My Friend’s Dad Caught Me in the Bathroom

Two suitcases and a plastic box. That was what my life in Guadalajara had been reduced to. My landlord wouldn’t give me an extension: he decided the apartment was worth more rented by the night to a tourist than with my student rent. So there I was, standing in Daniela’s living room in the Santa Teresita neighborhood, dependent on my friend’s kindness and without my independence.

“Sorry about the mess, Cami,” Daniela said, opening the door to the back room. “My dad swore he was going to get the boxes out, but he comes home dead from the market and forgot.”

I peeked inside. It was the storage room: boxes stacked to the ceiling and, at the back, an old solid-wood bed buried beneath bags of clothes.

“No big deal,” I replied, tying my hair back. I needed something physical to keep from thinking. “We’ll get it out now.”

The room was shut up and hot. We’d been struggling with an incredibly heavy box for a while when we heard the lock and the jingle of keys.

“I’m home!” a deep voice echoed from the hallway.

It was Gerardo. I’d greeted him a thousand times, or when he picked us up from college in his pickup, but he’d always been a background figure. Daniela’s dad. The man who worked all day and shut himself away to rest.

He came in, drying his hands on his denim pants. He wore a sweaty, stained white sleeveless shirt and gave off an intense smell of the street, hard work, citrus, and earth.

“Hi, Cami, welcome,” he greeted me, exhaustion etched around his eyes. “Damn, I forgot to empty the room for you. Move aside, you’ll hurt yourselves.”

He crouched in front of me to lift the box I was struggling with. I noticed the muscles standing out in his arms, the veins in his forearms darkened by the sun. He lifted it as though it weighed nothing. In ten minutes he got out what would have taken us two hours. I’d always seen him as a hardworking man; in that moment I saw brute strength solving my problem with astonishing ease.

When he pushed the old bed to center it, his shirt clung to his broad back and he let out a low grunt of pure effort. That primitive sound made me forget my anger and feel a strange contraction in my stomach, a wet tug in my panties that left me disoriented. He’s not like the college boys, with their soft hands. He’s a man. One who knows what to do with those hands.

“There,” he said, straightening up and cracking his back. He looked me in the eyes for a second, quickly, but I felt that he truly saw me. “You can stop calling me sir now, Camila. You’re going to live here, so call me Gerardo.”

He headed for the kitchen, announcing that he was starving, and I stood there staring at the empty doorway, thinking that perhaps living in Santa Teresita was going to offer a more interesting view than I’d expected.

***

Before dinner I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror: wide hips, that softness around my stomach that wouldn’t go away no matter how many sit-ups I did. Beside the solidity I’d just seen in Gerardo’s back, I felt soft. Too ordinary. I took a deep breath, sucked in my stomach, and went out.

He was standing barefoot at the counter, peeling mangoes with a skill that was fascinating to watch. On the table were pot beans, potatoes stewed with chorizo, and fresh cheese. A real dinner, nothing like the sad salads I ate alone.

“Eat, Camila. You’re too skinny,” he said, serving himself a mountain of beans.

I almost choked. Skinny? I felt as though the button on my pants was about to shoot off.

“I’m not skinny, Gerardo. My pants barely button anymore.”

He set down his spoon and looked at me. His dark eyes traveled over me for a second, without leering, with calm appraisal.

“You look good. You look healthy,” he said, in that raspy voice that left no room for argument. “Stop worrying about it. You’re going to eat well here.”

A simple comment, almost fatherly, but coming from him, with that presence that filled the kitchen, it felt like validation I hadn’t known I needed. Daniela came in with the hot tortillas and, before returning to his plate, he gave me one last approving look without saying a word.

***

That night I climbed into the old bed; the springs squealed as soon as I lay down. At four-thirty in the morning, a noise in the hallway woke me: it was him, following his market routine, and then the forceful rush of the shower water in the silence before dawn.

The need to use the bathroom won out. I waited for the water to stop, assumed he had already gone into his room, and crossed the dark hallway. The bathroom was a sauna; the mirror was fogged, and everything smelled of his soap and clean skin.

I was pulling up my panties—comfortable gray cotton ones, but utterly unsexy—when the door flew open. I hadn’t locked it; the latch was old and, nervous, I hadn’t turned it properly.

