Chapter 18: La garita del conserje
The buzzing of the fluorescent light was the first thing Javi registered, a cheap, insect-like hum that felt drilled into his temples. Then the smells hit him: stale sweat, old metal, the sharp, oily reek of gasoline from a soaked rag draped over a vice. The conserje’s booth was a metal coffin, barely larger than a prison cell, stacked with dusty spare tires, key rings hung on rusted nails, and a workbench littered with grimy tools.
Amancio filled the space. He wasn’t a large man, but in the confined, cluttered cubicle, his presence was suffocating. He leaned against the closed metal door, a simple, brutal barricade. His uniform shirt was dark with sweat at the armpits and across his rounded belly.
“You’re late,” Amancio said, not bothering to look up from the spark plug he was pretending to clean with a blackened cloth.
“You said you had a package,” Javi mumbled, his voice thin. His hand instinctively went to the pocket of his jeans, where his phone was. The ghost-taste of that night at the pool, now five days past, surfaced in the back of his throat—bitter, shameful, yet followed by a treacherous, warm flutter low in his gut.
“I do.” Amancio tossed the cloth aside. It landed with a soft thump on a stack of yellowing newspapers. He finally looked at Javi. His eyes were small, like a boar’s, and glistened in the flickering light. “Where’s your little friend been? Too good for the pool now?”
“She’s busy. Work.” Javi’s answers were automatic, rehearsed in his head during the anxious walk over.
“Work.” Amancio snorted. He took a step forward, closing the already minimal distance. The smell of him intensified—tobacco, cheap brandy, and that underlying animal musk. “The kind of work she does, I doubt it’s in an office.”
Javi said nothing. He stared at a point on the grimy wall behind Amancio’s shoulder, at a poster for a bullfight from 1992. The tactic of submission, of becoming a non-entity, had worked before.
It didn’t work now.
“You’re a shitty liar.” Amancio’s hand shot out, not at Javi’s face, but at his wrist. His grip was a vise of calloused flesh and bone. He twisted. Pain, white and sharp, lanced up Javi’s arm. A gasp was punched from his lungs.
“I… I don’t know what you want!” Javi stammered, trying to pull back. It was useless.
“I think you do.” Amancio’s voice dropped to a conversational growl. “A perra like that, with a culo que pide polla a gritos… a friend like you, always following her with those eyes de perro mojado… you’ve got pictures. I know you do. You take them for her, for the real men. To show off the merchandise.”
“No,” Javi whispered. The denial was pathetic even to his own ears.
With a contemptuous shove, Amancio released his wrist and slammed Javi back against a metal shelf. Wrenches and sockets clattered. The edge of a steel toolbox dug into his kidney. Amancio loomed over him, one hand planted on the shelf by Javi’s head, caging him. His other hand patted Javi’s front pockets, then his back ones, with a brutal familiarity. He found the phone.
“Give it,” Javi croaked, a feeble spark of defiance.
Amancio just smiled, a crack in his leathery face revealing stained teeth. He held the phone up. “Pin.”
Javi shook his head. The spark died as Amancio’s free hand came up and grabbed a handful of his hair, yanking his head back against the shelf. “El pin, maricón. O te parto los dedos uno a uno con el alicate.”
Tears of pain and helplessness welled in Javi’s eyes. The images flashed—María laughing in the park, turning, the way her denim shorts strained across the phenomenal swell of her ass. Those were his. His secret treasures. The fuel for a thousand private, guilty moments.
“0712,” he breathed, the numbers tasting like ash.
Amancio grunted, released his hair, and tapped the screen. The lock dissolved. He navigated with a thick, grimy thumb, his brow furrowed in concentration. He went straight to the gallery. He scrolled past a few bland screenshots, a picture of a cat. Then he stopped.
There she was.
María, sitting on a low wall in the Parque del Oeste, head thrown back laughing, a joint between her fingers. The next swipe: a profile, her t-shirt riding up, exposing a sliver of soft waist. Then the sequence Javi had taken when she’d asked him to “see if these shorts make my ass look stupid.” They didn’t. They made it look like a universe contained in faded blue denim. He’d taken them from behind as she pretended to examine a flowerbed. Three photos. The first, her looking over her shoulder, a playful smirk. The second, her bending over slightly, the fabric pulling taut, the perfect, heart-shaped curves defined with breathtaking clarity. The third, a straight-on rear view, the sheer volume and roundness almost absurd, utterly mesmerizing.
Amancio let out a long, low whistle. He zoomed in on the third photo, his dirty thumb moving over the screen as if he could feel the texture through the glass. “Joder… Madre de Dios.” He glanced at Javi, a new, oily respect in his eyes. “You know how to take a fucking picture, I’ll give you that. This is better than porn. This is real. This is a culo que tiene historia.”
