The Mature Promoter Who Arrived Soaked That Night

I’m Roberto, though my lifelong friends call me Flaco. It’s a nickname that no longer describes anything —by now in my life the pounds settle in on their own and nobody invites them to leave— but habits last longer than the reality that gave rise to them.

I like women. I prefer them mature, forty and up, though I’ve never been too exclusive. There’s something about a woman who already knows what she wants —in bed and out of it— that no urgency in your twenties can imitate. Experience has its own rhythm, and that rhythm interests me. A mature woman doesn’t ask if you like it; she makes you do it. She doesn’t wait for you to guess; she takes your hand and puts it on her cunt. For a man my age, that’s worth more than any twenty-year-old body.

In many countries there’s the custom of celebrating love on February fourteenth. Florists, jewelers, and chocolate shops make a killing those days. Men empty our pockets. Women reward us with special meals, attentions, and, if the night cooperates, with something no wrapping paper can match.

What fewer people admit is that February thirteenth has its own parallel tradition. In a low voice, it’s called the night of the aware cuckolds: the day before official love, used by those who have a formal partner and another not so formal to celebrate first with the second. Hourly motels and daily-rental apartments enjoy their best week of the year exactly that night. The unfaithful have packed schedules.

Those of us without stable commitments do our thing: get together for dinner, have a drink, remember that life can also be simple.

***

Carlos had booked us a table at a place we’d liked for years. A classic dive: good food until midnight and a dance floor with eighties rock starting at midnight. There were five of us. Carlos, Pablo, Diego, Rodrigo, and me. We got there before ten and the night started without complications.

Close to one in the morning, a short, violent storm broke over the city. Those on the terrace ran inside and the room suddenly filled up. Among those who came in soaked was a group of women. Eight or nine, maybe. The age range ran from their mid-forties to their sixties. They were sparkling —they’d started the night well before us, you could tell by how loose they were— and they carried that particular energy of a women’s group that has spent hours answering to no one.

Two of them passed by our table on the way to the bathroom. One was tall, dark-haired with some gray, in good shape. The other, slimmer, with something about her face that struck me as vaguely familiar. They looked at me in a way that wasn’t an accident and kept going. They were going to freshen up and come back.

Five minutes later they were back.

—Are you Roberto? —asked the dark-haired one, stopping beside my chair.

It took me a second to answer. I couldn’t place her.

—Yes.

—I’m Clara. And this is Silvia. We were models with your mother, remember? The hairstyle contests, the salon downtown.

Thirty years in two sentences. Time collapsed all at once.

I looked at them more closely and the features I’d kept somewhere in the back of my memory began to surface: younger faces, different hair, a context that had nothing to do with this one. Clara must have been around sixty-two or sixty-three now. Silvia, a little younger. Neither of them had let themselves go. Their bodies had changed, as all bodies do over time, but they moved with the ease of people comfortable in their own skin. They didn’t need to hide anything.

They greeted Pablo and Carlos, who had also spent afternoons in my mother’s kitchen while the girls practiced competition hairstyles. They signaled to their companions, asked if they could sit with us, and the table reorganized itself. We ordered another round of drinks and memories came flooding out with the melting ice.

***

During the next hour the conversation jumped from old anecdotes to current stories and back again, with no order. Clara had that way of speaking that mixes seriousness with humor so smoothly you don’t notice the transition. Silvia was more direct, louder, with a laugh you could hear two tables away. The other women turned out to be coworkers: a team of promotional girls who accompanied companies in auto-racing competitions, who’d passed through the city on the way to an event in the south and took the opportunity to meet up with acquaintances from another time.

By two in the morning we were a solid group of twelve laughing without needing anything especially funny to happen. Someone dimmed the lights and the dance floor opened up. Almost all of us stood up.

While dancing, Clara brought me up to date in a few sentences. She was still in the promoter world, now handling part of the team’s logistics. She traveled a lot. I asked if it wore her out.

