Four Visits in One Afternoon: This Is How I Live My Desire

My name is Sofía and I am fifty-three years old. I say this without shame because I left shame behind a long time ago, when I understood that desire has no expiration date and that pleasure, properly sought, is the most honest thing there is.

I live alone in a spacious apartment in the city center. I take meticulous care of it: there are always fresh flowers in the hallway, the bathroom smells of eucalyptus, and the sheets are soft white linen. I receive visitors. Men I meet through apps or through mutual friends, men who come back because here they find something they don’t find anywhere else. I don’t charge. It’s not that. It’s that fucking is a need for me, as it is for anyone, and at this age I know exactly how to spread my legs and get what I need without apologizing for it.

That October Tuesday began like any other: coffee with milk, a bit of reading, some exercise at home. At five in the afternoon I showered slowly, soaped my nipples until they were hard, slipped two fingers between my legs to check that I was already wet from nothing more than thinking about it, and put on a navy-blue dress that clings nicely to the hips, with no panties underneath. I lit a couple of candles in the bedroom. I had four dates that afternoon and that night. I had known since breakfast, and the anticipation kept my cunt throbbing for hours, like when you wait for a storm to break and the air is already announcing it.

***

Andrés arrived on time at six. Thirty-four years old, a lawyer at a firm up north who visited the city every month for work. The first time, a friend introduced us at a dinner; the second time, he wrote to me directly. He had dark, damp hair, as if he had just showered in the hotel, and that tension in his shoulders that belongs to someone who has spent days shut away in meetings.

—I needed this —he said when he came in, before I could say anything.

I poured us wine. We sat on the sofa and talked about little things: the city, the cold that had arrived late that year, a book neither of us had finished. But the conversation was only the entrance ritual and we both knew it. Ten minutes later we were kissing, and his hands were on my waist with that controlled urgency of someone who has been holding back for days.

I led him to the bedroom by the hand. He took off his shirt while I slowly lowered the straps of my dress, never taking my eyes off his. When the fabric fell to the floor and he saw me naked underneath, with nothing on, he exhaled through his nose as if the air had been knocked out of him.

—You’re stunning —he murmured.

I didn’t answer. I knelt in front of him, undid his belt, and pulled down his trousers along with his boxer briefs in one tug. His cock sprang up hard, thick, red at the tip, and I grabbed it by the base and took it deep into my mouth without warning. Andrés gripped the edge of the wardrobe, moaning. He likes it when I take the initiative at first. Then, once he’s inside, he likes to set the rhythm himself.

I sucked him slowly, my tongue running the full length of him, pausing at the glans to lick it as if it were candy. I took his balls in my free hand and kneaded them while I sped up. Andrés started thrusting his hips against my face, fucking my mouth carefully at first and harder after that, until I could feel the tip of his cock hitting my throat. When I felt he was close, I gently pushed him away with a shove to his thigh.

—Not yet —I told him, wiping the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand—. You haven’t done anything to me yet.

He laid me on the bed and went down my body with his mouth without any hurry, lingering on my neck, on my collarbones, closing his lips around one nipple and then the other until he left them so tight they hurt. His hands traveled my thighs, spreading them firmly. When he buried his face in my cunt, I arched all on my own.

Andrés ate with hunger, without restraint. His whole tongue flat against my clit, sucking it, pinning it between his lips, alternating with two fingers going in and out of my soaked cunt with a wet sound that filled the room. I had my hands tangled in his hair, pushing his head against me, fucking his mouth without the slightest shame.

—Like that, there, don’t stop —I gasped, my hips lifting of their own accord against his face.

I came screaming, clamping his head between my thighs, my legs shaking. He didn’t pull away. He kept licking slowly while I rode it out, drawing every last spasm from me, until I had to push his forehead because I couldn’t take my hypersensitive clit anymore.

He sat up with his chin shining with me, wiped himself off with the back of his hand, and looked at me like someone who has won something. He got on top of me. I grabbed his cock and guided it to my entrance, and he drove it in with one long thrust that tore a groan from the bottom of my throat. My cunt swallowed him whole, tight, still throbbing from the previous orgasm.

—Fuck —he said through his teeth—. You’re soaked.

He started moving calmly, measuring each thrust, sinking all the way in and coming almost all the way out before driving back in. I put my hands on his shoulders and dug my nails in. We changed positions: I rode on top, with my hands braced on his chest, and started riding him slowly, feeling how his cock filled me completely with each downward plunge. He held my hips and fucked up into me, staring at my tits bouncing with an expression somewhere between astonishment and surrender.

