The Foreman Who Opened the Door That Night

Héctor and I had had the same dynamic for several months. I was always the one who went to his house, never him to mine. It was the safest thing: my parents never asked questions if they saw me go out for a walk at night, and at his place there was space, silence, and discretion. I had kept a pair of stiletto heels tucked away in his closet, inside their original box, so I wouldn’t have to carry them every time I crossed the street at midnight.

But the routine was starting to weigh on me. My encounters with Héctor were comfortable, even predictable, and I needed something more. That spark that only shows up when you don’t know exactly what’s going to happen, when the body gets ahead of the mind and leaves you speechless. I kept looking for it and not finding it, and I comforted myself by thinking it would come on its own eventually.

That night I dressed slowly, carefully. Burgundy lace bra and panties, caramel-colored silk stockings with a black garter belt, and a pair of red flats with a small bow on the instep. Over that, a long pearl-gray jacket and a white knit cap that covered my ears. I slipped a eyeliner pencil and a dark lipstick into my pocket, just in case. It was almost 12:15 when I left.

I walked the fifty meters to Héctor’s door with my usual calm. The pre-dawn cold cut into my legs, but the garter belt kept them warm. I rang the bell in the agreed way—two short rings, one long—and opened my jacket to surprise him. The porch light came on. The door opened.

And I was the one who got the surprise.

Instead of Héctor, there was a man in his forties, broad-shouldered, wearing a worn gray T-shirt and an expression that mixed confusion with something far too close to amusement. He was staring me up and down with no attempt at hiding it. I tried to say something coherent, but my mouth refused to cooperate.

“Good evening,” he said, resting one arm on the doorframe.

“I… yes… and where’s Héctor?” I managed to get out at last.

“Come in,” he said simply. “I’ll explain inside.”

I snapped my jacket shut and went in. The living room was the same as always: the brown three-seater sofa, the coffee table with the empty ashtray, the television switched off in the corner. But with another presence in it, everything felt different. The man closed the door and turned around.

“My name’s Diego. I’m the caretaker of the place. Héctor had a heart problem two weeks ago. He’s in the city with his children, with the best doctors. He won’t be back for a long time. He left me in charge of everything and asked me to keep an eye out in case any neighbor showed up with something pending.”

I nodded in silence. My heart was beating too fast, and I could feel the heat in my face as if I’d burned myself. Diego went to the back room and came back with a cloth bag, one of those with long handles, tied shut with a simple knot.

“He left me this. He said that if ‘the neighbor from across the street’ showed up, I was to keep it safe until he came to get it.”

I opened the bag. Inside were my red stiletto heels, wrapped in newspaper. I recognized them by the sole. I felt the heat in my face double, and before I could do anything to stop it, tears started falling. Not exactly from sadness. It was a mix of embarrassment and relief and not knowing what to do with my hands.

Diego sat on the sofa, not too close, but close enough. He didn’t ask anything. He waited.

“Want some coffee?” he said after a while.

I nodded.

He came back with two cups and a paper napkin. He handed it to me without making a big deal of it. I wiped my eyes, drank the coffee in silence, and gradually got my breath back. Diego drank his while looking toward the window, without the awkwardness I’d expected from a stranger in that situation. It was strange, in the good sense.

“Open the jacket if you want,” he said, without looking at me. “You’ll be more comfortable. And I already saw what’s underneath when you opened the door, so there’s no need to hide.”

I hesitated. Then I did it. I folded the jacket and left it over the arm of the sofa. I stayed there in my lingerie, stockings, and flats, with the cup of coffee in my hands, facing a man I hadn’t chosen to meet like that but who didn’t seem uncomfortable with the situation either.

Diego looked at the bag.

“Are those high heels?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wear them?”

I didn’t answer right away. I opened the bag slowly, took out the shoes, and set them on the floor in front of me. I slipped off the flats. I put the heels on, fastening each tiny strap carefully. When I stood up, something changed immediately and recognizably: my posture, my balance, the way I distributed my weight. It was like switching on a light that had been off for hours.

