The Mature Whore I Haven’t Been Able to Forget

Sometimes I wake in the early hours with the exact sensation of her hands on the nape of my neck, as if the body had a memory of its own and insisted on bringing her back when my mind had already accepted losing her. It doesn’t happen with every woman. It happens with her.

I shouldn’t call it love, and yet the word whim doesn’t quite cover it either. It was a single night in a room rented by the hour, with an old radio playing too softly and other people’s footsteps in the hallway. A night with a mature whore I had gone looking for out of desire and from which I emerged trembling because of something much worse.

I’ll call her Samira, though that wasn’t her name. I won’t give my real name either. Some memories are easier to tell if you change their faces, even when you can’t change their weight.

The first thing that struck me about her was her smile. Broad, white, brazen, the kind that asks no permission to fill an entire room. Then came the rest: the large, full, dark body, covered in curves with no intention of hiding them; broad hands with red nails; a low, soft, almost tired voice contrasting with a scandalous laugh that burst out without shame.

She was a clearly adult woman, the kind who had already lived too much and still somehow found the strength to joke. Her black hair was tied back any old way, and she wore a simple dress and worn sandals. She didn’t look like a fantasy assembled to sell herself. She looked like a real person, and perhaps that was why she disarmed me before she even touched me.

We went up to the room without many words. The hotel was one of those discreet places where nobody asks anything and everyone looks the other way. A narrow hallway, a yellow bulb, a door with chipped paint, and a bed that creaked even before we used it. I had been nervous other times; that night, instead, I felt exposed.

She noticed as soon as she closed the door.

—Breathe, my pretty boy —she said, resting a hand on my chest—. Nobody’s rushing you here.

She didn’t call me that as a strategy. Or at least it didn’t sound like one. It sounded tender, and that was the first crack.

She left her purse on a chair, took off her earrings, and watched me with a strange mixture of professional habit and curiosity. I was still standing beside the bed, awkward, looking at her mouth, her shoulders, the way the dress clung to her big tits and soft belly. Of course she noticed everything.

—Do you like me the way I am? —she asked.

—Yes —I answered far too quickly.

She smiled with a sweetness that left me defenseless. Then she came closer, took my face in both hands, and kissed me slowly. It wasn’t a professional welcome kiss, nor a hurried one. She slipped her tongue in calmly, wet and warm, searching me until I stopped thinking. I grabbed her waist and felt the abundant, hot, living flesh beneath my palms.

Her body excited me instantly. The heavy tits beneath the fabric, the wide ass, the thick thighs. She wasn’t magazine-perfect, and thank God for that. She was better: she had weight, texture, little scars, sun marks, the kind of details that turn a body into a story.

We sat on the bed without breaking the kiss. She kissed me and stroked my hair, the nape of my neck, my ears. I pushed her dress up to her thighs and found short stockings and strong legs. When I slipped my hand between them, she gave a brief laugh.

—Easy —she murmured—. Let me look at you first.

She unbuttoned my shirt one button at a time, without hurrying, as if she wanted to memorize me. Then she ran her fingertips over my chest and stomach until they reached my belt. My erection was already showing shamelessly. She felt it through my trousers and tilted her head.

—That’s how I like it —she said—. Hard before we start.

She lowered my zipper, slipped her hand inside, and slowly pulled out my cock. Just seeing it in the open made me gasp. Her fingers were large and delicate at the same time; they wrapped firmly around my shaft and began moving the skin up and down with a cruel slowness. I tried to kiss her again, but she pushed me away with a smile.

—Still. Now I’m touching you.

She led me to the room’s tiny bathroom. She turned on the sink, let a little warm water run, and, without taking her eyes off me, wet a towel. Then she cleaned my cock as if it were something precious. From the base to the head, carefully removing every trace of the day’s sweat, giving me little kisses on the neck as she worked. Her tits brushed my arm and shoulder with every movement.

—Look at how you’re getting —she laughed softly when she felt me harden further—. I haven’t even sucked you yet and you’re already trembling.

I really was trembling. Not only from wanting her. Also because of the absurd intimacy of that gesture. Nobody had ever washed me like that, with such a mixture of tenderness and shamelessness.

