had already repeated that gesture hundreds of times. He unbuttoned me, tugged my jeans down over my hips, and left them crumpled at my feet. I took off my T-shirt and threw it on the armchair. I stayed reclined with my arms crossed behind my neck, in my boxers, with my cock already starting to press against the cotton, staring at the ceiling.

Grandfather took a moment to look at me, as he always did. It was his way of taking in something that, for him, was worth a great deal. He ran his hands over my thighs, over my stomach, over my chest. He stroked me calmly, without hurry, sliding his fingers over every centimeter as if he wanted to make sure I was still real. He kissed my stomach, right above the elastic of my boxers, and kept going lower with his mouth open, nipping at my hip bone, licking my groin over the fabric until the area was soaked with saliva. He ran his open mouth along my sides, leaving the skin wet and sensitive under his lips, and climbed back up to my nipples, where he lingered sucking them with such hunger that my first moan escaped me.

—Shut that mouth —I said, running a hand over the back of his neck.

—You get hotter every year, you son of a bitch —he muttered against my skin.

Then he knelt on the cold marble floor.

He pulled my underwear down with his teeth, slowly, biting the elastic and tugging downward until my cock sprang free and bounced almost into his face. A low, rough groan slipped out of him when he saw it. I was already hard as a rock, thick, swollen, the heavy crown and the tip glossy with a thread of clear liquid that had leaked out on its own.

—Look at what you’ve got there —he said.

—Well, look at it. It’s been waiting for you all day.

That wasn’t true, but I liked saying it. It lit something up in his eyes.

He started giving me a blowjob the way he’d learned to do well over the years. First he grabbed my cock at the base with one hand and ran it over his face, rubbing the tip against his cheekbones, his closed lips, his badly shaved chin. He stuck out his tongue and licked me from bottom to top, slow, flat, from my balls to the crown, again and again, tasting me before taking me into his mouth. When he finally opened, he wrapped the entire tip with his lips and swallowed half of it in one go, without warning. I blew air out through my nose.

—Fuck.

He began sucking me with a steady rhythm, that cadence only you get after years of the same cock in your mouth. He went up slowly, scraping me with his tight lips, licked the crown in circles, focused on the frenulum, tapping it with the tip of his tongue, and went back down until he had me in his throat. He knew when to press his lips harder, when to close his eyes and force the whole shaft in, when to pull me out completely to spit over the tip and then take me back in sliding. With his other hand he’d grabbed my balls and was massaging them, weighing them, tugging the sac downward a little every time he took me to the back of his throat. He worked me with patience, with that mix of hunger and discipline that sometimes drove me crazy and sometimes was exactly what I needed.

I guided his head with a hand in his hair, not pulling too hard, marking the depth. Grandfather moaned softly around my cock, sucking, taking it in and out of his mouth with a rhythm that was dismantling me from the inside. Every time he choked a little, his eyes turned glassy and a strand of saliva slipped down his chin to my balls. I took the chance to wet my hand well with that saliva and start rubbing his face with my slick cock, giving him little slaps on the cheekbones.

—Open. I can see you want it.

He opened his mouth wide, stuck out his tongue, and looked at me with shining eyes. I shoved my cock all the way down in one thrust, feeling his throat constrict around the crown, and left it there for a few seconds before pulling it out. When I did, a long strand of saliva hung from his lower lip.

I ran my tongue over my lips and looked at the ceiling, feeling the heat gathering at the base of my stomach.

What the fuck am I doing?

The question always appeared at the same point. It never fully went away, but it was never strong enough to stop me either. Over time I’d reached an unspoken agreement with that inner voice: it existed, I heard it, and then I let it pass while I kept pushing into my grandfather’s mouth.

When I started to feel myself getting close too fast, I stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

—Get up.

Grandfather obeyed without asking. He took off his clothes with a speed that told me clearly he’d been thinking about this for a lot longer than I had. He wasn’t wearing underwear; that was another sign I already knew how to read. When he lowered his pants, I saw he was hard and a little shiny at the tip. He ran to his room and came back with lubricant in one hand and his breathing ragged.

He sat beside me for a moment, lifted his legs with his feet on the edge of the sofa, and applied the lubricant without hurry. He poured a good cold squirt onto his fingers, brought his hand to his ass, and began smearing the hole with circular motions. I watched him with my cock pointed at the ceiling, wet with his spit. He inserted one finger first and then two, opening himself calmly while glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, his mouth half open and his breathing a little higher than usual. When he pulled them out, they were soaked, and I grabbed his wrist and licked them one by one until they were clean.

—Ride me —I said.

Then he positioned himself with his back to me, palms on my knees to steady himself, and began lowering his open ass slowly, looking for my cock. I grabbed his shaft to guide him and pressed the tip against his entrance.

—Slowly —he murmured.

—Relax —I said—. Like that. Don’t move.

I lined up the tip of my cock with his opening and eased in carefully, centimeter by centimeter, letting his body adjust to mine. I felt the ring give way slowly, felt it open to swallow the crown, then felt the whole shaft sink into a tight, slippery heat. The pressure squeezing my cock made me clench my jaw; it was always the first thrust that hit hardest, that exact instant when the body yields and traps you completely. When I felt him settle fully onto me, with all the weight of his ass against my hips and my cock buried to the balls inside him, he let out the breath he’d been holding in a long, trembling sigh.

