The Mature Man Who Paid Me for My Underwear

It all started with an ad I didn’t even think about answering. One of those pages where people sell things they don’t use, and where a message in the middle of the night offered me more money than I made in a week for something I took for granted every day. At twenty-six, I thought those things only happened to other people. It turned out they happened to me too, and I liked them a lot more than I was willing to admit.

His name was Ernesto. He must have been in his forties, with graying hair combed back and big hands I couldn’t stop looking at when we met for the first time. It was daytime, on the terrace of a half-empty café. I handed him a small bag with a folded thong, and he handed me an envelope, as if we were closing some office deal. That was all. But on the way home that afternoon I walked differently, feeling the brush of the fabric against my skin with every step, thinking about him more than I wanted to.

That night I couldn’t sleep well. I found myself replaying every detail of him: the measured way he spoke, as if he had all the time in the world, the way his eyes had lingered a second too long on my cleavage before moving up to my face. He wasn’t handsome in the obvious sense. He was something else, the confidence of an older man who no longer needs to prove anything to anyone, and that confidence undid me. I slipped my hand under the waistband of my pajama bottoms that same night, thinking of him, and came biting the pillow so I wouldn’t wake anyone, my fingers soaked with my own juices and the image of his rough hands between my legs in my head. I spent the next few days making excuses not to admit I was waiting for his message.

Two weeks later he wrote to me again.

—Would you give me another one? —he asked, and then, after a pause I could feel even through text—: This time at night, if you’re game.

If I was game. As if there were anything to decide.

That night I got dressed differently. I put on a long, light skirt, very different from the tight jeans I’d worn for our first meeting, and on top a cropped blouse that showed my navel. Nothing underneath. I wanted him to notice, wanted his gaze to get caught on me without me having to say a word. But I’m careful, and before leaving I put on adhesive nipple covers so no one on the way would guess I wasn’t wearing a bra. Only when I was a couple of blocks from him, in the dim light of a quiet street, did I take them off and put them in my bag. I wasn’t wearing a thong under the skirt either: I wanted to reach him with my cunt bare under the fabric, feeling the cool air rise up my thighs with every step.

I arrived with my heart pounding in my chest. He was leaning against his car, waiting for me, and when he saw me he smiled in a way that wasn’t kind. It was the smile of someone who knows exactly what’s in front of him.

—You look gorgeous —he said, and the words sounded almost like a warning.

We repeated the ritual. I handed him the garment, he handed me the money. But this time he didn’t step away. He kept looking at me, weighing something, and when he spoke his voice had dropped a notch.

—I’ll make you a proposition. If you let me touch you, I’ll give you double.

He didn’t specify where. He didn’t need to. I knew perfectly well what he meant, and the heat that rushed up my neck had nothing to do with shame.

—All right —I said, and I was surprised by how steady my own voice sounded.

It wasn’t for the money. I want to be honest, even if it’s hard. The money was an excuse, a permission I gave myself. What really turned me on was that other thing: feeling like a whore a man paid to get his hands on, to grope me as if I were something he could buy for a night. That idea, which by day would have made me blush, at night melted my cunt until my thighs were slick.

We got into the car, in the darkness of the street. He slowly brought one hand up over my blouse, then, patiently, slipped it underneath. When his palm covered my breast I held my breath. His skin was rough, calloused, the hand of a man who had worked with it all his life, and that contrast against the softness of my tit pulled a moan from me I couldn’t swallow.

—Easy —he murmured, more to himself than to me.

He squeezed, unhurriedly, measuring me, pinching my nipple between his index finger and thumb until it stood up hard as a stone, and I felt every squeeze go straight to my cunt. I arched in the seat without meaning to, and he noticed. Then his other hand went down, slid up under my skirt, and his rough fingers met my naked cunt, with nothing in the way.

—Slut —he murmured, with a slow smile—. You came without panties.

—Yes —I gasped.

He slid one finger inside. Just one, all the way, very slowly, and I felt it pushing through my soaked folds, felt my cunt clench around it without my telling it to. He pulled it out, looked at it shining in the weak streetlight, and put it in his mouth.

—You’re dripping —he said, sucking on the whole finger—. You’re dripping for a stranger in a car.

My face burned with humiliation and pleasure, all at once. He put his hand back in, now two fingers, and started pumping them in and out of me while his thumb rubbed my clit in slow circles. I spread my legs wider, sinking into the seat, never taking my eyes off the bulge straining in his pants. His jaw tightened. Knowing I was the cause of that excited me more than his own fingers moving inside me.

