A Respectable Lady Who Couldn’t Take It Anymore

It had been exactly twenty-two days since I’d last had sex. I know because I counted.

After ten years with the same man, the separation came out of nowhere and left me with half the furniture, a bed that was too big, and a level of heat between my legs I hadn’t felt since I was thirty. At forty-three, you’d think a woman would have those things under control. I thought so too until that Tuesday afternoon, when I realized I’d been staring at my computer screen for forty minutes without reading a thing and my cunt was soaked through under my skirt.

At the office, it was impossible to concentrate. For hours my body had been in a state of alarm for no particular reason: a call with a client, the accidental brush of my hand against the table, my colleague’s perfume as he passed by me. Nothing and everything at once. My nipples hardened under my blouse every time I took a deep breath, and the fabric of my panties stuck to my swollen lips. By eight at night, when most people had already left and the building had gone quiet, the situation was unbearable.

I locked myself in the bathroom on the fourth floor.

The one nobody uses after six.

I set my bag on the sink, turned the lock from the inside, and looked at myself in the mirror for a moment. White blouse, black skirt to the knee, makeup intact. Everything exactly the same as when I’d arrived that morning. Only I was no longer the same woman who had walked in: my cheeks were flushed and my breathing was shallow, like a bitch in heat hiding beneath an office blouse.

I went into the stall, pressed my back against the cold wall, and hiked my skirt up to my waist. I pulled my panties down to my knees and paused for a second looking at my neatly trimmed pubic hair, already glossy with moisture. I shoved two fingers into my cunt and felt it swallow them in one pull, as if it had been waiting for them for weeks. With my other hand I found my clit and started rubbing it in fast circles, pressing my thighs around my own wrist. It took me no more than four minutes. I covered my mouth with the back of my wrist so I wouldn’t moan, but my legs still buckled and I felt everything inside me clench, gripping my fingers, dripping into my palm. I stayed there for a moment, shoulder against the wall, fingers still buried inside me, feeling the last spasms, breathing slowly, waiting for my body to calm down.

It wasn’t enough.

That was the worst part of being like this for weeks: no matter how many times I made myself come, my cunt was asking again ten minutes later. I needed a cock. I needed weight, flesh, someone on top of me or under me. Fingers weren’t enough.

***

I left at eight forty. Rain was still threatening from the low clouds, but it hadn’t started yet. I put my blazer over my shoulders and ordered the Uber at the building entrance, under the metal awning rattling in the wind. The breeze stirred my skirt and did nothing to hold it down. Every gust reminded me that my panties were still soaked and that this feeling wasn’t going to go away on its own.

“Héctor has accepted your ride. He’ll arrive in 9 minutes.”

I stood waiting with my arms crossed over my chest, aware of the heat still running through me. My nipples were still pressing hard against the fabric of my bra, and the constant friction was almost torture. I looked at my phone without reading a thing. I looked at the street. I thought about calling my sister just to have something to do, but the idea of pretending to have a normal conversation in that state, with my cunt throbbing, seemed impossible.

The car arrived on time. A dark gray sedan, clean, without the little dashboard trinkets some drivers use to disguise their age. The man who lowered the window to confirm my name had completely white hair, cut with precision. His beard was white too, trimmed like someone who takes care of himself without showing off. His hands on the wheel were big, with veins standing out under brown skin. Hands for holding hips, I thought before I could stop myself. He was wearing a gray shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

I got in.

“Good evening,” he said, not turning around. Deep voice. Calm.

“Good evening,” I replied.

He pulled away unhurriedly. The car smelled good: something between wood and unscented soap, without the overpowering air freshener that can sometimes be nauseating. In the rearview mirror I watched him check traffic with the calm of someone who has spent thousands of hours driving and no longer needs to prove anything. I relaxed a little in the seat, and that same relaxation made the heat rise again, made my legs spread a centimeter without permission.

“It’s going to pour,” he said. “Just made it in time.”

“Yes, luckily,” I replied. “Although with this cold, rain isn’t exactly helping.”

“Long day?”

“Too long.”

He smiled to one side. I only saw it because at that moment his eyes flicked up to the mirror for a second and then back to the street. But before returning, they dropped. They looked at my knees, my skirt, the stretch of thigh the fabric left bare.

Stop. You’re projecting, I told myself. The man is being polite, that’s all.

But then it started to rain and the windows fogged up, and he turned on the defogger without saying a word, and while we waited for the windshield to clear, the inside of the car became a smaller, more intimate space than it should have been. The rain made everything slower. I, in the back seat, pressed my thighs together to muffle the throbbing of my cunt, and every time I did I felt the wetness spread.