Gerardo walked straight in, carried by the momentum of someone who knew his home by heart, his eyes fixed on the sink.

“The clock...” he muttered, reaching toward the shelf.

His arm stopped inches from my shoulder. When he felt the obstacle, he froze. He lowered his eyes, surprised to find a body where there should have been empty space. I was caught halfway through the movement, my shorts around my ankles, my hands gripping the elastic.

His gaze didn’t go to my face. From that angle it fell directly on my wide, pale, soft hips, on the triangle of dark hair I’d barely managed to cover with my hands, on my heavy breasts drooping inside the unsupported T-shirt, my nipples hardened by the cold. A thick silence followed, broken only by the dripping shower. I saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallowed. And I saw something else: the bulge in his pants move, a lash of flesh swelling beneath the denim in real time, impossible to hide. It wasn’t a look of disgust. It was a heavy, physical, hungry look, the look of a man who has just had a raw meal appear in front of him.

“Sorry,” he growled hoarsely. He snatched the clock from the sink in a sharp movement, his forearm almost brushing my hip. The hot back of his arm burned my skin for a second. “Lock the door properly.”

He left. I remained trembling, embarrassed heat rising from my belly to my neck, my thighs pressed together as I felt moisture trickling between my lips. He had seen me soft, in old panties, my breasts hanging. But from the way he’d stood still for a second before leaving, from that bulge that had grown halfway down his leg, I knew the image had been burned into his mind. I went back to bed and, almost without thinking, slipped my hand beneath the elastic of my shorts. I was soaked. I touched myself in slow circles over my clit, biting my lip to keep quiet, imagining that callused hand in place of mine, until I came biting the pillow, Gerardo’s name caught in my throat.

***

The day at university passed in a haze. He must have been disgusted, I thought. But a traitorous part of me remembered that he hadn’t turned away immediately. He had stood still. He had swallowed. He had gotten hard.

After classes, Daniela went to the movies with Sergio and left me to return alone. I reached Santa Teresita hoping Gerardo wouldn’t be there, and was pouring myself water in the kitchen when I heard the key turn.

He came in dirtier than the day before: cap turned backward, shirt stuck to him with sweat, arms stained with grease. Exhausted, but his presence filled the room immediately.

“And Daniela?” he asked hoarsely.

“She went with Sergio. To the movies. She’ll be back late.”

He stopped with his bootlace in his hand and looked at me from across the room. Silence fell like a heavy blanket. We were alone, with the memory of that morning floating between us.

“So we’re alone,” he said simply. He poured water into the same glass I had just used and drank thirstily. “Hey... sorry about this morning. I came in like a bull without a rope.”

“Don’t worry. It was my fault for not locking the door.”

He held my gaze. He didn’t laugh.

“But lock it,” he said slowly. “Because a man isn’t made of wood, Camila. Especially at that hour. And especially after what I saw.”

He turned away before I could process anything and announced that he was going to shower. I remained alone, my heart in my throat and my pussy throbbing again, understanding perfectly what he had meant. He had liked it. He had gotten hard. And he was letting me know.

***

Twenty minutes later he came out dressed in sweatpants and a white T-shirt stretched across his damp chest, and made some sandwiches. He sat across from me.

“Why are you always hiding?” he asked, nodding toward my huge hoodie. “You always wear clothes three sizes too big. As if you don’t want anyone to see you.”

I lowered my eyes.

“It’s just that I don’t have much to show off. I’m not skinny like the girls in my program. I feel safer when my roll doesn’t show.”

He let out a rough laugh that vibrated across the table.

“Your roll? You think that’s what I saw this morning?” He leaned forward, invading my space. “The boys you and my daughter go out with look for girls who belong in magazines. But a man already knows what’s good. I saw a white, round ass, the kind you grab with both hands and still have some left to bite. I saw a little hairy pussy, natural, not shaved like those brats demand. I saw breasts that move on their own, without needing anything to lift them. That’s what I saw.”

No one had ever spoken to me like that. My mouth went dry. He reached out and pinched the fabric of my hoodie.

