At Forty-Nine, the Intern Looked at Me Differently
My name is Beatriz, I’m forty-nine years old, and until recently I would have sworn that my marriage was happy. I have two grown daughters, one twenty-four and the other twenty-two, and a house that’s far too large in the upper part of Valencia. I’m the financial director of an audiovisual production company, and my husband runs his own consultancy, so money was never a problem. What was missing in that house couldn’t be bought with money.
When my secretary went on maternity leave, the company hired an intern to cover for her for a few months. His name was Mateo, and he was vastly overqualified for the position, perhaps too qualified for what we were going to ask of him. He had that quiet confidence of boys who know they’re attractive and don’t need to prove it.
His first week was impeccable. Helpful, attentive, always willing to stay if I was running late with a closing. I never allowed him to: my employees’ hours were sacred, and I wasn’t prepared to break that rule. But I liked that he offered.
One afternoon he knocked on the door, asked permission to enter, and remained standing on the other side of my desk with some documents for me to sign. I reviewed them and, when I leaned forward to put my signature on them, I saw him stretch up to sneak a look down my cleavage. I said nothing. I signed, handed him the papers back, and he left.
It didn’t leave me indifferent. That a young man in his early twenties would risk looking at me like that was something I hadn’t felt in far too many years. At his height, nearly six feet one, he could barely have seen a little lace through my neckline. Too much risk for so little reward, I thought, and it amused me.
The next morning, while I was getting dressed, I remembered him and thought: why not? I chose one of my most revealing dresses without it being evening wear, fuchsia, and underneath it a pink bra that contrasted deliberately. I wanted to feel beautiful, even if it was only to awaken the curiosity of a kid my daughter’s age.
That morning the scene was repeated three times. The first time I leaned a little too far forward to sign some checks, making sure his head wouldn’t block my view of myself. The second time he came to ask me about something silly he could have solved on his own; I leaned back in the armchair, opening my neckline as far as possible, and he spoke to me without lifting his eyes from my breasts. The third time he already knew I had noticed, and that I was playing.
“Do you need anything else, Beatriz?” he asked.
“Not for now,” I replied, and enjoyed the way he took his time turning around.
The days passed, and I continued with that passive seduction. He didn’t hide it when we were alone, and every shameless glance made me quiver inside and feel desired after such a long time. Roberto, my husband, had never been seductive. He fucked me when it suited him, without preliminaries, came inside me after four thrusts, and turned over to snore. He hadn’t said anything nice to me in years, and it had been even longer since he’d bothered to check whether I had come or not.
One afternoon, after closing a tough negotiation with a client from London, I was told that the contract was ready to be signed at the notary’s office. I had managed to bring down an outrageous price by threatening to cancel the purchase of a series; deep down, I would have accepted their initial figure if they hadn’t treated me with such arrogance for being a woman. I called Mateo on the intercom and asked him to have a company car ready for four-thirty.
At that time he was waiting downstairs with a black van with tinted windows, the kind we used to pick up the artists. I sat in front; I’ve never liked riding in the back. I gave him the address and he set off. During the journey I ignored him, absorbed in the amended documents. When we arrived, I told him to find somewhere to park and pick me up when I called.
I left the notary’s office exultant. I had secured the price for future purchases, saving hundreds of thousands of euros. When I climbed back into the van, Mateo understood from my face that everything had gone perfectly. I had undone one more button on my blouse to feel less serious. He looked down my cleavage, I lowered my eyes to confirm what I could see, smiled, and told him to drive.
He waited for the first red light to put his hand on my knee, now bare of fabric. He looked me in the eyes, challenging me to say something, and I only nodded. His hand moved slowly up my thigh, squeezing the soft flesh on the inside, and before I realized it, he was caressing my pussy over my panties. I felt the damp fabric clinging to my lips, and he noticed too, because he smiled without taking his eyes off the road. I spread my legs as far as my skirt allowed, to see how far he dared to go. With two fingers he moved my panties aside and touched my clitoris directly, sliding over the wetness I had been releasing throughout the journey. I jerked and let out a moan that surprised even me. Then he brought his soaked fingers to his mouth and sucked them one by one, licking them all the way to the base without taking his eyes off me.
“You taste like a good little slut,” he murmured.
That gesture and those words lit a fire in me the likes of which I hadn’t felt in years. I thought about how it would feel if he did it with his tongue down there, something Roberto had stopped doing so long ago that I couldn’t even remember it. My feelings were conflicted: on the one hand, the guilt of being touched by another man for the first time since my wedding; on the other, a kind of revenge for all the years wasted beneath a selfish husband. I decided that if this slightly cocky boy wanted to dare with me, I wasn’t going to put up any barriers.
