3. Mario.
The Mondays have programmed income at the Elderly Residence where I work. Before they were called old people's homes, but that name did not honor the truth because in reality not all those who seek refuge in these institutions are elderly.
Mario Ortiz was one of those cases. He was only sixty-three years old, a young and widowed man who, if it weren't for Parkinson's, would have triumphed among our residents.
Unfortunately, Mario arrived at the residence quite poorly, which paradoxically says well about his family. He had two daughters who had taken care of him until then. However, little by little, his needs were becoming more numerous, complex, and continuous. It no longer passed more than three hours without someone having to do something for him.
Time is inexorable and so is Parkinson's. Mario's health state had deteriorated so much during the last year that his daughters had hired a nurse assistant, but even then they couldn't assume his care day and night.
It had been six months since Mario stopped eating. Since he was no longer able to swallow, they had put in a PEG, a feeding tube that communicated with his stomach through his abdomen. The ground meal was administered directly through this tube. Mario would never again taste the flavor of braised short ribs, watermelon, or freshly baked bread.
Mr. Ortiz had been gradually paralyzed. He had been bedridden for about two years and, given his height, it took two people to move him to the adapted wheelchair. He spent three hours in the morning and three hours in the afternoon there. Every time they returned him to bed, they did so in a different position to avoid pressure ulcers and scars. For that same reason, his skin was checked daily for integrity on his elbows, knees, ankles, heels, and sacrum.
Although it's hard to believe, Mario would be one of the lucky ones. His daughters loved him truly and with All security would often visit him. Those of us who have been taking care of the elderly for a long time know how frequent family visits will be depending on how late they leave on the first day. Mario's daughters hastened the visiting hours. One of them couldn't hold back her tears. Her name was Cristina.
4. Adolescent.
The next day, the princess got out of the room around 10 am and went straight to the kitchen, neither asleep nor awake. I left what I was doing and prepared a bowl of cereal that she devoured as if she were going to take it away from me. One of two, either the vegetarian was hungry or lacked manners. Maybe both.
―Last night I had to change my underwear because of you.
I almost choked on a sip of milk when I heard her say that. My intention had been to encourage her to read and apparently sending an erotic story had worked. I had chosen not in vain a magnificent story by ShivaScarlata, one of my favorites.
―Then, yes, you do like reading ―I said with sarcasm.
The girl paused for a moment to chew on chocolate-flavored corn flakes and tilted her head thoughtfully.
―I liked what you sent me ―she specified.
―Alright then, I'll propose a deal. If you read a novel that I choose, I'll invite you to eat somewhere. What do you think?
―I choose the place ―she replied immediately.
―What place? ―I asked.
―Depends, ―she said without blinking― what book?
I stood there watching Lorena, sure she was her mother's daughter.
―The Last Confession of Writer Hugo Mendoza.
―What? ―said with a mouthful of cereal.
Instead of repeating that long title, I approached the shelf, grabbed the book in question, and put it back on the table.
―Eight hundred pages! ―she said incredulously.
―Yes, more or less. You'll finish reading it sooner than you think, you'll see, ―I tried to encourage her.
Lorena weighed the thick book in her hand. She realized she had rushed into accepting my proposal, but it was too late for backtrack. ― Well, I was thinking of telling you to go eat at a place around here with some tapas that will kill you, but if I have to read this think I'll come up with something better. Hours were passing and Lorena's mother didn't give any signs of life. Seeing it was getting close to midday and Lorena was still lying on my sofa, I decided to call my ex to find out what was going on. Before I went out to the backyard, I was really angry and didn't want Lorena to hear the conversation. ― Can you tell me when you're coming? ―I said as soon as she answered. ― Has something happened? ― Has something happened! ―I repeated, stunned― She's been lying on the sofa for three hours! ― I don't believe it. ― Belén, you said you'd come to pick up your daughter ―I protested. ― No, I didn't say that ―my ex denied― I haven't kicked her out, Alberto. It's she who left, so if she wants to come back let her. I was left speechless. I didn't expect Belén to disown Lorena like that. Her daughter was 17 years old and therefore a minor. It was then that I understood Lorena had advanced her majority, had emancipated herself irreversibly. You're not coming ―I thought aloud, desolate at the devastation her daughter would cause in my life. ― Alberto, Lorena is no longer a kid. She has to think about what she's doing. Belén showed no flexibility, wouldn't tolerate her daughter's capricious behavior or outbursts of tone. Lorena did whatever she wanted and besides only opened her mouth to protest and show disrespect. According to my ex, her daughter needed someone to make her see reason, but Belén had already run out of patience. In short, she wasn't going to come for her daughter. Although, that's right, during the time Lorena stayed in my house she would pay a reasonable rent for her room. And so it was how, from one day to the next, my life as a hedonistic bachelor was annihilated by an adolescent and the mother who gave birth to her. I went back into the living room. Lorena was still typing away on her phone at an incredible speed. Her Fingers flew across the screen of her iPhone like butterflies. She was probably maintaining multiple conversations at once, sending comments and switching between chats with lightning speed. It was a shame that with those tiger-eyed gazes she spent the whole time staring at her phone.
