The Mature Charro Who Changed Me That Week

I was nineteen the first time I visited my mother’s relatives up north. It was a small town on the outskirts of Zacatecas, the kind of place that seems untouched for forty years: cobblestone streets, wooden gates, and a square with a kiosk where old men sit watching time go by. We arrived on a Tuesday. By the weekend there was going to be the patron saint festival.

My uncle Bernardo was the heart and soul of those celebrations. A fanatic about charreadas and horses, he had spent months organizing the main event. What excited him most was having managed to bring in one of the best-known charros on the national circuit. He said that name with the same tone my family reserved for saints. I had never heard it before, but I soon learned that didn’t matter: everyone else knew exactly who he was.

He arrived Thursday afternoon while I was in my room unpacking my suitcase. I didn’t see him come in. I only heard the commotion outside, my cousins’ voices getting louder, and I looked out the window to see a short, solidly built man getting down from a pickup truck, hat in hand. Calm movements, no hurry at all. He wasn’t what I would have imagined.

***

The night before the charreada I couldn’t sleep. The heat was the dry kind that doesn’t let up when night falls, the kind that gets under the sheets and keeps your body from staying still. I got up shortly after midnight, barefoot, wearing the short nightgown I used in summer. I wanted water. Maybe I wanted something else too, though I didn’t know how to name it yet.

From the kitchen window you could see the back garden. There was a figure there, with his back turned, leaning on the wooden fence in the posture of someone with nowhere to be. The lit tip of a cigarette moved in the dark. Smoke rose straight up into the cloudless sky.

When he turned around, he caught me looking at him. He greeted me with a slow tilt of his head. I returned the gesture.

A few minutes later I heard his footsteps in the corridor. He came into the kitchen without making a sound and asked me, politely and calmly, if it bothered me if he took some water. I told him no, that if he wanted I could make him coffee. He accepted with a smile that wasn’t quite a smile, just a crease at one corner of his mouth.

While I made it, I could study him better. He had to be around forty, maybe a little older. Dark-skinned, strong features, with a several-days’ beard no one had bothered to trim. He was wearing a work shirt open at the neck. He smelled of tobacco, unscented soap, and something else I couldn’t identify but my body registered immediately, like a direct signal. The men I knew smelled of expensive cologne or designer aftershave. This smell had none of that. It was more honest, more immediate. My cunt was already getting wet under my nightgown and he hadn’t even touched me.

I brought him the cup. My hands weren’t quite steady.

We talked for a while. He was the one who carried the conversation without any apparent effort: he asked where I was from, how long I was staying, if it was my first time at a charreada. I said yes to everything. I also told him that, up to that point, it wasn’t something that had especially interested me.

“You’ll see tomorrow,” he said. Not boastfully. Like he was stating a fact.

That was when I asked his name. He said it with the same naturalness he said everything else, and that name was enough for me to suddenly understand why my whole family had been so excited for weeks. It was him. The charro everyone was waiting for. He looked nothing like what I would have imagined: not big, not imposing, not vain. Just that calm man with a cup of coffee and an untrimmed beard.

When he said good night and went to bed, he shook my hand. His was big, rough, strong in a way that had nothing to do with any gym. It was the hand of someone who really worked with his body, for years. He let go slowly.

“Tomorrow, at the charreada, my performance is for you,” he said before leaving.

I went back upstairs. It took me another hour to fall asleep.

***

The next morning I got dressed more carefully than usual. A blue-and-white floral dress, my hair styled with time I rarely bothered to spend on it, low-heeled sandals. My cousin Daniela looked me up and down but didn’t say anything. We all went to the charro arena where the event was being held.

Since my uncle was one of the organizers, we had preferential seats in the front rows. Several charros passed before it was his turn. Some did it with ease; others came out of the ring with a pained expression and their pride a little battered. The music, the dust, the smell of leather and hot earth created an atmosphere I didn’t know, and it drew me in without my even realizing it.

When they announced him, the audience stood almost as one. He walked into the ring unhurriedly, stopped in the center, and greeted everyone with his hat. He searched the stands until he found us. When he found me, he made a gesture that wasn’t for the family but for me alone. My aunt elbowed me. My cousins laughed. I kept my face still.

Then he took off his hat, set it aside, and got ready.

I won’t be able to describe it properly. The bull was big and violent, and he didn’t seem to tame it so much as hold a conversation in a language only he understood. His body—dark, compact, covered in sweat in seconds—absorbed every jolt with a naturalness that didn’t seem learned. It wasn’t a show. It was something older and more serious than that. Something that hit you in the gut before your mind could process it.

