The Neighbor from the Park Secretly Kept My Photos

It started at the end of last summer, when I had turned nineteen and was beginning my first semester at college. The hot afternoons drove me out to jog in the park two blocks from my house. I’d never liked gyms; too many people, too many mirrors. The park, on the other hand, was mine. Shaded paths, the smell of wet earth when they watered the grass, birds shrieking in the trees at sunset.

The only strange thing about that park was Cándido.

Cándido was in his forties, lived with his mother three houses down from mine, and always walked with his head tilted slightly to one side. The neighborhood kids laughed at him. They called him stupid, crazy, and worse. I’d never joined in. My mother and Mrs. Aurora, his mother, had been drinking coffee together since before I’d learned to walk, and in my house it was forbidden to refer to Cándido by any nickname. He was disabled, yes. He had a developmental delay that no one in the family had ever managed to explain to me in detail, and Aurora carried it like a silent cross.

That afternoon, while I ran with my earbuds in, I passed a group of men cleaning the park with large brooms and garbage bags. They all looked around fifty, with bellies stretching their uniforms and caps stained with sweat. They saw my leggings, and everything else ceased to exist for them.

“Look at that little ass,” one of them said, without lowering his voice.

“I’d put her on all fours right here and fuck her cunt inside out,” another finished, laughing as if it were a joke.

They thought the music erased them for me. It didn’t. I kept jogging with my head held high, pretending not to hear, but I’m not going to lie: part of me—a part I still didn’t know how to name—got turned on knowing that wearing barely more than shorts and a sports top had provoked such an outburst in men who didn’t even come up to my heels. I felt the seam of my shorts grow damp down there, and I picked up my pace so nothing would show at the front.

Back on my block, my heart still racing from the jog, I saw Cándido at the gate of his house. He waved as if he’d known me all his life. And, well, he had known me: our mothers had organized afternoon snacks, birthday parties, novenas, baptisms. I went over to greet him more out of obligation than desire.

“Girl, girl,” he began to stammer, speaking in that way of his that mixed together half-chewed words. “Help me, please. This little machine won’t let me install the game.”

He had a new tablet in his hands, one of those his mother must have bought him to keep him entertained at home. I thought Aurora would be inside. I thought it would take me two minutes to download the app. I was wrong about both things.

“Come in, come in,” he insisted.

The living room smelled strange. Of confinement, of something stored away too long. The kitchen looked dirty from the entrance. I didn’t attach any importance to it: it was the home of a disabled man and an elderly mother, what was I supposed to expect? I sat on the brown corduroy sofa, crossed my legs, and asked him for the tablet.

“I’ll be right back, girl, I’ll bring you some water,” he said, and shuffled into the kitchen in his slippers.

I took the opportunity to really look at him for the first time in my adult life. Cándido was about six foot tall. He was big without being fat, with the broad back of a man who might have worked in the fields in another life. He wore glasses with lenses as thick as bottle bottoms, an uneven haircut, and several days’ worth of beard. His clothes fit him badly, as if no one had ever taught him how to buy them.

I turned on the tablet. The screen was covered in smudges. I wiped the camera lens with my finger and accidentally opened the gallery.

And there I stopped breathing.

Dozens of photos. Dozens. Me jogging, me from behind, me bending over to tie my shoe, me drinking from the park fountain. Every afternoon of the past few weeks was documented in that gallery. Some had been taken from far away, zoomed in; others had clearly been taken while he walked behind me, holding the camera low and pointing it straight at my ass.

My stomach clenched. I was going to call Aurora. I was going to call my mother. I was going to—

But I kept scrolling through the photos, I don’t know why. Maybe to confirm there was nothing worse. And then it appeared, like a blow: a photo of him. Full-body, in front of the bathroom mirror, one hand holding his erect cock.

It was huge. Impossible not to notice. Thicker and longer than anything I had ever seen with my previous two boyfriends—and in any other porn material I had searched for out of curiosity—with its shiny, swollen glans stretched tight, and veins standing out along its entire length like cords beneath the skin. His balls hung heavily beneath it, loaded. My mouth watered without permission.

I froze. So completely that I didn’t hear his footsteps returning from the kitchen until I had the glass of water in front of my face.

“What’s wrong, girl? You’ve gone red.”

I held out the tablet, unable to form a word. The screen showed one of my photos in the park.

“Why do you have this, Cándido? Do you know this is wrong?” My tone came out harsh, but my voice was trembling.