We returned to the bed. She pulled the dress over her head and stood naked before me. The image lodged itself in my mind: dark skin, large nipples tightening in the air, a soft belly, a completely shaved pussy except for a faint shadow beginning to grow back, a round, heavy ass. She was a mature woman hiding nothing, and precisely for that reason I found her dazzling.

She gently pushed me down until I was sitting on the edge of the mattress. Then she knelt between my legs and held my cock with one hand while stroking my balls with the other. She looked up and smiled before sticking out her tongue and licking the tip, barely brushing it. A ridiculous moan escaped me.

—Don’t go lasting too little on me —she whispered.

Then she opened her mouth and swallowed half my shaft in one go. Hot. Wet. Deep. My back arched on its own. She pulled back, leaving the head shining with saliva, and took it in again, this time deeper, sucking hard. Every time she came up, her tongue circled the crown. Every time she went down, she looked me in the eyes as if she wanted to see exactly how much she was unraveling me.

It took her no time to find a rhythm. She gripped me firmly at the base and alternated slow sucks with faster ones, taking my cock down her throat and pulling it out with a wet sound that drove me crazy. I felt her broken breathing, the pressure of her thick lips, saliva running down my shaft to my balls.

—Fuck... —was all I managed to say.

She released my cock only to spit into her hand and jerk me a few times before putting it back in her mouth. She sucked my balls too, one and then the other, with obscene dedication, then returned to the head, giving it little kisses before swallowing it again. Every time she took me all the way in, I felt a jolt run through my legs.

—That’s it, look at me —she ordered, her voice broken—. I want to see you when you fuck my mouth.

She grabbed my thighs, let me thrust a little, and began setting the movement herself with her head. It wasn’t a timid blowjob or one done just for show. It was a serious, practiced sucking, from a woman who knew exactly how to take you to the edge without letting you fall. My cock slid in and out of her shining mouth, striking her cheeks. She enjoyed watching me lose control.

When she noticed I was about to come, she pulled away. She rose onto her knees, breathing hard, and brought her tits close to my face.

—Now you suck.

I obeyed without thinking. I barely bit one nipple and she let out a rough moan. They were enormous, heavy, soft, hot flesh. She pressed them against my mouth while I licked and sucked first one nipple and then the other, feeling them harden further. She ran one hand through my hair and began rubbing her crotch with the other.

—Yes, like that... right there... —she murmured—. Don’t be too gentle; I can take it.

I kissed her belly, went down to her sex, and opened her with my fingers. She was wet, very wet. Her dark lips looked swollen and glossy, and inside, the pale pink showed, moist and alive. I slipped my tongue in without asking, from below all the way to her clitoris, and she grabbed my hair hard.

—Fuck... yes... eat this pussy.

I really ate her. First with a broad tongue, licking her entire slit, then concentrating on her clitoris while my fingers opened her lips wider. She tasted strong, clean, exciting. She panted, writhed, pressed my head against her vulva, and every so often threw affectionate insults at me that made me even hotter.

I put in one finger, then two. Her inside surprised me: tight, firm, hot. She clenched slightly and let out a long moan.

—That’s it, my pretty boy... put them in deep.

I pumped them slowly at first and then faster while continuing to lick her. I heard her laugh between gasps of pure disbelief. Her pelvis began moving on its own against my face. When she felt the first tremor, she barely pulled me away.

—Don’t make me come yet —she said—. I want to feel you inside me first.

She rolled me onto my back with a decisiveness I hadn’t expected and climbed on top of me. She took my cock, positioned it between her soaked lips, and slowly lowered herself. I felt her swallow me inch by inch, hot, slippery, squeezing me as I entered. We both moaned at the same time.

—Shit... —I whispered.

—That’s it... all of it —she said, closing her eyes for a moment.

She stayed still for barely a second, savoring the penetration, and then began to move. First slowly, making short circles with her hips and rubbing herself on every downward stroke. Then higher and lower, riding me eagerly. Her tits bounced in front of me, her belly trembled, and the mattress creaked as if it were about to break. I gripped her thighs and ass, astonished by how much flesh there was to squeeze.

