Years Watching Her at the Bar Without Daring to Speak

There are women who don’t stand out in an obvious way. They’re not the ones who walk into a place and make everyone turn their heads. They don’t wear the shortest skirt or the most generous neckline. They go unnoticed by most people, and that is precisely why, once you start really looking at them, you can’t stop.

Elena is that kind of woman.

I met her many years ago, when we were still teenagers and my parents used to take me to the bar run by her family in the neighborhood we’d always lived in. She was the quiet daughter of the owners, the one who collected glasses without saying a word while her father worked the bar. Then I left to study elsewhere, spent years without setting foot in the neighborhood regularly, and when I came back, the bar was still there. And so was Elena.

She must have been about twenty-eight when I saw her again slowly, with real attention. She still wore dark-framed glasses, her slightly wavy black hair tied up any old way, the straight jeans that said nothing remarkable. She still didn’t talk much, didn’t laugh out loud, didn’t try to make anyone notice her. Her mother was no longer behind the bar. Now she was the one running the business, along with her brother, although she was the one putting in the real hours.

I sat at the bar that afternoon with no particular intention. Ordered a beer. And when she brought it to me without looking me in the eye, something stuck with me: the way she set the glass down on the cork coaster, slowly, as if every movement she made had been calculated in advance.

There’s something about this woman I don’t understand.

And when I don’t understand something, I can’t leave it alone.

***

Over the following years I went to the bar fairly regularly. Not obsessively, just enough so my presence wouldn’t seem strange. Three or four times a month, sometimes more. I always ordered something simple: a draft beer, a coffee, sometimes a shot if the day had been rough. And I always sat at the far end of the bar, near where she usually leaned when there was nothing to do.

At first the looks were accidental. She’d glance at me when serving me and I’d simply look back. But at some point, I don’t know exactly when, they stopped being accidental. She looked for me before I looked for her. She’d lift her eyes from whatever she was doing—cleaning the counter, checking her phone, refilling the sugar bowl—and her eyes would go straight to mine. Without smiling. Without changing her expression. Just looking.

And I did the same.

That went on for years. Two, three, maybe four. A silent conversation neither of us named, one that had no way to move forward because neither of us made the first move. Me because I wasn’t sure whether what I was seeing was real or something I was inventing. Her because, I suppose, she had her own reasons, which I understood much later.

During that time I started noticing details I hadn’t seen before. The jeans she wore were always the same style, seemingly ordinary, but made of a fabric that stretched and adapted to the body. When she walked from the bar to the tables, her hips moved with a cadence rigid jeans don’t allow. And not once, in all those years, did her underwear show through in back. She could have been wearing a thin thong, she could have been wearing nothing at all. It took my head a very long time to decide which of the two options I preferred to imagine, and the times I jerked off thinking about her ass were the best part of the day. I imagined ripping those jeans open, pulling them down to her ankles, and finding her naked pussy, already wet, ready for my cock without any preamble.

I also noticed her feet. In summer she always wore thin-strap sandals or low clogs, and there was something in the way she carried her weight—the heel firm, the toes relaxed—that struck me as hugely concrete. People reveal themselves in small details. And Elena’s small details began to occupy my head more than was reasonable.

At first glance she seemed like the kind of girl who had never broken a plate. But the more I looked at her, the more I saw small gestures that didn’t fit that image. A pause that lasted too long before answering. A look that lingered a second too long. The way she linked her fingers over the counter when she waited for a customer to decide what to order. Gestures that made me think about what might lie beneath all that calm. A woman who fucks with the same precision with which she pours a draft beer. A woman who knows exactly where to put her mouth and how long to keep it there.

***

Last summer was different.

I walked into the bar on an afternoon in July, when the heat was truly oppressive and half the neighborhood was looking for any excuse not to be out on the street. The place was half empty, with the ceiling fan turning slowly and the radio playing something from the nineties at almost imperceptible volume.

Elena was behind the bar. But that afternoon she was wearing something different. A sleeveless shirt with the first buttons undone, high-waisted flared jeans that cinched her waist, and black strap sandals that left almost the whole foot exposed. Her hair was in a high bun with strands escaping at the sides, and the glasses, always the glasses, with the tortoiseshell frame that outlined her brown eyes. With the shirt like that, half open, I could make out the edge of a black bra and the beginnings of breasts bigger than I had ever been able to guess beneath her usual clothes.

I hadn’t even sat down before I had to take a walk to the back of the place under some pretext, because I had a hard-on just from seeing her lean her elbows on the counter. I took a deep breath, adjusted my fly, and sat at the usual end of the bar.

She came over slowly.

—What can I get you? —she asked. Brown eyes, calm, with that same expression that never gave anything away.

—A Baileys shot —I said.

She made it unhurriedly, set it on the bar, and when she brought it over, her fingers brushed the side of the glass at the same time as mine. It wasn’t an accident. I knew it immediately because she didn’t pull her hand away. She left it there, resting beside mine, for one or two seconds that stretched in a way that’s hard to describe.