He looked at the screen with absolute calm. No guilt, no fright. As if I were scolding him for leaving the light on.

“I need them. I can’t sleep at night, girl. I have to touch my little thing and, when I think of you, milk comes out and then I can sleep.”

I lowered my eyes to the pajama pants he was wearing. And there it was: a bulge growing, showing through the thin fabric until the waistband could barely contain it. I could see the shape of the thick glans pushing against the cotton, looking for a way out.

“I’ve seen it in the movies, girl,” he continued without blinking. “How girls put men’s little things in their mouths. When I touch myself, I imagine you doing that with me. That you suck it until lots of milk comes out.”

“Do you do it every day? With my photos?”

“Every day, girl. Sometimes two or three times. But don’t tell Mother. Please, please, don’t tell her. Mother gets very angry when she catches me.”

I should have stood up. I should have closed the tablet, grabbed my bag, and run out that door to tell Aurora everything. I should have felt disgust, revulsion, fear. I felt some of that. But I also felt something else, something it would take me months to admit even to myself in the mirror: an enormous, electric curiosity pulsing directly in my cunt, soaking my shorts all the way to the elastic.

I had read about it in stories. I had imagined it during long showers. I had fantasized about it with strangers. And now an older man, outside the neighborhood’s codes, with a body that defied every expectation, was looking at me with pleading puppy eyes and a bulge that was screaming not to remain trapped.

Just once.

Like a social service.

No one has to find out.

“Cándido, look at me.”

“Yes, girl.”

“Do you know how to keep secrets?”

“I’m the best at keeping secrets, girl. Mother doesn’t know about the movies I watch. Mother doesn’t know about the photos. I’m good at it, I swear.”

“Then we’re going to do something. Just once. But if you tell anyone, I’ll tell your mother and the whole neighborhood that you’re a pervert. Is that clear?”

He nodded like a five-year-old boy. I took a deep breath. I knew Aurora was at the five-o’clock novena and wouldn’t be back until seven. I had an hour and a half. More than enough.

“Come closer.”

He came over until he was standing in front of me, his slippers brushing my sneakers. I was still sitting on the edge of the sofa, feeling my cunt throb inside my shorts, already soaked from the mere thought of what I was about to do. I slowly lowered the zipper of my sweatshirt, looking him in the eyes. The fabric opened and my tits appeared, held up by the sports top, the line of my cleavage shining with sweat. I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Cándido stared at them with his mouth open, as if he were witnessing a religious miracle. I saw the bulge in his pajama pants jerk against the fabric again, reaching for me.

“Pull your pants down. Everything else too. All the way to the floor.”

He did it without saying a word. Without hesitation. The waistband caught on his thighs for a second, and then his cock sprang free like a lever, uncovered and rock-hard, even more impressive in person than in the photo. A sound escaped my throat, something between a gasp and a nervous laugh. The tip gleamed with a transparent drop hanging from the thick glans, round as a pearl. The veins ran along its entire length like the branches of an old tree, pronounced and swollen. His balls hung heavily below, skin stretched tight, the size of two eggs. A warm smell of enclosed man, of skin not quite washed, hit me full in the face and stirred something between my legs that shouldn’t have been there.

My hands trembled. Not from fear. From pure anxiety.

I grabbed it with my right hand, and my fingers couldn’t quite close around it. It was broad, hot, solid, like gripping a beer bottle just taken out of the sun. The skin slid back and forth beneath my fist with a strange elasticity, and every time I pulled down the foreskin, the glans emerged thicker, redder, shinier. I began moving it slowly, squeezing firmly. He let out a deep groan, his first, and his knees weakened for a moment.

“Stay still,” I ordered quietly. “You stay still. If you move, I stop. Understand?”

“Yes, girl. Very still. Very still.”

I got down from the sofa. I placed a cushion on the floor, knelt on it, and brought my face close until it was an inch from his lips. The heat it gave off was incredible, like a space heater. I kissed the tip, barely brushing the glans with my closed mouth. I gathered the transparent drop with my lips and tasted it with the tip of my tongue. Salty, dense, with a flavor of its own. Another wave rolled down my belly.

I kissed it again, lower down. Then I ran my tongue from the base to the top, slowly, holding my breath, following one of those thick veins as if it were a little path. When I reached the glans, I went back down the other side. Cándido made a sound I had never heard from a man, something between a growl and a childish whimper.