“Walk a little,” Diego said.

I walked the length of the living room. The heels clicked against the ceramic floor with that dry, precise sound that always transformed me inside. When I reached the other end I turned around. Diego was watching me with his elbows on his knees and an expression that was no longer ironic or restrained: it was openly interested. I looked at the bulge beginning to show in his jeans and didn’t bother hiding anything.

I walked back slowly. Sat down. Crossed my legs.

“You look really good in those heels,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said.

There was a silence that lasted exactly as long as it should have. I could feel the heat rising from inside me, that particular tension that has nothing to do with fear even if it looks like it. I made a decision.

“Can I ask you for something?” I said.

“Anything you want.”

“Will you let me suck it?”

Diego looked at me for a second, as if checking whether he’d heard me right. Then he stood up without saying a word, unbuttoned his jeans, and pulled them down along with his underwear in one motion.

What hung between his legs was considerable. A thick cock, already half-awake, with a marked vein running down one side from top to bottom and heavy balls hanging loose beneath it. My mouth watered just looking at it. I dropped to my knees on the floor in front of him, my heels sinking into the rug and my ass resting on my heels, and stretched my tongue out to taste him first.

I started with his balls. I licked them one by one, slowly, taking each one fully into my mouth, feeling their weight against my tongue. Diego let out the first sound, a rough sigh, and his cock hardened all the way while I stayed down there. Then I ran my tongue flat up the underside of his shaft, from base to tip, in one long, slow lick, as if I were measuring it. When I reached the top, I wrapped my lips around the head and sucked hard, hollowing out my cheeks. A thread of saliva dripped down to my chin.

I opened my mouth wide and took him all the way in, until the tip hit the back of my throat and I felt the gagging rise. I stayed there for a second, choking on pure pleasure, swallowing around his cock until he let out a hoarse groan and had to ease my head up. I pulled back, spit on the head, the spit falling thick and heavy, and used my hand to smear it all the way down his length. His cock gleamed, slick and shining, and I took it back into my mouth in one shove.

Diego put a hand on my head. At first he just left it there, following my movement; then he dug his fingers into my hair and started setting the pace, fucking my mouth in and out however he pleased. I let him. He fucked my mouth slowly at first, then harder, his hips driving my face forward until I could feel his balls slapping my chin each time. My eyes filled with tears and saliva dribbled down my chin onto my tits. It ran in thick strings over the lace of my bra, soaking it completely.

“You suck cock so good, faggot,” he said through clenched teeth, and that word spoken like that, without asking permission, went through me from the nape of my neck all the way to my ass. I squeezed my thighs together and felt my own cock hard, trapped in the burgundy lace panties, wetting the fabric in front.

I sucked his cock deep, using both hands: one at the base to help my mouth, the other handling his balls, squeezing them gently. I followed his taste. When I noticed his legs tensing and the vein on top swelling more than usual, I pulled away slowly. I didn’t want him in my mouth yet. I left a wet kiss on the tip and stood up.

I walked to the longest sofa in the living room, the heels clicking again on the ceramic, knowing he was watching my ass with every step. I bent over the backrest with both hands planted firmly on it. I slid my panties down my legs and let them fall to the floor, tangled with the garter belt. I looked at Diego over my shoulder and used one hand to part a cheek and show him my hole.

“Come here,” I said.

He came slowly, savoring the moment. He ran a hand over my back, down to the curve of my hips, and stayed there for a moment, gripping me hard, just feeling. Then he bent down and I felt his hot tongue sliding up between my buttocks. A sharp moan escaped me. He pried my ass open with both hands and ate me out deeply, slobbering all over my hole, pushing his tongue inside, pulling it out, sucking at the rim, going back in. I held onto the leather backrest with both hands and pushed my ass against his face with no shame at all.

When he straightened up, he brought his fingers to his mouth, coated them well with saliva, and started prepping me carefully. One first, in slow circles, buried to the knuckle. Then two, twisting them inside, opening me little by little. I closed my eyes and gripped the leather with my fingers. A third, and I was already moaning without being able to control it, my cock dripping in front and my ass opening only for him.