—On the contrary —she said—. It’s what keeps me alive.

When the slow songs replaced the rock, only four couples were left on the floor. Pablo with Silvia, Carlos with Patricia —a brunette in her fifties who had appeared on the second drink— Diego with Laura, the blonde who’d come over on her own around midnight. And me with Clara, dancing close, talking in each other’s ears as an excuse for the volume. I felt her hip against mine and her thigh resting exactly where she knew it would rest. On the fourth bar I noticed I was getting hard and made no attempt to hide it; she didn’t move away either. On the contrary, she pressed a little closer, like someone confirming a hypothesis.

—And at home? —I asked her at some point.

—At home it exists —she replied, without drama—. My husband is a manager at a big company. He travels a lot. Years ago we reached an agreement: each of us does our own thing, no reproaches, no questions. Separate bedrooms for a long time. We don’t have children.

—And that works?

—It works because we both want it to work. The marriage suits us in practical terms. And the rest... —she shrugged with a smile— ...the rest I sort out when I travel.

I looked around. Pablo and Silvia were dancing pressed together with no pretense at all; Pablo’s hand was openly on Silvia’s ass and she wasn’t moving it away. Carlos had his face buried in Patricia’s neck and his tongue was doing things visible from where I stood. Diego had disappeared with Laura a while ago.

—Your friends are fast —said Clara.

—Yours don’t waste time either.

—Silvia’s been divorced for three years and for three years she’s been fucking everything that crosses her path. Patricia never got married and she loves guys like Carlos, married. And Laura cheats on her husband every time she travels; it’s her way of breathing. —She paused briefly—. Each one has her reasons.

—And yours?

—Tonight I want to be fucked properly. That’s reason enough.

It wasn’t a theatrical declaration of intent. She said it looking me in the eye, without lowering her voice, with the same naturalness with which you ask for the check. It had been a very long time since anyone had spoken to me like that. She leaned in to my ear and added, lower, almost blowing: —And it’s been even longer since I sucked off a guy worth it. Let’s see if you’re worth it.

I felt all the blood drop straight south. I put my hand on the back of her neck and kissed her right there on the dance floor, tongue and all, not caring who saw. She bit my lower lip when she let go.

***

Carlos suggested we continue at his apartment. The vote was quick. Two of the women in the group preferred to stay at the bar. The rest of us went in cars, stopped at an open corner store, and arrived with beers, the sound of two-thirty in the morning, and nothing to prove.

Carlos turned on dim lights and covered the lamps with colored cloths that gave the living room a tone somewhere between red and blue. The women went to the bathroom in shifts. The men put on music and split the beers without saying much. There was a tacit agreement in the air that needed no explanation.

When they came back, the night picked up another speed. The first to disappear into a bedroom were Carlos and Patricia; a laugh was heard and then the thud of the door. Minutes later, Pablo and Silvia did the same, and from the hall came Silvia’s clear “not yet, don’t put it in yet,” laughing. Diego never had come back from the bar.

Clara and I were left alone in the living room.

We sat on the sofa. We opened two beers we didn’t finish. We started slowly: a short kiss, then a longer one, hands finding their place without rushing. There was something honest in that clumsiness at the start that can’t be faked. But Clara wasn’t patient out of shyness, she was patient by choice: she slid her hand over my pants and squeezed my cock through the fabric, measuring me, and the smile that escaped her was pure approval.

—Turn that off —she said, nodding toward the nearest lamp.

I turned it off. When I turned back, Clara was already peeling off her blouse with calm movements, with no calculated gesture. She was simply a woman who knew what she wanted and didn’t need to put on a show to get it.