“Softness feels good, Camila. It’s where a man wants to lose himself. That softness you hate makes a man like me’s cock hard just thinking about it. And I’m not saying it to make you feel good. I’m saying it because I’m sitting here and I’m still hard from the moment you opened that door.”

The air grew thick. He was crossing a line, and we both knew it. But instead of being offended, I felt a hot rush between my legs, a pulse in my clit that completely betrayed me. A deep breath escaped me, and he heard it perfectly.

***

The following days settled into a hypnotic routine. At four in the morning I heard the shower and imagined that broad body beneath the water, his thick cock hanging against his thigh as he soaped himself. I pushed two fingers inside myself to the knuckle thinking about him and came biting the sheet. At dinner, whenever Daniela got up, he took the opportunity to look at me, and once he slipped his hand onto my knee beneath the table, moving it two inches up my thigh before taking it away. And I burned inside, dripping, squeezing my thighs beneath the table.

On Friday, Daniela left with Sergio for Chapala until Sunday. When the door closed, the silence changed texture: it was no longer loneliness, but anticipation. I stood before the mirror and took off the hoodie I used as a shield. Then I remembered his voice. A man like me is hungry. From the bottom of my suitcase I found a pink V-neck T-shirt, tighter than usual, one that emphasized my breasts in a way that had always made me feel vulgar. For the first time I didn’t want to cover myself. I took off my bra. Let my nipples show. Let him see.

At seven-thirty Gerardo arrived with a six-pack of beer. When he saw me on the couch, he stopped, slowly removed his cap, and lowered his eyes straight to my cleavage, lingering over the hard points showing beneath the fabric, before returning to my eyes with a satisfied gleam, wearing the crooked smile of a man who knows he’s already won.

“Daniela left,” he said.

“Until Sunday.”

Fresh from his shower, he offered me a beer and sat beside me on the large couch. The alcohol and his warmth gradually loosened my nerves.

“Pink looks good on you,” he said suddenly. “And I like that you’re not wearing a bra.”

Instinctively I raised a hand to cover myself. He reached out and gently removed it, leaving it on my thigh. He slid closer until he was pressed against me; his hard thigh pushed against my soft leg, and I clearly felt the thick bulge already straining against his sweatpants. With the backs of his callused fingers he stroked my cheek, and I closed my eyes, trembling. No one had ever touched me with such confidence.

“You’ve driven me crazy since I saw you in the hallway, and you know it. I get myself hard thinking about you. Last night I jerked off thinking about that ass of yours.”

My mouth fell open. The image of Gerardo in his bed, his cock in his hand while thinking about me, liquefied me from the inside.

He waited a second, giving me a chance to move away. I didn’t; I tilted my head, surrendering. Then he closed the distance. It wasn’t a gentle kiss: it was a possessive kiss, his rough lips tasting of beer, his tongue forcing its way into my mouth without asking, seeking mine and sucking it. His big hand moved from my neck to cover one breast through my shirt, squeezing my flesh with controlled strength, rolling the nipple between two hard fingers until I gasped, and I felt a direct jolt to my pussy.

“Gerardo...” I whispered against his mouth, frightened and aroused. “I’ve never... I’ve never done this. With anyone.”

He stopped. His hot hand remained on my breast.

“Never? Not even a blowjob or anything?”

I shook my head, mortified.

“I’ve always been embarrassed. Being seen, being touched.”

He didn’t laugh or pull away. His expression became serious, almost solemn, and another wet jolt shot through me when I saw his eyes darken, as if he had just been given a gift.

“Then the boys these days are fools,” he said hoarsely. “Better for me. I’m going to be the first one to put my cock inside you, Camila. And I’m going to fuck you properly, so you never forget it.”

He kissed me again, hungrier, laid me back against the arm of the couch, and came over me, covering me with his weight. He slid his palms beneath my shirt; the touch of his rough calluses against my skin was an electric shock. I sucked in my stomach reflexively, but he dug his fingers into my sides and squeezed it appreciatively, as if making sure I was real, that there was flesh to grab.

