The Italian Woman at the Hotel Paid for More Than Just the Car

I found a job driving a chauffeured car for the summer, taking advantage of the fact that during military service I’d gotten my truck license. It was the best way to save up the money I needed to keep studying in the winter. I got on well with the boss, and within a few days they assigned me a luxury sedan, the kind reserved for clients willing to pay the steep rate without blinking.

On my second day they sent me to the airport to pick up an Italian woman, a certain Renata, and take her to her hotel in the center. She was slim and moved as if the world belonged to her. You could tell she was past fifty and had had work done, at least on her face and her breasts: the skin on her hands didn’t quite match her face. When we arrived, she put a hundred-euro bill into my hand as a tip, twice what the ride cost, which the company charged separately by card.

That same night they told me to pick her up again to take her to the theater, wait for her, and bring her back to the hotel. A ridiculous trip, less than three kilometers, for which she was going to pay a fortune. But the lady wanted to get out of a luxury car at the theater door, and money seemed to mean nothing to her. When she said goodbye, she gave me another hundred euros, asked for my mobile number, and told me she’d call me ten minutes before she needed me. Until then, I should enjoy myself.

The next day the boss called me. The lady wanted the car and driver exclusively for the next four days, no schedule, twenty-four hours a day at her disposal. Since I lived near the center and had a garage in the rented flat, they asked if I wanted to cover the service. Naturally, it would be paid according to the effort. He didn’t need to tell me twice.

At ten in the morning they told me to pick her up at the hotel. As always, no specific destination. It turned out to be the boutique street, the golden mile of the city’s expensive shops. I parked where she indicated, in the loading zone, and luckily I held out there until she came out followed by a sales assistant loaded down with bags. I got out, opened the trunk, and loaded the purchases. The same scene repeated itself at two more shops.

Back at the hotel she had me drive into the garage and park in her space. Before getting out, she asked if I would mind taking the bags up to her room. Knowing her tips, I didn’t hesitate. I carried almost everything and left her three or four bags.

Her suite was bigger than my entire flat. We left the bags on the living room carpet and she offered me something to drink. Out of caution I said no, but when she commented that she needed my opinion on how the purchases looked on her, I ended up accepting the beer she was already holding out to me. She went into the bathroom, took a few minutes, and started pulling garments out of the bags. Right there she took off the one she was wearing and began trying on the new ones, asking my opinion of each outfit.

The situation was awkward for me, but she dressed and undressed with complete naturalness. Now and then she asked for help with a zipper or the buttons at the back. It was obvious her body did not correspond to her age. Firm, well cared for, not a single scar in sight.

At some point her nipples showed through the fabric, and I didn’t miss it. Nor did she, though she went on as if nothing had happened. Half an hour later she started showing me the lingerie she’d bought, piece by piece, waiting for my verdict. They were items I’d never seen hanging on the clothesline at my place in my life. Of the dozen pieces she showed me, she only set aside three sets and a robe that, according to her, was too long on her.

She took off her bra and tried on a new one in front of me. To my surprise, her breasts didn’t sag a centimeter. With her torso bare, she looked at me, smiled, and pressed her nipples with her fingers. I felt the beginning of an erection. She came closer without saying anything and put her hand over my fly, commenting on how much she liked provoking that reaction in such a young man.

She took my hand and brought it to her breast while squeezing me through my pants. She only stopped to lower my zipper, after asking permission with her eyes. I didn’t even dare answer, and she took that as a yes.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” she murmured. “We’ve got four days.”

She slipped her hand in and started massaging me slowly, watching how I responded. Then she guided my hand between her legs and let me explore her. When she thought I’d had enough, she took my fingers to her mouth and sucked them without taking her eyes off mine. By then what she was doing was anything but shy.

***

She took a condom from her bag, unwrapped it, and bent down to put it on me herself. She braced herself on the edge of a table, spread her feet, and indicated exactly what she wanted. I got behind her. The moment I entered her, she let out a rough moan and pushed back to take me in fully.

It was incredible how much control she had over her own body. She clenched and loosened at will, setting the rhythm herself even though I was the one holding her by the hips. I felt her climax and was about to follow her, but she told me to pull out before I finished. She wanted me to come on her stomach.

I withdrew, she sat on the table, and I came where she’d asked. She reclined, stroked herself, and then asked me to come closer to her mouth. She finished with an almost calculated slowness, like someone savoring something they know won’t happen again. When she finally stopped, I was grateful. I couldn’t take any more.