Her body was tanned, marked by a small bikini, the skin golden and even. The bra was made of pale lace. When she opened it to one side I saw her tits were surgically enhanced, a good size, firm in a way nature alone doesn’t make. I didn’t ask anything. I took them in my hands, weighed them, squeezed them until the dark nipples stood up on their own between my fingers. I started at her neck, sucked hard, slowly moved down her collarbone, tore the bra off completely, and ran my tongue over the nipples one by one, rolling them, tugging them with my teeth just hard enough. The nipples responded immediately: hard, dark, like rubber tips inside my mouth.

Clara had her hands in my hair, not pressing, just guiding.

—Slowly —she murmured—. I have time. Suck them properly, go on.

We stayed like that a good while. I took one full breast into my mouth and then the other, bit the edge of the areola, licked in circles until I heard her exhale in that way that can no longer be controlled. She wasn’t in a hurry and that changed the whole rhythm of the scene. It wasn’t urgency, it was deliberate enjoyment, something closer to tasting than hunger. I ran a hand down her belly, slid my fingers over her jeans pressing where she had her cunt, and felt her open her legs a little to let me in better. I unbuttoned her jeans, slipped my hand inside, inside her panties, and found everything wet, slippery, a sticky heat that clung to my fingers with two movements. I rubbed her clit with my middle finger in slow circles and she let herself go against my hand.

—Like that —she said—. Put it in. Just one finger, slowly.

I slid in my middle finger and she was so wet it went in all the way at once. I pulled it out, ran the wetness over her clit, put it back in, this time with two fingers, curving them forward to find that spot higher up that swells when a woman is close. Clara arched her back. Her mouth opened silently.

—Wait, wait —she said—. That’ll make me come right away and I don’t want to come yet.

I took my fingers out. I brought them to my mouth without drama and sucked them while looking at her. She looked at me and a short, rough laugh escaped her.

—You’re an asshole —she said, in the best possible sense.

Then she moved. She stood up for a moment, took off her jeans and underwear without ceremony, and dropped them on the floor. She remained naked from the waist down —her sandals had already flown off earlier— and watched me while I finished taking off my pants. Her pubic hair was neat, trimmed short, not fully shaved, and the lips of her cunt were swollen, shiny, parted by the state I’d already gotten her into. I took off my briefs and saw her drop her gaze to my cock, with no attempt to hide the inspection. She gave the slightest nod, like someone approving a dish before tasting it.

—Sit down —she said—. Let me taste you first.

I sat on the sofa. She knelt between my legs on the rug, put both hands on my thighs, and took my cock with one hand, not closing all the way, almost stroking it. She ran her tongue underneath, from base to tip, in one long, slow lick, looking at me. Then she took the head into her mouth and closed her lips there, sucking only a little, circling her tongue around the glans. A growl slipped out of me. Clara smiled around my cock and went lower.

She took it all the way down, to the very end, until I felt it hit the back of her throat and she didn’t move away. She stayed there a second, swallowing, with her nose against my pubis, and then came back up with a slow suction that made me grip the edge of the sofa. She went down again. Back up again. She established a deep rhythm, all mouth, all tongue, not using her hand until she wanted to. When she added her hand it was to grab my base and squeeze while the tip stayed on her palate, rolling it. With her other hand she caressed my balls, taking them in her whole palm, squeezing just enough.

—Look at me —I told her, my voice rougher than I would have liked.

She lifted her eyes without taking me out of her mouth. That image —Clara kneeling, my sixties, her sixties and change, her mouth open full of cock and her gaze steady— almost made me finish too soon. I put my hand on the back of her neck, held her there a second, and she let out a purr I felt vibrating through my whole cock.

I pulled out suddenly.

—Enough —I said—. You’re going to make me come in your mouth and I still don’t want to.

She wiped the thread of saliva with the back of her hand and licked her lips, unhurried.

—Next time you come in my mouth —she said—. Now come here.