With one tug he pulled my shirt over my head. My breasts spilled over him and he growled like an animal. He lowered his mouth over one nipple and sucked it whole, drawing it with his lips, working it with his tongue and then his teeth; he moved to the other and bit it just hard enough to tear a sharp moan from me that echoed through the living room. He continued downward, licked my neck and bit the skin of my shoulder, leaving a mark, then continued to the curve of my stomach that I hated so much, worshiping it with his tongue, dipping it into my navel. Then he grabbed my wrist and guided my hand toward his crotch. My palm collided with the bulge in his sweatpants: hard, hot, thick, real. I squeezed it timidly and he released a deep growl, throwing his head back. That sound gave me power. I, the insecure girl, had made him like this. I lowered my face to the waistband and ran my hand over the fabric; the tip felt wet, soaking through the cotton. Without thinking, I brought my finger to my mouth and sucked it; it tasted salty, of him, of man.

“Bitch,” he panted, staring at me with his mouth open. “If you do that, I’m going to fuck you without mercy.”

“If I take your pants off, I won’t stop,” he said a second later, more hoarsely. “Are you sure?”

I felt a dull pulse between my legs that kept me from thinking. My pussy was dripping down to my buttocks.

“Yes. Please.”

He unbuttoned me, lowered the zipper with a metallic sound that echoed through the room, and pulled my denim down my legs. Then panic struck: I was wearing enormous beige cotton panties, the kind I used because they were the only ones that didn’t hurt me. I closed my eyes, expecting disappointment.

But I heard no laughter. I felt his hands seize my hips, his thumbs sinking in just where the elastic ended.

“Well, look at that...” he growled, his voice full of hunger. He squeezed my buttocks through the cotton, kneading them, sinking his fingers into the soft flesh; the amount of fabric seemed to make him even hotter. “They’re perfect. Old-lady panties. It’s even better discovering what’s underneath. Those tiny panties skinny girls wear leave nothing to the imagination. These have my cock ready to burst.”

He dragged me to the edge of the couch, spread my legs wide, and cupped his hand over the soaked fabric, squeezing. I felt his fingers rub the cotton against the lips of my pussy.

“You’re a river,” he murmured, bringing his fingers to his nose and then his mouth, sucking them with his eyes closed. “And you taste fucking delicious.”

He hooked his fingers into the elastic and lowered my panties slowly, uncovering me inch by inch; I kicked to get rid of them. I tried to bring my legs together instinctively, but he put his knees between my thighs and forced me open, pushing with his hands until he folded my legs against my chest. His gaze fell on my open sex, on my swollen, glistening lips, on the dark hair.

“Beautiful,” he whispered reverently. “Pink inside. That’s how I like them, natural, with their little hair. Not like those porn girls who look like children. This is a woman’s pussy.”

He buried his face in me. I screamed hoarsely, feeling his beard prickling my thighs, his hands holding my buttocks to lift my pelvis. His tongue was broad, rough, expert; he licked me from bottom to top with a determination that left me blind, moving in and out of my entrance, climbing up the slit, sucking my lips one by one. He found my clitoris and went after it, sucking it between his lips as though it were candy, working it rapidly with the tip of his tongue. He pushed two thick fingers inside me and curled them, touching a spot that made me jerk my hips upward. I felt moisture running down to my asshole, and I also felt his other thumb circling there, barely pressing, while his tongue and fingers continued working me. I was on the edge, trembling, moaning his name uncontrollably, and just as I was about to explode he stopped. He pulled away with my juices shining on his lips, sucking his fingers one by one.

“Not yet,” he said. “When you come, I want my cock inside you.”

He stood, removed his shirt, and lowered his sweatpants. His torso appeared beneath the light: broad, hairy, muscles tense, a man’s belly, not a gym body. He pulled down his underwear too. His cock sprang free, thick and dark, its swollen head purple, a thread of fluid hanging from the tip, veins standing out along the shaft. His balls hung heavy. A shiver ran through me: he looked far too big for me, for what I could take.

“Touch it,” he ordered, taking a step toward me. “You need to get to know it.”

I extended my trembling hand and took hold of it. It was thick, hot, alive; its pulse beat in my palm. I squeezed it and he exhaled through his teeth. I ran my thumb over the head and spread the slippery fluid.