“Girl... girl, it feels good. It feels like in the movies. Better than in the movies.”

I went lower still. I took his balls in my free hand and weighed them—they were heavy, hard, filled to the brim with semen stored up over who knew how many nights—and put one in my mouth. Then the other. I sucked them slowly, one at a time, rolling them with my tongue, feeling them draw up with pleasure. His cock slapped against my forehead while I did that, leaving a wet trail between my eyebrows.

“Holy Mother, girl. Holy Mother.”

I moved back up. I opened my mouth as wide as I could. I took it in. Barely half of it fit. I felt it fill my palate, flatten my tongue against the floor of my mouth, press against my uvula. It gagged me a little. I pulled back, breathed through my nose, and went down again. I worked it with my tongue and lips, using my hand for what wouldn’t fit. I kept a tight fist around the base and enclosed the upper half with my mouth, moving up and down in a rhythm I gradually found. Saliva began to fall, first in a thread, then in a stream running down my chin and onto my tits, still covered by the top, leaving dark stains in the fabric.

He looked down at me with his eyes rolled back, panting as if he were seeing something he couldn’t believe. I looked up once and almost came just from seeing him like that: mouth open, glasses fogged, hair disheveled, hands trembling at his sides, not knowing where to put them because I had told him to stay still.

“Hands,” I ordered, pulling it out for a second, my lips shining and a strand of saliva hanging from my mouth to his glans. “Put them on my head. Slowly.”

He rested them on my hair with absurd gentleness, as if afraid of breaking me. I moved his fingers myself so he would hold me better, then took it back into my mouth. I pushed it deeper, until I felt my throat tighten around it. I gagged again, tears filled my eyes, saliva overflowed completely, two thick strings running from my chin. I didn’t stop.

He carefully pulled it from my mouth, almost frightened that he had hurt me, lifted me by the shoulders, and kissed me on the mouth. At first I resisted—it was unexpected, it wasn’t part of the deal, my mouth was full of him—but his face held such absolute happiness, so far outside anything I had ever seen, that I finally gave in. I kissed him back. My tongue against his, soaked with the taste of his cock. His rough beard against my cheeks. Our mixed saliva falling between us.

“Thank you, girl, thank you, thank you,” he repeated between kisses. “No one... no one has ever...”

“Shut up. Sit down.”

He returned to the sofa. I stayed between his knees. I gave him the best blowjob of his life—and probably the only one—for several minutes, alternating rhythms. For a while, slowly, my tongue circling the glans, drawing out every drop that appeared. For a while, quickly, squeezing hard, making the wet, obscene noises that filled the living room, sucking him all the way down. For a while, using only my hand, spitting on it to lubricate it better, looking him in the eyes while I stroked him with both hands twisting in opposite directions.

When his eyes began to grow unfocused, he took my head in both hands.

“Can I see your breasts, girl?” he asked, almost in a whisper, as if he were still asking permission. “Please. Just look at them. Just a little.”

I lowered my top. I pulled it off over my head and tossed it on the floor. My tits were bare, white, their pink nipples stiffened by the cool air in the living room and by everything else. Cándido gazed at them reverently. He stretched out one enormous, trembling hand and barely caressed them with his fingertips, then brought his palm to his nose and inhaled deeply, as if he wanted to imprint the smell in his memory.

“Suck them,” I told him, surprised by the crudity that came out of my mouth on its own. “Come on, Cándido. Suck them the way I sucked you.”

He bent forward from the sofa. He lunged at me with his mouth open, clumsy and eager. He squeezed one breast with his whole palm, almost making it hurt, and sucked my nipple with excessive force. I cried out. Not from pain, not entirely. Cándido stopped dead, frightened.

“Sorry, girl, sorry.”

“Softer. Like this. With your tongue first. Then suck.”

I taught him. I put my hand on the back of his neck and showed him how to run his tongue around my nipple before sucking. He learned quickly. Once he had both my tits wet with saliva, my nipples so hard they hurt, I realized that his cock was still pounding against his own belly, hard and forgotten, searching for something. A thick thread was leaking from the tip.

That finally set me on fire.

I lowered my hand to the waistband of my shorts, not realizing at first what I was doing. I slipped my fingers underneath and found my cunt so wet that it was running down the inside of my thigh, and I touched myself while he continued sucking my tits. I rubbed hard with two fingers, searching for my swollen clitoris. The whole image—me with my tits out, touching myself, an older disabled man sucking my nipples like a huge baby, his cock inches from my face asking for attention—was so filthy, so beyond everything, that I nearly came right there.

