The Old Man at the Kiosk Who Became Her Vice

Don Ovidio was a man in his late sixties, with a round belly like a barrel and gray hair slicked back with cheap pomade. He ran a kiosk on a quiet corner in the Las Acacias neighborhood, one of those places that sold single cigarettes, candy, and yellowing magazines. But what he sold most was his mouth.

Every time a woman passed by in a short skirt or tight pants, the old man would let out some obscenity that made the more modest ones blush and the ones who already knew him laugh.

—What a ass you’ve got, baby! Come have a coffee with me and I’ll make you scream like nobody’s ever made you scream —he’d say, or things much worse that aren’t worth repeating in full.

The neighbors looked at him with disgust or indifference. But some, curious or craving attention, stayed for a chat. And from those chats, according to neighborhood rumor, Don Ovidio had gotten more than one encounter. He wasn’t handsome and he didn’t have money, but he had shameless smooth talk, a reputation that preceded him, and, according to the women who knew, a cock that didn’t match his age or his belly.

***

Dalia did not go unnoticed. She was twenty-six, with curves that overflowed her clothes, a pair of huge tits that strained her apron, wide hips, a high, round ass, and a face with fleshy lips made for sucking. She worked in a bakery a few blocks away and passed the kiosk every day. At first she ignored the old man’s filth and quickened her pace.

—Come on, gorgeous, an old man like me can teach you more than any punk in the neighborhood! What you need is a cock to put your ideas in order! —he shouted at her, laughing.

But one suffocating summer afternoon, dying of heat and sick of her routine, Dalia stopped. The sun beat hard on the sidewalk. She bought an ice cream and, while eating it leaning against the counter, Don Ovidio looked at her with a crooked smile.

—Look at how you suck that ice cream. You can tell you’re a woman who knows how to use her mouth.

She looked him straight in the eye, without smiling, but she didn’t leave either.

—Dirty old man —she muttered, and stayed leaning there, licking the ice cream slower than necessary.

—Ovidio, my name is Ovidio. Not “old man.” And you’re Dalia, the bakery girl, the one who passes by every day without saying hello and leaves my dick hard without even noticing.

She laughed, a little nervous, feeling the heat rise to her face and sink somewhere else.

—You’re disgusting. And you’re the one who says crap to every girl who passes by.

They started talking. He told her about his life: widowed for ten years, alone in an old house with a skinny dog. She complained about work, her stingy boss, the heat that would not let up. There was something in the way the old man listened to her, shameless yet attentive, his eyes fixed on her cleavage, that undid her.

—A woman like you shouldn’t go around bored, with those tits and that ass wasted —he told her, winking—. Come back tomorrow and we’ll keep going.

Dalia felt a tingling between her legs she hadn’t expected, a wet heat that soaked her panties right there, standing at the counter. She covered it up and left, squeezing her thighs together.

***

The next day she came back. This time she stayed longer. Don Ovidio lowered the shutter halfway, pretending to arrange some boxes, and invited her in. The place was small, with shelves crammed full of knickknacks and the smell of stale tobacco.

—Sit here —he said, pointing to a stool behind the counter.

She sat. He stood close, brushing her arm, his belly pressed against her shoulder. Through the old man’s worn pants, Dalia felt a thick bulge pressing against her side.

—You’ve got me hot, Dalia. I’ve been jerking off thinking about you for days. Let me touch you a little, just a little. You’ll see what kind of hands I’ve got.

She hesitated. The heat, the look, the enclosure of the kiosk, that hard bulge brushing her arm. Something in the man’s audacity lit her up.

—You’re crazy, old man. But… just touching.

Don Ovidio ran his hand over her cleavage and yanked one tit out of her bra. He stared at it like a child in front of a shop window, weighing it in his palm, pinching her nipple between thumb and forefinger until Dalia let out a moan.

—Look at those tits, holy shit. Look at how your nipple’s standing up, Dalia. Your body says one thing and your mouth says another, but down here you’re a bitch.

She moaned louder. He freed the other tit, bent down, and took it whole into his mouth, sucking her nipple with his lips and tongue, biting just a little, then tugging with his teeth. Dalia arched on the stool, eyes closed. He tasted of cigarettes, cheap mint, old man, but his mouth worked with a technique she had never felt before in any of the punks in the neighborhood.

—I’m going to eat you whole —the old man murmured against her neck, hiking up her shorts and slipping his hand underneath—. I’m going to lick your cunt until you beg me to stop.

He slid her panties aside with two fingers and found her soaking wet. He ran them over her lips and then over her clit, tracing slow circles. Dalia gasped, spreading her legs wider, gripping the edge of the counter with both hands.