***

“Do you live alone?” he asked after a few minutes, once we’d already been silent for a while.

“Recently,” I said. “Recent separation.”

“I understand.” He paused briefly. “I’ve been widowed for three years.”

He didn’t say it dramatically. Just as a fact, like someone putting his cards on the table without making more of them than they are.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“No need. You learn to live with it.”

We crossed through a green light. My fingers rested on my thigh, moving slowly, letting the skirt ride up a centimeter with each motion. It wasn’t unconscious. I knew exactly what I was doing. I slid my hand a little farther and the fabric climbed another inch, exposing the edge of bare thigh, white against the black skirt. And he knew it too when his eyes went back to the mirror for a moment and stayed there a second longer than necessary.

His grip tightened on the wheel. His knuckles stood out.

That was all. But it was enough to know I wasn’t alone in what I was thinking, that under his trousers his cock was starting to harden.

“Do you always ride like this?” he asked. His voice was still calm, but there was something different in it now. Something more direct. Something rougher.

“Like what?”

“Like that,” he repeated, with the slightest pause that said everything he wasn’t saying out loud.

“Only when I haven’t slept properly for weeks,” I replied, and the double meaning was obvious to both of us. I held his gaze in the mirror. “Haven’t slept with anyone, I mean.”

This time he did turn toward me. Only for a moment, just long enough to look at me with the kind of attention that doesn’t need words. He let his eyes drop to my chest, to my parted legs, and back to mine. Then he looked back at the street, and I felt that he had understood me perfectly.

“I know a quieter route,” he said. “If you don’t mind getting there a little later.”

“I don’t mind at all.”

***

He parked beside a small park, between two streetlights that weren’t working. Rain was coming down hard and made it impossible to see past the windshield. He turned off the engine. The silence was immediate and dense, broken only by the sound of water hitting the car roof.

Neither of us spoke for a moment.

I was the one who moved first. I leaned forward, resting my arms on the back of his seat. He turned his head slowly, unhurriedly, like someone who knows what’s coming is worth waiting for.

“Héctor,” I said. “Would you mind looking at me?”

He turned all the way around. His eyes were dark and had that calm that had caught my attention from the start. He looked at me without the nervous modesty younger men have. He looked at me like someone who knows exactly what he’s seeing and what he’s going to do with it.

I started unbuttoning my blouse. Slowly, one by one, without taking my eyes off his. The first button, the second, the third. The white fabric opened and revealed my black bra, and beneath it two nipples so hard they showed through the lace.

“Jesus,” he murmured. It wasn’t an empty compliment. It was the sound of someone who truly hadn’t expected what he was seeing.

I slid my blouse off my shoulders. Underneath I was wearing a simple black bra, but on my forty-three-year-old body it was still working exactly as it always had. I knew it from the way he held his breath, from the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

He reached out and rested his hand on my side. He didn’t squeeze. He just left it there, feeling the heat through the fabric, as if first he wanted to make sure I was real. Then he moved his fingers up, very slowly, until his thumb brushed over my nipple. I felt the touch through the lace and a gasp escaped me.

“Come here,” he said.

***

The passenger seat reclined with a click and I moved forward with more clumsiness than I would have liked. But once I was on top of him, with my legs spread on either side of his big body, the awkwardness vanished. His hands moved with the confidence of someone who has had another person’s body in his hands many times and knows exactly what he’s doing: one hand on my hip, the other unclipping my bra from behind without a struggle, without that fumbling movement that betrays inexperience.

When he took it off me, he lowered his head and took one breast into his mouth. He took the whole nipple in and sucked it slowly, with deliberate attention that made me arch my back and grip the steering wheel so I wouldn’t fall. He rolled it around with his tongue, nibbled it lightly with his teeth, and when he let it go with a wet sound he moved to the other one and did exactly the same thing. There was no rush. That was what made him different from anything I’d known in recent years: there was no rush at all. He sucked my tits as if he had all night and nothing better to do.

“Like that,” I said, almost voiceless. “Keep sucking me like that.”

With one hand he hiked my skirt up to my waist. His eyes went straight to the center, to the triangle of black fabric soaked through.

“You’re fucking wet,” he murmured against my breast, and it was the first time he’d used the informal you with me.

“I’ve been like this for hours.”

“I can see that.”