—Come —he ordered, without raising his voice—. Come in my hand and go home.

And I came. Fast, dirty, with my teeth dug into my lip so I wouldn’t scream inside the car, clenching his fingers with my cunt while my legs trembled on their own. He kept moving them until one moan slipped out of me and I had to push his hand away.

We could have stayed like that for hours. But I had to go back; there was an ordinary life waiting for me on the other side of that street, and when I got out of the car my legs were really shaking. I walked to the corner with my breath ragged, my cunt still throbbing, feeling used and powerful at the same time, not quite understanding how it was possible to feel both at once.

That same night, already in my bed, his message arrived.

—Tomorrow. Let me taste them.

I didn’t hesitate for a second before replying yes.

***

I spent the next day with my head somewhere else. At work I messed up stupid things, reread the same email three times without understanding it, checked the clock every half hour. Inside, I could only think about one thing: how I was going to show up that night.

I wanted him to see me as the boldest slut he’d ever had. I wanted to give him something to remember. So I dressed myself carefully, like someone setting a trap. On the outside, street clothes, a simple dress, a light jacket, nothing attention-grabbing. Underneath, a black mesh bodysuit that left everything visible, with my nipples showing dark through the holes, and a red thong that was almost a provocation in itself, so thin it barely covered my slit. I looked at myself in the mirror before leaving and for a moment I didn’t recognize myself. I liked that stranger.

Ernesto had given me the address of an apartment. I went up in a narrow elevator, mentally rehearsing what was going to happen, and by the time I rang the bell I was already wet, with the thong stuck to my cunt, ready, impatient.

He opened the door in a shirt, the collar unbuttoned. He looked me up and down, still dressed, and when I let him see what I had on underneath —I took off the jacket slowly, let the dress fall to the floor— he let the air out of his mouth as if I’d hit him.

—Look at you —he said—. You look made for this.

—Made for what? —I asked, playing along, because I already knew the answer.

—For driving an old man like me crazy. For getting fucked by an old man like me.

—That wasn’t in the deal —I whispered, biting my lip.

—We’ll see what’s in the deal.

He took me to the couch and reclined. At first it was almost tender, almost clumsy in his eagerness: he pulled me down beside him, slid my bodysuit straps off my shoulders and started sucking my tits one by one, sucking my nipples hungrily, eyes closed, as if he were reclaiming something he hadn’t tasted in years. He nibbled them, let them go with a smack, then took them back into his mouth whole. I held his head, ran my fingers through his hair, and felt every tug from his mouth like a current running straight down to my cunt. I leaned my head back and let the pleasure run through me.

—Like that —I whispered—. Don’t stop. Suck them hard.

And he sucked them hard, until they were red, until I was pushing my pelvis into the air searching for something, anything, to fill me. He slipped a hand between my legs, pulled the thong aside and drove three fingers into me at once, without warning. I screamed. It slipped out of me, I couldn’t hold it back.

—Shut up —he said, smiling against my tit—. And let me see you get wet.

He started fingering me while still sucking my nipples, and I soaked the couch, soaked his wrist, soaked everything. He pulled back, took off his shirt, and with a gesture asked me to take his pants off. I fumbled with the buttons. When his cock sprang free I almost gasped: thick, red, with a marked vein running along the top, the head already shining with fluid. Bigger than I had imagined.

—Suck me —he said, pressing it to my lips—. I want to see that little mouth full.

I took it all the way in as far as my throat would let me. I sucked it slowly at first, tasting it, running my tongue over the tip and underneath, over that vein, over his balls. He grabbed my hair, guided me, started setting a rhythm, fucking my mouth without cruelty but without asking permission. I let him do it to me. Saliva ran down my chin, my eyes watered, and I didn’t care about anything. I looked up at him from below and he looked down at me with that crooked smile.

—Good girl —he murmured—. Such a good girl.

When he let go of my head I was panting and his cock was shining all over with my saliva. With those huge hands he took me by the waist and lifted me onto him, straddling him, my legs spread on either side of his body, me seated facing him on his lap. Through the black mesh and the shifted thong I could feel him hard, hot, throbbing underneath me, and I started rubbing against him without thinking, searching for friction, chasing that exact point where pressure became unbearably good. The head of his cock slid between my cunt lips, bumped my clit, threatened to enter me without ever quite doing it.