“Open your mouth,” he said hoarsely, placing his hand on the back of my neck.

I had never done it, but I opened my mouth and he guided the head of his cock until it rested against my tongue. The dense, salty taste filled my mouth. I closed my lips and he pushed slowly, entering a few inches. I began to suck as best I could, taking the head into my mouth, moving my tongue around it, and he growled deeply, looking down at me through half-closed eyes.

“That’s it, my girl... you learn fast, bitch.”

He pushed a little farther and I gagged. He withdrew at once and wiped the strand of saliva from my chin with his thumb.

“Easy. There’ll be time to teach you how to suck me properly. Right now I want to fuck you.”

He sat on the couch and pulled me onto him.

“Come here,” he said, gripping his cock with one hand and guiding me by the waist with the other. “You set the pace, my girl. Sink onto it yourself, slowly.”

I settled on top of him, my knees on either side of his hips. I felt the tip press against my entrance, slipping because I was so wet. I lowered myself a few millimeters and the sting made me grit my teeth. I went a little lower and the thick head forced its way in with a wet pop. I screamed against his shoulder.

“That’s it, sweetheart... the head is the hardest part, and it’s in,” he panted, holding my hips so I wouldn’t drop down. “Now slowly. Feel it rising inside you.”

I lowered myself inch by inch, holding my breath. I felt him opening me, filling me in a way I hadn’t imagined possible. When at last I settled onto his thighs with all of him inside me, right to the root, I stayed still, panting, mouth open and eyes watering. He was somewhere deep inside me where no one had ever touched before.

“Slowly... that’s it,” he murmured, kissing my neck, sucking my earlobe. “You’re in charge. Move when you’re ready.”

I began to move, guided by a desperation I had never felt. At first in small circles, feeling him shift inside me; then up and down, growing looser with every movement. Feeling him so deep was a drug; every time I let my weight fall, I rubbed an exact spot that sent shocks to my brain. His callused hands guided my hips and his eyes looked up at me with adoration and lust, watching my breasts bounce in his face. He rose slightly and caught one nipple in his mouth, sucking it while I rode him.

“That’s it, fuck yourself on my cock, Camila,” he growled, his voice broken. “Look at how you’re taking it.”

I looked down. Seeing my pussy open around him, seeing his cock disappear inside me again and again, glistening with my juices, aroused me even more. I began moving faster, shamelessly, moaning loudly and squeezing him inside me. He gave me short spanks that made my flesh tremble and made me bounce on him.

“Feel all of it, Camila,” he growled. “This pussy is mine. Mine.”

“Yours,” I panted without thinking. “Yours, Gerardo.”

The pressure in my belly changed, becoming an uncontrollable urgency, a huge wave tightening every nerve. My breathing turned erratic and shrill.

“Gerardo...” I whimpered, frightened by the intensity. “I’m going to come... I can’t hold it...”

He knew. He brought his thumb to my clitoris and rubbed it in rapid circles, pressing it just as I dropped down harder. It was the trigger. The world exploded into white. I felt the walls of my pussy contract violently around him, squeezing him, milking him, and a hot release burst from me in waves, a gush splashing his thighs and the couch, leaving me blind for several seconds. I let out a hoarse scream that filled the entire apartment. I collapsed onto his chest, trembling, his cock still buried inside me.

“Sorry... I got you all wet,” I whispered against his neck, mortified. “That’s never happened to me before.”

He released a deep laugh that vibrated in my chest, and I felt his cock move inside me, still hard as iron.

“Embarrassed? You just squirted all over me like a bitch in heat, Camila. Feeling you flood me is the best thing that’s happened to me in years. And you’re going to come like that every time I fuck you.”

He gave me a quick kiss and moved his hips upward, thrusting from below. He was still hard, incredibly hard inside me.

“But I’m not finished,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Now it’s my turn. Can you take more?”

My mind said I’d had enough; my body screamed yes.

“Yes. Please.”

He lifted me off him and turned me over on the couch like a rag doll. His cock sprang free, shining with my juices all the way to his soaked balls.

“Get on all fours. I want to see that ass from behind. I want to see how I swallow it with my cock.”