I started to realize that Lorena wouldn't be coming back with her mother. For now, I had no choice but to let the girl stay in my house for some time. I wasn't going to send that poor creature off to social services, I'm not that cruel. We'll figure something out, I told myself, calculating when I could go see her mother in person.
Did you really think she'd come?
I wasn't bothered as much by Lorena's disdain as I was by how stupid I had been. Yet, it still surprised me how indifferent the girl was to learning that her mother wouldn't be coming for her.
It was necessary to balance the situation as soon as possible. Otherwise, that intruder would run wild in my domain. By coincidence, Saturday is cleaning day, a perfect opportunity for Lorena to understand that her accommodation in my house wasn't going to be all-inclusive.
Saturday's cleaning duty, I announced from the door.
Lorena looked at me trying to figure out if I was serious. When she saw me holding a duster and a bathroom spray, she assumed it wasn't just a joke.
What do you prefer, cleaning the bathroom or dusting the whole house? I asked.
A dusting, she said with a grin.
I threw the duster at her face and left the wood polish on the living room table.
The rest is in the laundry room. Outside, in the patio.
The only bathroom in my house and I were old friends. I put the four things on the marble countertop into the sink to clean comfortably, then wiped off the high shelf with a cloth, cleaned the sanitary fixtures, and left the dull cabinet as good as new. I swept and mopped the floor, and that was it.
When I came out of the bathroom I heard Belén's daughter humming in the living room. I left the cleaning supplies on the floor and sneaked towards the door. The girl was wearing earphones and dusting to the rhythm of music only she could hear. She accompanied her movements with English shouts and onomatopoeias imitating guitar riffs. She had changed from Hello Kitty pajamas into a bralette and miniskirt. With 17 years old, Lorena's body was perfectly formed, never better said. The robust girl I remembered had given way to an adolescent with evident feminine forms. She didn't have an extra kilo, but she inherited her mother's hip width. Those little jumps made her firm breasts bounce, putting pressure on the straps of her bralette. It seemed like she was going without a bra again. Lorena moved with style. I paid attention because she danced with grace and abandon that I had never seen in her mother. Uninhibited, she contoured her thick backside like a go-go dancer on a disco stage. Her way of dancing had lots of energy and desire to have fun, but also provocation and voluptuousness. Unfortunately, the girl suddenly stopped moving and the magic disappeared. When she discovered I was spying on her, Lorena looked at me with a twisted face, more curious than surprised. Two seconds later, she laughed and wiggled her backside for me with suggestive movements. Lorena seemed to be enjoying the situation. Belén's daughter had a good ass, those that demand a good whipping. Her twerking style had little or nothing to envy from those videos circulating on WhatsApp. If her hip movement left me stunned, her ass completely enchanted me. That performance lacked the music she only heard through her earphones. Still, the evocative movements From the girl were equally effective, and the tautness in my groin gave proof of it. Lorena was moving her rear end in the air like an expert dancer, too sensual for her seventeen years. My incipient and uncomfortable erection advised me to leave there. It wasn't easy, Lorena's swaying was hypnotic. The daughter of Belén's movements transformed my thoughts into sin, if not a crime. I had to gather all my willpower to cover my eyes and turn around. Once safe in the kitchen, I recognized that this adolescent had just left battered a morality that I thought was bulletproof.
By the way, I haven't introduced myself yet. My father wanted to name me Alberto after an uncle of his who died of leukemia as a child. For those who don't know me, I'll say that I'm not long past thirty and live in southern Spain. I'm quite tall, 180 cm. My skin is so dark brown that someone has asked if I have gypsy blood. Maybe yes, who knows, but the fact is that I'm an addict to sports and the outdoors. I've always liked dressing well, I'm not one of those who put on whatever they find. In fact, I spend a lot on clothes and it's been my favorite store's salesgirls who have taught me what goes together and what doesn't. A former girlfriend said my eyes are like Richard Gere's, but I have a short beard that I trim every three or four days. Finally, and at the risk of being coarse, I'll say that I have more between my legs than most women do in their mouths. However, what good is having a good tool if you don't know how to use it.
On Sunday afternoon, Lorena and I began negotiating, putting clauses on our cohabitation. I wasn't willing to have an occupant in my house touching her pussy all day. Rules, everything must follow an order, guidelines, a code, or else chaos, exasperating and destructive chaos. We easily came to agreements regarding order, cleanliness, noise, and food. It cost a bit more to agree on entrance and exit hours, and the negotiations finally stalled definitively when we reached the educational sphere. Lorena wasn't interested in finishing high school. However, when I gave her the option of going to class or returning with her mother, the girl knew what she wanted.
By Monday, routine set in and everything started normalizing. I would wake up early to go to work, hoping she would go to school. After lunch, Lorena would lounge around until it was time for her to go to English academy and then the gym. Although this worried me, I resisted supervising my daughter's education. However, I had to clarify the issue with her mother.
The girl wouldn't return home until dinner time. After that, we would chat for a bit while one of us did the dishes. I made sure she was the one telling me what bothered her, what she wanted, what her friend had done, what happened at school, etc. Honestly, I appreciated having company again. Sometimes Belén's daughter would lock herself in her room to study or do homework, or so it seemed.