She rode as if she needed to empty herself out. She bit her lip, panted, put one hand on her clitoris and the other on my chest. Her nails left marks on me as she sped up. I thrust up into her whenever she came down far enough, and every impact produced a wet, thick sound that grew louder and louder.

—Don’t stop... don’t stop, goddammit... —she said—. That’s how I like it. Hard. Make me feel it.

My cock slid in and out of a pussy that was incredibly wide on the outside but tight within, drenched in lubrication. I felt her walls closing around me as pleasure rose through her, and it nearly made me come right there. She knew it and stopped in time, smiling wickedly.

She climbed off me and made me turn around so I was sitting on the edge of the bed. Then she positioned herself with her back to me, impaled herself again, and began riding me backward. From there I could see her ass opening and closing with every thrust, her hips working, her back arched. She braced herself on my knees and began bouncing with brutal force.

—Look at this ass —she teased, turning her head slightly—. Tell me it doesn’t drive you crazy.

—It drives me crazy.

—Then grab it.

I did. I spread her cheeks, squeezed them, kneaded them while she kept fucking me. Sweat ran down her back. I watched my cock disappear completely inside her and come out shining. The sight was so raw and so perfect that it left me speechless.

When she grew tired, she stood abruptly, pushed me onto the mattress, and got on all fours. Her hair came loose then and fell down her back like a black curtain.

—Now, yes —she said, looking over her shoulder—. Fuck me hard.

I didn’t need to hear it twice. I positioned myself behind her, spread her ass with my hands to get a better look at her swollen pussy, and drove my cock into her with one thrust. The sound she made was half scream, half laugh. I began pounding her hard, without tenderness now, driving my hips against her large buttocks again and again. The bed slammed against the wall. She held onto the headboard with one hand and masturbated furiously with the other.

—Harder, fuck. Harder. Don’t take such good care of me.

I did as she said. Every thrust went all the way in. Her wet lips slapped against my pelvis, and the hair beginning to grow back brushed my balls, rough and arousing. She moaned without filtering herself, mouth open, begging for my cock as if her life depended on it.

—That’s it... like that, you bastard... put it all in... all of it...

I grabbed her hair, pulled it away from her neck, and bent her a little farther forward. From that angle I went even deeper. Her pussy squeezed me better, as if it wanted to swallow me whole. I felt her ass beginning to tremble, her thighs tightening.

—I’m going to come —she said through her teeth—. Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.

I kept pounding her with everything I had. She rubbed her clitoris faster, let out a long moan, and came. I felt it. Her vagina squeezed me in waves, wet and hot, trapping me. Her legs gave way, but even so she asked me for more again.

I pulled out only to give one buttock a hard slap. She shuddered.

—Again.

I did. It wasn’t a serious pain game, only raw arousal. She pushed her ass back, offering herself, and I buried myself in her again. We fucked like that for several more minutes, amid slaps, moans, and the obscene sound of our bodies colliding.

Then I made her turn over. She lay on her back, legs spread, tits splayed, chest rising and falling. Her pussy was swollen, gleaming, asking for more. She beckoned me with one finger.

—Come here and put it in the way I like.

I lifted one of her legs onto my shoulder and entered her again. From above, the penetration was different, deeper, tighter. She wrapped her other leg around my waist and covered my face with wet, disorderly kisses, thrusting her tongue into me until she left me breathless. Each kiss blended with a thrust.

—Hard as a rock... that’s it... don’t pull it out so much... leave it inside me... —she whispered between gasps.

I obeyed while losing my head at the same time. I fucked her pussy with short, deep strokes, rubbing my pubic bone against her with every entry. She had one hand on the nape of my neck and the other squeezing a nipple. Her eyes narrowed with pure pleasure.

I bent down to bite one of her tits while staying inside her. She moaned and grabbed my face to make me look at her.

—What have you done to me? —she said, a mixture of laughter and amazement in her voice.

Hearing that in the middle of the scene threw me off. Not because it was a beautiful phrase, but because it sounded sincere. As if for one second she too had forgotten the room, the money, the routine.

