The Woman at the Picnic Area Invited Me to Dry Off at Her Place

That morning I thought it was going to be a wasted day. I had nothing to do, the sky was heavy with clouds, and instead of staying home pacing around, I decided to walk up to the picnic area on the hill, the one that’s half an hour from my street. I know it sounds absurd to head up to a lookout with rain threatening, but sometimes I need the silence of the mountain to clear my head.

I was wrong about the silence. And about almost everything else.

Hardly had I got to the top when it started to drizzle. I took a turn among the pines, looked out over the valley half erased by fog, and when the rain really started coming down, I sheltered under an overhang of rock where I wouldn’t get wet. I took out a cigarette, lit it shielding the flame with my hand, and stood there watching the water fall. I was convinced there wasn’t a soul for miles.

Then I saw her pass by. A woman in her seventies, wearing a thin raincoat and her gray hair tied back, walking slowly along the path as if the rain had nothing to do with her. I’m a complete filthy-minded bastard, I’ll admit it, and my head was already inventing scenes that only happen when you imagine them. I laughed at myself and kept smoking.

A while later she appeared again, this time coming the other way. When she saw me under the rock, she came over.

—Got a spare cigarette? —she asked, shaking the drops off her raincoat—. I left mine at home, and with this rain, I can’t be bothered to go back.

—Of course —I said, and held out the pack.

Her name was Amparo. She lit the cigarette with that old-fashioned, old-school sort of gesture, and instead of leaving, she stayed there with me under the same overhang. We talked about stupid things at first: the weather, how few people came up the hill, how this used to be packed with families on Sundays.

—I love walking in the rain —she said, looking out over the valley—. I always did it with my husband. He used to say the mountain smells different when it rains, more like earth, more like truth. He died four years ago. Ever since then, I come up alone.

I didn’t know what to say, so I stayed quiet and let her talk. And talk she did. Amparo had that way of telling things without asking for anything in return, like someone who’d gone a long time without anyone listening to her. I had gone up looking to be alone, and ended up spending almost two hours hanging on every story she told.

Night fell on us without our noticing. The rain, far from stopping, only got heavier.

—You live far away, don’t you? —she asked—. Come on, come back to my place, I’ve got the car down below. I’ll make you something warm and we’ll wait for it to let up.

She said it so naturally that it would have been rude to refuse. I told her I’d love to.

***

The walk to the car was an ambush. In the minute it took us to go down the slope, we were soaked to the bone, both of us laughing like kids as we ran. By the time she started the engine, my clothes were plastered to my body and my hair was dripping.

Her house was ten minutes away, on the edge of the village. As soon as she opened the door, a burst of heat hit me; she had a stove going in the living room and it smelled of woodsmoke and something sweet.

—Goodness, what lovely warmth —I said, rubbing my arms—. In five minutes it’ll dry even my soul.

Amparo laughed. And then she did something I hadn’t expected: without further ado, she unfastened her raincoat, hung it up, and let the soaked dress slide off her shoulders until she was left in her underwear in the middle of the living room.

I turned away on instinct, giving her my back, my face burning.

—Am I making you uncomfortable? —she said, amused—. Or is it that you don’t like what you see?

—I… I… —I stammered like a teenager, feeling the heat climb my cheeks—. No, it’s not that.

—I’m seventy-four —she went on, not a trace of modesty in her voice—. But I think I’m not bad at all. Or am I?

I turned around slowly. And I looked her up and down, once, then again, without saying a word, because I had run out of words. She didn’t look anywhere near the age she claimed. She was tall, almost five foot seven, slender, with surprisingly firm skin and barely a handful of fine lines. This is not happening to me, I thought.

—See? —she said, reading my face—. No need to say anything.

She came closer with a towel in her hand.

—Let me take off those wet clothes and dry you off, or you’ll catch pneumonia.

Embarrassed, I nodded. My voice wouldn’t come. She started with the sweater, pulling it up and over my head, then the T-shirt. She bent down to untie my shoelaces, took off my boots, then my socks, one by one, with a calmness that made me more nervous than any hurry would have. When she loosened my belt and pulled down my wet pants, I was already completely hard, and there was no way to hide it.

Amparo noticed. She smiled to herself.

—Well, well —she whispered softly.

I smiled, mortified, as I pulled down my underwear. Instead of using the towel, she placed both hands on my chest and kissed my neck, slowly, nipping at my skin. At the same time she took me in her hand, squeezing and releasing, working me back and forth with a skill that didn’t fit that image of a quiet little old lady from the hill.

—It’s been a long time since a man looked at me like that —she said in my ear.

She knelt down in front of me without taking her eyes off me and took me into her mouth all the way, right to the back of her throat, with a boldness that stole my breath. There was nothing shy about it. She did it deep, slowly, alternating her mouth with her hand, lifting her gaze from time to time to check the effect she was having on me. I had to brace myself against the back of the sofa so I wouldn’t lose my balance.

—Wait —I managed to say—. I want to too.

I made her climb up onto the sofa with me and we positioned ourselves crosswise, her on top of me, me beneath her. I ran my tongue along the inside of her thighs, slowly, brushing all around without touching the center, making her wait. Amparo breathed deeply, slowly, with a soft sigh every time I moved closer and then pulled away. She didn’t scream; hers was a breath getting more and more broken, almost a purr, and it turned me on just as much, if not more, than any shouting ever could.

—Don’t make me wait so long —she murmured against my skin.

***

I lifted her in my arms. She weighed hardly anything, and she let herself be carried with a low laugh, clinging to my neck. I crossed the dark hallway to her bedroom and laid her on the bed, face down on the bedspread.

There was a bottle of oil on the bedside table, almond oil. I poured some into my hands, rubbed them together to warm it, and started massaging her back, from her shoulders downward, pressing my thumbs in beside her spine. Amparo let out a deep moan of pure relief and relaxed under my hands as if she’d been waiting for years for someone to do exactly that.

I worked my way down slowly, spreading the oil over her waist, her hips, until I got to an ass that, for her age, was a surprise: firm, round, without a single flaw in sight. I parted her buttocks gently and started to trace the area with my tongue, deliberately avoiding the spot she wanted, watching her writhe against the coverlet, gripping the sheets with both hands.

—Please… —she gasped, no longer able to pretend she was calm.

I gave in. I stopped tormenting her and kissed her where she was asking for it, alternating my tongue from side to side, until her whole body tensed all at once, she lifted her hips and shuddered with pleasure, muffling a cry against the pillow. She stayed trembling, breathing as if she’d run up the hill at full speed.

I lay down beside her. Amparo turned her head, her gray hair tousled across her face and a smile that had nothing innocent about it.

—And that —she said, getting her breath back— is only the beginning.

Outside, it was still raining. I was in no hurry for it to stop. But that part, what came after, I’ll leave for another day.