—Come inside —I told him, speeding up—. I want to feel it.

That was enough. He squeezed my hips hard enough to hurt, thrust upward one last time, and came inside me with a long groan, while I finished on top with my clit rubbing against his pubic bone. I felt the hot spurts filling me from within, and I stayed still on top of him, squeezing him with my inner muscles to wring out the last drop.

He showered, dressed, and left forty minutes after arriving, with that languid heaviness in the legs of a well-drained man. Before he went out, he left a long kiss on my forehead.

—Until next month —he said.

—Until next month —I replied, with his semen still dripping down my thigh.

***

Rodrigo arrived at eight. Forty years old, architect, a body like someone who exercises without obsessing over it, a regular visitor for almost two years. With him things were different: there was no urgency, there was rhythm. We knew each other well, we knew what the other wanted before asking.

—I brought new oil —he said when he came in, lifting a brown paper bag.

I smiled. He always brings something. The week before, he had brought toasted almonds. Before that, a book I had mentioned in passing during a conversation. It wasn’t courtship or romantic intent: it was simply who he was, a man who pays attention.

We undressed in the living room without ceremony, kissing standing against the wall. When he took off my clothes and slid his hand between my legs, he found my cunt swollen, slippery, with Andrés’s remains still inside. He smiled against my mouth.

—You already have the advantage —he said, slipping two fingers deep into me with a slow motion.

—Catch up to me —I gasped, resting my head against the wall.

He worked me there standing for a while, his fingers going in and out with an obscene sloshing, his thumb circling the clit. I grabbed his cock, already hard against my hip, and stroked it in the same rhythm, spitting on my hand to do it better. We rubbed like that until he pulled my hand away.

—Let’s go to the bedroom or I’ll blow your back out right here.

He laid me face down on the bed and started with the massage. Warm hands, oil smelling of wood and citrus, exact pressure on my shoulders and back. He worked slowly down over my ass, parting it with both hands, sliding the oiled thumb along the slit until it brushed my asshole. When he reached the inner thighs, I stopped breathing normally and grabbed the pillow.

—Open —he murmured, and I spread my legs even wider, offering him everything.

He put his face between my thighs from behind, his tongue working my cunt from below and his thumbs prying my lips apart for better access. Then he moved up, his whole tongue against my ass, sucking and licking that spot with the same dedication he gave my cunt. I buried my face in the pillow to muffle the moan. No one licks my ass like Rodrigo.

He turned me over and devoured me from the front without hurry, without asking permission, because he already knows there’s no need. He slid in three fingers while his tongue circled my clit, and I came in his mouth a few minutes later, pushing his face against me with both hands, moaning his name.

When I came down a bit, I pulled him upward and we settled into sixty-nine, something we both like but that rarely really works. With Rodrigo it works because we both pay attention and neither of us gets distracted. I got on top with my cunt on his face and his cock in mine, and sucked him all the way in until the tip touched the back of my throat and I had to breathe through my nose so I wouldn’t choke. I sucked his balls, kissed them one by one, licked him from the base to the glans while he worked me below with his tongue and fingers.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I put him on his back and got on top.

Riding someone you know well has something special about it: you know how to move so both of you feel more. I adjusted the angle, braced one hand on his chest, and speared my cunt onto his cock all the way to the base. I started going up and down, first slowly, feeling him enter completely each time, then faster, my tits bouncing and him gripping them, pinching my nipples.

—Don’t stop —he said softly.

I didn’t stop. I sped up. I leaned forward so my clit would rub against his pubic bone with every drop, and I felt that familiar heat rising inside me. Rodrigo grabbed my hips and started thrusting from below, fucking me hard, making me bounce on him. The bed creaked. I moaned without controlling myself, mouth open, strings of saliva dripping down my chin.

—I’m coming —I gasped—, I’m coming I’m coming I’m coming…

I arrived in a long spasm that clenched me all over, my cunt squeezing his cock like a fist, and he came almost at the same time with a sound from deep in his chest, emptying himself inside me in several hot spurts. I stayed on top of him, trembling, with his cock still inside, throbbing.

We showered together, laughing about something stupid I no longer remember. Under the hot water, with the soap, he took the opportunity to slip his hand between my legs again, more out of habit than hunger, and I took his soft cock and soaped it slowly, thanking him in silence. He left after nine-thirty with that relaxed look of someone who’s slept straight through the night.

