Chapter 22: El sacrificio final
The stale coffee smell in Javi’s apartment had finally been overpowered, replaced by the cloying scent of sweat and cheap weed. The cracked leather sofa seemed to sag deeper under the weight of the silence that had followed María’s confession. She had pulled her leggings up, finished her cigarette, and was now scrolling through her phone as if she’d just commented on the weather. Amancio had finally zipped his trousers, his expression one of smug, satiated ownership.
Javi felt hollowed out. The words “total bullshit” echoed in the vacuum where his understanding of the evening had been. He wasn’t an audience. He was a prop. A convenient, pathetic excuse.
“Well,” Amancio said, slapping his knees and standing up with a groan. “That was a hell of a welcome back. But my back’s killing me. This sofa’s a piece of shit, Javi. You should get a new one.” He stretched, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of hairy, slack stomach. “I’m heading down. Early shift tomorrow.”
He walked to the door without a backward glance. The click of the latch was deafening.
María sighed, stubbing out her cigarette in an empty soda can. She finally looked at Javi, and for a fleeting second, something flickered in her eyes—not quite guilt, but a wary recognition of the damage. It vanished behind a wall of practicality.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, her voice flat. “You got your show. You got to see everything. Up close. Isn’t that what you always secretly wanted?”
Javi couldn’t speak. His throat was sealed shut with shame.
“It’s just sex, Javi. Bodies. It doesn’t mean anything.” She stood up, wincing slightly as she adjusted the tight leggings. “I’m going to take a shower. Your bathroom still have hot water?”
He managed a faint nod.
She disappeared down the hall. The sound of the lock engaging, then the rush of the shower, filled the apartment. Javi sat in the yellow lamplight, the ghost of Amancio’s arm still heavy around his shoulders, the imprint of María’s laughter branded on his mind.
He didn’t know how long he sat there. The water stopped. He heard the shuffle of her feet, the clatter of his towel rack. When she emerged, her hair was damp, slicked back. She was wearing one of his old band t-shirts. It hung to her mid-thigh. She looked younger, softer. The María from college, before the hardness set in.
She didn’t sit next to him. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “He’s going to be insufferable now,” she said, more to herself than to him. “Thinking he has a standing invitation. Creeping around.”
Javi found his voice, a raspy whisper. “You said you wanted him to.”
“I did,” she admitted, no trace of the earlier triumphant grin. “In the moment. But now… now he’s got it in his head. He’ll be lurking. Making comments.” She rubbed her face. “Fuck. I need him to be jealous, not… proprietary.”
A strange, brittle idea began to form in the wreckage of Javi’s mind. “So make him jealous again,” he heard himself say.
She looked at him, intrigued. “How?”
“You said the fashion show was bullshit. That I was the excuse.” He took a shaky breath. “Do it for real this time. For me. But let him see it. Let him think it’s real. That you chose me. Over him.”
María’s eyebrows shot up. She let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You? Javi, come on. He’d never believe it.”
The words stung, but they were the fuel he needed. “He might. If you sell it. If you… touch me. Like you meant it. In front of him. He saw how you were with me before he… intervened. He saw you sit on my lap. He might buy it if you go further.”
She studied him, her head tilted. The calculation in her eyes was clinical. “You’d want that? To put on a show for that pig? After what he just did? After what I just said?”
Yes, screamed every twisted, hungry, defeated fiber of his being. To have her hands on him, even as a lie. To have Amancio see it. To flip the humiliation, even momentarily, even fictionally. It was the only currency he had left.
“It’s the only way to get him off your back,” Javi said, parroting her own transactional logic. “A last sacrifice. For both of us.”
María was silent for a long minute. She walked over to the window, peering through the gap in the curtains down to the streetlamp-lit sidewalk below. “He’s down there,” she murmured. “Leaning against the lamppost.Smoking. Waiting to see if I come down.” She turned back to Javi. A resigned, almost grim determination settled on her features. “Okay. One last time. But we sell it. You don’t freeze up this time. You understand? You touch me back. You act like you want me. Or he’ll never believe it.”
“I understand,” Javi said, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“Go get him. Tell him… I don’t know. Tell him you found my earring. Tell him I want to apologize for being a bitch. Something. Get him back up here.”
Javi moved like an automaton. He descended the three flights of stairs, his legs weak. Amancio was exactly where María had said, a silhouette against the orange glow.
“She forgot an earring,” Javi mumbled, not meeting his eyes. “She’s pissed. Wants to… talk to you.”
Amancio smirked, dropping his cigarette and crushing it under his heel. “Knew she couldn’t just leave it like that. Women always want the last word.” He followed Javi back inside, up the stairs, his presence a dense shadow at Javi’s back.
The scene in the living room was reset. María had turned the music back on, the same low, pulsing reggaeton. She was standing by the sofa, the t-shirt just covering the essentials. She had put the black leggings back on. Her face was a mask of contrition.
“Amancio,” she said, her voice strained but sweet. “Look, I’m sorry. I was a bitch. I was wound up. I shouldn’t have said those things.” She gestured to the sofa. “Sit. Please. Have a drink with us.”