“Sit back down,” I told him, pushing his head away. “Sit down and don’t move.”

He sat down again. I returned to the cushion. I took him into my mouth again with more force, more saliva, while continuing to touch myself inside my shorts with my free hand. I masturbated him with the other hand, spitting on him, and kissed his balls one by one. I ran my tongue over his perineum, and he jumped as if I had shocked him. I licked from there to the tip in one long pass that tore an howl from him.

I felt the first contraction beneath my tongue and knew he was about to finish. His cock swelled even more, grew even harder, the skin pulled tight to its limit. His balls drew up against his body.

“Girl, girl, the milk’s going to come out, lots and lots, girl, girl...”

I looked him in the eyes without taking him out. I squeezed the base with my hand and sped up with my mouth over the upper half, sucking hard with my cheeks hollowed, staring at him while I quickened the rhythm of my fingers on my clitoris.

Cándido grabbed my hair, moaned my name for the first time all afternoon, and came inside my mouth with an intensity that nearly choked me. The first jet struck the back of my throat and made me cough. The second filled my entire tongue. And it kept coming, and coming, as if he had stored every drop from all the years he had spent touching himself alone with my photos. Five, six, seven thick, hot waves with a strong, salty taste that struck the inside of my nose. I came at the same time, squeezing my clitoris with two fingers, biting down around his cock, trembling on my knees on the cushion without stopping sucking him.

I swallowed what I could, my cheeks bulging, my chin dripping. The rest overflowed from my lips, fell onto my tits, gleamed on my sweaty skin, and ran down my cleavage. A white thread hung from my right nipple. Cándido watched it fall with his eyes wide open, holding his breath, like someone watching a natural phenomenon.

When he finished, he took his still-hard cock and slowly passed it over my entire face, almost tenderly, as if it were a ritual. He ran it over my lips, my cheekbones, my forehead, leaving a shining trail everywhere. Then I used it myself to gather what had run into my cleavage—I rubbed it over my tits, smeared the tip with his own semen mixed with my saliva and sweat—and sucked him clean again down to the last drop. I swallowed what I had gathered. I left nothing.

“All nice and clean,” I told him, finally taking it from my mouth with a wet kiss on the tip. “All nice and clean, Cándido.”

I stood up. I adjusted my top, my sweatshirt, my hair, my legs still trembling and my cunt throbbing after my orgasm. I went into the bathroom, washed my face and mouth with cold water, spat several times into the sink, and looked at myself in the mirror: my lips were swollen, there was a red ring around my mouth from his beard, and a drop of semen I hadn’t noticed was stuck at my hairline. I wiped it away with my fingertip and sucked it off, I don’t know why. When I came out, Cándido was still on the sofa, his pants still around his ankles, his cock half-hard but not fully soft, catching his breath like a marathon runner.

I bent down. I gave the tip of his cock one last kiss. Then I kissed him on his sweaty forehead.

“Not a word about this, do you hear me? And delete all my photos tonight.”

“Yes, girl,” he said, nodding like a puppy that had just been trained.

I left his house with my legs still trembling. I crossed the block looking at the ground, praying that none of the neighbors would be watching from their windows. I went into my own house, locked myself in my room, and sat for a long time on the edge of the bed, not knowing whether what I felt was shame, satisfaction, or both mixed together. I put my hand inside my shorts again. I could still taste him in my mouth. I came again, biting the pillow, thinking about his face when the first jet came out.

It’s been almost a year since that afternoon. College, exams, boys my own age filling up my calendar. Cándido still greets me whenever he sees me, with that same slow smile as always, and my mother still drinks coffee with Aurora on Wednesday afternoons.

No one suspects anything. The photos, I swear, he deleted that very night; I checked the next day with a stupid excuse, asking him to show me the tablet again.

But I still go jogging in the park every afternoon. And when I see him from a distance, peering out of the window, I don’t look away. I hold his gaze. And sometimes, on a night when I can’t sleep, I’m the one who touches herself slowly, with two fingers inside my cunt and my thumb pressing my clitoris, thinking of him, of that enormous, clumsy body, of that cock that barely fit in my mouth, of the first—and only—afternoon when a man looked at me as if I were the only good thing that had ever happened to him.