I've always liked using that moment of peace after dinner to unwind and relax. With time, this habit turned into a necessity. Reading something, listening to music while writing, anything that allowed me to escape from work-related things and the pressing problems of being alive. However, when Lorena took over the sofa, I didn't get upset. On the contrary, I felt lucky to have a young and beautiful girl to look at. I would put my laptop on the living room table and sit down to write while her eyes wandered through her phone. So, I gave up part of my peaceful territory for the turbulent world of a 17-year-old teenager.
Lorena knew how to show off her baby face encantos. Like many girls her age, when Lorena went out she would wear athletic leggings, very short pants, and tight jeans. In fact, she used any garment whose stitching conformed to the curve of her buttocks and announced to the four winds that she wore a thong. She also liked to wear a plaid skirt that must have been part of her school uniform at some point, but now only reached halfway down her thighs. As for the top half, Lorena liked sweatshirts. She always wore them with the zipper halfway up, as if the size of her breasts prevented her from zipping it any higher. Obviously, under those sweatshirts Lorena used to wear blouses and tops with various types of cleavages, all of which were infallible.
Luckily, I was no longer a 20-year-old insatiable. I had been preferring quality over quantity for some time now, married women over single ones, generous ones over beautiful ones. Although we shouldn't deceive ourselves, neither Belén's daughter nor I was made of stone. Soon I discovered that I couldn't help but feel a slight erection every time the sensual girl put her feet on the coffee table, every time she flaunted those perky breasts.
Lorena would wear tight and exuberant clothing until late in the afternoon. Then, when she didn't think she'd be going out anymore, she'd put on a cotton pajama set with pink and white tones to match the large Hello Kitty design on top. It was too childish compared to the voluptuousness of her body.
Lorena would shower as soon as she got home. No matter how much ambient spray or deodorant she used, the gym where she went had a disgusting mixture of odors, sweat, and perfumes that polluted the air in that room. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of sweaty women changed their clothes every day in that locker room.
One afternoon Lorena called out to me from the bathroom at the top of her lungs. She had forgotten to grab some clean underwear. and she asked me to please take them away. I had to go into her room, where the dresser was that she had occupied with all her clothes, the same one where I used to take out the clothes I no longer wore. On entering, I found all her clothes scattered over the bed. On the floor, pushed against each other, were socks and a black thong. I stood there staring at it, like a hawk eyeing a small mouse in the grass. Although that thong screamed at me to pick it up and analyze it with my five senses, but I didn't do it. I opened the drawer that the girl had said, grabbed some panties and left as if I had seen the devil.
― Lorena ―I called.
When the girl opened the bathroom door, my instinct played a bad trick on me. I had just spent all my willpower to avoid picking up her thong from the floor, and in the lowest instant when Lorena was putting on her panties, I contemplated her body reflected in the bathroom mirror. Lorena bending down and putting her feet into her panties, that frame would be etched in my retina forever.
The skin of her shoulders, dotted with water droplets, shone like a celestial halo. Lorena had less breast than I thought. Her silhouette accentuated as she lowered herself towards her hips. There, her graceful movements while putting on the panty revealed a triangular and dark pubis like an abyss.
5. Finalists, those who are at the end.
For Cristina, having to intern her father in a home for the elderly had meant days of anguish and hundreds of tears. Her father had guided her through life, pushed her through opposition after opposition until she got her teaching position. How could she abandon that one who always paid attention to her? How could she leave in a home someone who had helped her get up after every stumble, someone who had helped her achieve her goals, open up in life and not depend on anyone?
However, in the end Cristina had to accept that it was the best. Not only for her father who would be in hands of professional attendants to their needs day and night, if not also the best for her, her sister Milagros and their respective families.
The daughters, sons-in-law, and grandchildren of Mario had suffered with him the progressive deterioration of his mobility, the inexorable atrophy of his body during the last six years.
The day Cristina saw me lift her father up after his nap began to see that gloomy panorama start to clear up.
―Mario! Get up, or the risk premium will go up by a tenth in bed!
I smiled at my daughter's astonished gesture.
―It's because they told me on Monday that we had a banker, and I thought: Oh, Mario Conde! We're going to get rich! ―I said in a mocking tone that woke Don Mario from his nap.
Don Mario's laughter, though awkward but frank, made his daughter's eyes sparkle with joy.
I continued spewing nonsense while Cristina helped me wash her father's face and pass the diluted yogurt through the PEG. Then we put him between us on the wheelchair and asked the elegant lady if she could take her father to the garden while I continued putting my other grandparents in order.
I crossed paths with Montse and noticed that another button had come undone from her blouse. My companion is undoubtedly a bold woman who knows she has the best breasts of the bunch. I drooled thinking we would soon coincide again on the night shift.
Mario had been the last of the three finalists he had selected for a dignified death. In that short list was also Doña Eusebia, an old woman with a always supplicating gaze who already counted ninety-six long winters. Cachectic and atrophied in fetal position like she was, if you grabbed her blouse there was no way to open her fist.
The third and last of my candidates was Doña Hortensia. According to what I had been told, that old woman had been a stingy and quarrelsome harpy all her life. As often happens, the dementia she suffered had brought out the essence of her soul. Doña Hortensia was a danger to the rest of the elderly. She would hit, scratch, insult, and push everyone around, you had to be careful. While the sedatives in bulk could keep her docile, Hortensia was at ease, going back and forth grasping the railing. However, it was often found that her wheelchair was tied to the end of the hallway if she had done something of hers.
