I Paid a Stranger Just to Watch Me

I’ve lived in Zaragoza for five years. My name is Adrián, I’m thirty-two, and I lead a pretty ordinary life: office, the gym twice a week, a beer with friends every couple of weeks. Nothing remarkable. Except, maybe, for one fantasy I’ve carried around for a long time and never quite dared to put a date on.

It’s nothing extreme. On the contrary. It’s a shy, almost childish fantasy: to meet a girl and masturbate in front of her while she watches me. No contact, no sex, no promises. Just her fixed gaze and my hand. Thinking about it turned me on. Actually doing it, though, seemed complicated: with someone you know, it inevitably turns into something more, and with someone you don’t, normally you don’t even consider proposing it.

I’d been turning it over in my head for months, adding mental variations — her dressed, in lingerie, letting me touch her breasts — but I always came back to the purest version: her watching, me silent, nothing else. The specific thrill was in that, in knowing another person was witnessing something so intimate and that the only rule was not to cross the line.

One night, after three glasses of wine, I opened one of those social networks that straddle the line between decent and not, made myself a profile, and uploaded a blurry photo. I wrote, without thinking too much: “Looking for a girl to meet up and watch me jack off. I’ll pay for it. JUST WATCH.” I closed the app and went to bed. I figured I’d delete it in a week without ever using it.

The next morning I had thirty messages.

***

The screening was slow. Obvious fake profiles, men pretending to be women, service offers I wasn’t interested in, the occasional girl clearly desperate for quick money who made me feel more pity than arousal. I didn’t want that. What I wanted was a conversation that could keep pace for several days, someone for whom the proposal seemed, in some small, secret corner, amusing too.

It took me almost two weeks to find her.

Her name was Lucía. She was twenty-two, from Seville, and studying for a master’s degree in Zaragoza. Brunette, green eyes, a smile that in the photos seemed to correct any dirty intent that might have been hiding underneath. She studied something related to marketing and, according to what she told me, she was just scraping by. She paid for the master’s herself, lived in a shared apartment with two other girls, and the idea of making extra money “without touching anyone,” as she put it, struck her as almost funny.

—Honestly —she wrote to me the third night— I’m more curious about the situation than embarrassed by it. I’d never thought anyone would want just that. A guy paying to jerk off in front of a girl and that’s it, no fucking, no blowjob, nothing.

We talked for a week before meeting up. I didn’t want to feel like a customer, or for her to feel like merchandise. I asked about her degree, her family, the first time she’d ever gotten drunk, the last time she’d cried. She told me she had a dog at her parents’ house and missed him. She sent me a photo of the dog. I sent her one of mine. For someone paying a stranger to watch him masturbate, it was a weirdly affectionate routine.

When I asked her if she wanted to go through with it, she replied in two minutes. “Yes. But somewhere I feel calm.”

***

Lucía’s apartment was ruled out because of her roommates. Mine was an option, but she was uncomfortable with the idea of going into the home of someone she barely knew and, honestly, I understood that. We talked about hotels. Too expensive for something so brief, and too exposed: hallways, reception desks, cameras. In the end I proposed an idea that seemed reasonable to both of us: the underground parking garage of the city’s biggest shopping center, on the lowest level, in the middle of Tuesday afternoon. Cars around, but no people. A door she could open and walk out through whenever she wanted.

She agreed.

I picked her up at a roundabout near her faculty. I recognized her before she saw me: she was wearing jeans, a short cream-colored top that emphasized her waist, and a denim jacket over it. Simple, but with that exactness girls have when they know perfectly how they’re going to look from the passenger seat. She got into the car, kissed me twice, and sat with her back very straight, as if posture would help her avoid thinking too much about what we were about to do.

“How’s your day going?” I asked.

“Long,” she said, and gave a quiet laugh. “Four straight hours of class and then this.”

“If at any point you feel uncomfortable, we stop. Okay?”

She nodded. I drove slowly. I asked her about classes, about a classmate she couldn’t stand, about the last book she’d given up on because it bored her. She relaxed. By the time we reached the shopping center, we were already talking with the ease of people on their fifth date, not twenty minutes in.