—Take it off —I begged, my voice broken, tugging at the thong.

He did. He ripped it off me in one yank, literally, with the sound of fabric tearing that sent another jolt through my groin. And I kept rubbing, skin against skin now, his hardness sliding between my soaked thighs without ever going in, the tip pushing at my entrance, retreating, pushing again. That was the part that drove me the craziest, I confess: that there was no real penetration. That we stayed right on the edge, in that border where everything is promise and nothing is yet. What was forbidden wasn’t the act itself, it was what we chose not to do.

—We’re not going any further —he said, reading my mind, with a crooked smile, gripping my hips to stop me when I went too low—. You don’t want that, right?

—No —I lied, half-heartedly, and the lie was part of the pleasure.

—Say it. Say you don’t want me to put it in you.

—I don’t want you to put it in me —I gasped, rocking my hips against him like a madwoman, sliding over that hard cock without letting it penetrate me—. No.

—Good girl.

He straightened a little and started sliding against me in another way, upward, running his cock between my breasts. I took off the bodysuit completely and pressed them together with my hands for him, squeezed one against the other to make a warm hollow, and let him fuck my tits however he wanted. He spat between my breasts to lubricate it better, and the cock started sliding up and down, the tip appearing under my chin with each thrust. I stuck out my tongue to lick it every time it came up, sucking the tip with a quick kiss before it dropped back down. I watched his face while I did it: his jaw clenched, his forehead beaded with sweat, his eyes fixed on me with a mixture of gratitude and something darker. Seeing him fall apart like that, a man who by day surely looked respectable and untouchable, was the real prize of the night.

—You’re going to make me finish —he panted—. You’re going to make me cum, slut.

—Do it —I told him, sticking my tongue out again, squeezing my tits tighter around his cock—. I want to see it. Cum on me.

—Where do you want it?

—On my face. On my tits. Wherever you want.

And he came. He finished right there, over me, with a rough groan that seemed to come from the bottom of his chest, grabbing his cock and shooting load after load of thick semen over me. It hit my neck, my chin, between my breasts, one splash into my open mouth. I tasted the salt on my tongue and swallowed it without thinking, looking him in the eyes. He let out a rougher gasp at seeing me do it, and ran his thumb over my lip, collecting what was left on me, putting it in my mouth so I’d suck it too. I sucked it off him.

With his free hand he went down, found my clit between the slippery folds, and rubbed it with his thumb in quick circles, giving me no respite.

—Now you —he said—. Come for me. Come with my come all over your face.

I came. Again. Riding his hand, with his semen dripping down my chest, trembling all over him, my face burning and my mouth open letting out moans I didn’t bother to keep in. I collapsed on top of him when I was done, sticky and breathless, feeling his cock still hard and pounding against my belly.

There were no kisses all night. Not one. And that absence, far from cooling me down, made everything more intimate and dirtier at the same time, as if kisses were the only thing too personal for the two of us.

Afterward we stayed silent for a while, he catching his breath, me sitting on the edge of the couch feeling my heart slowly return to its rhythm. I cleaned myself with a towel he handed me, and got dressed without rushing, aware of his gaze on my back as I pulled the dress up over my still-reddened tits.

—You have no idea what you’ve given me —he said at the door.

—I think I do have some idea —I replied, and left without looking back, with the torn thong tucked in my bag and my cunt still throbbing under my dress.

***

That was a month ago. Thanks to one of those twists of fate —a trip of his, a change in my schedule, life sticking its nose where it isn’t wanted— we haven’t run into each other again. Sometimes I tell myself it’s better this way, that it was madness, that the stranger I saw in the mirror isn’t really me.

But every night I slip my hand between my legs before falling asleep and come thinking of him, of his cock sliding between my tits, of his rough fingers opening my cunt in that car, of his hot semen falling into my mouth. I check my phone afterward, waiting to see his name on the screen. I think about his rough hands, his warm mouth sucking my nipples, that border we decided not to cross and which is precisely why it’s burned into me more than anything else. And when that message arrives, because I know it will arrive, I already know what I’m going to wear. A red baby doll this time, with nothing underneath. Something new for him, something he hasn’t seen yet. And this time, I tell myself, this time I am going to let him put it all the way in.

I keep it folded in the drawer, waiting. Just like me.