Lolita.
Since the phone had stopped serving to talk to others, I tried to use it as little as possible. I was like that, and from there one of the rules I imposed on myself was not to look at it after dinner. That's how I explained it to Lorena. I wanted to let her know how uncomfortable it was to be in front of a zombie who didn't lift their gaze from the screen, mumbling and typing non-stop. I wasn't trying to impose my rules and actually indicated that the girl could also go to her room.
In an outburst of willpower, Belén's daughter left her phone on the table and then the miracle occurred, we started talking. The 17 years that separated us were not a barrier to chatting about mobile addiction, globalization, the 15M movement, climate change, or the importance of getting a driver's license.
Between jokes and laughter, I perceived that Lorena enjoyed conversing, boasting of an unusual sense of someone her age. In fact, she had already demonstrated spunk by leaving the safety of her family home. At first, I had attributed Lorena's premature emancipation to a total incompatibility of characters with her mother, but when talking to the girl, I understood that what had led her to become independent was her desire to be an autonomous person. I didn't want to be heavy-handed, so I left it for later to try to get her to also assume responsibility for her studies.
The topics of conversation kept succeeding one after another, until we started sharing all kinds of anecdotes that happened During vacations, at work, while shopping, after getting drunk… I was precisely telling how I lost my car keys because of that fatal last gin-tonic when, taking advantage of a pause, Lorena asked me point-blank how long it had been since I'd slept with a woman..That question left me so disconcerted that I felt compelled to go to sleep in order not to respond.
I had been without tasting the female skin for a month. It was at the beginning of April.
― Is it new? ―I asked, pointing to the pendant my companion Montse wore on her vertiginous cleavage.
― Yes, he gave it to me as a birthday gift, ―she replied in reference to Carlos, her husband.
Montse looked at me mischievously while playing with the small gold star that adorned the top of her breasts between her fingers. Maybe she was an older woman, but her body still retained almost all its splendor. Besides, Montse was an intelligent woman who knew how to take advantage of those enormous charms.
Carlos, on the other hand, was a chubby and tranquil type whose morning strolls always ended at the bar. Apart from being older than me, he surpassed his wife in weight by more than forty kilos. Carlos had worked as a manager at a publicity company but had accepted partial retirement and, at sixty years old, Montse's husband lived idle and worry-free.
My companion would get turned on describing her husband's horns. According to her, they grew thick and curved from both temples and stood upright on his head with the same posture as my cock. Montse claimed that imagining her husband's horn was what made her reach orgasm when she had sex with him.
During those secret encounters we only had half an hour, so the foreplay consisted of just a few kisses and bites while we undressed in haste.
Montse was as singular for sex as for everything else. The first time we had sex, my revolver accidentally went off between her lips. It was a disaster; the sperm not only flooded her mouth but also splashed her hair and the right side of her face. I apologized abashedly, but then she smiled and downplayed it. Montse confessed how much she liked having me The mouth recognized the erection of an attractive man and enjoyed sucking a good cock as much as screwing. Montse liked to take them to the limit with tongue jobs, blowjobs, and many more games. As a result, although the taste didn't please her, my work colleague had gotten used to men ejaculating, either in her mouth or on her face and big tits.
For that woman, the male member of a man had always been something to take in the mouth. Since her voluptuous youthful body matured and opened up to sexual desire, Montse had masturbated fantasizing about having an adult man's cock between her lips. She was still in high school when she debuted with her young and handsome math teacher's poll. However, that was a terrible start. In her childish innocence, Montse hadn't supposed the semen would come out so forcefully or in such quantity and, as that brute didn't let her leave when it started to make her gag, she ended up vomiting the mortadella sandwich her mother had prepared for her that morning.Since then, many hens had passed between their lips. It also cornered me in her mouth the last time we hooked up, but I managed to wriggle free before Montse left me without willpower. I lay face up on the bed and, making a show of agility and temerity unbecoming of a woman of her age, my partner got down on all fours over me. Montse grabbed my cock to make it vertical and rode it all the way to my stomach.
As my partner had gotten the tubal ligation, it wasn't necessary for us to use a condom, so I could notice in detail how my member entered and exited her sex. From my privileged position, I could contemplate her large breasts swaying in time with her comings and goings, and between her breasts, the small golden star that her husband had given her as a birthday gift.
I joined to suck his nipples, first one and then the other. That delicate caress made him moan. I liked his way of moving his hips a lot, but felt the impulse to possess her. So I grabbed her by the buttocks and, taking her in vilo, started making her go up and down on my sex.Montse opened her eyes with amazement.Although she was going crazy like a madwoman, I kept on going, sadistically impaling her on my stake. She was straddling me, but it was I who was moving her body up and down. Finally, Montse squeezed her thighs at the onset of a hysterical orgasm.I left her to die on my member so she would agonize with pleasure and, just then, I erupted. I began to launch my fiery magma into the uterus of that married woman. I stepped back a bit and contemplated with pride the impudent spectacle. The amount of semen was so great that some started to escape from her congested sex. CONTINUARÁ...