Suspicion warred with conceit in Amancio’s small eyes. Conceit won. He sat, heavily, in the same spot as before. Javi sat beside him, leaving a deliberate space between them. The stage was set.
“I just feel so bad,” María said, not sitting. She began to move, a slow, hesitant sway of her hips. “I used Javi. I used you. It was shitty.” Her eyes were on Javi now, wide and imploring. “I want to make it up to you, Javi. For real this time. No games.”
She turned her back to the sofa, presenting the magnificent, taut curve of her ass in the leggings. She bent forward, placing her hands on her knees, just as she had before. But this time, her gaze was fixed on the opposite wall, giving Javi the uninterrupted, primo view she knew he craved.
“This is for you,” she said over her shoulder, her voice dropping, losing its performative sweetness, gaining a raw edge that was far more convincing. “Just you.”
She began to twerk. It was slower than before.More deliberate. Each clench and release of her glutes was a defined, powerful undulation. The fabric stretched and gleamed in the lamplight. She lowered herself, deepening the arch of her back, until the roundness of her ass was all Javi could see, a planet in his private sky.
He didn’t freeze. The instructions were etched in fire in his mind. You touch me back.
His hand, trembling only slightly, reached out. He placed his palm on the small of her back, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin material. He slid it down, over the breathtaking swell, and cupped the firm flesh of her right cheek. He squeezed.
A soft, genuine gasp escaped María. She hadn’t expected the firmness of his grip. She pushed back against his hand, a subtle grind, encouraging him. “Yeah,” she breathed. “That’s it.”
Javi’s other hand joined the first. He was actually touching her. Not a fleeting brush, but a claiming. He kneaded the incredible softness, his fingers digging into the resilient flesh. He could feel the separate muscles working beneath his palms as she continued to circle and dip. He was hard, painfully so, and he didn’t try to hide it.
He saw Amancio stiffen beside him. The old man’s earlier contentment curdled into something dark and watchful.
María, feeling Javi’s engagement, leaned back further, resting her weight against his hands, letting him support her as she rocked. Her head lolled to the side, her eyes closed in a pantomime of pleasure. “Just you, Javi,” she moaned, loud enough for Amancio to hear. “God, your hands…”
It was working. Javi felt a surge of something like power. His fingers slid lower, tracing the seam of the leggings where they disappeared between her legs. He pressed the heel of his hand against her.
Then, a different hand landed on María’s other hip.
Javi’s head snapped to the side. Amancio had leaned across him, his arm invading the space, his thick, grimy fingers splaying possessively over María’s left buttock, mirroring Javi’s hold.
María’s rhythm broke. She twisted her head, her eyes flying open. “What the hell, Amancio? I said this is for Javi!”
“And I’m just helping,” Amancio growled, his face close to Javi’s, his breath a sour cloud. “Kid’s doing good, but he needs a guide. Look at him. He’s drowning in it.” He squeezed, his grip brutal compared to Javi’s tentative exploration. He pulled the fabric taut, outlining the perfect orb. “See? You grab it like you mean it. Not like you’re asking permission.”
Javi’s face burned. The spell was shattered. He was an apprentice again. A pupil.
“Get your hand off me,” María demanded, but there was less force in it now. Her body, trained by years of responding to dominant takes, had already acknowledged Amancio’s claim. A slight tremor went through her.
“Or what?” Amancio challenged, his fingers digging in. “You’ll stop? You’ll choose his little soft hands over mine? Go on. Choose.”
It was the same trap. María’s eyes met Javi’s. They were full of a frantic apology. This wasn’t the plan. But the plan was paper against the gale force of Amancio’s will. “Fine,” she spat, the word tight. “Fine. You want to play? Play. But you stay on your side.”
It was a pathetic border treaty, and they all knew it. Amancio chuckled, victorious. He didn’t remove his hand. He kept it there, a branding iron, as María reluctantly began to move again.
Her twerking lost its focus. It became a nervous, jerky motion. She was rubbing back against two sets of hands now. Javi’s, which had gone limp and tentative again, and Amancio’s, which was active, predatory. He didn’t just hold. He groped. He separated her cheeks through the fabric, his thumb pushing insistently at the center. He slapped her lightly, the sound a sharp crack in the room.
“See how it jiggles?” he said to Javi, as if giving a lesson. “That’s quality. That’s weight.”
María flinched with each slap, but she didn’t stop. Her defiance was curdling into a perverse, shameful arousal. Javi could see it in the deepening flush on her neck, in the way her breath hitched. She was trying to maintain the connection with him, grinding back towards his lap, but Amancio’s side was exerting a gravitational pull.
Then Amancio stood up. He didn’t step away. He moved right behind her, his crotch level with her ass. He placed both hands on her hips, stilling her. “Enough dancing. Let’s feel the merchandise properly.”
Javi watched, helpless, as Amancio guided her backwards. María shuffled, her eyes wide and locked on Javi’s, until her ass was pressed firmly against the old man’s groin.
