HELLO PAPUCHI! (Part I)

–"Hello, Daddy...what a surprise, huh...?. You're probably wondering who I am... Never mind that, baby. The only thing you have to keep in mind is that when I catch you I'm going to suck you dry...You won't believe how I'm going to fuck you, little boy; I get all wet just talking to you...ahhh....Well, I've got to go. But go get ready for the best fuck of your life, sweetheart...Bye, see you soon."
After hearing this, modulated by the most sensual female voice imaginable, Gregorio remained absorbed, rigid, with the telephone tube clutched in his left hand until 25 seconds after his interlocutor cut off the communication. He was snapped out of his mute stupor by the toneless voice of his section chief.
"I've told you a thousand times that you can't make or receive private calls here!" bellowed his superior, on behalf of the import-export company where Gregorio had been working for more than two decades. Now 50 years old, he was still too single for his taste, a chronic, asthmatic, very short-sighted, chronically overweight, with a bad taste and bad breath, quite bald and decidedly ugly.
Of course, the rest of the day was not the same as usual for him. As he handled invoices and remittances in the dingy office where he was crammed in with nine other wretches, Gregorio racked his brains over the phone call he had just received. For never in his life had a woman spoken to him like that; not even the cheapest and most needy of those pathetic prostitutes he used to frequent no more than four or five times a year, for lack of anything else.
When it was 8 p.m. that day, the same as all the others except for the strange phone call, Gregorio mechanically said goodbye to his companions and went out into the street. Before setting foot on the pavement, he looked in all directions. The usual. The same things and faces as every afternoon. Nothing special, though somehow it was all different for Gregorio. As he made his way back to his flat, he mentally reviewed each of the words that sex-dripping voice had thrown at him, without giving him the slightest chance to respond. His proverbial lack of imagination prevented him from considering the possibility that the mysterious call might be a prank played on him by one of his very few friends, so he could not shake off his amazement.
Thus, turning his head in all directions, he crossed the twelve streets that separated his place of work from the insignificant two-room (more like one and a half) flat where he lived, his only possession of any importance after 30 years of work.

After a monosyllabic greeting to the building's doorman, he passed through the entrance and entered the lift. He reached the fifth floor, and before exiting the elevator completely, he looked out, checking carefully to make sure that there was no one in the peeling corridor. There wasn't, by the way. With a ridiculous little jump he left the lift, closing the door with the greatest care, as if fearing that the horny woman on the phone was going to discover him.
He approached his flat, trying to take in every detail of his surroundings. There was nothing strange: the same smell of stale food, the same damp stains on the walls, the same dirty tiles as always, and that air of abandonment typical of a poor old building full of people who live instead of last.
He reached his door, put the key in and turned it very slowly. After what seemed to him an eternity of time, he dared to enter. Nothing unusual, he saw as he turned on the light in the living-dining room adjoining the tiny kitchen that constituted the most presentable part of the tiny apartment. With a sigh of relief, he took off his threadbare tie, untucked his collar, and tossed away the eternal jacket of an undefined colour, which might have been navy blue long ago. After collapsing into a small armchair, he realised that he could not stop thinking about that call, and especially could not stop hearing in his head that voice worthy of the cattiest late-night radio announcer.
Minutes passed, and he slowly calmed down, thinking that it was a mistake. That no one had ever spoken to him like that, and no one ever would. A painful mistake by some ardent lover, and no more than that. But the ringing of the phone brought him out of his thoughts. Again, upset, he lifted the receiver and answered with an almost inaudible "Hello", only to hear the same lustful voice that had upset him in the office:
"Papirrín...thank goodness I found you. I wanted to tell you again that I'm burning with desire for you. I swear that when we finally meet, you won't believe what I'm going to do to you in bed, my colt. I'm going to suck you from top to bottom, I'm going to take your breath away, you're going to see what a wild woman in heat is like, my love. It's a good thing it's not long now, because I can't wait to have you between my legs, my man. End of communication, and renewed amazement of Gregorio, who with trembling hand pulled the tube away from his ear and hung it up badly. He didn't even manage to ask himself any questions; with this second call, the possibilities of error were reduced almost to the point of disappearance.
It was over an hour before he managed to stop mentally repeating those troubling words, could sit up and walk to the kitchen, to reheat the mushy stew left over from the night before. That, and a minimal sandwich of dubious content at noon (plus some morning coffees) was all he was to eat that day. The menu was not much different from hundreds of other days in his poor life, but today it all seemed very different. He gulped it down quickly, pushing it down with a couple of glasses of cheap wine, and after dumping the dishes in the sink he headed for the tiny bathroom. After the necessary hygienic routines, he stripped off the few clothes he had left on and lay down on the bed.

(TO BE CONTINUED...)