***

I went down three floors until I found a corner with no cars within fifty feet. I cut the engine. The silence of the garage was thick, the kind of silence that seems to add to the situation instead of subtracting from it. Lucía stared at the car ceiling for a couple of seconds.

“Calm?” I asked.

“Calm,” she replied, though her hand was trembling a little.

I handed her the envelope with the bills we’d agreed on. She took it without counting, put it in her purse, and set the purse at her feet, like someone filing away an unpleasant errand and preferring to forget about it.

“In the back?” I said.

“In the back.”

We both got out of the car and climbed back in through the rear doors. The seat was wide, in an old sedan I’d inherited from my father. We sat on either side, with a hand’s width between our thighs. Having her so close, at that angle, without touching her, was the first thing that sank its teeth into me: the heat of her body reaching me without me brushing against her, the soft scent of something citrusy, the sound of her breathing a little quicker than mine.

“Where do we start?” she asked, trying for a smile.

“By watching me,” I said.

And I looked at her first. I took in her neckline slowly, the line of her collarbone, the curve of her neck. I moved down over the short top, stopped where the fabric clung to her breasts, and guessed, without needing to touch, that she wasn’t wearing a bra. The curve of her tits showed round under the fabric and the nipples were already hard, two rigid points pushing through the cotton. I kept going down to the seam of her jeans, the tight triangle between her thighs. I didn’t touch her. I just looked. Lucía held my gaze and, halfway through my slow inspection, let out a breath through her nose, as if accepting the game.

I unbuckled my belt. Lowered the zipper. Pulled my pants down to my knees and then my briefs. My dick was already half hard from anticipation alone, thick, the heavy vein running clearly from top to bottom, the head peeking out from the foreskin with a clear drop shining on the tip. When it came into view, Lucía’s eyes fell on it almost involuntarily and stayed there, fixed on the hard flesh standing up on its own against my stomach.

“Wow,” she said very quietly. “You’ve got a pretty thick one.”

It wasn’t a theatrical compliment. It was an observation. And that straightforwardness turned me on more than any praise could have. I felt my dick jerk upward just from hearing her say it, a pulse that made more thick semen bead out of the hole.

***

I spat into my right palm, wrapped my hand around my cock, and started jerking off slowly. The foreskin slid up and down over the swollen, purplish head, and the saliva mixed with pre-cum began to make a wet, sticky sound that, in the silence of the garage, was as audible as if we were inside a cave. At first I didn’t look at her, focused on the sensation, leaving her in the exact role she’d asked for: witness. I gripped the base with my thumb and forefinger and dragged my fist to the tip, feeling the head get shinier, tighter by the second.

Then I lifted my eyes and found her. She hadn’t looked away once. Her lips were slightly parted and she was biting the bottom one a little, not coquettishly, but like someone concentrating. Her tongue flicked out for a fraction of a second at the corner of her mouth, as if she were imagining the taste without meaning to.

“Can I ask you things?” I said.

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you saw a cock like this?”

“Three months ago. My ex.”

“Did you like looking at it?”

She took her time answering. My hand kept moving, unhurried, the wet smack of my fist over the slick flesh filling her ears.

“I never really paid attention to it,” she said at last. “It was all more… functional. He’d fuck me, come, and go to sleep.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m looking.”

“What are you looking at?”

“How it’s swelling,” she said, and her voice trembled. “How that liquid keeps coming out the tip. How you tense up completely when you squeeze your hand.”

Something changed in her voice. It dropped a register, became denser, huskier. I sped up a little, my wrist now twisting with more force, up and down, spitting into my palm again so it would glide better. She shifted in the seat, crossed her legs to the other side and then uncrossed them again, which made her top ride up an inch over her navel. It wasn’t a calculated movement. It was pure reflex, that tiny adjustment the body makes when the cunt starts getting wet and underwear suddenly becomes uncomfortable.

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

“Depends.”

“To touch one breast. Over the clothes. Just that.”

She thought about it for two seconds.

“Over the clothes.”