When he finished and the bull stood still beneath him, the crowd shouted. He jumped down, thanked them with the same calm as always, and looked at me from the center of the ring.

I had to clench my teeth. And my thighs too, because my cunt had gotten so wet I could feel the moisture running down the inside of my dress.

***

We got back to the ranch as night was falling. Dinner was long and noisy, like all the meals in that family. I was somewhere else entirely. I went up to my room before dessert was even finished.

I didn’t sleep. The heat persisted and so did the thoughts in my head. I tossed and turned for an hour, thinking about his rough hand on mine, the way he had looked at me from the ring, how he had smelled that night in the kitchen. Unable to ignore what my body had been asking for for hours, I slipped a hand beneath the sheets. I pulled my nightgown up to my waist and spread my legs. My cunt was soaked, the lips swollen, my clit throbbing at the lightest touch. I rubbed it with two fingers in slow circles, imagining it was his mouth. I slid my middle finger inside and curved it, searching for the exact spot, and when I found it a moan escaped me that I muffled against the pillow. I kept my thumb on my clit and two fingers moving in and out, imagining his cock instead of my fingers, imagining the weight of his body on top of me. I came biting the sheet, with his name in my head and my cunt clenching around my own fingers. It wasn’t enough. Not even close.

At one in the morning I was still awake. I was thirsty. It was a valid excuse, and I used it.

I went downstairs barefoot, without turning on the hallway lights.

I saw him before I got there. Again in the garden, another cigarette, the same posture of someone with no hurry. As if that garden belonged to him.

This time he didn’t greet me from afar. He turned around, saw me in the window, and stayed still, looking at me. I didn’t move either. We were two people who knew exactly what was happening without needing to say it.

***

He came in a minute later.

He didn’t speak. He crossed the kitchen slowly, stopped in front of me, and took me by the nape with one hand. His eyes were locked on mine when he leaned in. For a split second, I thought about stepping back. I didn’t.

He kissed me slowly. No urgency, no rushing. Just his mouth on mine, the taste of tobacco, and that hand on my nape that didn’t squeeze but left no doubt where this was going. He slid his tongue into my mouth without asking and mine went looking for it. I felt his other hand move down from my waist to my ass, grab one cheek over my nightgown and squeeze with a calm strength, like someone who knows exactly what he has in his hands. When I parted my lips, it was me who did it. He let it be that way.

His hands roamed over my body through the nightgown. He squeezed my breasts, first one, then the other, found my nipples through the fabric and pinched them between two fingers until they hardened. Mine went to his shirt, found the buttons, opened them one by one. His chest was covered with small scars, the kind left by years of working with animals. I traced them with my fingers while he lifted my nightgown and let it fall to the floor. I stood naked in front of him, with nothing underneath, my cunt already shining with wetness.

He studied me in silence for a moment. His eyes went from my tits to my cunt and back up again.

“You’re wet,” he said, almost in a whisper.

“Since last night,” I answered.

Then he knelt down.

He sat me on the edge of the cold marble counter, spread my legs with both hands and rested them on his shoulders. The first lick was slow, flat, from bottom to top, from the entrance of my cunt to my clit, and it made me tremble all over. Then another just like it. And another. He took his time, as if he had all night, as if nobody slept ten meters away. He pried my lips open with two fingers and ran his tongue between them, slowly, tasting me. When he reached my clit he stayed there, sucking with his lips, circling with the tip of his tongue, learning what made me clench my thighs against his ears.

He slid his middle finger inside me without stopping sucking my clit. Then two. He curled them upward, searching for the same spot I had been touching in bed an hour before, but he found it faster and with more precision. The kitchen was completely silent and the whole house slept a few meters away. I had to bite my lip hard not to make a sound. I covered my mouth with both hands when I felt myself coming, and when the orgasm hit I had to bite the back of my hand not to scream. My cunt tightened around his fingers, my legs closed around his head, and he didn’t stop. He kept sucking, kept working his fingers, kept curling them.

He took me to the second one before I had even finished anticipating the first. This one was longer, deeper, and when it was over I was shaking all over with his saliva on my chin, and he with his mouth and chin shining with me.