—God —he said very softly—. God, you fuck me so well, son.

I didn’t answer. I slapped his thigh for him to start moving.

We started moving. He set the rhythm from above, lowering himself and lifting up carefully, impaling himself on my cock with all the weight of his body; I controlled it from below, gripping his hips to drive deeper and slowing when I felt him tense too much. Every time he came all the way down, his balls hit my ass with a wet sound. He had broad shoulders and a back stooped by the years, and yet at that moment he was completely docile, completely at my mercy in whatever I wanted to do with his hole. I liked that contrast. It was probably what had hooked me most at the beginning, long before I knew what to call it.

—Do you like it? —he asked between gasps—. Do you like how I ride you?

—Shut up and move. Faster.

He shut up. He moved. The sound of his flesh slamming against mine filled the silence of the living room, mixed with both of our wet breathing and the low hum of the TV. I caught the rhythm and started driving upward, burying it in harder and harder each time, lifting my hips off the sofa to ram it to the hilt with every thrust. He moaned every time the tip hit deep inside him, a low moan that escaped him unwillingly and that he tried to smother by biting his lip.

—You’re so tight today —I said, panting against his neck—. Have you been imagining my cock all day?

—Yes —he answered—. Fuck, yes.

—Dirty old man.

I let go of his hips and slipped my arms around his torso to pull him closer, pressing his back against my chest, and he threw his head back resting it on my shoulder with his eyes closed and his mouth open. I pinched one nipple between two fingers and bit his neck at the same time I drove my cock into him from below. He let out a pained grunt and sped up the motion of his own ass going up and down on me.

With one hand he grabbed his own cock and started jerking off to the same rhythm we were both making, sliding his hand over the shaft in quick, increasingly desperate pulls. I looked down over his shoulder and saw his hand pumping frantically over the swollen, reddened cock, with a thread of clear liquid hanging from the tip and swaying with every jerk.

—That’s it. Jack it off good. I want to watch you come —I told him in his ear—. You’re going to come with my cock in your ass, Grandfather.

—Yes. Yes, I’m going to come. Fuck, Marcos, don’t stop.

He came first. He did it with a broken moan he tried to hold in and couldn’t, squeezing his ass around my cock so hard he almost dragged me over too. He spilled over his hand and stained the side table in front of him with thick, whitish spurts that landed on the wood with a soft slap. His whole body was still shaking when I grabbed his hips with both hands and drove up into him with the last thrusts, hard, out of rhythm, chasing my own release.

—Hold on. Hold it there.

—Come inside. Come inside, son, please.

Not long after, I did too, clenching his hips hard as I came inside him, emptying myself in hot pulses that tore a long shiver through his whole body. I felt every spurt pouring out of me and bursting against his walls, one after another, until my cock was left throbbing inside his ass. He moaned softly at each of my spasms, grateful, almost trembling, his sweat-soaked back pressed against my chest.

When I finished, I held him against me for a moment, not pulling out. I felt his breathing calm. Then I gave him a gentle push on the back so he’d move away.

—That’s enough. Get up.

He got up slowly. When my cock slipped out of him, a white trickle ran down the inner side of his thigh, which he stared at for a second before wiping it away with his hand. My cock fell against my stomach, shiny with his ass and the mixture of both of us, still half hard.

We stayed still for a moment. The TV was still on. Someone on the screen was talking about something that didn’t matter.

I moved away. I picked up the phone from the sofa. I had a message from my cousin Rodrigo that I answered quickly, and several from girls in Madrid that I ignored. Grandfather stood up, went to the bathroom, came back dressed. He sat in the armchair opposite me with that after expression I already recognized: calm, a little absent, as if he needed a moment to be himself again.

—Give me two hundred —I said, without taking my eyes off the phone.

There was a silence I hadn’t expected.

—Two hundred? Marcos, last week I already gave you more than a hundred.

I looked at him.

—I need it.

—For what? It’s not like you have expenses here...

—I have expenses in Madrid.

—At your age you should...

—What?

He fell silent. Then he let out a short, humorless laugh that threw me off, because he almost never put up any resistance to anything I asked. I got up, picked up my clothes, and went out to the patio without saying anything else, still with my cock hanging out of my boxer shorts and the smell of sex on me.

I needed the fresh night air, the absolute silence that only exists in small villages, the smell of dry earth that I can’t find anywhere else. I stayed there until the knot in my chest loosened on its own, smoking the cigarette I’d rolled earlier and looking up at the cloudless sky.

When I went back into the living room, there was an envelope on the side table. I opened it: three hundred euros and a note written in Grandfather’s big, trembling handwriting.

“Sorry. You know Grandfather loves you.”

I hesitated for a moment. Then I put the money in my wallet and folded the paper. When I turned it over, I saw there was something written on the back.

“Don’t forget to go see Fermín tomorrow night!”

I smiled to myself, unwillingly. I put the note in my pocket, turned off the living room light, and went to bed.

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