I obeyed, knees on the cushions, hands on the backrest. My buttocks, which had always seemed too large to me, were raised, exposed, spread open. I felt his hands part my cheeks, exposing me completely, and felt his gaze like a burn. He spat. I felt the hot spit land on my open pussy and run down to my asshole. He spread it with his thumb, moving from my clitoris to my anus, barely pressing there too, and my whole body trembled.

“Fuck me now,” I begged, not recognizing my own voice. “Please.”

He gripped his cock and rubbed it up and down between my lips, coating himself with me. He placed the head against my entrance and, without warning, pushed. This time there was no gentleness: he entered in one thrust, all the way to the base, deep, touching a place that made me scream into the backrest, my hands clutching the fabric. The sound of his pelvis striking my buttocks made a wet slap that filled the room.

“That’s it...” he growled, setting a brutal rhythm, holding my waist like a steering wheel, pulling me toward him every time he thrust. “That’s how you fuck a woman, Camila. Not like the assholes you go out with.”

His thrusts were long, burying him to the root with a force that shook my entire body. His balls struck my clitoris with every stroke. He grabbed my hair, winding it around his fist, and pulled me backward without hurting me, forcing me to arch my back.

“Tell me you like it. Tell me.”

“I like it,” I moaned, mouth slack, drooling. “I love your cock, Gerardo. Fuck me harder, please.”

“Bitch. You learn fast.”

He gave me a sharp smack that echoed through the room, then another and another, until my skin burned. He leaned over my back, grabbed my hanging breasts, and squeezed them, playing with my nipples while he continued hammering me from behind. His hot breath in my ear, his teeth at my neck.

“Put your finger in your mouth and suck it,” he ordered. “Suck it well, because I’m going to put it in your ass too someday, but not today. Today I want to see you practice.”

I obeyed, sucking my own finger, then his when he put it into my mouth, soaking it with saliva. I felt that wet finger travel down my spine and rub circles around my anus while his cock continued fucking me without pause. The pressure of that finger, barely resting there, together with his cock buried to the hilt, made me begin trembling again.

There were no thoughts or insecurities anymore. Only this existed: him claiming my body with every thrust, marking me inside and out. I felt like a bitch, and I loved it.

“Again...” I panted, tears in my eyes from the intensity. “I’m coming again, Gerardo...”

“Come. Come on my cock, sweetheart. Squeeze me tight.”

The second orgasm swept over me like a train, longer and dirtier than the first. I screamed into the cushions, my pussy convulsing around him, squeezing him like a fist, soaking him completely.

“You’re so fucking delicious... I’m going to come,” he panted in my ear, leaning over my entire back. The rhythm became frantic, animalistic; I felt his body tense and his hands grip my hips hard enough to leave bruises. “Where? Tell me, where do you want me to shoot it?”

“Outside,” I managed to stammer. “Outside, on my back.”

“Now!”

At the last second he pulled out. He withdrew his dripping cock and jerked it twice over me. I felt the heat: thick, heavy, hot spurts striking the small of my back, the first powerful enough to reach my neck, then running toward the curve of my buttocks, soaking me completely, marking me. I stayed still, trembling, feeling every spasm as he emptied himself over me, grunting with every jerk. I felt it hot against my skin, sliding toward my waist and dripping onto the couch. A primitive sensation, dirty in the most exciting way possible. Tangible proof of what I had made him feel. He dipped two fingers into the semen running down my back, coated them, and brought them to my mouth. I sucked them without thinking, looking him in the eyes. Salty, thick, his. I saw his dark, satisfied smile.

He carefully let himself fall onto my back without crushing me, breathing hard, and kissed my sweaty shoulder, smearing himself with his own cum as well.

“Fuck, Camila,” he whispered. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

I slowly turned to look at him. He was sitting on the edge of the couch, gleaming with sweat, his cock still half-hard, red and thick. His eyes no longer held fury, but deep satisfaction and a thick complicity.

“I think we both needed this,” he said hoarsely. “And it’s going to happen again. Every time Daniela leaves the house, I’m going to fuck you. Understand?”

I nodded, unable to speak, feeling like the most desired woman in the world, my back still dripping with his semen, and knowing that the routine in that Santa Teresita apartment would never be the same again.