She looked at the clock. It was past two. She called the hotel restaurant and booked a table for two. Before that, we went into the shower and she herself took care of cleaning off the traces of what had just happened. We got dressed in the living room and, before putting on her underwear, she showed me a couple of new styles so I could choose. I pointed to the smallest one. She put two hundred euros in my hand and we went down to the restaurant.

She asked if I liked seafood. I swear it was one of the best meals of my life. She ordered without restraint, knowing full well we weren’t going to be able to finish everything. At the end she told me she wouldn’t need me until midafternoon, that she’d confirm the time to take her to a concert. I had three free hours to go home and change.

I couldn’t stop thinking that I was acting like a gigolo and that I didn’t care in the least. In less than two days I’d cashed in four hundred euros in tips and, on top of that, the suite.

***

At half past seven I picked her up at the hotel entrance. She came out on time, immaculate, and we headed to the auditorium. When we got there, she told me she’d text me when it was over, put a hundred euros in my palm “for expenses,” and got out. I left the car in the parking lot, even though I’d have to pay for it myself, and walked to have a drink at some classmates’ place who lived nearby.

After eleven the message came through. I picked her up double-parked. She got in, looked at me in the rearview mirror, and asked if I felt like a massage session. It was the last thing I expected, and she noticed my face. She explained that after the massage, which I wouldn’t regret, she was going to get waxed and that, if I wanted, they could shave me too. I’d thought about it before, though I’d never made up my mind. I shrugged. Why not.

She called the spa, warned them we’d be there in fifteen minutes, and booked a double cabin “to supervise the work.” That was another surprise: the two of us would be attended to at the same time, in the same room. We went up from the garage directly by elevator.

They took us to a large room with two massage tables. She undressed without shame. When she saw that I was sitting on a stool, she told me they’d hardly be able to do anything like that and that I should take off my clothes. I obeyed just as two estheticians came in. Renata asked them not to leave a single hair on our intimate parts, lay down on her back, and I imitated her on the other table.

The girl covered me with foam and began passing the razor with a surgeon’s care. Each stroke forced me to stay still while she handled the skin with confidence. The situation had me somewhere between embarrassment and arousal, and there was no way to hide either one. On the other table, Renata gave little moans every so often, not bothering to hide them either.

Once the razor work was done, they gave us a real massage, long and deep, that left me floating on air. It was the first time in my life I’d ever experienced such luxury, and I can only say wonderful things about it. The amount of money that stuff cost explained the ease with which the two women moved around us. When they finished, Renata came over to my table, checked the result of the shaving with the tips of her fingers, and approved it with a smile.

***

Back in the car, she asked me bluntly whether I felt like spending the night with her. I almost choked at how direct she was, though by then it didn’t really surprise me. We drove the car into the garage and went up to the suite. She told me to uncork the champagne waiting in an ice bucket and pour two glasses. When I turned back with them, she was naked again.

We toasted. She asked me to start undressing while she went to get “a couple of things.” She came back with a small collection of toys, which she left on the table, and asked me to get her warmed up. Since I did it too gently for what she was after, she took my hands and showed me the exact intensity she wanted, not pretending that the limit was much farther than I’d have dared on my own.

It was a night of precise instructions. She knew exactly what she wanted at every moment and had no trouble asking for it. Clamps, a vibrator, slaps that left the imprint of fingers on the skin, all measured by her, all within a script only the lady knew. I limited myself to following the rhythm, surprised by myself, until at some point I lost my embarrassment and started taking the initiative. That seemed to please her even more.

It took hours before we stopped. When we finally did, she asked for help getting into the tub with lukewarm water and stayed there for a while, recovering, while she made me sit on the edge. The last time was slow and almost tender, nothing like everything before. After that I carried her to bed and laid her down. I lay beside her, pressed against her back, and listened to her breathing until she calmed down. She had fallen asleep. I relaxed and did the same.

***

For two more days I was at her service. On the last morning she showed up accompanied by a foreign-looking girl and told me, amused, that it was a shame I hadn’t been with them that dawn. We dropped the girl off in the center and went to the boutique street to settle accounts at the shops from the first day. She took me to lunch and told me that at six I had to take her to the airport.

The porter loaded her luggage, and I moved it onto the cart when we reached the terminal. She put a thousand euros in my hand, thanked me, kissed me on the lips, and disappeared through the door without looking back. I told the boss the job was over, and he told me to leave the car at the base and take two days off. When I arrived, he told me the client had called to praise the service. He gave me another five hundred euros for the overtime.

I went home on the subway. I had made two thousand euros in less than four days and lived through something I already knew, even then, would never happen again. It took me weeks to stop checking my phone every time it rang, hoping for an Italian prefix that never showed up again.