The Mature Neighbor My Grandma Sent Me to Help

Bruno was in the middle of an online match—FIFA, winning three to one against Dani, who was a textbook sore loser—when his phone started vibrating with the ringtone he had assigned to his grandmother. The same one he had deliberately chosen so he’d know when it was her and decide whether to answer or let it go to voicemail.

This time he answered, mostly because Dani had just scored and he needed an excuse to pause.

—Grandma?

—Grandson, I need a favor. —Charo’s voice had that sense of urgency which, coming from grandmothers, could mean anything from “the house is burning down” to “I can’t find the glasses I’m wearing”—. A very big favor.

Bruno sighed inwardly. His grandmother’s favors usually involved moving furniture, changing lightbulbs in dangerously high places, or explaining for the fifteenth time how the pay-TV worked.

—Tell me.

—I have to go to Albacete tomorrow. Early. At six in the morning.

“Nothing good ever starts at six in the morning.”

—Did something happen?

—No, no, well, yes, but it’s not serious. —Charo had a way of reassuring you and worrying you in the same sentence—. It’s your Aunt Encarna. She’s had a little problem. Nothing serious. But I have to go.

—Okay...

—The thing is, my neighbor Amalia, a lovely woman, needs help with her phone. And with the new TV they installed, which is a devilish contraption. All the channels are out of order and she doesn’t even know how to switch from one to another.

“There it is. Free tech support at home.”

—Grandma, tomorrow I...

—Today, grandson. Today. I need you to go this afternoon. Right now, if possible.

Bruno looked at the computer screen. Dani had scored another goal while he was talking.

—This afternoon?

—I’m leaving early tomorrow and Amalia will be left without help. She’s very old, you know? Sixty-two already. And the new TV is driving her crazy. She can’t even watch the news. Take some clothes in case it gets late and you stay the night; she has a guest room.

Bruno closed his eyes. His grandmother had that superpower: when she wanted something, she was as immovable as a concrete wall. A concrete wall painted with flowers, but a concrete wall all the same.

—Fine. Fine, Grandma. I’m going.

—Really? Oh, you’re a sweetheart. I’ll send you the address by message. Elm Street, second floor. It’s right nearby, in the old neighborhood. She’s expecting you around eight.

—That works perfectly for me.

—You’re an angel. And behave yourself.

—I always behave myself.

He hung up. Dani had won five to three while he was talking.

The game chat blinked. Dani: “dude where the fuck were you.” Bruno: “call from my grandma.” Dani: “hahaha you’re such a henpecked loser.” Bruno: “fuck off.” Dani: “another one?” Bruno: “can’t, I have to go out.” Dani: “where?” Bruno: “to help a friend of my grandma’s with her TV.” Dani: “HAHAHA you’re going to program channels for an old lady, F for you bro.”

He closed the game. He seriously considered pretending to come down with a sudden case of the flu. But she was his grandmother, and when your grandmother asks you for something in that tone, you either do it or carry the guilt for the rest of your life.

He showered, put on a pair of jeans and a clean white T-shirt, and packed the essentials in a backpack in case he stayed over: charger, toothbrush, a change of clothes. His mother materialized in the doorway with the uncanny timing mothers had for appearing precisely when you least expected them.

—Where are you off to looking so dressed up?

—To Grandma’s neighbor’s house. To help her with the TV.

—Uh-huh. —She looked him up and down—. You’re wearing the good T-shirt.

“Mothers see everything. Everything.”

—It was the one that was clean.

—Uh-huh. Have fun, then.

***

Elm Street was one of those streets in the old neighborhood that still had a village-like feel: seventies apartment buildings, exposed-brick façades, balconies with geraniums, and narrow entrances lined with chipped tile. Second floor, without an elevator, of course. Bruno pushed open the front door, which was open as usual, and went upstairs.

The landing smelled of that indefinable mixture of bleach, old food, and damp. Two doors, no surnames in sight. True to form, his grandmother hadn’t specified either the door or the apartment letter. He knocked on one. Silence. He knocked on the other.

Footsteps. A measured but steady rhythm. The door opened and Bruno froze on the spot, because the woman who had opened it was not what he’d expected. She wasn’t a hunched little old lady with a bun and a dressing gown. She was a sixty-two-year-old woman, yes, but one who kept herself in shape, with short gray hair cut in a way that suited her surprisingly well, a fitted white blouse, and a pair of jeans that looked far too good for what he had planned.