***

Ernesto arrived at a quarter past ten, fifteen minutes late, which he made up for with a bouquet of white peonies. Sixty-four years old, retired businessman, widower for three years. Entirely silver hair, large steady hands, a calm in his eyes that only comes to someone who has lived a lot and had to let go even more.

He was the visit I liked most in the strict sense, not because the sex was the most intense, but because there was something different in the way he looked at me. As if what he saw in me seemed valuable in itself, without conditions.

We opened the bottle of sherry I kept for him. We sat facing each other on the sofa and talked for a long while: him, about his son who had just had a daughter; me, about a trip I was planning to Portugal. The conversation was easy, one of those that doesn’t need to be built because it supports itself.

When we kissed, he was the one who started, placing a hand on my cheek with a delicacy that contrasted with the size of his hand. He undressed me very slowly, kissing every inch he uncovered, never hurrying. Men who have that even temper know there’s no rush, that haste belongs to those who still don’t trust the other person will stay.

When he had me naked on top of the sheets, he knelt between my legs and paused for a moment, looking at my open cunt, still swollen and pink from the two before him, his white beard almost brushing my thighs. He smiled faintly.

—What a beauty —he said, and lowered his mouth.

Ernesto eats pussy like a man praying. No hurry, no showy technique, only total attention. His broad, flat tongue sweeping from below up to my clit in long passes. Then the tip of his tongue focused only there, drawing exact circles. Then two fingers going in very slowly, curling inside until they found that spot he knows by heart. He alternated, changed rhythm, paused just when I was about to tip over and went down to suck my lower lips and lick my entrance, then came back up when I could no longer bear it.

He kept me like that, hanging on the edge of orgasm, for what seemed like an eternity. I had my hands clenched in the sheets, my back arched, my heels dug into the mattress. When he finally let me come, sucking my clit firmly while he fucked me with his fingers, I came with a rough cry, clutching the pillow, my whole body arched, my thighs closing around his silver head.

He sat up, took off what remained of his clothes, and settled on top in missionary. His cock, thick and surprisingly hard for his age, found the entrance on its own. He pushed all the way in with one long thrust and stayed there, buried, breathing into my mouth.

—Look at me —he murmured.

I looked at him. He started moving very slowly, with deep thrusts, not taking his eyes off mine for a second. That detail always affects me. There is something about being fucked like that, eyes open, without distance or haste, with a man who knows exactly what he’s doing and who he’s doing it for, that makes sex more intimate than any position or technique one could learn. I hooked my legs around his waist and dug my heels into his ass to draw him deeper with each push.

—Like that —I gasped—, like that, don’t change anything.

He didn’t change anything. He kept the same slow, deep rhythm, looking at me while I started trembling inside again. When he felt I was close, he lowered his mouth to mine and kissed me deeply, and like that, with his tongue in my mouth and his cock pounding my deepest point, I came for the third time that night, much more quietly, trembling beneath him. He held out for a few more thrusts and came too, buried to the root, groaning low against my neck as he emptied himself inside me.

We stayed embraced for a while without saying anything, his cock softening slowly inside me. After a few minutes, he spoke first.

—You’re very good tonight —he said against my hair.

—I’ve had a very good day —I replied.

He didn’t ask anything else. He already knows how I am and accepts it without needing details.

He left close to midnight, after another drink and a little more conversation. At the door he kissed my hand, as he always does.

***

Damián arrived at twelve-thirty, when I had already started thinking he was going to cancel. He was the newest: we had only met once before, a month earlier, and it had been so good that I myself suggested repeating it. Thirty-eight years old, photographer, tattoos on his forearms, and a direct gaze that unsettles people unaccustomed to truly being seen.

—I thought you were going to cancel —I said when I opened the door.

—I thought about it —he admitted—. But in the end I couldn’t.

With Damián there was no pre-talk. As soon as I closed the door, he had me against the wall, his hands on my waist and his mouth on my neck. He slipped his hand under my dress, found my naked cunt still dripping from Ernesto, and gave a low laugh against my ear.

—Well, well. Someone’s been busy.

—Very busy —I answered, without the slightest shame—. And I’m not done yet.

—That’s obvious.

I didn’t resist. After three encounters in the same day, my body was in that state of continuous heat where desire and pleasure are almost the same thing and any contact gets amplified. He slid two fingers in up to the knuckles, stirring me inside with the others’ semen, and with the other hand he yanked my dress over my head.

He took me to the kitchen, which is not where I normally end up with anyone, and lifted me onto the marble counter. The cold on my ass made me jerk. He opened his pants, took out his cock, long and curved, and put it in my hand.