The Mondays have programmed income at the Elderly Residence where I work. Before they were called old people's homes, but that name did not honor the truth because in reality not all those who seek refuge in these institutions are elderly.
Mario Ortiz was one of those cases. He was only sixty-three years old, a young and widowed man who, if it weren't for Parkinson's, would have triumphed among our residents.
Unfortunately, Mario arrived at the residence quite poorly, which paradoxically says well about his family. He had two daughters who had taken care of him until then. However, little by little, his needs were becoming more numerous, complex, and continuous. It no longer passed more than three hours without someone having to do something for him.
Time is inexorable and so is Parkinson's. Mario's health state had deteriorated so much during the last year that his daughters had hired a nurse assistant, but even then they couldn't assume his care day and night.
It had been six months since Mario stopped eating. Since he was no longer able to swallow, they had put in a PEG, a feeding tube that communicated with his stomach through his abdomen. The ground meal was administered directly through this tube. Mario would never again taste the flavor of braised short ribs, watermelon, or freshly baked bread.
Mr. Ortiz had been gradually paralyzed. He had been bedridden for about two years and, given his height, it took two people to move him to the adapted wheelchair. He spent three hours in the morning and three hours in the afternoon there. Every time they returned him to bed, they did so in a different position to avoid pressure ulcers and scars. For that same reason, his skin was checked daily for integrity on his elbows, knees, ankles, heels, and sacrum.
Although it's hard to believe, Mario would be one of the lucky ones. His daughters loved him truly and with All security would often visit him. Those of us who have been taking care of the elderly for a long time know how frequent family visits will be depending on how late they leave on the first day. Mario's daughters hastened the visiting hours. One of them couldn't hold back her tears. Her name was Cristina.
4. Adolescent.
The next day, the princess got out of the room around 10 am and went straight to the kitchen, neither asleep nor awake. I left what I was doing and prepared a bowl of cereal that she devoured as if she were going to take it away from me. One of two, either the vegetarian was hungry or lacked manners. Maybe both.
―Last night I had to change my underwear because of you.
I almost choked on a sip of milk when I heard her say that. My intention had been to encourage her to read and apparently sending an erotic story had worked. I had chosen not in vain a magnificent story by ShivaScarlata, one of my favorites.
―Then, yes, you do like reading ―I said with sarcasm.
The girl paused for a moment to chew on chocolate-flavored corn flakes and tilted her head thoughtfully.
―I liked what you sent me ―she specified.
―Alright then, I'll propose a deal. If you read a novel that I choose, I'll invite you to eat somewhere. What do you think?
―I choose the place ―she replied immediately.
―What place? ―I asked.
―Depends, ―she said without blinking― what book?
I stood there watching Lorena, sure she was her mother's daughter.
―The Last Confession of Writer Hugo Mendoza.
―What? ―said with a mouthful of cereal.
Instead of repeating that long title, I approached the shelf, grabbed the book in question, and put it back on the table.
―Eight hundred pages! ―she said incredulously.
―Yes, more or less. You'll finish reading it sooner than you think, you'll see, ―I tried to encourage her.
Lorena weighed the thick book in her hand. She realized she had rushed into accepting my proposal, but it was too late for backtrack. ― Well, I was thinking of telling you to go eat at a place around here with some tapas that will kill you, but if I have to read this think I'll come up with something better. Hours were passing and Lorena's mother didn't give any signs of life. Seeing it was getting close to midday and Lorena was still lying on my sofa, I decided to call my ex to find out what was going on. Before I went out to the backyard, I was really angry and didn't want Lorena to hear the conversation. ― Can you tell me when you're coming? ―I said as soon as she answered. ― Has something happened? ― Has something happened! ―I repeated, stunned― She's been lying on the sofa for three hours! ― I don't believe it. ― Belén, you said you'd come to pick up your daughter ―I protested. ― No, I didn't say that ―my ex denied― I haven't kicked her out, Alberto. It's she who left, so if she wants to come back let her. I was left speechless. I didn't expect Belén to disown Lorena like that. Her daughter was 17 years old and therefore a minor. It was then that I understood Lorena had advanced her majority, had emancipated herself irreversibly. You're not coming ―I thought aloud, desolate at the devastation her daughter would cause in my life. ― Alberto, Lorena is no longer a kid. She has to think about what she's doing. Belén showed no flexibility, wouldn't tolerate her daughter's capricious behavior or outbursts of tone. Lorena did whatever she wanted and besides only opened her mouth to protest and show disrespect. According to my ex, her daughter needed someone to make her see reason, but Belén had already run out of patience. In short, she wasn't going to come for her daughter. Although, that's right, during the time Lorena stayed in my house she would pay a reasonable rent for her room. And so it was how, from one day to the next, my life as a hedonistic bachelor was annihilated by an adolescent and the mother who gave birth to her. I went back into the living room. Lorena was still typing away on her phone at an incredible speed. Her Fingers flew across the screen of her iPhone like butterflies. She was probably maintaining multiple conversations at once, sending comments and switching between chats with lightning speed. It was a shame that with those tiger-eyed gazes she spent the whole time staring at her phone.