When I sat up, I took my hands to his belt. He opened it himself, unhurriedly. I pulled his pants down to his knees and then his briefs. What I found in my hands was thick and hard, thicker than I had expected, with prominent veins and a red, swollen head. I gripped it with both hands and there was still extra length. I stroked it slowly, learning from the way his breathing changed what he liked. Firm motions near the base, softer toward the tip, my thumb passing over the glans on every upward stroke. Then I knelt down myself.

I took him in my mouth carefully. First just the tip, sucking it like candy, running my tongue under the corona. Then more, everything I could fit, and with my hands what I couldn’t. His hands settled in my hair, not forcing, just guiding. He liked it slow. He liked me looking at him while I did it. I learned that in the first minutes and used it well. I looked him in the eyes with his cock buried in my mouth, and he looked back with that same calm he had for everything else, only now breathing hard through his nose. I took it out of my mouth and ran my tongue along the whole length, from base to tip, and then sucked his balls one by one while still stroking him with my hand. When I took him back into my mouth all the way to the back of my throat, a very low grunt escaped him. His breathing grew denser, more controlled.

“Get up,” he said, very quietly. “If you keep going like that I’m going to cum in your mouth, and not yet.”

I stood. He took me by the hips, turned me gently, and bent me over the kitchen table. The wood came up to my waist. I braced myself on my elbows, arched my back, spread my legs. I felt the tip of his cock sliding over the lips of my cunt, wetting itself in me, searching for the entrance without rushing.

He entered me slowly the first time. Very slowly. I felt every centimeter and didn’t care. He opened me up from the inside little by little, stopping when my breathing got stronger, advancing when my body relaxed, until I felt his hips against mine and his balls brushing my clit. He stayed still for a moment, all the way inside, letting me feel how much of me he was taking up. His hands on my hips were firm and rough, and he started moving with a rhythm he seemed to find immediately, as if he already knew my body. He came out almost all the way and went back in to the hilt, with a long, even cadence that never hurried. The tableboards creaked slightly with each thrust. Outside, the crickets kept singing. The world was exactly the same as it had been ten minutes before. I wasn’t.

One of his hands slid up my back, found my hair, and grabbed it in a fist, not hard, just firm. He pulled my head back a little and with that new posture his thrusts went deeper. I felt him hitting me inside with each one. His other hand went down, found my clit, and started rubbing it in circles at the same rhythm as his hips. The next orgasm came before I could anticipate it. I covered my mouth with the back of my hand and still a hoarse moan escaped me. My cunt clenched around him so hard he felt it and stopped, pressing his hips against mine and waiting for me to finish before moving again, clenching his teeth to keep from coming right then and there.

He turned me around. He lifted me by the hips and sat me on the table with my legs open and him standing in front of me. We looked at each other. His beard was wet with me, his chest shining with sweat, his cock red and dripping.

“Good?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Put it in me again.”

He slid back into me in one motion, all the way to the hilt. From that angle the effect was different and we both knew it. I grabbed the back of his neck with one hand and pulled his mouth to mine. We kissed while he fucked me, tongues out, breathing into each other. He sucked one breast, then the other, biting my nipples just enough. I gripped the edge of the table with both hands and didn’t let go. He was pounding into me harder now, barely pulling out at all, moving in short thrusts that made my ass hit the wood. I hooked my legs around his waist and pressed my heels into him to make him go deeper. He looked me in the eyes the whole time. I couldn’t look away either.

When he was close to finishing, he told me. He asked where. I shook my head no, and pointed to my belly. He pulled out, gripped his cock with his right hand, and jerked off for a few seconds in front of me, his eyes fixed on my open cunt and my tits. He came over my belly with a brief, contained sound that was the loudest thing all night, thick hot ropes reaching up between my breasts. I watched him do it. When he was done, I ran two fingers through the semen on my belly and brought them to my mouth. He saw it and closed his eyes for a second, as if that had affected him more than everything before.

We stayed still for a few seconds. Then he took a clean kitchen towel from the shelf above and handed it to me, with no theatrics whatsoever. Like someone who knows what needs to be done and simply does it.

***

I got down from the table and picked up my nightgown from the floor. I pulled it over my head. My legs were still trembling.

He lit another cigarette leaning against the counter and looked at me the way someone looks at something they appreciate without needing to possess it.

“Good night,” he said when I was leaving.

“Good night.”

I went up the stairs in silence and got into bed. I still felt open inside, and his smell was still on my skin. I slept until ten in the morning like I hadn’t slept in months.

By afternoon, the pickup truck was no longer at the ranch. Nobody told me when he had left. Nobody asked me anything. And I didn’t ask either.