He kept scrolling. More candid shots: María sipping a beer, María smoking, María walking ahead of him on a street, that magnificent ass moving with a hypnotic, rolling rhythm. Each one was a knife twisting in Javi’s gut, now held in this man’s foul hand.
“You’re a good little dog,” Amancio mused, not looking up from the screen. “Fetching her drinks, holding her purse… and taking these for her to send to the guys who actually fuck her. That’s it, ¿verdad? You’re her puto camarógrafo personal.”
The accuracy of it, stated so coarsely, was unbearable. Javi looked at the floor, at a dark, sticky stain near his foot.
“Look at me.” The command was soft.
Javi didn’t.
Amancio’s hand shot out and gripped his chin, forcing his head up. The man’s eyes were alight with a cruel idea. “You like looking at these, don’t you? You get your little, tiny cock hard looking at these pictures of your friend’s giant ass.”
“No,” Javi choked out.
“Bullshit.” Amancio dropped the phone onto the workbench. It landed with a plastic clatter. He kept his grip on Javi’s chin. “I saw you at the pool. You liked it. You loved it. You swallowed my leche and you fucking loved it.”
The memory was a physical shock. Javi’s knees felt weak.
“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Amancio said, his voice a dark, intimate rumble. “You’re going to get on your knees. You’re going to put that pretty mouth of yours to work. And you’re going to hold your phone, and you’re going to look at these photos of her culo while you do it. I want you to think about her. I want you to imagine it’s her making you do this. That she’s here, telling her little friend Javi to be a good boy and suck this old man’s dick.”
The proposition was so specifically, diabolically tailored to the rotten core of Javi’s desire that it left him hollow. It weaponized his obsession, made it the engine of his degradation.
“I’m not—” Javi began.
Amancio’s grip on his chin tightened painfully. He leaned in, his brandy-breath hot on Javi’s face. “You are. Or I take this phone, I send every one of these pictures to every contact in it. To your mom. To your boss. To her. With a nice message about what a little, photo-snapping pervert you are. How do you think she’ll like that, eh? Knowing her best friend gets hard looking at her ass?”
The threat was existential. It would burn the last fragile bridge he had to her. It would expose the secret sickness at the heart of their friendship. It would be the end.
The fight drained from him completely, leaving a cold, heavy certainty. He was going to do it. He had done worse, and tasted it, and part of him still throbbed with a sick recall of that taste.
Amancio saw the surrender in his eyes. He let go of his chin and took a half-step back. He didn’t need to give another order. Slowly, as if moving through deep water, Javi slid down the metal shelf until his knees hit the concrete floor. It was gritted with sand and oil. He looked up at Amancio, who was already unbuckling his belt with quick, practiced tugs.
The conserje pushed his trousers and worn boxers down over his hips. His cock, half-hard, swung heavily into view. It was thicker than Javi remembered, a blunt, ruddy tool, already glistening with a bead of moisture at the tip. The pubic hair was a grizzled, greyish thicket. The smell, up close, was aggressively male, unwashed and musky.
“The phone,” Amancio grunted.
Javi reached a trembling hand to the workbench, fumbled for his device. He unlocked it. The gallery was still open. He swiped to the series of ass photos. He held it up, the screen shining in the dingy light, María’s captured, oblivious curves a bright rectangle of temptation and torture.
“Good dog,” Amancio murmured. He placed a heavy, hot hand on the top of Javi’s head. Not forcing, yet. Just claiming. “Now. Open.”
Javi’s lips parted. His breath came in shallow, ragged hitches. He stared at the photo. The curve of her right cheek, the shadow of the cleft, the way the denim seemed painted on. He tried to lose himself in it, to let the image swallow the reality.
The fat, blunt head of Amancio’s cock pressed against his lips. It was shockingly hot. The skin was slick. He felt it nudge, insistently.
“Vamos,” Amancio said, his voice a low rasp of impatience.
Javi closed his eyes for a second, then opened them, fixing his gaze on the phone. He let his mouth open wider. The head pushed in. The taste exploded on his tongue—salt, skin, a faint, stale bitterness. It was repulsive. It was electrifying. His own dick, trapped in his jeans, gave a traitorous twitch.
Amancio sighed, a sound of deep satisfaction. He pushed forward slowly, the thick shaft beginning to stretch Javi’s lips, filling his mouth. It was too big. Javi gagged, his throat seizing.