Her light-colored eyes swept over him from head to toe so quickly that he felt inspected, and then she smiled.

“Say something, idiot. Say something.”

—You must be Bruno, right?

—Yes... that’s me. My grandmother, Charo, told me that...

—That I need help with the new TV. —She stepped away from the door and gestured for him to come in—. Come in, come in. Don’t just stand there looking like a Jehovah’s Witness.

The apartment smelled good. Of freshly brewed coffee, tortilla, and a hint of fresh perfume he couldn’t identify but liked.

—You’re tall —Amalia said, closing the door and looking him over again, more carefully—. How tall are you?

—Six foot three. I play basketball.

—I thought so. At that height, not playing would be a waste of inches.

There was something about the way she spoke that wasn’t maternal. It wasn’t condescending. She was direct, as if she were talking to an equal rather than “her friend’s grandson.”

—Come on, into the kitchen. Have you eaten?

—Not much.

—I made tortilla. There’s salad and bread. Have dinner before you start fighting with the TV.

—I don’t want to be a bother.

—If you were a bother, I wouldn’t have invited you. Besides, your grandmother would kill me if I let you go hungry.

***

The kitchen had seen decades of life: white tiles with a blue border, a table covered with a floral oilcloth, a refrigerator probably older than he was. But it was spotless and smelled of freshly made tortilla.

—Sit down. A beer? —Amalia was already opening the refrigerator.

—Sorry?

—You’re nineteen, right? Then you can have a beer. We don’t get scandalized over that here.

“A sixty-two-year-old woman is offering me alcohol. This is surreal.”

—Okay. Thanks.

She took out two bottles, opened them with a magnetic opener stuck to the refrigerator, and handed him one. The beer was ice-cold, perfect. She cut the tortilla into generous pieces, served salad, and sat down opposite him with a naturalness that, instead of making him uncomfortable, relaxed him.

—Your grandmother says you’re starting university in September.

—Yeah. Computer engineering.

—That sounds complicated. I’m a disaster when it comes to technology.

Bruno glanced distractedly toward the counter, where three spotless glass jars gleamed beneath the light, unlabeled and completely empty. Amalia followed his gaze and let out a mischievous little laugh.

—I’m sure it’s not that bad —he said.

—Oh, it is. I’m one of those people who keeps glass jars.

Bruno stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth.

—Sorry?

—The jars. When you buy chickpeas, lentils, whatever, in a glass jar. At your house, do you keep them or throw them away?

—We throw them away, I think. I’d throw them away. What would I want them for?

—Exactly. Because you’re still young. But one day, instead of throwing it away, your brain will tell you, “No, no, take it to the sink.” And you’ll remove the label with hot water and keep it. And you’ll have piles of jars in every size. When one breaks, you’ll throw out the glass but keep the lid. That’s the beginning of the end.

—The end of what?

—Of youth. When you start keeping glass jars, it means you’re getting old.

Bruno laughed. He couldn’t help it.

—And you keep jars?

—I have an entire cupboard full of them. Open it if you want. It’s depressing.

He opened it. Dozens of jars stacked like obsessive Tetris. He laughed even harder.

—The worst part is that I never use them —she said—. But I can’t stop keeping them. Old-lady stuff.

—You’re not old.

The words came out before he had time to think.

“Shit. Why did I say that?”

Amalia slowly set her fork down on the plate. She leaned back a little in her chair and tilted her head, as if she were assessing him in an entirely new way. She looked at him for a long moment. Too long. Her eyes traveled over his face with an attentiveness that made his neck grow hot.

—I’m sixty-two years old. That’s old by definition.

—But you don’t look it.

She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table, a posture that shortened the distance and made the conversation more intimate. “Tell him to stop,” Amalia thought. “Tell him he’s too young, that this is ridiculous.” But instead of saying any of that, she smiled. The smile that knew perfectly well what it was doing, the one she had used decades ago to flirt and thought she had forgotten.

—You’re very sweet. But I am older. And that’s fine. Age isn’t a bad thing if you wear it with humor.

She picked up her beer and drank, mostly to have something to do with her hands. Bruno drank too. His fingers tapped against the glass bottle. The tension was still there, floating between them like something tangible, impossible to ignore.

—Come on, eat, before it gets cold.

***

When they finished, they went into the living room. It was clean and well kept, with furniture that had seen decades but remained in good condition. The TV was on, showing a shopping channel where an overly enthusiastic woman was selling a set of frying pans.