—Ovidio… don’t stop, holy shit, don’t stop.

—Look at you dripping, baby. You’re all wet for an old man. What would your boss say if he saw you like this, tits out and cunt open for me?

He knelt, despite his age and belly, with a grunt of effort. He ripped off her shorts and panties in one pull and pried her legs apart with both hands. He buried his face between her thighs and started licking, first with a flat tongue from top to bottom, then finding her clit with the tip, sucking it like a hard candy. Dalia grabbed his bald head and held him against her, rocking her hips against his face.

—Yes, like that, filthy old man, eat my cunt, don’t stop.

He pushed one thick finger inside her while still sucking her clit, and then two, curling them inside, hitting the spot that made her shudder. Dalia felt juices running down the inside of her thighs, felt the old man smacking his lips, felt his tongue speeding up at a relentless pace. When he added a third finger and drove them in deep, Dalia exploded in an orgasm that shook her whole body, her thighs clamping around the old man’s head, squealing softly so as not to wake half the block.

***

But Don Ovidio did not stop there. He stood up, unbuttoned his pants, pulled down his white grandpa briefs, and showed her that the rumors were true. A thick cock, long, with pronounced veins and a purple head pointing at her face.

—Look what I’ve got for you. You’re going to remember this dick until the day you die.

Dalia looked at it, half frightened, half excited, lips parted. She took it in her hand, slowly, measuring it. Her fingers couldn’t quite close around it. She stroked it a couple of times and a fat drop of precome dampened her palm.

—It’s too much for me, old man. It’s huge.

—Suck it first. Make it nice and wet so it goes in smooth.

She climbed down from the stool and knelt on the dirty kiosk floor. She took it in her mouth as far as she could, closing her lips around it and sucking. The old man grabbed her hair and started moving her head, setting the rhythm. Dalia drooled, gagged, pulled the dick out and rubbed it against her cheeks, against her tits, and took it back in all the way to the back.

—That’s it, slut, that’s it, suck that cock, make it disappear. Look at the tears filling your eyes. The neighborhood baker on her knees sucking my dick.

He laughed, hoarse, and lifted her by the hair. He turned her around and bent her over the counter, her tits flattened against the candy and her ass sticking up. He spread her cheeks with both hands, spat, and pushed the head of his cock against her soaked cunt.

—Let’s see if you can take it.

He entered slowly, little by little, giving her time. Dalia moaned long and low, between pain and pleasure, feeling how he opened her millimeter by millimeter, how he stretched her, how he filled her from the inside like nothing had ever done before.

—Slow, old man, slow, you’re splitting me in half.

—You’ll get used to it. Relax, breathe.

When he had her buried to the hilt, his balls resting against her clit, the old man held still for a second, savoring it. Then he grabbed her hips and started moving with a steady rhythm, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in to the hilt. The counter creaked. Candies bounced. The whole kiosk seemed to tremble with every thrust. She answered by pushing back, seeking him out, squeezing his cock inside her.

—Like that, harder, you son of a bitch, harder.

—You like it? You like the old man’s dick, bakery girl? Tell me you like it.

—I love it, I love it, don’t stop.

Don Ovidio wrapped one arm around her body, never letting go of a tit, and sped up. With his other hand he bit into the flesh of her ass cheeks, landed a couple of slaps that echoed through the empty kiosk, shoved a saliva-wet finger into her ass, and felt her tighten all over. He was sweating, gasping, but he did not let up.

—You’re a real woman, Dalia. One of those bitches they don’t make anymore.

A second orgasm shook her, longer than the first, her legs trembling and her cunt pouring down her thighs. The old man slammed into her to the hilt two, three more times, and with a hoarse grunt emptied himself inside her, filling her with hot cum, frozen against her back, catching his breath, his dick still buried. When he pulled out, a white thread dribbled down the back of Dalia’s thigh. The two of them laughed like conspirators in something forbidden.

***

That was only the beginning. Dalia came back the next day, and the next. The kiosk became their secret place. Don Ovidio waited for her with the shutter ready to close and that same old smile.

Once he made her crouch behind the counter while he served a customer, and she had to pull his cock out through his fly and suck it right there, kneeling, stifling laughter while the old man chatted about the weather with a neighbor and pretended to be calm when he wasn’t, resting one hand on her head so she wouldn’t ease up. Dalia licked his balls, sucked his head, took him deep while the neighbor bought a pack of cigarettes. When the man left, Don Ovidio lifted her up, sat her on the counter, spread her legs, and rammed his cock in with one thrust, still hard, and fucked her in a hurry against the wall, laughing at the mischief.