I wanted to answer her, but instead of words I gave her a deeper thrust that made her arch her whole body. She asked me not to come outside. She wanted to feel it inside her. She told me without romance, and yet it sounded intimate to me.

I fucked her until I began losing control of my legs. The orgasm surged brutally, closing my throat. She noticed the change, hugged me tightly, and kept me inside her.

—Yes, yes... come... here... with me...

I came buried to the hilt, unloading in pulses inside her hot pussy. I felt my body run out of air for a few seconds, as if everything went dark except that blind, happy contraction. She kept squeezing me with her legs, receiving me, moaning softly beneath me.

We stayed motionless for a moment. Sweaty. Stuck together. Ridiculously close for two strangers.

***

When I pulled out of her, I thought everything would end there, the way those things always end: a quick shower, clothes, money, goodbye. But it didn’t. She lay on her side and pulled me over so I could rest my head on her belly. She stroked my hair in silence.

Her belly was soft and warm. Her breathing was returning to normal. I ran my hand over her hip, over the small scars in her skin, over her broad back. There was nothing spectacular about the gesture, and that was why it was devastating.

—You really enjoyed yourself with me —she said at last, without boasting.

—Yes.

—You can tell when people aren’t lying.

She sat up to light a cigarette beside the half-open window. The smoke drew a fine mist around her face. She was still naked and didn’t seem to be posing; she was simply there, big, tired, beautiful in her own way, that white smile slowly returning.

She offered me a sip from a small bottle of cream liqueur she took from her purse and a squashed chocolate bar. We laughed at how absurd the scene was. Then she returned to the bed and kissed me again, more tenderly, as if the fierce sex before had made room for another kind of closeness.

We touched each other again, more slowly. I sucked her tits while she caressed me half-asleep. She asked me to give her just a little more, and I slipped two fingers inside her while kissing her. She came again, softly, squeezing her thighs around my hand and murmuring my nickname into the pillow.

Before I left, she took my face between her large hands.

—I’m going to remember you.

I wanted to tell her I would remember her too, but I was embarrassed to sound too sincere. I paid her, got dressed, and walked out into the hallway with the feeling that I had left some part of myself lying in that room.

For days I thought about calling her. More than once I strolled down that street pretending to be casual, staring at the hotel entrance like an idiot. I masturbated remembering how she sucked me, how she rode me, how she demanded that I go harder. But it wasn’t only the sex. I wish it had been only that.

What haunted me was the mixture. Her tenderness after the obscenity. Her strong woman’s hands washing my cock as if they were taking care of me. The way she said, “What have you done to me?” as if I had moved something real inside her. The way she curled up beside me, looking for caresses nobody gave her.

I don’t believe in sentimental miracles. I don’t believe love is born cleanly in a hotel room between a sex worker and a client. Real life isn’t arranged so poets can be right. And yet, when I remember that night, when my body takes me back there without asking permission, I find it difficult to call it anything else.

Sometimes I remember her on her knees, looking up at me before swallowing my cock. Sometimes I remember her on all fours, ordering me to fuck her harder. Sometimes I simply remember her laughing with the cigarette in her hand, naked, adult, tired, and sweet, as if the world still hadn’t managed to break her completely.

And on lonely nights, when desire and sadness look too much alike, I still hear her low voice in the darkness. I still feel her pussy squeezing me as she came, her tongue in my mouth, her heavy breasts against my chest. I still wonder whether that phrase was merely part of the job or whether, for a few hours, something real happened to both of us.

I don’t know. Maybe I never will.

The only sure thing is this: I’ve fucked other women before and since. Some younger, some more beautiful, some more giving. But none left me with that knot in my throat as I dressed, that absurd need to see her again, that stubborn memory that slips in even when I think I’ve forgotten her.

So if I ever find her again through one of fate’s cruel jokes, I know I won’t ask how much she charges or how much time we have. The first thing I’ll want to know is whether she still remembers me.

And the second, if she looks at me again with those dark eyes and calls me “my pretty boy,” will be to close the door, push her against the wall, and sink once more into that enormous, hot body I haven’t been able to get out of my head ever since.