The Retired Man from the Big House Waited for Me Every Afternoon

I started crossing Don Augusto’s garden the summer I found myself out of work. His big house stood at the end of the dirt path, surrounded by old vines that he insisted on tending alone, despite his age and the size of those hands that were no longer suited to fine pruning. I offered to help almost out of boredom. What I didn’t tell him, or anyone else, was the real reason I came back every afternoon.

Don Augusto was a huge retired man. Not fat from neglect, but solid, like those men who fill a room just by breathing. His white hair was always a little tousled, he had a thick mustache that hid thin lips, and forearms that strained the sleeves of the buttoned cardigan he wore even in the heat. Every time he lifted a crate of grapes as if it weighed nothing, I felt something I took weeks to dare to name.

—You don’t come for the vines, kid —he said one afternoon, never taking his eyes off the vine stock he was checking.

I didn’t know what to answer. I stood there with the watering can in my hand, feeling the heat rise into my face.

—It’s nothing —he added, and for the first time he turned his head to look straight at me—. Some people admire a man. I was the same at your age.

Some people admire a man. That sentence stayed with me for days. I repeated it while I dug, while I carried sacks, while I watched him wipe the sweat from his neck with a huge handkerchief. I started arriving earlier and leaving later, inventing chores that weren’t needed just to stay a little closer to that enormous body and that calm that never seemed to break for anything.

***

The one who dared before I did was Marisol. I brought her one afternoon because she was also drifting that summer, and because she bragged about not being scared of anything. She laughed when I told her what Don Augusto was like, until she saw him appear in the kitchen doorway, filling the whole frame with that hard, bare belly beneath the open cardigan.

Her smile vanished at once. And two hours later she wasn’t laughing: she was trembling.

I watched them from the armchair in the living room because he asked me to, with a tilt of his chin, like someone granting permission. Marisol was already naked on the rug, kneeling between the old man’s spread legs, with the retired man’s whole cock buried deep in her mouth. Don Augusto held her by the nape with one hand and set the rhythm, forcing it down her throat with a calm that made her gag and drool over his hairy, dangling balls.

—Suck, pretty girl, suck that cock good —he told her without raising his voice—. Let the kid learn how to suck a real man off.

Marisol obeyed with tearful eyes, her chin shining with saliva, letting her mouth get fucked as if nothing else existed. When he lifted her by the armpits and set her astride his lap, I watched her lower herself slowly, with her mouth open in a silent O, until her wet cunt swallowed that thick, veined cock whole. Marisol let out a long, animal moan, and started moving on top of him, rising and falling on that powerful body, holding on to his broad shoulders while Don Augusto helped her with one hand resting on her waist.

—That’s it, ride me good —he growled, and squeezed one breast with the other huge hand, flattening it completely—. Let it show how much you like cock, slut.

—Oh, fuck, fuck, you’re so big… —she panted, her face buried in the retired man’s enormous chest, kissing his white mustache, his flushed cheeks, his double chin, as if possessed—. You’re splitting me open, you’re splitting me open…

He lifted her almost entirely in one thrust and slammed her back down onto him, making her shriek. Marisol’s thick thighs splashed against the old man’s, and I could clearly see how the cock went in and out shining with her juice, how my friend’s cunt opened around that broad base. Don Augusto didn’t even sweat. He used her with the deliberation of a man who knows he has all afternoon.

—I’m going to cum, I’m going to cum inside —he announced at last, without asking anyone’s permission.

—Yes, yes, cum, fill me —she begged, pressing herself against him.

I saw him tighten, his forearms marked like cables, and then he held her pinned on his cock while he emptied himself with a deep grunt. Marisol shuddered all over, mouth open, and when she finally let herself fall to one side, exhausted, her legs were still spread and a thick thread of semen was running down the inside of her thigh.

—She took it like a champ —he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand—. See that, kid? See how you fuck someone who gives themselves over?

Marisol curled up on the sofa and fell asleep almost at once, with her cunt still dripping the old man’s load onto the fabric. I was still stuck in the armchair, my cock so hard inside my pants it hurt, unable to move.

—Come here —Don Augusto said, and patted his thigh.

***

I stood up as if a stronger body than mine had ordered me to. He was still sitting in the brown armchair, with his trousers and underwear fallen to his ankles, with the least trace of shame. His leg was three times the size of mine, muscular, with calves marked by a whole life in the countryside. The belly, large and firm, rose and fell with every deep breath, and on top of it rested two round pectorals crowned by wide pink nipples. Between his thighs, still gleaming with Marisol’s cunt, hung the biggest cock I had ever seen in my life, long and heavy, with thick veins running along it and dark balls resting on the chair.

