What the Voyeur Saw in the Restaurant Kitchen

The sun played with the clouds that July afternoon, drawing light and dark patches across the sand. The murmur of the beachgoers faded into the roar of the sea, that white noise that makes anyone invisible if they know how to sit in the right place.

Andrés had settled beneath a hibiscus-print beach umbrella, away from the busiest area but not so far away as to attract attention. He was past fifty, with the beginnings of a belly and close-cropped gray hair. Dark glasses covered half his face and gave him the only advantage he needed on an afternoon like that. No one knows where a man is looking behind dark lenses.

To his left, barely a couple of steps away, three girls had set up their own camp. The one lying facedown wore a black thong that disappeared between two large, brown buttocks, their flesh slightly sagging. Tan lines formed a map across her back. The one beside her, a blonde with almost translucent skin, dozed on her back with her small breasts bare, gleaming with suntan lotion. Her nipples had hardened in the breeze, two pink points aimed at the sky. The third, with short hair and a compact ass, propped herself up on her elbows with headphones on. The white bikini fabric, wet and clinging to her skin, revealed more than it covered: the bulge of her pussy was fully outlined, the fold of her lips drawn as though she were naked. Every time she moved her hips to the rhythm of her music, Andrés held his breath.

Don’t stare. Don’t move your head. Breathe normally.

That had been his chief rule for years. The trick to being a good voyeur was always to seem bored, absent, almost asleep. Someone who pretended not to be interested saw much more than someone who wanted it openly.

A couple passed in front of the umbrella then. He had black tattoos from his shoulder to his wrist, and a tan verging on burnt. She had a cleavage that didn’t fit inside her bikini, the cups barely containing what they promised. Andrés followed the girl with his eyes held still, calculating angles. She walked with a short, jogging gait, her thighs slightly marked by cellulite, the swimsuit fabric tucked into the cleft of her buttocks. Every step made them tremble. They had small pink bumps, tiny, almost imperceptible. Andrés focused on that detail the way other people focused on the horizon. Without meaning to, he imagined the fabric being yanked away, that fleshy slit opened to the sun, a thick strand of saliva running down her perineum before he buried his cock inside her to the hilt.

When the couple moved away toward the shore, he returned to his umbrella neighbors. The blonde had turned over and was showing her back to the sky, displaying its curve with the same carelessness with which she displayed her face. Her thong had shifted slightly, revealing the edge of her ass, the dark shadow of her anus hinted at in the crease. The woman in the white bikini had sat up to drink some water, and her nipples could be made out through the wet fabric, hard and tugging at it as if they wanted to tear through.

Without thinking much about it, he slipped a hand beneath the towel. He was hard, his cock pressed against the elastic of his trunks, the tip already wet and sticking to the fabric. By then it was a familiar matter; he handled it as naturally as other people checked their phones. He squeezed himself twice, felt his shaft throb against his fingers, the thick vein on the back of it pulsing beneath the tip of his thumb. But he was too exposed. He decided to get up.

He walked toward the sea at an unhurried pace, his flip-flops in one hand, his swim trunks burdened by something the polyester could not quite disguise. He entered the water slowly, until a wave wet his belly. He went a couple of meters farther, until the water reached his waist.

He needed to piss. He did what many others would have been doing at that very moment, without telling anyone. Then he let his hand slip beneath his trunks and wrapped his fist around his cock. He began slowly, moving the skin up and down, squeezing the base so the blood would pool in the glans. The cold water brushed his balls, contrasting with the heat of his sex between his fingers. With his free hand he pinched his scrotum and pulled it downward while the other hand sped up. Small movements, almost imperceptible from the beach. He closed his eyes. The blonde with her nipples in the wind, the woman in the white bikini with her pussy outlined beneath the wet fabric, the cellulite-marked thighs of the girl who had walked past, the slit of the woman in the black thong—all of them blended into a single shapeless image. He imagined the three of them kneeling in the sand, taking turns sucking him, the blonde licking his balls while the woman in the white bikini took his glans down her throat. He clenched his teeth. A whip-crack of pleasure shot up his back, his ass tightened, and he came beneath the water in long pulses, four or five spurts of semen swept away by the current within seconds. The sea foam left everything clean, without a trace. None of the heads onshore turned.