—There it is. The demon —Amalia said, pointing at it dramatically—. All the channels are out of order. The first one is somewhere in the eight hundreds. There’s no way to find anything.

“Reorder the channels. Two minutes and done.”

Bruno picked up the remote. Forty buttons, half of which he didn’t know the purpose of. He pressed the menu button and the screen filled with options that looked like Korean.

—It’s in Korean —he said.

—In Korean? How could it be in Korean?

—No idea. But it is.

He navigated blindly. The screen changed to something that looked like Japanese.

—Now it’s Japanese —she remarked, amused—. Do you speak Japanese?

—No.

—Well, you’re very useful.

Bruno glanced at her. Amalia was smiling, openly enjoying his suffering. After five minutes of trial and error, passing through menus in Chinese and something that might have been Finnish, he found the language settings and changed it to Spanish.

—You did it! —She applauded.

—First victory.

He sat on the couch to reorder the channels. Amalia sat down beside him. Perhaps too close; perhaps not far enough away. There were hundreds of channels in random order, and each one had to be moved manually: mark it, select it, choose its position, confirm. One by one.

—This is going to take a while —he murmured.

—A long while?

—Yeah.

But at least he had good company. Amalia told him about her battles with technology: the day she accidentally deleted all the photos on her phone, the time she subscribed to three streaming services without realizing it, the “smart” oven her son had given her that she had never managed to turn on. Bruno laughed more and more.

Meanwhile, she watched him. The confidence with which his fingers handled the remote, the concentration on his face, the little wrinkle that appeared between his eyebrows when something didn’t work.

“He’s handsome. Stop it, Amalia. But he really is.”

—I’m going to get more beer —she said suddenly—. This calls for beer.

She came back with two bottles and sat even closer. Definitely closer; her thigh almost brushed his.

“Is she doing it on purpose? Or am I imagining it?”

He continued, channel by channel, while she asked him about his friends, his plans, his life. Until, on channel forty-three, he pressed the wrong button and the entire setup reset. The forty-two channels he had reordered returned to their original positions.

—No. No, no, no.

—What happened?

—It all got erased.

Amalia was silent for a second. Then she laughed with that big, shameless laugh of hers, as if being sixty-two were merely an excuse to laugh louder.

—It’s not funny —Bruno said, smiling despite himself.

—Of course it’s funny. Forty-two channels.

They laughed together, the kind of laughter you need after half an hour of frustration. And when they calmed down, they stayed there, sitting very close, looking at each other, and something changed in the air. Something in the way she looked at him. Something in the way his pulse quickened.

—Come on —Amalia said, her voice lower—. We’ll try again. More carefully this time.

This time they went more slowly. She was so close that he could smell her perfume. Channel by channel, step by step, the tension growing. An hour later, they were all in their proper places.

—You’re a genius —she said, giving him a little tap on the arm.

—I’m just persistent.

—And modest.

Bruno put the remote on the table and leaned back, exhausted.

—It was worth it —he said, without knowing why he said it.

Amalia looked at him. That look again.

—Was it?

—The company was nice.

She ran a hand through her hair with an unconcerned gesture.

—Oh, I almost forgot. Could you take a look at my phone too? I leave the data on all day and my bill ends up costing a fortune. Your grandmother swore you’d know how to connect it to the Wi-Fi.

—Sure, no problem.

The phone was on the coffee table, closer to him than to her. Bruno leaned over to pick it up just as Amalia reached for it. Their hands collided on top of the device, his fingers resting over hers, warm and firm. The touch was enough to make the screen light up.

Unlocked.

They both froze. In large letters, impossible to miss, the open page was a website of erotic stories. And right at the top, clearly visible, the category: Mature.

Time stopped dead. Three seconds that lasted three lifetimes, their hands still resting on the phone as if letting go would mean admitting defeat.

Amalia yanked her hand away as if it were burning. Bruno did the same. The phone lay there alone, glowing like an incriminating beacon.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “This can’t be happening. I can’t believe it.”

—I...

Amalia had gone red right up to her ears. For the first time all night, she seemed genuinely uncomfortable. She covered her face with both hands.

—You caught me —she said through her fingers, and her voice came out half laugh, half lament, like a grown woman caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Bruno swallowed. His mouth was dry, and his cock, inside his jeans, was getting hard without asking permission. He considered lying, pretending he hadn’t noticed, acting as if he hadn’t seen anything. And he considered doing the opposite. The opposite won.

—Mature —he said, his voice coming out hoarse in a way he hadn’t known it could—. You like stories about mature women?