“Put it in already,” I begged him.

Diego spit into his hand, coated his cock well, and pressed it to my entrance. I felt the pressure first: the wide head forcing its way in, that moment when the body hesitates and then gives in. I breathed deeply. He pushed forward centimeter by centimeter, without rushing but without backing off, until I felt his balls touching my ass from behind. He was in all the way. I stayed still for a second. Full. That dense, total feeling unlike any other, of having a thick cock buried to the hilt, throbbing inside me.

Then he started to move.

At first slowly, pulling almost all the way out and thrusting back in little by little, so I could feel every centimeter going in and out. I pushed my ass backward looking for him, wanting more. He grabbed my hips with both hands, dug his fingers into my skin, and then he really started fucking me. The rhythm built until it became something completely different: flesh slapping flesh, his balls banging against me from behind with every thrust, a wet, dirty sound filling the whole living room.

I clung to the backrest with both hands, heels planted firmly on the floor, body leaning forward and taking every blow to the hilt. I moaned without trying to control it, moaned like a bitch, and hearing myself made me want it even more. Diego answered with a low, short growl with each entry, a kind of restrained roar that was more exciting to me than anything else he could have said.

“Fuck me harder,” I begged him, and he obeyed.

He grabbed my hair with one hand and yanked my head back while he kept driving his cock into me with the other hand nailed to my waist. My mouth was open, saliva dripping, eyes rolled back. My own cock was jerking hard between my legs with every thrust, wetting the sofa in front.

He pulled out abruptly, turned me around, and laid me on my back on the sofa with my legs folded up to my chest. He held my ankles apart, one in each hand, exposing me completely. He bent down, spat on my open hole, and drove back in with one thrust. I screamed. There the difference was immediate: deeper, more direct, aimed exactly where I needed it. I could see his face, flushed red, jaw tight, the vein in his neck standing out. I could see his cock going in and out of my ass in one piece, shining with saliva.

I threw my head back. The leather sofa was cold against my back and the contrast with the heat I felt inside made me delirious. I reached for my cock and started jerking myself off while he kept fucking me. With every thrust he hit the exact spot, and I could feel the orgasm building from inside, with almost no need to touch myself.

“Don’t stop,” I begged him. “Come in me.”

He didn’t stop. He sped up.

I came first, almost without warning, my cock dripping between my fingers and thick ropes of cum splashing over my lace bra and my stomach. My whole body clenched, and with my ass squeezing his cock inside me, he let out an animal grunt and came too. I felt the pulses of his cock inside me, one by one, the hot load spilling deep in my gut, while he gave the last short, deep thrusts until he emptied himself completely.

Then he stayed still, still buried inside, supporting his weight on his hands, catching his breath over me. I could feel my pulse everywhere at once, in my temples, in my throat, in my ass full of his seed. I stayed like that, motionless, until the pounding slowly started to subside. When he pulled out, I felt the warm emptiness, and a thick thread of semen sliding down my thigh to the caramel stocking.

I cleaned myself carefully with the napkin that had been left on the table, straightened my clothes as best I could—the stained bra, the battered panties—and put my jacket on over everything. When I went to get my heels to put them back in the bag, Diego laid a hand on my arm.

“Leave them here,” he said. “In case you come back.”

I looked at him. He wasn’t exactly smiling, but he wasn’t serious either. It was a direct proposition, without embellishment.

“Okay,” I said.

***

I went out into the early morning wearing my flats and my white knit cap. The cold air hit my face and I welcomed it. I walked the fifty meters back home with a light head and a body still warm, my ass still feeling the emptiness of his cock and the cum inside, with that calm that comes after something that went much better than anyone had expected.

Héctor had given me months of quiet, predictable encounters. Diego had given me exactly what I’d been looking for without even knowing it: surprise, tension, the unexpected.

I was already thinking about when I’d go back.