I started to realize that Lorena wouldn't be coming back with her mother. For now, I had no choice but to let the girl stay in my house for some time. I wasn't going to send that poor creature off to social services, I'm not that cruel. We'll figure something out, I told myself, calculating when I could go see her mother in person.
Did you really think she'd come?
I wasn't bothered as much by Lorena's disdain as I was by how stupid I had been. Yet, it still surprised me how indifferent the girl was to learning that her mother wouldn't be coming for her.
It was necessary to balance the situation as soon as possible. Otherwise, that intruder would run wild in my domain. By coincidence, Saturday is cleaning day, a perfect opportunity for Lorena to understand that her accommodation in my house wasn't going to be all-inclusive.
Saturday's cleaning duty, I announced from the door.
Lorena looked at me trying to figure out if I was serious. When she saw me holding a duster and a bathroom spray, she assumed it wasn't just a joke.
What do you prefer, cleaning the bathroom or dusting the whole house? I asked.
A dusting, she said with a grin.
I threw the duster at her face and left the wood polish on the living room table.
The rest is in the laundry room. Outside, in the patio.
The only bathroom in my house and I were old friends. I put the four things on the marble countertop into the sink to clean comfortably, then wiped off the high shelf with a cloth, cleaned the sanitary fixtures, and left the dull cabinet as good as new. I swept and mopped the floor, and that was it.
When I came out of the bathroom I heard Belén's daughter humming in the living room. I left the cleaning supplies on the floor and sneaked towards the door. The girl was wearing earphones and dusting to the rhythm of music only she could hear. She accompanied her movements with English shouts and onomatopoeias imitating guitar riffs. She had changed from Hello Kitty pajamas into a bralette and miniskirt. With 17 years old, Lorena's body was perfectly formed, never better said. The robust girl I remembered had given way to an adolescent with evident feminine forms. She didn't have an extra kilo, but she inherited her mother's hip width. Those little jumps made her firm breasts bounce, putting pressure on the straps of her bralette. It seemed like she was going without a bra again. Lorena moved with style. I paid attention because she danced with grace and abandon that I had never seen in her mother. Uninhibited, she contoured her thick backside like a go-go dancer on a disco stage. Her way of dancing had lots of energy and desire to have fun, but also provocation and voluptuousness. Unfortunately, the girl suddenly stopped moving and the magic disappeared. When she discovered I was spying on her, Lorena looked at me with a twisted face, more curious than surprised. Two seconds later, she laughed and wiggled her backside for me with suggestive movements. Lorena seemed to be enjoying the situation. Belén's daughter had a good ass, those that demand a good whipping. Her twerking style had little or nothing to envy from those videos circulating on WhatsApp. If her hip movement left me stunned, her ass completely enchanted me. That performance lacked the music she only heard through her earphones. Still, the evocative movements From the girl were equally effective, and the tautness in my groin gave proof of it. Lorena was moving her rear end in the air like an expert dancer, too sensual for her seventeen years. My incipient and uncomfortable erection advised me to leave there. It wasn't easy, Lorena's swaying was hypnotic. The daughter of Belén's movements transformed my thoughts into sin, if not a crime. I had to gather all my willpower to cover my eyes and turn around. Once safe in the kitchen, I recognized that this adolescent had just left battered a morality that I thought was bulletproof.
By the way, I haven't introduced myself yet. My father wanted to name me Alberto after an uncle of his who died of leukemia as a child. For those who don't know me, I'll say that I'm not long past thirty and live in southern Spain. I'm quite tall, 180 cm. My skin is so dark brown that someone has asked if I have gypsy blood. Maybe yes, who knows, but the fact is that I'm an addict to sports and the outdoors. I've always liked dressing well, I'm not one of those who put on whatever they find. In fact, I spend a lot on clothes and it's been my favorite store's salesgirls who have taught me what goes together and what doesn't. A former girlfriend said my eyes are like Richard Gere's, but I have a short beard that I trim every three or four days. Finally, and at the risk of being coarse, I'll say that I have more between my legs than most women do in their mouths. However, what good is having a good tool if you don't know how to use it.
On Sunday afternoon, Lorena and I began negotiating, putting clauses on our cohabitation. I wasn't willing to have an occupant in my house touching her pussy all day. Rules, everything must follow an order, guidelines, a code, or else chaos, exasperating and destructive chaos. We easily came to agreements regarding order, cleanliness, noise, and food. It cost a bit more to agree on entrance and exit hours, and the negotiations finally stalled definitively when we reached the educational sphere. Lorena wasn't interested in finishing high school. However, when I gave her the option of going to class or returning with her mother, the girl knew what she wanted.
By Monday, routine set in and everything started normalizing. I would wake up early to go to work, hoping she would go to school. After lunch, Lorena would lounge around until it was time for her to go to English academy and then the gym. Although this worried me, I resisted supervising my daughter's education. However, I had to clarify the issue with her mother.
The girl wouldn't return home until dinner time. After that, we would chat for a bit while one of us did the dishes. I made sure she was the one telling me what bothered her, what she wanted, what her friend had done, what happened at school, etc. Honestly, I appreciated having company again. Sometimes Belén's daughter would lock herself in her room to study or do homework, or so it seemed.