Amalia slowly took her hands away from her face. She looked at him from beneath her lashes, still flushed but with something new in her eyes. Something that had been waiting all night for someone to say it out loud.

—I like stories about mature women with young guys —she replied, and there was no little laugh or embarrassment now, only brutal honesty—. Very young.

The air in the living room grew heavy. Bruno could feel his pulse in his temples, his neck, the tip of his cock. Her nipples showed through the white blouse, two hard points that said more than any words could.

—Like me? —he asked.

—Like you.

There was no more preamble. Amalia turned on the couch, placed one hand on the back of his neck, and kissed him on the mouth. It wasn’t the timid kiss of an embarrassed older woman. It was a hungry kiss, tongue from the very first second, the kiss of a woman who had gone years without devouring a mouth like his and had no intention of wasting the opportunity. Bruno moaned into the kiss, surprised, and bit her back.

She took his hand and placed it directly on one of her tits, over the blouse.

—Touch me —she told him against his lips—. Touch me properly, not as if I were made of porcelain. I’m not.

Bruno squeezed. Her breast filled his palm, firmer than he had imagined, its nipple rock-hard beneath the fabric. Amalia let out a deep moan that lodged between his legs. She began unbuttoning her blouse one button at a time without taking her eyes off him, and when the last one came undone, she pulled the garment back and let it fall to the floor.

She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her tits sagged beneath the weight of her years but were still beautiful, generous breasts, with large, dark areolas and nipples stiff as stones.

—Look —she said, taking one in her hand and offering it to him—. Suck it. I’ve been thinking about your mouth all night.

Bruno lunged. He threw himself over her, grabbed her tit, and stuffed the whole thing into his mouth, sucking eagerly, licking her nipple, circling it with his tongue, tugging with his lips. Amalia held his head with both hands and moaned loudly without holding back, pressing his face into her flesh.

—Oh, yes, fuck, suck them hard like that —she panted—. Bite it a little, don’t be afraid.

He bit her. She arched her back and let out a “fuck” that sounded like a plea. Bruno moved to the other nipple and did the same, while his free hand squeezed the breast he had left untouched. He could feel his cock pressing painfully hard against the seam of his pants.

Amalia found his fly blindly and undid it. She slipped her hand inside his briefs, and when her fingers closed around his cock, they both moaned at once.

—My God —she said, pulling it out and looking at it with shining eyes—. What a cock you’ve got. And that isn’t your grandmother talking, it’s me.

It was hard and long, the tip already wet. Amalia gripped it at the base and ran her thumb over the glans, spreading the drop of pre-cum over the entire head. Bruno fell back against the couch with a moan.

—I want to suck it —she announced, without asking permission—. I’ve wanted to suck it all night, ever since you appeared at the door in that white good-boy T-shirt.

She lowered herself to the floor between his knees with an agility that belied her sixty-two years. She tugged his jeans and briefs down to his ankles. Bruno sat there with his cock pointing toward the ceiling and a woman kneeling in front of him, and he thought he was going to come just from the sight of it.

Amalia ran her tongue from his balls to the tip, very slowly, looking him in the eyes. Then she took the head into her mouth and began sucking with a technique that made it clear this wasn’t her first time. She lowered her mouth along the entire shaft, the tip touching the back of her throat, and came back up sucking, leaving his cock shiny with saliva.

—Fuck, fuck, fuck —Bruno repeated—. Amalia, fuck, you suck so well.

She pulled his cock from her mouth only to lick it.

—It’s just that it’s been years since I’ve had a cock like this in my mouth —she said, and swallowed it again.

She sucked him with pent-up hunger, using both hands, one at the base and the other massaging his balls. Bruno grabbed her head and began moving his hips, fucking her mouth carefully, and when he saw that she didn’t complain but moaned even louder, he started thrusting harder. Amalia dug her fingers into his thighs, let him push himself all the way in, swallowed with her throat tight, and he felt everything about to spill out if he didn’t stop.

—Stop, stop —he panted, pulling her head away—. I’m going to come.

—So? —She licked her lips, shining with saliva—. I’ll swallow it, no problem.

—No. I don’t want to come yet. I want to fuck you.

The word flushed her face. Amalia stood up, undid her jeans, and yanked them down together with her panties in a single movement. She stood naked in front of him, illuminated by the bluish glow of the TV, her tits hanging, her soft belly marked by the elastic, her wide hips those of a mature woman, and a pussy with carefully trimmed gray hair.