He emerged from the water breathing calmly, his eyes clearer.

***

Twenty minutes later he was sitting on the terrace of a beach restaurant, his wet hair still plastered to his forehead. It was one of those modern beach bars, with raw-linen tablecloths and lights hanging from a wooden pergola. Waiters and waitresses moved between the tables in identical uniforms: tight black pants and white shirts open by two buttons.

He ordered a chilled white wine and made himself comfortable. The dark glasses were still in place.

One waitress in particular caught his attention almost immediately. She was not the prettiest, nor by any means the youngest—she must have been in her early thirties—but there was something in her clenched jaw, in the way she planted her feet as she walked, that set her apart from the rest. Her hair was tied in a low bun, with two loose strands stuck to her neck. Her round, compact ass barely moved inside her pants. She was the kind of woman who carried her body with discipline. The difficult kind, he thought. The kind who pressed her lips together when she came, the kind who let herself be fucked in silence so the other person wouldn’t have the pleasure of hearing her moan.

“Are you eating here or just drinking?” she asked him as she passed, without looking at him.

“Eating too.”

“I’ll send someone over with the menu.”

Her name was Lucía, as he was able to read on the small plaque sewn above her pocket. He ended up being served by a guy with hair flattened by too much gel and too much cologne—friendly, efficient, irritating. Another girl served him dessert, this one with a ponytail and a sweet voice, her ass a little saggy but her eyes pretty. Andrés kept his eyes on Lucía in the meantime. He watched her cross the terrace several times, serve a table of German tourists, laugh forcedly with a birthday group and, finally, stop beside the kitchen door to speak with a man around fifty. He wore a white shirt too, though with a stained apron. He was half a head taller than Lucía. Judging by the way he moved his hands and the way she threw her head back, it was not a friendly conversation.

He tried to calm her down. Lucía would not be calmed. Finally, after several tense seconds, they both went inside.

Andrés finished his wine and decided that he needed to use the bathroom too.

***

The hallway leading to the restrooms passed in front of the kitchens. A frosted-glass partition concealed what was happening inside, but the door opening onto the inner courtyard allowed sounds and glimpses through. Andrés slowed down. Then he took two steps back, slipping into the dark recess where empty beer crates were piled up.

“What’s wrong with you today?” he heard.

“Nothing. What about you?” she replied.

“There are customers out there. If you have something to say to me, say it here. Out there, we keep up appearances. Is that clear?”

“Like hell.”

The man gave a brief laugh without humor.

“Look, if I could, I’d fire you right now.”

“Fire me. Fire me and I’ll report you.”

“Report me? Fine. If you’re going to do it, at least let it be for something.”

“Leave me alone. Le—”

There was a sharp sound, as if a body had been slammed against a steel table. Then silence. Then the sound of a buckle, the creak of fabric.

“No… not the pants.”

Andrés held his breath. The blood concentrated itself once again where it usually did, and his cock swelled against the seam of his still-wet trunks. He slowly stuck his head out of the recess and peered through the crack in the door.

Lucía was bent over the preparation table, her forearms resting on the stainless steel, her black pants halfway down her legs and her cheap white panties pulled down to her thighs. Her buttocks were exactly as he had imagined them: small, white at the edges, brown in the center. Between them he could see the entire cleft, her dark, wrinkled asshole, and below it her pussy with its lips pressed together, surrounded by short, dark hair. Two reddish, parallel marks had just been made across her buttocks. The owner—because it could only be him—held a wooden spoon, one of the large ones cooks used to stir pots. He raised it. Lucía closed her eyes but said nothing. The blow sounded hollow and dull, leaving a third angry line on her skin.

“You want to report me?”

“Shut up,” she murmured.

“I’m asking if you want to report me.”

The second blow was harder. Lucía let out a short sigh, almost inaudible, nothing like a cry of pain. Andrés noticed her parting her knees very slightly. Only a few centimeters. Enough for the wet gleam of her open pussy to appear between her thighs, a thick strand already hanging from her lower lip.