I sat on his lap. My body, thin almost to the point of being scrawny, seemed even smaller on top of his, and I immediately felt the old man’s cock pressing hot and wet against my hip.

—You’ve been a good boy, waiting your turn —he murmured, and held my waist with a callused hand that nearly covered me whole—. Now get this off once and for all, because I didn’t come to look at your clothes.

His voice was deep, slow, the kind that doesn’t need to rise for you to obey. I stripped on top of him with clumsy hands, and he let me, lounging back, his arms resting on the armrests like a king receiving what was owed to him. When I was naked, my skinny, hard cock pressed against his belly, he let out a soft, amused laugh.

—Kiss me, kid. Kiss me like your life depends on it.

I placed one hand on his shoulder and with the other began to stroke him. I leaned in and kissed his thin lips, the ones hidden under the mustache, once, twice, three times. He opened my mouth with his tongue, pushed it all the way in, and sucked on mine as if he were emptying me out. He grabbed me by the nape and kissed me deeply, hungrily, until I was breathless. When he let me go, a string of saliva hung from his mustache.

—That’s it —he said only—. Now down there.

I felt for that man an admiration I didn’t fully understand. It wasn’t just desire. It was something like wanting to be him: to have his size, his calm, his way of never asking permission to take up space in the world. My chest against his was the difference between a branch and a trunk.

***

I slid to the floor and knelt between his legs. From below he looked even bigger, a warm mountain smelling of earth, old tobacco, and Marisol’s recent cunt. His cock hung heavy in front of my face, still half-hard, smeared with juices and his own semen. I took it with both hands —I needed both— and ran my tongue underneath, from the balls to the tip, cleaning it completely of what was left of my friend.

—Ooh, kid… easy now —he murmured—. Suck my balls first. One by one.

I lifted his cock against his belly and took one ball into my mouth. It was enormous, it filled me completely, and he let out a deep sigh when I started licking it, rolling it around with my tongue. I moved to the other one, sucking them slowly, breathing in that thick old-male crotch smell. Then I went back up, licking the whole length of the cock, and when I reached the tip I opened my mouth as wide as I could and took it in.

It swelled inside me. I felt it growing, hardening between my lips, pushing against my palate until it filled my mouth completely. I tried to take more of it and choked on the attempt, coughing, my eyes watering. He held my head with both hands.

—Easy. Breathe through your nose. And take it down.

He pushed slowly, but without giving me a choice. I felt the thick tip forcing my throat, working its way in, and I gagged against his skin. He held me there a second, two, then let me go. I came back up gulping air, lips shiny with spit and precum.

—Good boy. Again.

And again. And again. I started sucking him deep, bobbing my head up and down with my hands squeezing his huge thighs, feeling that strength that let itself be served without moving a single inch. I licked the tip until it shone, gently bit the foreskin, buried my nose in the white hair at the base, and took him all the way in until I could feel him marked in my throat.

—Ooh, kid… what a mouth you’ve got —he said, eyes half-closed—. Better than your friend’s. Better than anyone’s.

He didn’t say it to flatter me. He said it as a fact, with that indifference of his that made me try twice as hard. I wanted to deserve that sentence. I wanted that huge retired man to know that nobody else had ever sucked him off with such devotion. I spit on his cock, spread the saliva with my hand, and went back to eating it, drawing out deep grunts from him that thundered in my chest.

I could feel him breathing above me, his belly and chest swelling toward the ceiling with every breath. It was impressive to watch him move, all that volume rising and falling without a single wrinkle, without a single sign of softness. I looked up for a second and found him watching me, impassive, arms still, his cock buried in my mouth, letting himself be pleasured as one accepts tribute.

—I’m going to cum on your face, kid —he warned at last, his voice rougher—. Take it out.

I took him out of my mouth and started jerking him with both hands, aiming him toward my lips. He shook that whole mass, his thighs tensed, and he emptied himself over me with a deep groan. The first spurts hit my forehead and one eye, hot, thick; the next filled my open mouth, my tongue, my chin. He didn’t stop cumming. I kept stroking his cock while semen ran down my neck and thin chest.

—Swallow it. All of it.

I closed my mouth and swallowed. It tasted strong, salty, and it made me shiver all over.

—Good boy —he said afterward, his voice still rough.

I cleaned the tip with my tongue without being asked, slowly, almost gratefully. He let me do it while he caught his breath, with that expression of absolute calm I envied more than anything else.

***

I thought that was the end of it. But Don Augusto wasn’t the kind to be satisfied with little. He straightened up in the armchair, still firm, still ready, his cock still hard against his belly, and looked me over from head to toe like someone appraising a tool.

