Chapter 17: La mamada doble forzada
The question hung in the thick, chlorine-scented air. Javi’s hand stopped moving on himself. His mind went blank, a white static. Try? The word was too small, too simple, for the cataclysm it implied.
Amancio didn’t wait for an answer. He pulled out of María with a slick, sucking pop that made Javi flinch. He stood, his thick erection bobbing, glistening with her wetness. He looked down at Javi, who was still huddled on the towel, a pathetic, exposed thing.
“Aquí,” Amancio grunted, gesturing to the space on the cement between his spread legs. “Arriba. Los dos.”
María slowly, wearily, pushed herself up from the lounger. The torn fabric of her bikini bottom hung limply. She didn’t look at Javi. She moved like a sleepwalker, lowering herself to her knees on the hard, gritty cement beside Amancio’s left leg. She placed her hands on her thighs and stared ahead, at the murky water in the deep end.
“Javi,” Amancio said, his voice a low command that brooked no delay.
Javi’s limbs were lead. He couldn’t move.
It was María who turned her head. Her eyes were hollow, emptied out. “Venga,” she said flatly. No encouragement, just a fatigued instruction. “Ya estás aquí. Acaba.”
The sheer normalcy of her tone, as if she were telling him to pass the salt, broke the paralysis. A choked sound escaped his throat. He crawled forward. The cement scraped his knees through the towel. He positioned himself on his knees next to her, mirroring her posture, a supplicant before the thick, veined idol of Amancio’s cock. The smell was overwhelming up close: a pungent mix of her musky scent, male sweat, and the faint, ever-present chlorine. The penis itself was a monstrous thing at eye-level, flushed dark purple, the head swollen and wet, a single droplet of clear fluid beading at the slit.
Amancio’s hand, rough and calloused, settled on the top of Javi’s head. His fingers tangled in his hair, not gently. “Baja,” he ordered, and pushed down.
Javi resisted for a fraction of a second, a stiffening of his neck, then the pressure increased, unforgiving. He let his head be forced down. The hot, slick tip of Amancio’s cock bumped against his closed lips.
“Abre,” Amancio said.
Next to him, María sighed, a sound of profound resignation. Then she leaned forward and took the head into her mouth without ceremony. She didn’t look at Javi. She just started, her cheeks hollowing as she applied suction.
“Tú también,” Amancio grunted, shaking Javi’s head by the grip in his hair. The movement mashed Javi’s face against the side of the shaft, the skin hot and strangely smooth. The taste of her, of salt, flooded his mouth where his lips pressed against the flesh.
Trembling violently, Javi opened his mouth. He didn’t know what to do. His lips brushed the ridge just below the head, where María’s mouth was working. He felt the movement of her jaw, heard the soft, wet sounds. He darted his tongue out, a terrified flick, and tasted the mingled slickness.
“Así,” Amancio breathed, his hips giving a slight thrust that pushed more of himself into María’s mouth and smeared across Javi’s face. “Los dos juntos. Como buenos amigos.” He laughed, a dry, crackling sound.
María pulled back, saliva stringing from her lips to the glistening head. She turned her head slightly towards Javi. Her expression was unreadable, a mask of weary compliance. “Vamos, Javi,” she said, her voice eerily calm, almost conversational. “No seas tímido. Es sólo una polla.”
She placed a hand on the back of his neck. Her touch was cool. She didn’t push, but her guidance was firm. She guided his mouth to the base, where the thick shaft met the thatch of coarse, grey hair. “Lame aquí,” she instructed, as if teaching him a minor task. “Yo me ocupo de arriba.”
Dazed, obeying, Javi leaned in. He pressed his open mouth to the hot, sweat-damp skin at the root. The taste was intensely male, salty and earthy. He ran his tongue along the underside, feeling the thick, roping vein. His own arousal was a distant, shamed throb, completely overshadowed by the surreal horror of the act.