—Guide it yourself —he said.

I spread my legs wide, propping my heels on the edge of the counter, and placed the tip against my entrance. He shoved in all at once and went to the hilt, no transition, no courtesy. I screamed against his mouth. He started fucking me right there, standing between my legs, with firm hands on my hips so he could thrust with all the force he wanted. The countertop creaked. The glasses in the draining rack clinked with each thrust.

He was different from the other three. Faster, more intense, with an energy that didn’t moderate itself and didn’t ask permission to take up space. I liked him for exactly that reason: because he was the opposite of Ernesto’s calm and Rodrigo’s quiet attention. He was urgency in its purest state, brutal, shameless fucking, and that night urgency was what I needed too.

—Tell me how you want it —he gasped against my neck, never stopping his thrusts.

—Hard —I said—. Like you hate me.

He smiled with his teeth. He lifted me off the counter, turned me against it, and pushed my back down until I was bent over, chest against the cold marble, ass raised. He entered me again from behind in one slow thrust, grabbing my hair with one hand and my hip with the other, and fucked me there, against the kitchen, until I started pleading softly without really knowing what I was asking for.

We moved to the bedroom with him still hard and slick. Damián asked me if he could tie my wrists with the silk scarf he had brought himself the previous time and that I had kept in the nightstand drawer. I told him yes. I like that game when it’s agreed upon and when I trust the one on the other side, and with him, for some reason I still can’t quite understand, I trusted him from the beginning.

Tied to the headboard, with my hands still above my head but the rest of my body free, I felt everything he did with a different intensity, more focused. He sucked my nipples until they were red. He bit the inside of my thighs. Then he went down and got his tongue as deep into my cunt as he could, his thumb rubbing my clit in fast circles, and he didn’t stop until I started shaking and tugging at the restraints.

—Stop —I gasped—, stop so I can come and I want it with you inside.

He stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked down at me for a moment, his hard, shiny cock hanging between his legs.

—Do you want me to stop for real? —he asked, with a cruel smile.

—No. But I want you in me. Now.

He untied me first. He lay down beside me, turned me onto my side in spoon position, and entered from behind in one slow shove. One hand circled my hip to hold me steady, the other reached forward and found my clit. He started moving with short, deep thrusts, biting my shoulder, breathing hot against the back of my neck. With the hand in front he worked my clit to the same rhythm, and his cock hit me inside at exactly the right angle.

—You’re full of others —he murmured against my ear, never stopping his thrusts—. Do you like that?

—Yes —I gasped, without the slightest shame.

—Want one more?

—Yes. Inside. All of it.

That angle, that specific pressure, those obscene whispered words against my neck, don’t last long for me. I came with an intensity that made me close my eyes and bite my lip until I bled so I wouldn’t wake the neighbor downstairs. My whole body clenched, my toes curled, my cunt squeezed his cock in waves.

Damián kept going a little longer, faster, deeper, until he sank in one last time and came inside me with a low sound against my back that I felt vibrating through my whole body. I felt the hot spurts joining the others, filling me until I overflowed.

We stayed like that a while, spooned together, his cock softening slowly inside. When he finally slid out, a thick thread of mixed semen ran down my thigh to the sheet. The room smelled of candles that had gone out hours before, of sex, and of the four men mixed inside me.

He left around two in the morning. At the door he turned before going out.

—Can I come back next week?

—Text me —I said.

***

I was left alone among the sheets, staring at the ceiling in the dark, my legs still open and my cunt throbbing slowly, dripping onto the sheet. Four different men in one afternoon and one night: one tense and restrained by work, one attentive and familiar, one wise and unhurried, one intense and direct as an electric current. Each had brought something different, and I had received each one with the openness he demanded, and with my cunt open.

I felt neither tiredness nor guilt. I felt that deep satisfaction of someone who has been completely present for hours, who has given and received pleasure honestly, without pretending or hiding anything from anyone.

At fifty-three I know something I didn’t know at thirty: desire does not need to be justified. It does not have to be romantic or have a future or fit into any story another person can tell without discomfort. Desire is mine. My cunt is mine. What I do with it is mine too. And if someone needs me to apologize for that, the problem is theirs, not mine.

I lowered a hand between my legs, almost by reflex, and slowly stroked my swollen clit, feeling the thick mixture of the four of them on my fingertips. I brought my fingers to my mouth and sucked them slowly, tasting them. Then I turned off the last lamp and fell asleep with that feeling in my body: the feeling of having lived the entire day, all the way to the end, without leaving anything unused.