She returned to the sofa and straddled me, settling in with calculated slowness. She took me with one hand, ran the tip along the lips of her cunt from top to bottom, soaking me, and guided me inside her, slowly, letting her body set the pace. I felt her opening around me, tight and hot, a wet ring swallowing me centimeter by centimeter. When I reached the bottom she exhaled through her nose and closed her eyes for a second. She stayed still there, squeezing me inside with the muscles of her cunt, milking me without moving.

—What a good cock you’ve got —she said, almost to herself—. How perfectly you fit.

Then she started riding, first slowly, with long movements, coming almost all the way out and then dropping back down to the bottom. I took her tits in both hands, squeezed them, brought them to my mouth one by one. She sped up. Her hips started slapping against my thighs with a wet, flat sound, faster and faster, as if her body were making decisions on its own. I grabbed her ass with both hands and helped her move, pushing her down harder and harder, deeper. She bent over me, shoved her tongue into my mouth, and kept rocking like that, impaled, her tongue between my teeth.

—I’m going to come —she said against my ear—. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.

She reached an intense orgasm that she rode out with clenched teeth, with a muffled sound that came from just as deep, with her cunt closing around my cock in waves, squeezing me so hard I had to grip her hips to keep from coming too. She kept moving slowly, trembling, until it started to subside. And then, without pausing, she lifted just enough and sank back down, slower this time, looking for something else.

—Now you —she said—. Come inside me. I want to feel it.

I grabbed her waist and turned her. I put her face down over the arm of the sofa, her ass lifted and her knees on the cushion. I spread her cheeks with both hands and saw her cunt open, swollen, dripping her own wetness and some of mine already mixed in. I lined up behind her and drove my cock into her in one thrust, all the way in. Clara moaned against the sofa, a long, guttural moan. I grabbed her hair with one hand and her hip with the other, and started fucking her hard, without restraint, listening to the slap of my pubis against her ass, watching my cock come in and out of her, shining.

—Like that —she panted—. Fuck me like that. Harder. Break me.

I fucked her harder. I yanked her hair. I gave her a soft slap on the ass and she shuddered and clenched, and that finished deciding me. I felt the cum rise from very deep down, pressed myself against her all the way in, and came inside her with three short, deep thrusts, growling against her back. Clara pushed back against each one, milking me, until I felt the last drop empty into her. I stayed a moment like that, locked in, feeling her cunt keep throbbing around the cock that was already starting to soften.

I pulled out slowly. A warm thread came out with the tip and ran down her thigh. She wiped it with two fingers and brought them to her mouth without thinking, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

We collapsed onto the sofa. There was silence for a moment.

—We’re not young anymore —she said.

—No.

—But it’s not bad either, right?

—It’s pretty damn good.

—Rest —she said, patting my chest—. I want you again later.

***

It took us almost an hour to recover. From one room came sounds indicating that Carlos and Patricia were still far from finishing: a headboard hitting the wall with metronome regularity. From the other, Pablo and Silvia’s rhythm had a different cadence, more insistent, and underneath it Silvia’s “yes, yes, yes,” repeated like a litany.

We got up and took a shower in the hallway bathroom. The hot water and the relative silence of three-thirty in the morning had something of a parenthesis about them. Under the spray I soaped her tits, played with them in my hands, ran the sponge carefully over her cunt, and she washed my cock with both hands, fingers closed, moving up and down without urgency, more a gesture of affection than anything else. The flesh was too exhausted to get back up fully, and we both thought that was fine. When we got out, we went back to the sofa and covered ourselves with a sheet Clara found folded on a shelf. We settled on our sides, her back against my chest. I left my hand open over her breast and she put hers over mine.

I fell asleep without realizing it.

***

I woke with the gray light of dawn filtering through the blinds. Clara was still there, breathing slow and even. I had an erection that settled itself between her legs as I moved; my warm ass against her pubis and my cock wedged between her thighs, sliding in the moisture the night had left there. I slipped my hand around the front, found her cunt open, still soft and wet, and rubbed her clit with two fingers until she sighed in her sleep. She didn’t wake fully, but she parted her thighs a little and arched her hips back, searching for me. I lined my cock up at the entrance and went in carefully, very gently, without making a sound, pushing slowly to the hilt, feeling her swallow me whole from the side.