The light changed and we continued on. He watched the traffic and slipped his hand under my skirt again, this time putting one finger inside me and then two, very slowly, while his thumb worked my clitoris in tight circles. He watched me being caressed all over, fucked with his fingers to the rhythm of the engine, and I felt myself spread wide open on the passenger seat, my skirt pushed up to my hip and my panties pulled aside. I placed my hand over his and guided it exactly where I wanted it, showing him the pressure and rhythm. When I came, I grabbed his arm and squeezed it, my nails digging in, biting my lip so I wouldn’t scream in the middle of traffic. It was the first time in years I had reached orgasm without touching myself, and I did it with a filthy urgency that frightened me a little. I felt myself streaming down the insides of my thighs, soaking the seat.
“Pull over somewhere,” I asked in a hoarse voice.
Even on a busy commercial street, he found a loading zone. I moved to the back, where there were two rows of bench seats. He guessed my intentions and locked the doors. I took off my soaked panties and threw them onto the floor, thinking only of having him inside me at last, but he had other plans: he laid me on my back across the bench, spread my legs wide, and knelt between my thighs. I felt a stab of embarrassment at the thought that I had been wet for hours and must smell, but his lips swept away any shame. He began by licking me from bottom to top with his flat tongue, very slowly, gathering all the wetness. Then he opened my lips with his fingers and drove the tip of his tongue into my clitoris, slapping and sucking it, while he pushed two fingers inside me and curled them, searching for the spot Roberto had never found.
I came in his mouth in less than five minutes, grabbing his hair and pressing his face against my pussy as if I wanted to smother him. He didn’t let me catch my breath. He went back to licking me without giving me a moment’s respite, more slowly now, extending his whole tongue to push it inside, fucking me with it while he caressed my nipples through the pink bra. My second orgasm arrived riding on the last contractions of the first, and I screamed without shame because the tinted windows and the engine being off were all the permission I needed. Dizzy, my thighs trembling over his shoulders, barely master of my own actions, I let him continue until there was nothing left of the proper woman who entered the office every morning. He finished by licking me slowly, cleaning me with his tongue, pulling his face from between my legs with his chin shining and the smile of a boy who has just won.
***
That night Roberto insisted on fucking me, as if he smelled something different about me. I didn’t have the strength to refuse and let him, with hardly any preliminaries, as always. He climbed on top of me, put it inside, thrust four times, and came panting against my neck. I felt nothing. It was as though he hadn’t touched me. While he fell asleep, I slipped my hand between my legs and made myself come silently, thinking of Mateo’s tongue.
The next day Mateo entered my office with an excuse he could have handled over the phone. He walked around the desk, positioned himself behind me pretending to point something out on the screen, and slipped one hand inside my blouse, pulling a breast out of my bra and pinching my nipple until it hardened. His other hand pushed my skirt up beneath the desk.
“Not here,” I whispered, but my legs were already opening on their own.
“The screen hides us,” he replied, and closed the blinds.
I couldn’t stop him. He rolled my chair backward, crouched between my thighs, pulled my panties aside, and began eating my pussy hungrily, sucking my clitoris, pushing his whole tongue inside me, nibbling my lips. I had to stuff my knuckles into my mouth so I wouldn’t scream while the rest of the floor worked ten yards from my door. I came in less than ten minutes, soaking his chin, my legs closed around his head. Then he stood up with his fly open and his cock out, hard and thick, a shining drop at the tip, and brought it to my mouth.
“Finish me,” he asked.
I took it in my hand, weighed it, and put it in my mouth as far as I could. It was hot and throbbing. I sucked him eagerly, swallowing, moving up and down, sucking his balls between my hand and mouth, while he held my head with both hands and set the pace. He came in my mouth without warning, a thick, salty stream that nearly made me cough, and forced me to swallow it all with his hand on the back of my neck. When he left, I remained staring at the closed door, the taste of his semen still on my palate and a new wetness soaking my panties. I promised myself it wouldn’t happen again, at least not at the company. Making a promise was one thing; keeping it was another.
That same afternoon, once the floor was empty, the door opened without him knocking. He told me that what had happened that morning had only been an appetizer and that he wasn’t going home without fucking me properly. No one was left; the security guard was at his post by the entrance. He lifted me from the armchair, unbuttoned my blouse, pulled my breasts out of my bra, and took his time with them: he licked them, bit them, and sucked my nipples until they were purple. He knelt me in front of him and made me suck him again, very slowly, looking down at me as he carefully fucked my mouth. Then he lifted me, sat me on the couch in the reception area with one leg over the backrest and the other planted on the floor, leaving my pussy completely open, and slammed into me all the way to the hilt.