María went back to the head, taking it deep, her lips stretching around the girth. Amancio groaned, his fingers tightening in both their hair now, holding them in place. He began to move his hips in a shallow, rhythmic pulse, fucking slowly into María’s mouth while the base rocked against Javi’s tongue and lips.
Javi kept licking, his eyes squeezed shut. He could hear everything: the wet, rhythmic sucks from María, Amancio’s heavy breathing, the distant traffic, the insane chorus of crickets in the bushes. He felt María’s hand leave his neck. Then her fingers were on his chin, turning his head. He opened his eyes.
She had released the cock, which stood wet and solid between them. She was looking at him, her face closer than it had been all day. Her lips were swollen, shiny. “Ahora juntos,” she whispered. There was no warmth in it, just a tactical directive. “Más fácil.”
She moved her head forward, taking the side of the head into her mouth again. She nodded for him to do the same. Mechanically, Javi leaned in. His lips met the hot, slippery skin on the opposite side of the shaft, just below the crown. His nose brushed against her cheek. They were sharing it. Actually sharing it. Their breaths mingled, hot and quick. He could see the fine pores of her skin, a tiny scar near her eyebrow, the utter blankness in her brown eyes.
He opened his mouth wider, trying to mimic her, and took as much of the shaft as he could. It was too big. His teeth scraped lightly and Amancio hissed, “Cuidado, cabrón.” Javi flinched, but María’s hand came up and cupped his jaw, adjusting his angle. Her thumb stroked his cheekbone once, a fleeting, bizarre gesture of reassurance.
They found a dreadful, synchronized rhythm. Amancio held still, letting them work. María would suck on the head, her tongue swirling, and Javi would lick and kiss the shaft, his own tongue sometimes meeting hers as they passed over the same throbbing inch of flesh. The intimacy of it was catastrophic. This was not the fantasy of listening at a door. This was the taste of another man on his tongue, the heat of María’s face pressed close to his, the shared degradation that was somehow more binding than any kiss they had never shared.
“Joder, qué putas más buenas,” Amancio rasped, his voice thick with impending climax. “Así… chupad… chupad bien…”
His grip on their hair became urgent, almost painful. His hips started to twitch, no longer passive. Javi felt the cock pulse violently against his tongue. A sharp, salty spurt hit the back of María’s throat. She gagged slightly but held on, her eyes locking with Javi’s. They were wide now, alert.
Amancio groaned, a long, guttural sound torn from his chest. “Ahí va… traga, putas, traga…”
María’s hand flew up and clasped the back of Javi’s head, holding him firmly in place against Amancio’s groin. She didn’t break eye contact. She took the full, pulsing eruption deep in her mouth, her throat working as she swallowed. Javi could feel the jumps of the cock, could taste the new, bitter tang in the pre-cum that slickened his own tongue.
It seemed to go on forever. Finally, Amancio’s body sagged, his grip loosening. He slipped out of María’s mouth with a final, wet sound. He was still semi-hard, dripping onto the cement between them.
María released Javi’s head. She sat back on her heels, her chest rising and falling. She didn’t swallow immediately. She leaned towards Javi, her face coming so close he could see the flecks of gold in her irises. Then she kissed him.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was a direct, purposeful transfer. Her lips pressed hard against his, and her tongue pushed into his mouth. The warm, thick, bitter-salty flood of Amancio’s semen filled his mouth. He gagged, his body convulsing in revolt, but she held his face, her hand gripping his jaw, and kept her mouth sealed over his until he was forced to swallow or choke. He swallowed. The taste was overwhelming, a profound violation that seeded itself in the very core of him.
She pulled back. A silvery strand of cum and saliva connected their lips for a second before breaking. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes never leaving his. They were hard, almost accusing.
“Compartir es cuidar, cariño,” she whispered, the old, ironic saying landing with the weight of a shovel.