I raised my left hand, without stopping my right, and laid my open palm on her right breast, over the top. I immediately felt the hard nipple poking my palm through the thin fabric, a rock-hard button confirming that she was in this all the way too. I squeezed a little, carefully, and felt her breast fill my whole hand, soft underneath and firm at the tip. Lucía closed her eyes for an instant, let out a tiny breath through her nose, and opened them again at once, as if she’d remembered the pact.

“Keep watching,” I said.

“I’m watching,” she replied, and dropped her eyes back to my fist moving over my shiny cock.

***

I kept my left hand pressed there, my thumb circling her nipple through the top in small loops, while my right hand accelerated. I was pounding myself mercilessly now, the skin on the head ready to burst, my balls tight against my hand, feeling them rise and stick to my body. I focused more on her face than on anything else. On the way her breathing showed in her throat, clipped, broken. On the flush that had climbed into her cheeks and up to her ears. On the way her eyes traveled from my cock to mine and back down to my hand, as if checking that reality was still happening.

“It’s really hard,” she murmured, without me having asked anything. “The tip’s going to pop right out.”

“Say it again.”

“You’re rock hard. Look how it shines. Look how you squeeze it.”

I heard her squeeze her thighs together, one against the other, the faint sound of denim against denim, and I knew without needing to lower my left hand that her cunt was wet. I squeezed her breast a little harder, almost without realizing it, and she didn’t move my hand away. On the contrary: she leaned a fraction forward so the breast would fill my palm more completely.

“Don’t look away,” I asked, my voice already breaking.

“I’m not looking away.”

“Don’t look away when I come.”

“I’m not looking away.”

“I want you to see all my load come out.”

“I want to see it,” she said, and that line, in her good-girl Seville mouth, made me jolt.

She said it softly, almost like a pact. And then, with that repeated phrase hanging in the air of the car, I started to feel the end rushing at me all at once, a hot tug at the base of my cock climbing upward with no brakes. I squeezed my balls with my left hand — I took it off her chest for a second to grab them myself — and went back to her breast. I looked into her green eyes fixed on my fist, her mouth slightly open, and let out a rough groan through clenched teeth.

“I’m coming,” I warned her. “I’m coming looking at you.”

“Come,” she whispered. “Let it all out.”

The first spurt shot out hard and hit my stomach, white and thick, leaving a long streak all the way to my navel. The second slipped over my fist and wet my fingers, hot. The third, fourth, and fifth landed on my hand and thighs, slower, thicker, while I kept squeezing and pumping with the agonizing rhythm of the finish, dragging out the last drop from under the foreskin. Lucía didn’t blink. I saw her green eyes follow every jet, saw her mouth open wider with every pulse of my cock, saw her swallow involuntarily.

She didn’t look away until my dick stopped moving on its own. Nor after that.

“Fuck,” she said very quietly. “So much.”

***

I cleaned up the mess with some wipes I’d brought prepared. I used one on my stomach, another on my hand, another on my now-soft, sensitive cock, still dripping the last remnants. I pulled my briefs and pants back up. Lucía lowered the hand she’d, at some point I don’t remember, rested on her own thigh, very close to her crotch, fingers pressed against the seam of her jeans. We sat in silence for a minute, both still breathing a little fast.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, and smiled. “It was stranger than I expected. And less strange at the same time.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“That’s interesting. I got wet, you know?” she added, without looking at me. “Quite a lot.”

We laughed, although for me that confession sent a delayed throb through my already put-away cock. I got back behind the wheel and started the car. On the way back toward the roundabout we talked about anything and everything, as if we’d just come out of a café. Before getting out, she looked at me from the car door.

“If you ever feel like doing it again,” she said, “write me.”

“Just watching?”

“Just watching. Or whatever else we agree on. Next time maybe you’ll let me suck you off for a while. Just a while.”

She closed the door before I had time to answer. I watched her cross the roundabout with her denim jacket buttoned all the way up and her purse slung over her shoulder. When she disappeared into the crowd, I stayed a while with my hands on the steering wheel, not starting the car, replaying the detail of her fixed gaze nailed to my cock while I came, her lips parted, the whispered “come.” That image, more than anything else that had happened that afternoon, was the one I knew I’d be chasing again.