—We almost got caught —she said, her voice broken by the thrusts.

—Even better. That way you remember me all afternoon with your cunt full.

He came inside her again and then gave her his fingers, to collect the cum that was dripping out, and put them in her mouth. Dalia sucked them without looking away.

***

One afternoon he invited her to his place, above the kiosk. It was a small apartment, with worn furniture and the smell of being shut in, but clean. He took her to the bed without hurry and undressed her slowly, looking at her as if for the first time, kissing her tits, her navel, the insides of her thighs.

—I love your body, holy shit —he told her—. I love this ass, these tits, this fat cunt.

He laid her on her back, spread her legs, and buried his face there, sucking her clit and sliding his tongue deep inside. He slipped his arms under her thighs and lifted her a little, eating her from bottom to top, not giving her any way out. He licked her ass, too, just barely, with the tip of his tongue, and Dalia jolted.

—Filthy man, filthy old man.

—You like it and you don’t want to admit it.

He left her begging, her legs trembling. Then he positioned himself on top of her and entered slowly, enjoying every moan, pressing his belly against hers, looking her in the eye while he drove into her to the hilt.

—Tell me what you want, bakery girl. Say it with your dirty mouth.

Dalia, red-faced, spoke into his ear without shame for the first time in her life.

—Fuck me hard, old man. Tear my cunt apart. Fill me with cum again.

He sped up, turned her on all fours, grabbed her hair like reins and fucked her from behind without mercy, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. He bit her shoulder, shoved a finger in her ass again, and took her to the end once more, cumming on her this time, spraying hot cum on her back and ass cheeks, then rubbing his head against her stained skin.

***

As time went on, the encounters became a habit. Some afternoons he told her stories about his life, women he had known, trips he had never taken, half-truths that made her laugh. Dalia listened, fluttering around between the shelves, stealing a piece of candy, letting herself be held, with the old man’s hand tucked under her skirt as if it were nothing.

—Why do you like me so much? —she asked him once.

—Because you’re as shameless as I am. And because you don’t pretend to be a saint. And because you’ve got the richest cunt I’ve tasted in years.

She didn’t know what to say, but she stayed.

***

Months passed like that. Dalia began to set other things aside; she thought about the old man and their afternoons more than she wanted to admit. Once he talked her into staying after closing and fucked her in the dark back room, the two of them squeezed between soda boxes, her tits hanging down and her legs wrapped around the old man’s waist, stifling laughter and moans when a car braked outside. He covered her mouth with one hand while he drove his cock into her from below, laughing against her neck every time she bit her lip to keep from screaming.

—You’re dangerous —she told him later, her panties in her hand and the old man’s cum dripping down the inside of her thigh.

—And you’re a box of surprises —he answered, lighting a cigarette with a trembling hand.

Sometimes doubt would seize Dalia.

—I’m still young. What am I doing with an old man like you?

He would grow serious for a moment, then stroke her face.

—Whatever you want. Nobody here forces you to do anything. The door is always open.

And that was exactly why she didn’t leave.

***

One night, after one of those long afternoons when time slipped away from them, they were lying sprawled on the bed, sweaty and out of breath, with the sheets stained with semen and sweat. The fan turned slowly overhead. Dalia could still feel the old man’s cum dripping out of her ass onto the sheet.

—You’re the best fuck that’s been through here in years, Dalia —he said, looking at the ceiling, his cock still half-mast and resting on his thigh.

She, exhausted, her body marked with hickeys and bites, laughed.

—And you’re the dirtiest, hottest old man in the neighborhood. Nobody’s ever given it to me the way you do.

—No doubt about that.

They fell asleep wrapped around each other, him snoring right away, her awake a little longer, thinking about how absurd and comfortable it all was, and how her cunt tightened just from remembering the last pounding.

***

The next day, everything was the same. Dalia passed by on her way to work and Don Ovidio shouted some filth at her from the counter, just like the first day. But now it was private filth, a joke only the two of them understood.

—Come here, gorgeous, I’ll give you the loyal-customer discount! And as a bonus I’ll leave your cunt just the way you like it!

She raised a hand without turning around, smiling, squeezing her thighs together right there on the sidewalk. Later, when he lowered the shutter and the neighborhood grew quiet, she would come back. She would push open the same old door and surrender herself once more to the shameless old man who had conquered her with his smooth talk, his unexpected patience, that cock that asked age for no permission, and that way he had of making her feel, for a while, like the most desired whore in Las Acacias.

And so, afternoon after afternoon, the story of Don Ovidio and Dalia went on, among loose cigarettes, cheap candy, muffled moans behind the counter, and a secret the whole block suspected but nobody dared confirm.