The Mature Man at the Bar Took Me to His Bed

I still don't fully understand what happened to me that night, and honestly, I don't want to understand it either. Every time I think about it, I feel the 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've got a long list of men my age who left me feeling like something was missing. That night, I'd gone out without expecting anything. I just wanted a drink, some music, and not to listen to the silence of my empty apartment for another Saturday.

His name was Damián, or at least that's what he told me. I never asked his exact age, but I didn't need to: the close-cropped silver hair, the large hands with prominent veins, and that deep voice that resonated as if he spoke from his chest said it all. I guessed 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 left to prove to anyone.

And that, precisely that, was what undid me. I was tired of awkward nerves, of rushing, of men who needed to show off. He didn't show off anything. He simply knew.

I met him in a bar hidden on a little street downtown, one of those places with low lights and soft music that seems designed to make people lose their way. I'd gone out alone, bored, wearing a short black dress that rode up every time I crossed my legs. I was two drinks past sober and had no clear intention, just the desire not to be at home.

He was at the bar, alone, holding 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 had become, how difficult it was to find a good, quiet bar. But his eyes didn't stay on my face. They drifted slowly down my neck, over my cleavage and thighs, then rose again without any hurry, as if he were measuring me inch by inch.

Every time his gaze dropped, I felt my dress grow lighter. I adjusted 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 increasingly nervous.

—Do you know what I like most about women like you? —he said suddenly, leaning in just a little—. That they think they're hiding it.

I laughed to hide the heat rising to my face. I didn't know what to say, so I took a long drink and let the silence speak for me.

—Do you come here often? —he asked, though it was obvious the answer didn't matter to him.

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

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

And was he ever right.

I don't clearly remember how we ended up in the elevator of his building. I know that at some point he paid both our 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 beneath the orange streetlights, and every step throbbed through my body like a countdown.

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

—Relax —he whispered against my lips, feeling how agitated I was—. I'm in no hurry with you.

***

When we entered the apartment, he didn't turn on all the lights. He left only a hallway lamp burning, just enough to bathe everything in golden shadows. He gently pushed me against the back of the leather sofa and knelt between my legs without saying a word. He opened them with those enormous hands and stared at me for a few eternal seconds, like someone admiring something before tasting it.

—I've been dying to see you like this —he murmured, his hoarse voice pressed against my thigh.

He didn't take off my underwear. He pushed it aside with two fingers and lowered his mouth straight to me, without detours. He began slowly, tracing me from bottom to top, stopping at exactly the right spot with a gentle suction that made me arch my back against the sofa. Then he grew hungrier. He pressed with his tongue, went in and out, sucked again and again until moans escaped me that I hadn't known were inside me.

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

—Don't stop —I begged, almost breathless—. Please, don't stop.

He didn't stop. I came in his mouth within minutes, my legs trembling and my heart about to burst from my chest. He stayed there, licking me slowly, gathering every spasm as if he didn't want to waste a thing.

He stood, 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, dropping onto the sofa with the same elegance he'd had when he sat at the bar hours earlier.

I stayed on my knees on the floor for a second, catching my breath as I looked at him. The hallway light outlined the lines of his face, the gray in his hair, his tranquil 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'd never felt so much in my element.

He unbuttoned his trousers with a calmness that made me more nervous than any hurry could have. It wasn't excessively long, but it was thick and heavy, the tip already wet. I knelt between his legs as if I'd been hypnotized. I took it in both hands because it wouldn't fit in one and began licking it from the base, slowly, looking into his eyes the entire time.

—That's it, sweetheart —he murmured, stroking my hair—. Don't rush. We've got all night.

I took him as far as I could, until I felt him reach the back of my throat. I moved up and down, losing my shame with every motion, listening to his breathing grow deeper and deeper. There was something about his control, about the way he let me set the pace while knowing he could take it back at any moment, that drove me completely wild.

Every so often he held my head still with one hand, not to hurry me, but to look at me. He watched me from above with heavy-lidded eyes and half a smile, as if he wanted to commit every detail of my face to memory in that moment. No man had ever looked at me that way, with that mixture of desire and patience, and I swear that look aroused me as much as his hands.

—You're incredible —he murmured—. But we're not finished yet.

***

Suddenly he lifted me off the floor as if I weighed nothing. He carried me to the bedroom and left me facedown on the bed. He pushed my dress up to my waist, pulled off my underwear in a single tug, and gave me a firm slap that drew a shout and a laugh from me at the same time.

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

I felt the tip pressing at my entrance. He entered slowly but without stopping, opening me little by little, filling me in that slow, deep way known only to someone who no longer has anything to hurry. I moaned loudly into the pillow. When he was fully inside me, he stayed still for a moment, giving me time to adjust, and only then began to move: pulling almost all the way out and driving back in with one firm thrust.

He placed one hand on my lower back and held my hip with the other, setting a rhythm that wasn't fast or rough but reached deeper than anything before. Every thrust drew a different sound from my throat. I, who had always been the type to fake things a little so I wouldn't look bad, didn't have to fake a thing that night.

—Do you like it this way? —he asked, gripping my hip—. Do you like what an experienced man knows how to do?

All I could do was moan and push back, asking for more without words.

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

I came again, squeezing him so tightly that I felt him grunt against the nape of my neck. It was different from anything I knew: not a quick, forgettable tingle, but a long wave that swept from my feet to my head and left me without strength, my face buried in the sheets and my legs trembling on their own. But he wasn't finished with me.

He turned me over, spread my legs, and settled over me, looking me in the face, wanting to see every expression. When he couldn't hold back any longer, he pulled out, and a few seconds later I felt the heat spilling over me, on my neck and chest, while I was still panting, my whole body vibrating.

We lay there in silence for a while, both of us staring at the ceiling, my breathing gradually returning to normal. Outside, the distant murmur of the street carried in, a car, some stray siren. Inside, there was only him, me, and the smell of sweat and whiskey floating in the half-light.

He dropped down beside me, breathing heavily, and draped an arm over me as if we'd known each other all our lives.

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

Still trembling, my heart racing and a smile I couldn't control on my face, I turned my head and answered him:

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