Amancio chuckled, a sound of pure satisfaction. He tucked his softening penis back into his stained trousers, zipping up with a casual rustle. “Buen trabajo,” he said, as if dismissing workers. “Ya sabéis dónde estoy si os volvéis a aburrir.” He gave María’s head a patronizing pat, then turned and walked away, his boots crunching on the gravel path that led back to the maintenance shed. He didn’t look back.
Silence descended, broken only by the hum of a streetlight flickering on. The pool water was now a dark, impenetrable inkwell reflecting the first stars.
Javi remained on his knees, the cement’s chill finally seeping through the towel into his bones. The taste in his mouth was a tomb. He stared at the spot where Amancio had stood.
María got to her feet slowly, stiffly. She picked up her torn bikini bottom, looked at it with a detached expression, and simply dropped it into a nearby trash bin. She pulled her sundress from where it was draped over a chair and slipped it over her head. It fell to her mid-thigh, covering her.
She walked over to where Javi’s clothes were piled, picked up his t-shirt and jeans, and brought them to him. She dropped them on the towel beside him.
“Vamos,” she said. Her voice was drained, neutral. “Se está haciendo tarde.”
He couldn’t move. He was a pillar of salt, of shame, of solidified degradation.
“Javi.” Her voice sharpened a fraction. “Levanta.”
His eyes finally flickered up to her. She was standing over him, her face in shadow, backlit by the apricot glow of the security light. He saw not the goddess of his obsession, nor the cruel conspirator of minutes ago, but a tired young woman whose shoulders slumped with a weight he could only guess at.
With a shuddering effort, he pushed himself up. His legs were numb. He dressed with clumsy, fumbling hands, not caring that he was pulling his jeans over his still-damp, unclean skin. He couldn’t look at her.
They gathered their things—the empty beer can, the towel, her bag—in silence. The walk out of the pool complex, through the gate that clicked shut behind them, and onto the quiet, tree-lined street was soundless. The normal world—a man walking a dog, a couple arguing on a balcony, the smell of someone’s dinner—felt like a grotesque, brightly painted stage set.
After two blocks, she lit a cigarette, the flare of the match briefly illuminating her placid, closed-off face. She offered him one. He took it. The tobacco smoke helped, a little, to scour the other taste from his tongue.
They reached the square where they usually parted ways. She stopped under a plane tree, its leaves whispering in the night breeze.
“Bueno,” she said, finally looking at him directly. “¿Estás bien?”
The question was so absurd, so inadequate, that a strangled, wet sound escaped him. It wasn’t a laugh or a sob, but something in between.
She misinterpreted it. She shrugged, taking a drag. “Fue una cosa rara. Ya pasó.” It was a weird thing. It’s over.
He just stared at her. Ya pasó. As if it were a minor disagreement, a spilled drink.
She shifted her weight, uncomfortable under his silence. “Mira… no se lo cuentes a nadie, ¿vale? Que fue… una guarrada de borrachos.” Don’t tell anyone. It was just drunk filth.
He found his voice, though it was a ragged whisper. “No estábamos borrachos.”
She waved a hand, dismissing the detail. “Da igual. Fue lo que fue. No tiene que significar nada.” It doesn’t have to mean anything.
But it did. It meant everything. It had rewritten the rules of their entire universe in the space of twenty minutes. He understood now, with a chilling clarity, that there was no bottom. There was no limit to what he would endure, to what she would facilitate, in this twisted theater they inhabited. The line had not just been crossed; it had been vaporized.
“¿Vas a estar bien para llegar a casa?” she asked, a pragmatic afterthought.
He nodded, unable to speak again.
“Vale. Pues hablamos mañana.” She gave him a small, ghost of a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Then she turned and walked away, the sound of her sandals a soft slap-slap on the pavement that grew fainter until it was swallowed by the night.
Javi stood under the tree until his cigarette burned down to the filter, scorching his fingers. The taste in his mouth was now permanent. He knew, as he finally began the long, slow walk to his empty apartment, that he would crave it tomorrow. He would hate himself for craving it. He would wait for her message. And when it came, he would answer.