The Mature Man at the Bar Took Me to His Bed

I still don’t fully understand what happened to me that night, and to be honest, I don’t want to understand it either. Every time I think about it, I feel that heat rising up my back all over again. The only thing I know for certain is that I want to do it again.

I’m twenty-nine, stuck in a routine that bores me, and I have a long list of men my own age who left me with the feeling that something was missing. That night I had gone out expecting nothing. I just wanted a drink, a little music, and not to hear the silence of my empty apartment on yet another Saturday.

His name was Damián, or at least that’s what he told me. I never asked his exact age, but there was no need: the close-cropped silver hair, the large hands with veins standing out, and that deep voice that rumbled as if it came from his chest said it all. I figured he was in his fifties, maybe older. He looked at me with absolute calm, like a man who had already lived more than enough and had nothing to prove to anyone.

And that, precisely that, is what undid me. I was tired of clumsy nerves, of rushing, of men who needed to show off. He wasn’t showing off anything. He just knew.

I met him in a hidden bar on a little street downtown, one of those places with low light and soft music that seems designed to make people make mistakes. I had gone out alone, bored, in a short black dress that rode up every time I crossed my legs. I had had two drinks too many and no clear intention, just the urge not to be at home.

He was at the bar, alone, with a whiskey in his hands. I sat down beside him without thinking too much about it. We started talking about anything: the heat, how expensive everything was, how hard it was to find a good quiet bar. But his eyes didn’t stay on my face. They drifted slowly down my neck, my neckline, my thighs, and then back up with no hurry, as if he were measuring me centimeter by centimeter.

Every time his gaze dropped, I felt the dress weighing less. I fixed my hair, crossed and uncrossed my legs, pretended to look at the bottles behind the bar. He noticed every one of my gestures and let them pass with a patience that made me more and more nervous.

—You know what I like most about women like you? —he said suddenly, leaning in just a little—. That you think you can hide it.

I laughed to hide the heat that rushed to my face. I didn’t know what to answer, so I took a long drink and let the silence speak for me.

—Do you come here often? —he asked, though it was obvious he didn’t care about the answer.

—First time —I said, holding his gaze longer than a sensible woman should.

—I can tell —he replied, with half a smile—. You look like you’re looking for something you haven’t found yet.

And was he ever right.

I don’t really remember how we ended up in the elevator of his building. I know that at some point he paid both tabs without asking me, offered me his arm, and I took it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. We walked two blocks in silence under the orange glow of the streetlamps, and every step pulsed through my body like a countdown.

I remember his firm hand on the back of my neck, the mirror behind me, the way he kissed me as soon as the doors closed: slow, deep, with his tongue taking all the time in the world, as if the night belonged to him. His other hand was lifting my dress without asking permission. I was already trembling, wet before he had even touched me for real.

—Relax —he whispered against my lips, feeling how worked up I was—. I’m in no hurry with you.

***

When we got into the apartment, he didn’t turn on all the lights. He only left a hallway lamp on, just enough for everything to be bathed in a golden half-light. He gently pushed me against the back of the leather sofa and knelt between my legs without saying a word. He spread them with those enormous hands and kept staring at me for a few endless seconds, like someone admiring something before tasting it.

—I wanted so badly to see you like this —he murmured, his hoarse voice pressed against my thigh.

He didn’t take off my underwear. He slid it aside with two fingers and went straight down with his mouth, no detours. He started slowly, tracing me from bottom to top, stopping at the exact spot with a soft suction that made my back arch against the sofa. Then he grew hungrier. He pressed his tongue, went in, came out, sucked again until moans escaped me that I didn’t even know I had in me.

I grabbed his silver hair with both hands and pushed his face against me.

—Don’t stop —I begged him, almost out of breath—. Please, don’t stop.

He didn’t stop. I came in his mouth within minutes, my legs shaking and my heart about to burst out of my chest. He stayed there, licking slowly, collecting every spasm as if he didn’t want to waste a single drop of it.

He stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked at me with a crooked smile that melted me.

—Now it’s your turn —he said, and sank onto the sofa with the same elegance with which he had sat at the bar hours earlier.

I stayed on my knees on the floor for a second, catching my breath, looking at him. The hallway light traced the lines of his face, the gray at his temples, the calm smile. I thought about how absurd the situation was: a woman my age, melting in front of a stranger who could have been my father, and yet I had never felt so in my place.

He undid his pants with a calm that made me more nervous than any hurry ever could. He wasn’t absurdly long, but he was thick, heavy, with the tip already wet. I knelt between his legs as if I’d been hypnotized. I took him with both hands because one wasn’t enough, and I started licking from the base, slowly, keeping my eyes on his the whole time.

—That’s it, beautiful —he told me softly, stroking my hair—. No need to rush. We have all night.

I took him in as far as I could, until I felt him reach the back of my throat. I went up and down, losing my shame with every movement, listening to him breathe more and more deeply. There was something about his control, about the way he let me set the pace knowing he could take it back at any moment, that drove me completely insane.

From time to time he held my head with his hand, not to hurry me, but to look at me. He watched me from above with heavy eyelids and a half smile, as if he wanted to record every detail of my face in that moment. No man had ever looked at me like that, with that mix of desire and patience, and I swear that look turned me on as much as his hands.

—You’re incredible —he murmured—. But we’re not done yet.

***

All at once he lifted me off the floor as if I weighed nothing. He carried me to the bedroom and laid me face down on the bed. He hiked my dress up to my waist, yanked off my underwear in one pull, and gave me a firm slap that tore a scream and a laugh out of me at the same time.

—Open your legs, my love —he whispered in my ear—. Let me see you properly.

I felt the tip pushing at my entrance. He went in slowly but without stopping, opening me little by little, filling me in that slow, deep way only someone with no need to rush knows how to do. I moaned loudly against the pillow. When he was all the way in, he stayed still for a moment, giving me time to adjust, and only then did he start moving: he came almost all the way out and then drove back in with one firm thrust.

He braced one hand on my lower back and used the other to hold my hip, setting a rhythm that wasn’t fast or rough, but reached deeper than any other. Every thrust pulled a different sound from my throat. I, who had always been the kind of woman who fakes a little so as not to look bad, that night didn’t have to fake a thing.

—You like it like this? —he asked, gripping my hip—. You like what an experienced man can do?

I could only moan and push back, asking him for more without words.

He put me on all fours, grabbed my hair with one hand, and started pounding harder. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, and every удар made me close my eyes. He slid one finger in slowly, playing with my other place while he kept moving inside me, and that was when I completely lost my mind. I begged him not to stop, to give me everything, to keep going until the end.

I came again, clenching him so hard I felt him growl against my nape. It was unlike anything I’d known: not a quick, forgettable tingle, but a long wave that ran from my feet to my head and left me weak, my face buried in the sheets and my legs trembling on their own. But he wasn’t done with me.

He turned me over, spread my legs, and settled over me looking into my face, wanting to see every expression. When he could take it no longer, he pulled out, and a few seconds later I felt the heat spilling over me, onto my neck, onto my chest, while I was still gasping, my whole body vibrating.

We stayed there for a while in silence, the two of us staring at the ceiling, my breathing slowly recovering. Outside, the distant murmur of the street could be heard, some car, a far-off siren. Inside it was only him, me, and the smell of sweat and whiskey floating in the dim light.

He collapsed beside me, breathing heavily, and threw an arm over me as if we had known each other all our lives.

—This is only the beginning —he whispered in my ear, in that same calm voice from the bar—. Tomorrow I’ll wake you with coffee, and then we’ll pick up where we left off.

I, still trembling, with my heart galloping and a smile I couldn’t control, turned my head and answered:

—Bring me the coffee first, then. This is getting too good to rush.