I extended my index finger and slowly traced the inside of her wrist, up to the crease of her elbow. Her skin broke out in goose bumps instantly. I saw her nipples harden under the shirt, two precise points pressing against the fabric.

I saw her bite her lower lip. I saw her inhale. And I heard, just barely, a small exhale cut off abruptly when someone opened the bar door and came in asking for a sparkling water.

She walked away, but before going she looked me up and down and let her eyes drop for a second to the bulge showing in my trousers. Half a smile. Then back to the customer. I stayed there with the shot in my hand and my heart beating harder than it should have.

***

I went outside to smoke and sort out my thoughts.

I’d spent years waiting for a clear sign, and I had just gotten one. The problem was that a sign is not a conversation, and what I wanted was the conversation. Talking to her without the bar between us, without customers in the background, without her brother appearing from the kitchen with a crate of soft drinks.

It took me a week to decide. I analyzed her schedule, something I had done unconsciously all that time, and picked a Tuesday early in the afternoon. On Tuesdays her brother had the day off. The bar was usually empty between one and four. That was my window.

I went in at a quarter past two.

She was sitting at the far end of the bar with her phone, wearing that focused expression she had when she was reading something that really interested her. She looked up when she heard me come in.

—What can I get you?

—An iced coffee.

She made it. Brought it over. Stayed leaning on the bar in front of me, her arms crossed over the counter, waiting. As if she knew I hadn’t come just for the coffee.

The place smelled of floor cleaner and fresh coffee. The fan turned. The radio was off. Outside, on the street, a motorcycle passed.

There was no elegant way to say it, so I said it straight:

—Elena, I’m attracted to you. I have been for a long time. There’s something about you I can’t quite understand, and that turns me on more than anything I do understand.

She went still. Her expression didn’t change. She just looked at me for three or four seconds that felt long, and then she said:

—About time you told me.

I breathed. Everything I had been measuring for months—whether I was wrong, whether it was my own projection, whether I’d end up looking ridiculous—collapsed all at once.

—How long have you been waiting? —I asked.

—Long enough to know I wasn’t wrong about you —she said.

We looked at each other from opposite sides of the bar. The distance between us was less than five feet, but at that moment it was the most charged distance I had found myself in for a long time.

—And now what? —she asked. There was something in her tone that wasn’t an innocent question.

—Now I’d like to be somewhere there’s no bar between us —I said.

Elena smiled. It was the first time in years I’d seen her smile for real, with teeth, with eyes. It wasn’t a sweet or warm smile. It was a smile that warned of something.

—There’s something I need to tell you —she said—. I like being in charge in bed. I like setting the pace, deciding what happens and when it happens. I like deciding when I suck your cock and when I don’t, when I let you come and when I forbid it. And I like men who know how to give up control without losing their heads.

I looked at her steadily.

—That works if you can earn it —I said—. No one’s dominated me yet.

—First time for everything —she replied, never looking away.

—We’ll have to fight for it.

—Fine by me.

She picked up her phone and started looking. In less than ten minutes she had a rural house forty kilometers outside the city on the screen: two nights, private pool, no neighbors for miles around. She showed me the screen with one eyebrow raised.

—Next weekend —she said.

—Next weekend —I confirmed.

Right then a customer walked in. We exchanged phone numbers with the speed of people who know there’s plenty of time for everything else. I stepped out onto the street with the sun beating down hard and my cock pulling at my zipper again.

Twenty minutes later she sent me a message. No text. Just a photo: her hand resting on the fabric of a pair of black cotton panties, with a wet spot that left no room for doubt. Fingers splayed in a V, one on each side of the mound of her pussy, pressing the fabric against her lips.

I replied with another photo. My cock in my hand, the tip shining, a thread of precum running down the glans to my knuckles. The result of having made it to my apartment building entrance, getting into the elevator, and not being able to wait even to get up to my floor.

She replied a minute later: Save it for Friday. If you come before we see each other I’ll know, and if you’ve come, you’ll owe me that cum with interest.

That week was the longest of my life.

***

We arrived at the rural house on Friday at dusk. I left the bag on the living room floor, turned around, and Elena was already in front of me. No glasses. Hair loose over her shoulders. The same jeans from the bar and a white T-shirt with nothing underneath. Her nipples stood out hard, dark, two circles showing through the cotton.

—Take your clothes off —she said. Without raising her voice.

I stayed silent for a second, weighing whether to obey or not.

—I said take your clothes off. I make the decisions here. If you want to fight, we’ll fight, but first you get naked.

I took off my T-shirt, my jeans, my underwear. My cock slipped out of the elastic already half hard, pointing up. She looked at it without changing her face, like someone evaluating a product on a shelf.

—Good —she said—. On your knees.

—You said we were going to fight.

—And we are. Later. Now on your knees.