The difference was immediate and obscene.
When she’d rubbed against Javi, the pressure had been a muted, promising throb through layers of denim. Now, the bulge that met her was a dense, rigid log straining against rough work trousers. It wasn’t just longer. It was thicker, a pronounced, aggressive presence.
“Oh, fuck,” María whispered, the curse torn from her.
“Feel that?” Amancio murmured into her hair, his eyes on Javi. “That’s what a real man carries. Not a little fucking acorn. A proper tool.” He rocked his hips, grinding the massive bulge against the cleft of her ass. “Go on, Javi. Feel it. See what she’s comparing you to.”
Javi couldn’t move. His hand was still on her right cheek, a forgotten relic.
Amancio, with one hand, undid his belt buckle, then his button, then his zip. The sound was horribly loud. He didn’t even push his pants down. He simply fished his cock out through the fly. It sprang free, fully erect, thick-veined and ruddy. It was, as Javi had known it would be, monumentally bigger than his own. It jutted out, the swollen head glistening, nestling directly between María’s ass cheeks, the thin black fabric of her leggings the only barrier.
“Amancio, no,” María said, but it was a weak protest. Her body had gone very still, hyper-aware of the heat and weight now directly against her.
“You said play,” he grunted. He spat on his hand, slicked his length, and then gripped her hips again. “This is how I play.”
He began to move her. Back and forth. Using her body to slide her ass up and down the shaft of his cock. The wet, hot friction of his spit and her sweat made the leggings slippery. A dark patch of moisture spread on the fabric where the head of his penis drove again and again.
“You see this, Javi?” Amancio panted, his rhythm increasing. “This is an assjob. You just grabbed handfuls. I’m putting it to work.” He slammed her back against him, his cock bending then snapping back against the taut fabric. “She’s fucking my dick with her perfect, giant culo. And she loves it. Don’t you, nena? Tell your best friend how much better this big, old cock feels than his little twitch.”
Tears of humiliation welled in María’s eyes. But her body was betraying her completely. Her own hips had begun to meet his thrusts. A low, steady moan was building in her throat. Her hands, braced on her knees, were white-knuckled.
“It’s… it’s not…” she tried.
“It’s what?” Amancio demanded, driving harder.
“It’s bigger!” she cried out, the admission a sob. “Okay? It’s so much fucking bigger! Are you happy?”
Amancio roared with laughter. “Happy? I’m fucking delighted. Javi? You hearing this? She’s comparing our cocks right to your face while she dry-humps mine.”
Javi was hearing it. He was seeing it. The raw, undeniable mechanics of it. The way Amancio’s thick pole moved her, controlled her. The way María, even as she cried, pushed back for more.
“You defend him,” Amancio snarled, his pace becoming frantic, brutal. “You put on your little show for him. But this is what you really want. This fat, ugly cock owned by a fat, ugly old man. Because it owns you. It makes you its bitch. And he…” He jerked his head towards Javi, his face contorted in sweaty pleasure. “He gets to watch. That’s his role. That’s all he’s ever good for. The fan. The cuck. The maricón who gets off on his own humiliation!”
With a final, grunting snarl, Amancio crushed María against him, his body rigid. Javi saw the fabric of her leggings darken further as a warm, wet patch bloomed and spread, the come soaking through, marking her. Amancio held her there, shuddering, his cock pulsing against her ass.
Slowly, he softened. He pulled back, tucking himself away with a grimace of satisfaction. The room stank of sex and salt and victory.
María stayed bent over, her head hanging, her shoulders shaking. The wet spot on her leggings was a blatant, degrading trophy.
Amancio patted Javi on the cheek, a condescending tap. “Lesson over, kid. Thanks for the use of your girl.” He walked to the door, turning just once. “She’s all yours now. What’s left of her.”
The door shut.
For a full minute, the only sound was María’s ragged breathing and the thump of the music. Then, slowly, she straightened up. She didn’t look at Javi. She walked stiffly to the center of the room, her back to him. Her fingers went to the waistband of her soiled leggings.
She peeled them down, slowly, revealing the wet, sticky fabric of her thong beneath, then the heavy, perfect curves of her bare ass, glistening with transferred sweat and semen. She let the leggings fall to her ankles and stepped out of them. She stood there, in just the t-shirt and the ruined thong, the evidence of Amancio’s possession cooling on her skin.
“He’s wrong, you know,” she said, her voice quiet, hollow. “That’s not all you’re good for.”
She turned around. Her face was ravaged, tear-streaked, but her eyes were fierce. It was a look Javi had never seen before. A look of pure, undiluted defiance. Not for Amancio. For the situation. For herself. For him.
“His last sacrifice,” she said, echoing his words from earlier, but giving them a new, terrible meaning. She walked towards him, stopping when her knees bumped his. “You wanted a real show for you? No bullshit?”
Javi looked up at her, utterly lost.
With a sharp, decisive motion, she hooked her thumbs into the sides of her thong and pushed it down, kicking it aside. She was completely naked from the waist down under his shirt. Then she climbed