I've always liked using that moment of peace after dinner to unwind and relax. With time, this habit turned into a necessity. Reading something, listening to music while writing, anything that allowed me to escape from work-related things and the pressing problems of being alive. However, when Lorena took over the sofa, I didn't get upset. On the contrary, I felt lucky to have a young and beautiful girl to look at. I would put my laptop on the living room table and sit down to write while her eyes wandered through her phone. So, I gave up part of my peaceful territory for the turbulent world of a 17-year-old teenager.
Lorena knew how to show off her baby face encantos. Like many girls her age, when Lorena went out she would wear athletic leggings, very short pants, and tight jeans. In fact, she used any garment whose stitching conformed to the curve of her buttocks and announced to the four winds that she wore a thong. She also liked to wear a plaid skirt that must have been part of her school uniform at some point, but now only reached halfway down her thighs. As for the top half, Lorena liked sweatshirts. She always wore them with the zipper halfway up, as if the size of her breasts prevented her from zipping it any higher. Obviously, under those sweatshirts Lorena used to wear blouses and tops with various types of cleavages, all of which were infallible.
Luckily, I was no longer a 20-year-old insatiable. I had been preferring quality over quantity for some time now, married women over single ones, generous ones over beautiful ones. Although we shouldn't deceive ourselves, neither Belén's daughter nor I was made of stone. Soon I discovered that I couldn't help but feel a slight erection every time the sensual girl put her feet on the coffee table, every time she flaunted those perky breasts.
Lorena would wear tight and exuberant clothing until late in the afternoon. Then, when she didn't think she'd be going out anymore, she'd put on a cotton pajama set with pink and white tones to match the large Hello Kitty design on top. It was too childish compared to the voluptuousness of her body.
Lorena would shower as soon as she got home. No matter how much ambient spray or deodorant she used, the gym where she went had a disgusting mixture of odors, sweat, and perfumes that polluted the air in that room. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of sweaty women changed their clothes every day in that locker room.
One afternoon Lorena called out to me from the bathroom at the top of her lungs. She had forgotten to grab some clean underwear. and she asked me to please take them away. I had to go into her room, where the dresser was that she had occupied with all her clothes, the same one where I used to take out the clothes I no longer wore. On entering, I found all her clothes scattered over the bed. On the floor, pushed against each other, were socks and a black thong. I stood there staring at it, like a hawk eyeing a small mouse in the grass. Although that thong screamed at me to pick it up and analyze it with my five senses, but I didn't do it. I opened the drawer that the girl had said, grabbed some panties and left as if I had seen the devil.
― Lorena ―I called.
When the girl opened the bathroom door, my instinct played a bad trick on me. I had just spent all my willpower to avoid picking up her thong from the floor, and in the lowest instant when Lorena was putting on her panties, I contemplated her body reflected in the bathroom mirror. Lorena bending down and putting her feet into her panties, that frame would be etched in my retina forever.
The skin of her shoulders, dotted with water droplets, shone like a celestial halo. Lorena had less breast than I thought. Her silhouette accentuated as she lowered herself towards her hips. There, her graceful movements while putting on the panty revealed a triangular and dark pubis like an abyss.
5. Finalists, those who are at the end.
For Cristina, having to intern her father in a home for the elderly had meant days of anguish and hundreds of tears. Her father had guided her through life, pushed her through opposition after opposition until she got her teaching position. How could she abandon that one who always paid attention to her? How could she leave in a home someone who had helped her get up after every stumble, someone who had helped her achieve her goals, open up in life and not depend on anyone?
However, in the end Cristina had to accept that it was the best. Not only for her father who would be in hands of professional attendants to their needs day and night, if not also the best for her, her sister Milagros and their respective families.
The daughters, sons-in-law, and grandchildren of Mario had suffered with him the progressive deterioration of his mobility, the inexorable atrophy of his body during the last six years.
The day Cristina saw me lift her father up after his nap began to see that gloomy panorama start to clear up.
―Mario! Get up, or the risk premium will go up by a tenth in bed!
I smiled at my daughter's astonished gesture.
―It's because they told me on Monday that we had a banker, and I thought: Oh, Mario Conde! We're going to get rich! ―I said in a mocking tone that woke Don Mario from his nap.
Don Mario's laughter, though awkward but frank, made his daughter's eyes sparkle with joy.
I continued spewing nonsense while Cristina helped me wash her father's face and pass the diluted yogurt through the PEG. Then we put him between us on the wheelchair and asked the elegant lady if she could take her father to the garden while I continued putting my other grandparents in order.
I crossed paths with Montse and noticed that another button had come undone from her blouse. My companion is undoubtedly a bold woman who knows she has the best breasts of the bunch. I drooled thinking we would soon coincide again on the night shift.
Mario had been the last of the three finalists he had selected for a dignified death. In that short list was also Doña Eusebia, an old woman with a always supplicating gaze who already counted ninety-six long winters. Cachectic and atrophied in fetal position like she was, if you grabbed her blouse there was no way to open her fist.
The third and last of my candidates was Doña Hortensia. According to what I had been told, that old woman had been a stingy and quarrelsome harpy all her life. As often happens, the dementia she suffered had brought out the essence of her soul. Doña Hortensia was a danger to the rest of the elderly. She would hit, scratch, insult, and push everyone around, you had to be careful. While the sedatives in bulk could keep her docile, Hortensia was at ease, going back and forth grasping the railing. However, it was often found that her wheelchair was tied to the end of the hallway if she had done something of hers.