He slid his fingers along the inside of my thighs, taking his time, not going straight to where I wanted them. He passed them over the wet fabric, pressing just barely, tracing the shape of my lips beneath the lace. He was a man used to making people wait, and I had been waiting too long already. I started moving against his hand, looking for more pressure, and he smiled with his mouth still pressed to my nipple.

“Héctor,” I said, my voice rougher than I expected. “Please.”

“There,” he said, and finally yanked the fabric aside. When his fingers touched my bare cunt, dripping wet, he let out a short sound of pure approval. “Fuck. Look at you.”

He began to drag two fingers up and down my slit, very slowly, soaking them. He brought them up to my clit and started rubbing it in small, precise circles, the pad of his finger right on the spot, with a firmness that made me grip the steering wheel until my knuckles went white. Then he went down again, slid one finger into me, then two, and started curling them inside, searching for the place.

He found it on the third try.

I covered my mouth on reflex, the same way I had in the office bathroom hours earlier.

“No need,” he said softly, without stopping his fingers. “Nobody can hear us here. I want to hear you.”

I let it all out. The sound filled the car and the rain swallowed it immediately. I started moaning into his neck, rocking my hand against myself without meaning to, searching for those fingers that came in and out, splashing in the juices running down my thighs. With his thumb he kept working my clit, never changing the rhythm, never giving me a break.

“I’m going to come,” I said. “I’m going to come on your hand.”

“Come.”

When I hit the edge for the first time, my whole body tightened at once and I let out a strangled cry against his shoulder. My cunt clamped down on his fingers in long spasms, while his thumb kept pressing my clit just enough to stretch it out. I collapsed against his chest, breathing into his neck, juices still dripping down my thighs and over the palm of his hand.

He waited. He didn’t use the moment to rush or go after the next step before I asked. He withdrew his fingers carefully, brought them to his mouth without a word, and sucked them slowly, one after the other, looking me in the eye while he did it. It was one of the most obscene things I’d seen in a long time. He held me with his other hand on my back and waited for me to make the next move.

I kissed him. His lips were firm and tasted of coffee and of me. He answered calmly, without that chaotic hunger that sometimes is more exhausting than pleasurable. His tongue slid into my mouth slowly, playing with mine, and I sucked on it for a moment the way someone does when anticipating what they want to do with something else. It was the kiss of a man who has nothing to prove.

I slid my hand between us and reached for his fly. I fumbled the zipper down with fingers clumsy from wanting, pulled his cock out over his underwear, and wrapped my whole palm around it. He held his breath. It was thick, hot, hard as stone, the tip already glossy with a thick thread of pre-cum. I squeezed the base and began to stroke the skin up and down, very slowly, feeling it pulse in my hand.

“Fuck,” he muttered. His head fell back against the headrest.

“Do you have a condom?” I asked without letting go.

“In the glove compartment.”

“Good.”

I slid off him with his cock still in my hand and I didn’t want to let go of it. I leaned down and took it into my mouth. Only for a moment, only halfway, feeling it swell against my tongue and palate. I ran my tongue around the tip, sucked the salty fluid, let it go with a wet sound, and smiled at the way his hands tightened on the wheel.

“You’re killing me,” he said, voice hoarse.

“Not yet.”

I opened the glove compartment, found the packet, tore it open with my teeth. I put it on him myself, rolling the latex down over his cock with both hands, squeezing the base so it fit snugly. He watched me do it, breathing through his mouth. Then he held out his hand for me to come back.

I grabbed the seat back with one hand and guided him with the other toward my opening. When the tip found my cunt and started to push its way in, I closed my eyes.

***

The sensation was immediate and complete. I stopped halfway to adjust to the thickness, breathing through my nose, biting my lip. He was filling me more than I’d expected.

“Slowly,” he said, his hands on my hips. Not pushing. Just holding. “Take all the time you need.”

I nodded. I kept going down a centimeter at a time, feeling him make his way inside, stretching me from within. When I had him all the way in, with his pelvic bone pressed against mine, I pushed my hips forward and felt something that had been tight for weeks finally give all at once. My cunt settled around him, pulsing, and he let out a low, restrained groan.

“You’re so tight inside,” he said. “You squeeze so hard.”

“I’ve gone twenty-two days.”

“Poor thing.”

I started moving.

At first slowly, lifting almost to the tip and then sinking back down all the way. I could feel every millimeter going in and out, the exact friction, the way his cock scraped the right spot every time it rose. Héctor wasn’t one to talk much in those moments. He let out short, precise sounds. He squeezed my hips when something pleased him especially. He lowered his head to my chest and sucked on a nipple when he wanted to anchor me to something. It was a way of being inside another person’s body that I hadn’t experienced in a long time: without any need to perform, without any urgency to pretend, without any kind of hurry at all.