—Then fuck me —she told him—. But fuck me like you fuck a mature woman. Without holding back. Don’t treat me as if I’m going to break.

Bruno stood, pulled the white T-shirt over his head, shook his jeans off his ankles, and was as naked as she was. Amalia ran a hand over his hairless chest and abs, then grabbed his cock as if it were a handle.

—Come here —she said, pulling him toward the couch—. Lie down.

He lay on his back. She swung one leg over him and sat astride him, her pussy right above his cock without taking it inside. She rubbed herself slowly, coating the head with her wetness, and Bruno saw with his own eyes how that woman’s pussy was dripping with desire.

—You’re soaked —he said, touching her with two fingers—. Soaked, fuck.

—I’ve been soaked since you sat down in the kitchen, boy.

He slipped his fingers inside her, and she closed her eyes and threw her head back.

—Oh, yes, like that, more —she panted—. Put them all the way in.

Bruno pulled them out and pushed them back in, curling them as he searched for the right spot. Amalia moved on top of him as if she were nineteen too, riding his hand and moaning louder and louder. When the boy pulled his fingers out, they gleamed with her juices. He brought them to his mouth and sucked them without thinking.

—Oh, my God —she murmured, looking at him—. This boy is going to be the death of me.

She took his cock, placed it at the entrance to her pussy, and dropped her hips in one swift motion. She swallowed him whole in a single movement, down to the base, and they both cried out. Amalia stayed still for a moment, eyes closed and lips parted, feeling herself full.

—God —she whispered—. God, that feels so good.

And she began to move. At first slowly, adjusting to him, rising and sinking with her hands braced on Bruno’s chest. Her tits moved with the rhythm, up and down, and he didn’t know whether to look at them, her face, or the way his cock disappeared between her spread thighs. In the end he grabbed her hips with both hands, guiding her and thrusting upward each time she came down.

—Yes, like that, fuck me like that —she panted—. Put it all the way in, all the way, fuck. Break me.

Bruno thrust up from beneath her, his ass lifting off the couch. The couch creaked, the lamp shook, and a sixty-two-year-old woman rode a nineteen-year-old kid as if her life depended on it, her tits bouncing and her pussy soaking his entire cock and balls.

—Get on all fours —he asked her at one point, his voice hoarse—. I want to fuck you from behind.

—Oh, yes, my boy. Fuck me from behind. Fuck me like a bitch.

She moved away, got on all fours on the couch, braced against the armrest, and arched her back, offering him her ass. Bruno knelt behind her, grabbed her buttocks with both hands, and spread them to look. Her pussy was pink, shiny, and dilated. And her wrinkled asshole was just above it.

He drove his cock into her with one thrust. Amalia screamed into a cushion. Bruno began pounding her without mercy, gripping her hips, pulling almost all the way out and driving himself back in to the hilt. The slaps of his thighs against her ass rang throughout the living room. Her moans came out hoarse, broken, obscene.

—Yes, yes, yes, like that, harder, don’t stop, fuck me, give it to me hard, come inside me, come inside me, give me everything.

He pulled her hair, gripping a short lock, and she arched her back farther and let out an animal moan. Bruno reached around her and found her clit. When he began rubbing circles over it with his finger while pounding her, Amalia started trembling all over. A minute later she came, squeezing his cock with her pussy in contractions that blurred his vision.

—I’m coming, I’m coming, oh, fuck, I’m coming —she panted, her face pressed into the cushion.

Bruno held out for the last few seconds, watching her come around his cock, and then he couldn’t hold back any longer. He pulled out just in time, gripped himself with his hand, and came in thick spurts over her back and ass. Heavy, long, white spurts sliding down the skin of that sixty-two-year-old woman as she panted and laughed and continued coming.

—Oh, my God —Amalia said, collapsing onto her side on the couch, her face flushed and her hair tousled—. Oh, my God, oh, my God.

Bruno collapsed beside her, breathless, his heart pounding against his ribs. They stayed like that for quite a while, staring at the ceiling and listening to the hum of the TV, which had gone back to the shopping channel as if nothing had happened.

Amalia turned her face toward him. She had the smile of a girl with the cookie jar again, except now she was also naked and his come was drying on her back.

—You know what? —she said.

—What?

—Your grandmother leaves tomorrow at six. We have the whole night ahead of us.

Bruno laughed. He looked at the phone still glowing on the table, the Mature website open, and thought that maybe taking his charger after all wasn’t such a bad idea.

(To be continued...)