Lolita.
Since the phone had stopped serving to talk to others, I tried to use it as little as possible. I was like that, and from there one of the rules I imposed on myself was not to look at it after dinner. That's how I explained it to Lorena. I wanted to let her know how uncomfortable it was to be in front of a zombie who didn't lift their gaze from the screen, mumbling and typing non-stop. I wasn't trying to impose my rules and actually indicated that the girl could also go to her room.
In an outburst of willpower, Belén's daughter left her phone on the table and then the miracle occurred, we started talking. The 17 years that separated us were not a barrier to chatting about mobile addiction, globalization, the 15M movement, climate change, or the importance of getting a driver's license.
Between jokes and laughter, I perceived that Lorena enjoyed conversing, boasting of an unusual sense of someone her age. In fact, she had already demonstrated spunk by leaving the safety of her family home. At first, I had attributed Lorena's premature emancipation to a total incompatibility of characters with her mother, but when talking to the girl, I understood that what had led her to become independent was her desire to be an autonomous person. I didn't want to be heavy-handed, so I left it for later to try to get her to also assume responsibility for her studies.
The topics of conversation kept succeeding one after another, until we started sharing all kinds of anecdotes that happened During vacations, at work, while shopping, after getting drunk… I was precisely telling how I lost my car keys because of that fatal last gin-tonic when, taking advantage of a pause, Lorena asked me point-blank how long it had been since I'd slept with a woman..That question left me so disconcerted that I felt compelled to go to sleep in order not to respond.
I had been without tasting the female skin for a month. It was at the beginning of April.
― Is it new? ―I asked, pointing to the pendant my companion Montse wore on her vertiginous cleavage.
― Yes, he gave it to me as a birthday gift, ―she replied in reference to Carlos, her husband.
Montse looked at me mischievously while playing with the small gold star that adorned the top of her breasts between her fingers. Maybe she was an older woman, but her body still retained almost all its splendor. Besides, Montse was an intelligent woman who knew how to take advantage of those enormous charms.
Carlos, on the other hand, was a chubby and tranquil type whose morning strolls always ended at the bar. Apart from being older than me, he surpassed his wife in weight by more than forty kilos. Carlos had worked as a manager at a publicity company but had accepted partial retirement and, at sixty years old, Montse's husband lived idle and worry-free.
My companion would get turned on describing her husband's horns. According to her, they grew thick and curved from both temples and stood upright on his head with the same posture as my cock. Montse claimed that imagining her husband's horn was what made her reach orgasm when she had sex with him.
During those secret encounters we only had half an hour, so the foreplay consisted of just a few kisses and bites while we undressed in haste.
Montse was as singular for sex as for everything else. The first time we had sex, my revolver accidentally went off between her lips. It was a disaster; the sperm not only flooded her mouth but also splashed her hair and the right side of her face. I apologized abashedly, but then she smiled and downplayed it. Montse confessed how much she liked having me The mouth recognized the erection of an attractive man and enjoyed sucking a good cock as much as screwing. Montse liked to take them to the limit with tongue jobs, blowjobs, and many more games. As a result, although the taste didn't please her, my work colleague had gotten used to men ejaculating, either in her mouth or on her face and big tits.
For that woman, the male member of a man had always been something to take in the mouth. Since her voluptuous youthful body matured and opened up to sexual desire, Montse had masturbated fantasizing about having an adult man's cock between her lips. She was still in high school when she debuted with her young and handsome math teacher's poll. However, that was a terrible start. In her childish innocence, Montse hadn't supposed the semen would come out so forcefully or in such quantity and, as that brute didn't let her leave when it started to make her gag, she ended up vomiting the mortadella sandwich her mother had prepared for her that morning.Since then, many hens had passed between their lips. It also cornered me in her mouth the last time we hooked up, but I managed to wriggle free before Montse left me without willpower. I lay face up on the bed and, making a show of agility and temerity unbecoming of a woman of her age, my partner got down on all fours over me. Montse grabbed my cock to make it vertical and rode it all the way to my stomach.
As my partner had gotten the tubal ligation, it wasn't necessary for us to use a condom, so I could notice in detail how my member entered and exited her sex. From my privileged position, I could contemplate her large breasts swaying in time with her comings and goings, and between her breasts, the small golden star that her husband had given her as a birthday gift.
I joined to suck his nipples, first one and then the other. That delicate caress made him moan. I liked his way of moving his hips a lot, but felt the impulse to possess her. So I grabbed her by the buttocks and, taking her in vilo, started making her go up and down on my sex.Montse opened her eyes with amazement.Although she was going crazy like a madwoman, I kept on going, sadistically impaling her on my stake. She was straddling me, but it was I who was moving her body up and down. Finally, Montse squeezed her thighs at the onset of a hysterical orgasm.I left her to die on my member so she would agonize with pleasure and, just then, I erupted. I began to launch my fiery magma into the uterus of that married woman. I stepped back a bit and contemplated with pride the impudent spectacle. The amount of semen was so great that some started to escape from her congested sex. CONTINUARÁ...
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