I let myself follow my own hips, finding the rhythm my body wanted. I leaned forward when I wanted more depth, and he licked my tits while I rode him; I straightened when I needed a different angle, and then his cock hit me right inside, on the front wall, and I let out a new moan each time.

“That’s it, don’t stop,” I told him, and clutched the roof with one hand for support.

He grabbed me from beneath the ass with both hands and started helping me, lifting me a little and letting me fall, setting a deeper rhythm. Every thrust made a filthy wet sound that filled the car, and I started moaning louder and louder, with no control left at all.

The rain kept battering the windows and the car was completely covered in steam. We were invisible. I could have come screaming and nobody outside would have known.

“Turn me around,” I asked after a while.

Without pulling out, he held me by the waist and turned me, with a brief clumsiness, until I was on my back against the steering wheel, sitting backward on him, the seat back in front of me. I braced my hands on the dashboard, arched my back, and started riding him in that position, my skirt hiked up at my waist and my ass pressing against his thighs on every downward stroke.

“Fuck,” he panted behind me. “Like this I can see all of you.”

He reached around from the front, found my clit again, and started rubbing it while I rode him. With his other hand he took one breast from behind, squeezing it, tugging at my nipple between his index finger and thumb. And suddenly the angle, the fingers, the weight, everything started converging.

“You’re going to make me come again,” I said.

“Come on, come. Come on my cock.”

When I felt myself getting close for the second time, I sped up. He felt it and lifted his hips to meet me, thrusting from below with short, precise drives, never stopping his fingers on my clit. That change in rhythm was what I needed to let go all at once. I folded forward, hands nailed to the dashboard, and came screaming without covering my mouth this time, feeling my cunt clamp his cock in long spasms, gushing all over it.

“My turn now,” he murmured hoarsely, and grabbed my hips with both hands.

He started moving me fast, setting his own rhythm, fucking me from below with hard thrusts that hit deep. I let him, still shaking from my own orgasm, using what strength I had left for him. It didn’t last long. A few seconds later I felt him tense completely, sink all the way in, and with a low, contained sound that came from his chest he came inside the condom, jerking in small shudders while his cock pulsed inside me.

I collapsed against the seat back, breathing through my mouth, with him still inside me, my legs trembling and my thighs sticky.

The car fell silent. Only the rain, relentless, striking the roof. The two of us breathing.

***

I got up carefully, feeling him slip out of me in a wet tug. He took off the condom, tied it off, and wrapped it in a tissue. We straightened ourselves out without hurry or awkwardness. I picked my bra up from the floor, buttoned my blouse, pulled my skirt down over the juices still running inside my thigh. He adjusted his shirt with that same usual calm, zipped his fly. Neither of us said anything strange. Neither of us tried to give it a meaning it didn’t have or take away the one it did.

He started the car and drove me home. It took another twenty-five minutes because the rain had made traffic worse. We talked about unimportant things: the neighborhood, whether I knew a restaurant that had opened near the park where we’d stopped, the music he put on when he drove alone at night. It was a completely normal conversation and, paradoxically, that made everything feel less strange. I still felt him inside me, a pleasant burn between my legs, and every time I moved in the seat I was reminded of it.

When he stopped in front of my building, I turned to say goodbye.

“Thanks for the detour,” I said.

“Thanks for the company,” he replied, with that half-smile that had already started to feel familiar.

I got out. My legs held me, though barely.

***

In the shower, with hot water running down my back, I went over every detail. I didn’t feel ashamed. I didn’t feel impulsive or irresponsible. For the first time in weeks, I felt completely at peace with my own body and with the decisions I made with it. I ran my hand between my legs to wash myself and I was still swollen, sensitive, ready to start all over again if someone asked me to.

There was something liberating about having chosen it myself. About being the one who leaned forward, who unbuttoned the blouse, who decided to ride a stranger’s cock in a car under the rain without waiting for anyone to suggest it first. At forty-three, nobody expects things to happen on their own anymore. You either go looking for them or you keep waiting forever.

I got out of the shower, wrapped myself in the towel, and picked up the phone from the bedside table.

One message. From Héctor.

“I hope you got home safely. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

I smiled. I put the phone on silent and got into bed. The bed that was too big and that I had learned to hate was still big, but that night I didn’t mind at all. I still had the smell of him on my skin.

I slept straight through until light came in through the blinds.