I screamed into my own hand. He was bigger than Roberto had made me feel in twenty years. He fucked me hard and without mercy, to the wet sound of my pussy dripping against his hips, gripping my breasts with one hand and my neck with the other. He made me come twice on his cock before pulling out, putting me on all fours on the couch, and thrusting into me from behind, grabbing my hair. He whispered filthy things in my ear: that I was a slut, that he had spent weeks dreaming of blowing me apart, that he was going to fill my pussy with cum. He came inside me on the third hard thrust, squeezing me against him, and I felt the hot spasms filling me as I dug my nails into his buttocks.
***
Two weeks later, fucking almost every day in one way or another—in the office, in the van, on emergency staircases, against the archive wall—I had experienced more pleasure than I had with Roberto in years. One morning I received an email from him: “Don’t forget your twelve o’clock appointment.” Puzzled, I checked my calendar; there was no appointment. I called him.
“What are you playing at? That appointment doesn’t exist.”
“I want to fuck you in a big bed, without rushing or worrying about being caught,” he said. “You don’t deserve to come hiding all the time with your hand over your mouth. I’ll book a hotel.”
The idea drew me with a force that surprised me: being able to have him naked and whole, at my mercy, with time to suck him without fear, for him to fuck me everywhere. I gave in and told him to find somewhere discreet. After all, it was his job.
We met in the elevator going down to the parking garage. As soon as the doors closed, he gripped the back of my neck and kissed me like a madman, invading my mouth with his tongue while pressing me against the elevator wall and slipping a hand between my legs over my clothes. I reached the car with swollen lips and wet panties. During the drive, which I did myself, he groped me everywhere without letting me finish, pushing his fingers inside me, pulling them out, sucking them in front of me, wanting me ready for anything when we arrived.
The hotel was five-star, one of the discreet ones. He stripped completely, and I was left speechless. I knew he had an athletic body—I had touched it in pieces—but seeing it whole—the defined abs, the just-right amount of hair, the long, thick cock raised against his stomach—and thinking that it was at my disposal left me breathless. He undressed me much more slowly than I would have liked: he lowered my zipper while kissing my back, removed my bra with his teeth, licked my nipples one by one, and made me step out of my skirt without taking off my panties. Then he knelt, pulled them down with his teeth too, and buried his face between my legs while I stood against the wall, one of my legs over his shoulder.
He made me come like that, standing, holding my buttocks with both hands, eating my pussy with a technique that didn’t belong to a kid in his twenties. My knees were trembling when he took me to the bed. He laid me on my back, spread my legs, and put it inside me very slowly, inch by inch, looking into my eyes, waiting for my body to accept all of him. When he was all the way in, he stayed still, rested his forehead against mine, and whispered that he wasn’t going to let me go all afternoon. He began moving in a slow, long rocking motion, pulling almost all the way out and then sinking back in to the balls, and I felt every brush as if he were learning me from the inside.
That afternoon I lost count. He made me come with his tongue, his fingers, his cock in my pussy, and his cock in my mouth. He fucked me on all fours, biting my shoulders. He had me ride him and taught me to ride slowly, his hands on my hips showing me how to rotate them. At some point, lying face down, I felt his tongue travel over me completely, moving from my pussy up to my ass, where it stopped. He licked that place with the same calm with which he had licked everything else, softening me, wetting me, slowly pushing in the tip of his tongue. He knew how to read my silence and the way I opened my legs, and understood that this time I wasn’t going to say no. He put saliva on his cock, put more on me, and entered slowly and carefully, attentive to every one of my breaths. What began with a stab of pain and a bite into the pillow ended in an orgasm whose origin I couldn’t understand, with him reaching underneath to work my clitoris while he fucked my ass with short, careful thrusts. He left me trembling and unable to speak, his semen running down the insides of my thighs.
Afterward we showered, went downstairs to eat something, and returned to the room. I couldn’t believe how much desire I still had left. I sucked him again while sitting on the edge of the bed, this time calmly, learning his cock, sucking his balls, licking him all over from base to tip, taking him down my throat until I made him gasp my name. We fell asleep in each other’s arms for almost an hour, one of my legs draped over his body and his hand on my breast. When I woke, he slipped inside me without fully waking me and made love to me for the first time, truly: slowly, looking at me, kissing me as he thrust, without the urgency of before, coming very slowly inside me while I came for the umpteenth time, squeezing him with my legs around his waist. And I understood, with a clarity that hurt, that I had spent half my life confusing sex with being used.
***
The affair lasted four months, right up until my secretary returned from leave and we had to terminate Mateo’s contract. He said goodbye to me in the office, more or less as everything had begun, without either of us saying that it was goodbye. When he walked out the door, I never saw him again. I called him several times. He never answered.
Sometimes I still choose the fuchsia dress for work. I’m not entirely sure for whom.