—Turn around. Get on all fours there, on the rug.

I obeyed. I got down on the floor, my ass raised toward him, and immediately felt his huge hands parting my cheeks without ceremony. He spat on me. The hot spit ran down my crack to my hole, and he spread it with his thumb, pressing the pad against my tight entrance.

—Nothing’s ever gone in there, has it, kid?

—No, sir —I managed to say, my voice shaking.

—That’s what I figured. Hold still.

He shoved his thumb in to the knuckle. It burned. Then he bent down and I felt the old man’s rough tongue working my ass, soaking me thoroughly, opening me slowly with the tip while his mustache scraped my cheeks. I moaned like I had never moaned before, my cheek pressed against the rug. —Please… please… —Please what, kid? Ask properly. —Fuck me. Fuck me, Don Augusto.

He gave a deep laugh. He stood up behind me, grabbed my hip with one hand and with the other aimed that colossal cock at my freshly spit-soaked hole.

—Hang on, it’s going all the way in.

He pushed. I felt the thick tip forcing me open, splitting me wide, a white pain shooting up my spine and making me clench my teeth. He didn’t stop. He kept feeding it in, centimeter by centimeter, with the same calm he’d used lifting the grape crates, until I felt his hot balls against mine and his belly pressed to my back.

—All the way in. Good boy. Now I’m going to move it.

And move it he did. He started slowly, pulling almost all the way out and then driving it back in to the hilt, while I clenched my fists against the rug. The pain began to fade and something strange forced its way underneath it, a dull, thick pleasure that made me moan into the floor every time he hit bottom.

—You feel it, kid? —he asked in my ear, leaning over me with all his weight—. Do you feel the difference between fucking and letting yourself be fucked?

—Yes… yes, sir… —I panted.

—Then hold on, because this hasn’t even started yet.

He grabbed both my hips and started really fucking me. Each thrust drove me forward, my knees slipping on the rug and my skinny cock hanging between my legs, hard to the point of pain, leaking without anyone touching it. The old man’s hairy balls struck my perineum rhythmically, a dull slap-slap that mixed with his grunts above me.

—Now up. Stand up.

He lifted me, without pulling out. He raised and lowered me with the same ease with which he had earlier lifted the grape crates, impaled on his cock, held in the air by the thighs with those huge hands, as if I weighed nothing, as if my whole body were just a small object in his grip. His cock sank into me and slid out at his whim, and I had nowhere to rest except on his broad shoulders.

—Look at you. Look at you taking it all —he growled—. Marisol couldn’t take all of it and you’re taking it, kid.

There was nothing I could do but let myself go, and letting myself go was exactly what I liked most. I came without touching myself, just from feeling it, just from glancing sideways at those taut forearms holding me in the air. I came in two long spurts that stained his belly and chest hair, and he didn’t even flinch. He kept lifting and lowering me on his cock, full, tireless, for a long while that felt eternal and brief at the same time.

When he finally grunted louder, he drove me down onto him, all the way in, and I felt the old man’s hot jets filling me from the inside, spurt after spurt, a thick heat rising through my belly. He kept me impaled until the last drop, his face buried in my neck, biting my shoulder with that rough mustache.

Then I understood what Marisol had felt hours earlier. I understood why she had been trembling. I turned my head to look at him and got lost in the image: that white, mustached retiree, serene as a resting bull, moving me however he pleased without changing his expression, with his load spilling out of my ass around his cock.

***

When he finished, he let me down carefully onto the rug, beside the sofa where Marisol was still sleeping through everything. I felt the old man’s cock slipping out of me slowly, and behind it a thick thread of semen running down the inside of my thigh. Don Augusto pulled his trousers up without hurry, brushed his mustache into place, and stood looking out the window, toward the vines that the afternoon sun was turning copper.

—Tomorrow we’ve got to stake the row down below —he said, as if nothing had happened—. If you feel like coming.

—I’ll come —I answered, still on the floor, my ass burning and my mouth still tasting him.

No more needed to be said. We both knew I would come back every afternoon, and that the work in the vines would always be the excuse. I dressed slowly, my legs still shaking and my underwear wet with his semen, while he lit a cigarette by the window and the smoke rose straight up in the still air of the living room.

That aimless summer became the clearest one of my life. Not because of the grapes, which that year turned out small and sour. But because I learned, at the feet of that enormous man, that admiring someone can also be a way of offering up your ass, and that there are desires you don’t choose: they simply cross the garden, knock on the door of a big house, and sit down waiting for an older gentleman to say, “Come here, kid.”