“Keep going,” Lucía said, her voice pressed against the table. “If you’re going to do it, do it properly.”

The owner dropped the spoon. He calmly lowered his zipper and pulled out his cock, thick and red, its tip sticky. First he ran it over Lucía’s burning buttocks, rubbing it across the red marks as though he wanted to seal them. Then he lowered the glans to the cleft of her pussy and drove it in hard, all the way to the balls, in a single thrust. Lucía bit down on her forearm to keep from screaming. The sound was wet and sticky, a splashing that filled the kitchen’s silence.

“Bitch,” he growled, grabbing her bun and pulling her head back. “Report this too.”

He began fucking her against the steel table with short, dry, noisy thrusts. Lucía’s buttocks collided with the owner’s belly, and the red marks lit up more brightly with every impact. Her mouth was open against the metal, a little puddle of saliva forming beneath her cheek. When he slowed his pace, he pulled his cock all the way out—it gleamed with her juices all the way to the base—spat on her dark asshole and plunged back into her pussy with one thrust.

“More…” Lucía whispered, and this time Andrés heard her clearly. “Put it in deeper.”

The owner slapped her twice with an open hand before grabbing her by the hips and beginning to thrust in earnest. The table screeched against the floor. Andrés had unzipped his trunks inside the recess by the crates and was jerking off with his fist clenched, never taking his eyes from the crack. He watched the cook’s cock slide in and out of Lucía’s pussy, covered in white foam; watched his balls slap against her swollen clitoris; watched her brace herself on her forearms to push backward and take him deeper.

“I’m going to come inside you,” he panted.

“Do it. Do it, you bastard. Fill me.”

The owner buried himself to the hilt, went still and released a hoarse grunt. Andrés watched Lucía’s buttocks tighten and the man’s ass pulse as he came inside her. She closed her eyes, clenched her teeth and came too, silently, in a long tremor that ran through her thighs. Andrés clenched his fist, bit his lips and came inside his trunks in two hot spurts that spattered his belly.

When the owner pulled out, a white strand fell from Lucía’s pussy and ran down the inside of her thigh to her knee. She remained leaning against the table for several seconds, catching her breath, without pulling up her panties yet. He heard something metallic at the far end of the hallway, perhaps a tray falling, and Andrés withdrew from the crack with the same caution with which he had peered through it.

***

He finished urinating in the restroom almost without needing to. He cleaned his belly with paper, washed his hands calmly and looked at himself in the mirror. The dark glasses hung from the collar of his shirt. His face told him nothing new: the same bored face of the man who knew how to sit in the right place.

He returned to his table on the terrace, avoiding the kitchen hallway. He ordered a coffee. While he waited, he saw Lucía come out with her notepad in hand, standing straight, her shoulders pulled back. She served the couple at the next table in a neutral, almost professional voice. She took down an order for two coffees and a dessert, repeated the order aloud and even smiled. No one at that table could have guessed what was happening beneath the fabric of her black pants: panties soaked with someone else’s semen, stuck to her pussy; a thick strand still sliding down the inside of her thighs; her buttocks burning beneath the seam.

As she turned to go back inside, just before crossing the door, she reached a hand to her right buttock and rubbed it through her pants. A brief, minimal gesture, the kind of gesture noticed only by someone who had spent years learning to look without moving his head. Andrés caught every bit of it, from the angle of her elbow to the fleeting grimace she let escape before composing herself again.

Lucía passed through the bead curtain and disappeared inside.

Andrés drank his coffee slowly, without hurrying. He thought about the owner, the spoon, the knees that had parted on their own at the last second, the stream of semen sliding down Lucía’s thigh. He thought about how many afternoons those two had spent like that, how many times Lucía had arrived at work with the silent promise of punishment, how many times she had gone back to serving tables with her pussy dripping beneath her uniform. He also thought that there was a secret in that restaurant that no customer would ever see, and that he, sitting behind dark glasses, had looked through exactly the right crack.

When he paid, he left a generous tip on the table. He placed it on the saucer with the folded bill facing upward, so Lucía would see it clearly when she came back to collect it. Then he walked back toward the umbrella, thinking that this had undoubtedly been a good afternoon at the beach.