Pig Stories 3 Neighborhood Sex / Literature of the Underworld

You woke up with a dry mouth and your body stuck to the sheets as if someone had glued you to the mattress during the night. The light entered through the half-open window, a dirty morning light from the neighborhood, filtered by pollution and the yellowish curtains that Dani must have bought at a Chinese store ten years ago. It smelled of cold tobacco, rancid sweat, dry lubricant, and beneath all that, faint but persistent, the ghostly trace of Javier's cologne clinging to the pillow like a tenant who refuses to leave.

Dani was not there.

His side of the bed preserved the shape of his body, the indentation in the old mattress where his weight had left a mark, but it was cold. He had been up for a while. From the kitchen came the sound of the radio, a flamenco station spewing out bulerías at a low volume, and the clinking of a spoon against a cup. Coffee. Dani was making himself coffee as if it were just another Tuesday. As if last night he hadn't deflowered his downstairs neighbor, sold him to a lawyer with a mustache, and then cuddled him against his chest like a child.

You stayed there for a minute, staring at the ceiling. The water stains formed a map of a non-existent country. Dani's ceiling was just like the ceiling in your house, one floor below. The same crappy building. The same leaks. The same cracks that no one would ever fix because the landlord lived in another city and the building administrator was a ghost that no one had seen since 2019.

You moved, and your ass reminded you of everything your head was trying to process. It wasn't exactly pain. It was an echo. A muscular reverberation, the sphincter protesting with each movement like a worker who had been made to do extra hours without warning. Two cocks in one night. Dani's, long, impatient, brutal. Javier's, wide, methodical, relentless. Your body bore the signature of both, and it would for days.

The bills were still on the nightstand. Five hundred euros. You hadn't dreamed them. They were there, disordered, with that unmistakable texture of new paper money, crunchy, almost obscene in its material reality. You picked them up. You counted them. One, two, three, four, five. Five hundred euros. You put them under the pillow like a kid who hides coins from the tooth fairy and you felt ridiculous and safe at the same time.

You got up. Your legs were trembling. Not from weakness, but from something deeper, a tremor that came from your hips, your pelvis, the center of your body where things had been reorganized during the night. You walked naked to the bedroom door and peeked into the hallway.

Dani's apartment was small. A narrow hallway with a floor of tiles that had once been white. To the left, the bathroom, with the door ajar, revealing a sink with a lime scale and a mirror splattered with toothpaste. At the end, the kitchen, which was also the living room, a square space with a dirty counter, a refrigerator that vibra...