—Mmm —she said without opening her eyes.

She kept sleeping, or pretended to, which at that hour was the same thing. I moved only a little, in and out with a minimal rhythm, more pressed than thrust, leaving all the work to the slow friction. I took one breast from behind and pinched the nipple between two fingers, twisting it, and felt her cunt squeeze around me now and then by reflex. After a while she slid a hand between her legs and started touching herself, unhurried, clit with her fingers while I had her from behind. I heard her breathing harder, still with her eyes closed, and felt her hand brushing my balls now and then underneath, when it passed between us. She came like that, almost soundlessly, to an orgasm calmer than the night before but just as complete, a long shudder running all the way down her back against my chest. I didn’t finish. I held it in her until it passed and then stayed still, wedged in, feeling her.

—Good morning —she said then.

—Good morning.

—Let’s shower before the others wake up. I have something pending.

She took me by the hand and we went to the bathroom. While the water ran, she locked the door from the inside and rested one leg on the sink edge.

—I want you to eat me —she said directly—. Make me come like that. Last night I sucked you properly; now it’s your turn.

I knelt as best I could in the cramped space, spread her cunt lips with my thumbs, and started slowly, from bottom to top, going over every step without skipping anything. I ran my tongue flat across her whole vulva, from the entrance to the clit, and came back down. She tasted warm, with that clean shower smell mixed with hers, a slightly salty taste, a little mine too still. I slipped my tongue into the entrance, moved it inside, pulled it out and went up to the clit, sealed it between my lips and sucked slowly, without teeth, letting it slip free and trapping it again.

—There —she panted—. There, stay there.

Clara grabbed my hair with both hands and set the pace she wanted, no detours, no asking if it was okay. She pressed my face to her cunt, squeezed me against her until I could barely breathe, and I kept licking, sucking, circling my tongue around the swollen clit. She knew exactly what she needed and asked for it with the same naturalness with which she had asked for everything else.

When I noticed she was close, I slid two fingers in and curved them forward, looking for that spot higher up while I kept sucking her clit. She came quickly from there, with a jolt, a moan she clenched against her throat so as not to wake anyone, a tremor in her thighs that lasted longer than the moan itself. Her legs gave out for a second. I clung to her hips so she wouldn’t lose her balance. I felt a warm little stream spill onto my chin and I didn’t move away; I swallowed it, and she noticed and tugged my hair upward, laughing without sound.

—Come here —she said, and pulled me up for a kiss, wet, dirty, tasting herself in my mouth.

Someone knocked on the bathroom door.

—It’s ten o’clock, Clar. We’ve got transport at twelve.

It was Silvia, from the hall.

We looked at each other. We both burst out laughing at the same time.

***

We went back to the living room. Pablo was in the kitchen with a towel, making coffee. Carlos and Patricia appeared ten minutes later, still looking sleepy and wearing the same satisfied silence. Silvia went into the bathroom with her bag. The coffee round went around heavy with meaning: few words, lots of looks that said everything necessary.

Pablo proposed that Carlos and I join the girls’ trip south. They were coming back Monday.

—I’ve got things at home —I answered before they could ask me.

—Your loss —said Pablo.

—Probably.

Clara looked at me with a brief smile. She said nothing, which was exactly right.

An hour later we accompanied them to the meeting point where the team vehicle was waiting. The group climbed in with their suitcases. Clara was the last to get on. She gave me a short hug, a kiss on the cheek, and got in without looking back.

As I walked home, I got a message.

It was her: «It was a lovely night. If events bring us back here, you know where to find me.»

I put the phone in my pocket. The city was still gray, damp from the midnight storm. I walked slowly, without hurry. There were nights that ended up worth much more than one expected when leaving the house.