I knelt. She slowly pulled her jeans down, never taking her eyes off me, and she had nothing underneath. Elena’s pussy was exactly how I had imagined it for years: full lips, the mound with a thin strip of black hair, dampness already visible on the inner thighs. She sat on the sofa with her legs open, leaned back against the cushion, and pointed at the floor between her feet.

—Come here. With your tongue. And you’re not going to jack off while you eat me. I want to see both your hands resting on my thighs.

I put my face between her legs. I started with her thighs, moving up slowly, biting the skin of her groin, breathing in the smell of wet pussy that hit my cock like a punch. When I reached the center, I stuck out my tongue and ran it from bottom to top, slowly, parting the lips with the tip, soaking my mouth in the taste. Elena threw her head back.

—Higher. The clit. Circles. Slowly.

I obeyed. I went for her clit and worked it the way she asked, in small circles, without taking my tongue away, feeling it swell under the tip. She started moving her hips against my face, setting the rhythm, grabbing my hair to pull me down a centimeter when I tried to lift away, or to press me harder against her when she wanted more pressure.

—Get two fingers in —she said, her voice already hoarse—. Curved upward. Find it for me.

I slid two fingers inside her. She was soaked, burning inside, and when I curved them I found the spot she was asking for, that rougher area behind the pubic bone. I started moving them in and out while still sucking her clit. Elena pressed my face to her cunt with both hands, panting, and after a minute she came with a long spasm that made her clamp down around my fingers, with a deep groan from the bottom of her throat.

She let me finish licking her. Then she yanked my hair upward and kissed me on the mouth, tasting herself on my lips without the slightest reserve.

—Now lie down —she told me—. On your back.

I lay down on the rug. Elena stood up, took off her shirt, and for the first time I saw her completely. Big breasts, white, with dark nipples pointing upward. She straddled my face, facing away from me, and lowered her cunt until it rested on my mouth. Her white ass blocking my view, the smell of soaking female filling my nose. She grabbed my cock with one hand, brought it up to her face, and started sucking me calmly, running her tongue over the frenulum, closing her lips over the glans, going down to the base and back up again.

I tried to shove into her mouth with my hips and she pulled my cock out of her mouth instantly.

—Stay still. I’m in charge here. If you put it back in without permission, I won’t let you come until tomorrow.

I stayed still. She went on, taking her time, while I ate her pussy from below, pushing my tongue in as deep as I could. After a while she pulled my cock out of her mouth again, turned around, straddled my hips, and took hold of it to line it up at her entrance.

—Look at me —she said.

She lowered herself slowly. I felt her open around my cock, wrap it in that warm, tight wetness, sink down millimeter by millimeter until her ass touched my thighs. She stayed there for a moment, not moving, eyes closed, feeling how I filled her.

And then she started to move. But not the way I expected. Not up and down. In circles, first small and then larger, clenching her pelvic floor every time she reached the bottom, milking my cock with a precision I had never felt before. I tried to lift my hips to thrust up and she put a hand on my chest, pushing me down onto the rug.

—No. Me. You stay still and enjoy it. And if you’re going to come, you say so. I’ll tell you when.

I held out as long as I could. I watched her from below, her breasts bouncing slowly, the skin of her neck reddening, her left hand rubbing her clit while she kept circling, riding me with that impossible calm. After I don’t know how long, I felt I couldn’t hold out any longer.

—Elena, I’m going to come.

—Not yet.

She squeezed the base of my cock with her fingers, hard, cutting off the orgasm cleanly. I was left on the edge, gasping, my legs shaking. She kept moving slowly, letting the edge fall without disappearing, and when she felt I was under control again, she loosened her fingers and kept riding me.

She did it three more times. Three times she brought me to the brink and cut me off. The fourth time, when I was almost crying from frustration, she leaned forward, pressed her breasts to my face, and whispered in my ear:

—Now. Come inside. And say it out loud.

—I’m coming —I said, almost in a growl—. Fuck, I’m coming inside you.

My cock emptied in two, three, four spurts that I felt rise from my balls and unload inside her, and Elena came again on top of me, squeezing me with her inner walls, biting my shoulder so she wouldn’t scream. We stayed like that, glued together, with my cock still inside and her cum and mine mingling and running down the base.

After a while she lifted her face and looked at me from very close.

—Rest for half an hour —she said—. There’s a chair in the bedroom, and I want to try you another way.

***

That weekend we used the rural house in every possible way. In the chair in the bedroom with her on top, gripping the backrest, setting the rhythm with her hips. In the pool, with her back against the edge and her legs wrapped around my waist, my cock sliding in and out under the water with that dull, so concrete sound. On the kitchen table, with her kneeling on top and me thrusting from behind, while she guided one of my hands to her ass so I’d rub my thumb into her while I fucked her. I fought enough for the battle to be worth it, and she won enough for me to understand I had lost gladly.

There are women who don’t stand out in an obvious way. Elena is that kind of woman. And if you spend long enough looking at her, you eventually understand that that is precisely what makes her the most dangerous.