“Tranquilo,” Amancio soothed, his hand tightening in Javi’s hair. “Take it easy. Just relax and look at the pictures. Look at her culo. Think about her.”
Javi tried. He focused on the screen, on the beautiful, monumental curve of her ass. He imagined her voice, not sweet, but that dry, matter-of-fact tone. ‘Venga, Javi, no seas pesado. Es sólo una polla.’ He could almost hear it. The fantasy mingled with the reality—the smell, the taste, the coarse hair tickling his nose, the immense, solid weight on his tongue.
He began to move his head, tentatively, a shallow bob. A strangled, wet sound escaped him.
“That’s it,” Amancio encouraged, his hips giving a slight thrust. “Fucking hell, that’s good. Keep looking at her.”
Javi obeyed. He sucked, his tongue moving flat against the underside of the shaft. His eyes were glued to the photo. As he worked, he swiped to the next one with his thumb. A closer shot. The weave of the denim. The seam running between her cheeks. He moaned around the cock in his mouth, the sound muffled and desperate. The shame was a burning pit in his stomach, but beneath it, fusing with it, was a dark, pooling arousal. This was the ultimate connection. He was servicing a man who wanted María, while worshipping her image. He was the conduit. The sacrifice.
“You love it, you little puto,” Amancio grunted, his composure slipping into raw need. His thrusts became more assertive, fucking into Javi’s mouth with a steady, rhythmic push. “You love sucking dick while you think about her. I can feel it.”
Javi couldn’t deny it. His free hand crept to his own crotch, pressing hard against the painful erection straining there. He felt saliva drip down his chin. Tears, from the strain and the sheer overwhelming violation, tracked through the grime on his cheeks. Yet he sucked with increasing fervor, hollowing his cheeks, letting the head bump against the back of his throat, gagging, then diving back in. The photo blurred through his wet vision. María’s ass became a holy icon, a focal point for his abasement.
Amancio was breathing hard now, a staccato rhythm. “Yeah… yeah, take it, you fucking pervert… think of her… think of her big, fat ass bouncing on a real cock…”
The language, the filth of it, acted like a spur. Javi’s own hips jerked against his hand. He was close. The humiliation was a twisted aphrodisiac, sharper and more potent than any fantasy he’d ever concocted alone in the dark.
“Gonna come,” Amancio announced, his voice tight. He grabbed the back of Javi’s head with both hands, his fingers digging in painfully, holding him in place. “You’re gonna swallow it. You’re gonna look at her fucking ass and you’re gonna swallow every drop.”
Javi couldn’t have pulled away if he wanted to. He was pinned, impaled on the thick, pulsing flesh. He stared at the phone, at the flawless curves, and waited.
Amancio’s whole body tensed. A guttural roar tore from his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated release. The first hot, bitter jet hit the back of Javi’s throat. He convulsed, but the hands on his head were immovable. He was forced to swallow, gulping down the salty, viscous fluid as it pumped in relentless spurts. It was thicker than he remembered, more bitter. It coated his tongue, his throat.
Through it all, he stared at the photo. His own orgasm ripped through him, silent and violent, soaking the front of his jeans in hot, shameful wetness. The two releases—one forced down his throat, one bursting in his pants—synced in a devastating, soul-annihilating climax.
Finally, it was over. Amancio’s grip loosened. He slid out of Javi’s mouth with a soft, wet sound, his spent cock dribbling onto the floor between Javi’s knees. Javi slumped forward, catching himself on one hand. He dropped the phone. It clattered on the concrete, screen-down. He spat, a string of saliva and semen splattering on the oil-stained floor. He gagged, his body trying desperately to expel the invasion.
Amancio tucked himself away, zipped up his trousers. He was breathing heavily, but a profound, smug satisfaction settled on his features. He looked down at Javi, a crumpled, weeping mess on the floor.
“Not bad,” he said, as if rating a service. He bent down, picked up Javi’s phone, wiped the screen casually on his trousers, and handed it back. “You keep those pictures safe, eh? We might need them again.”
Javi took the phone. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely grip it. He couldn’t speak. His throat was raw, burning.
Amancio unlocked the metal door. The comparatively fresh air from the parking lot washed in, feeling like a slap. “See you around, perrito,” he said, and gave Javi a light, dismissive kick with the toe of his boot, not hard, just enough to nudge him towards the open door.
Javi crawled out onto the sun-baked asphalt. He pushed himself to his feet, his legs nearly giving way. He stumbled away from the booth, not looking back. The taste was in him, a new layer over the old one, a sedimentary record of his ruin. He could feel the cold, sticky mess in his underwear, chafing against his skin with every step.
He walked blindly, aimlessly, for