The Mature Realtor I Couldn’t Forget

I had never thought of Clara that way. She was my mother’s friend of twenty years, the woman who showed up at every family dinner with a bottle of red wine and that heavy perfume that filled any room. She was fifty-two, wore a wedding ring on her left hand, and ran the busiest real-estate agency in the neighborhood. She wasn’t the kind of woman you pictured in that context. But some looks leave no room for interpretation.

The first time I saw her differently was on a Saturday in October. My parents had invited her over to talk about an apartment they wanted to rent out. I was in the living room, my law notes spread across the table, pretending to be focused on my texts when in reality I had been staring out the window for half an hour.

The doorbell rang.

—I’ll get it —I said, standing up before my mother could react.

I opened the door and Clara was there, in tight black pants that gleamed as if they were leather, low pointed heels, and a cream blouse that hinted at the dark lace of her bra. She had cut her hair since the last time I had seen her, and her fringe fell over one eye with that studied indifference of women who know exactly how they look.

—Hi, Marcos —she said, and gave me two kisses. Her lips brushed my cheek closer to the corner of my mouth than was strictly necessary—. My God, every time I see you you look more grown-up.

—Clara… —I replied, because nothing smarter came to mind.

She laughed. She had a low, slightly hoarse laugh, the kind that doesn’t ask permission.

—What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?

—No, it’s just… you look really good —I said, and as soon as I said it I wanted to bite my tongue off.

She tilted her head and smiled in a way that wasn’t exactly the smile she gave my mother.

—Thanks, sweetheart. You don’t look too bad yourself.

She walked inside, swaying that body the shiny pants did nothing to hide. I stood there for a second in the doorway, watching her head toward the living room, my eyes fixed on how the fabric clung to her round ass, on how each step made her buttocks move independently beneath the taut cloth. My father was watching football. My mother was in the kitchen.

Perfect.

For the next two hours we played that game where both people pretend nothing is happening. Every chance I got, I moved closer with some excuse: bringing her coffee, asking if she wanted water, pointing out some document she hadn’t asked me to find. She took it all in with that calm smile of someone who already had the advantage and didn’t need to prove it.

At one point, while my mother was in the bathroom, Clara leaned back on the sofa and crossed her legs. The pants tightened over her thighs.

—A lot of work with your degree? —she asked softly, resting her hand on my knee with the ease of someone who’d been doing that for years.

—Pretty much —I said, feeling the heat of her palm through the fabric of my trousers.

—I know. University is exhausting. —She paused. Her hand didn’t move—. If you ever need to switch off, let me know. I’ve got empty apartments, quiet ones. Sometimes that’s what you need.

She took her hand away just as we heard my mother’s footsteps in the hallway. But the message had already been delivered, and my cock was already hard against the seam of my pants, throbbing in a way that would be hard to hide for the rest of the afternoon.

***

Two weeks later, my mother asked me to take some folders with the apartment documents to Clara’s office. She had a medical appointment and couldn’t go herself.

—Can you do me that favor? —she asked.

—No problem —I replied, feeling something that wasn’t exactly altruism.

The real-estate office was on the ground floor of an office building, ten minutes away by car. I got there at six in the evening. The secretary had already left. Clara was alone, sitting behind her desk with reading glasses she took off the moment she saw me come in.

—Close the door, please —she said.

I closed it. I heard the click of the latch.

I walked over and set the folders on top of the desk. When I looked up, Clara was already standing, less than a meter away. She was wearing burgundy pants, made of the same shiny, taut fabric as the ones on Saturday. A gray silk blouse. The same perfume that filled the air and made it hard to think clearly.

—Thanks for coming —she said, and the kiss she gave me on the cheek this time brushed the corner of my lips without any ambiguity whatsoever.

—That’s what I’m here for —I answered, in the most controlled voice I could manage.

Clara walked slowly to the door and locked it. Then she turned back to me and leaned against the frame, arms crossed, wearing that expression women have when they made the decision long ago and are just waiting for the other person to catch up.

—Ever since I saw you last Saturday I haven’t stopped thinking about this —she said, bluntly—. And I think it’s a waste of time to keep pretending it isn’t happening.

She came closer. I didn’t move. When she was close enough, she put her hands on my chest and looked me up and down with that calmness that isn’t indifference but control.

—Are you scared? —she asked.

—No —I said, and it was true.

I grabbed her by the waist and kissed her. It wasn’t a tentative kiss. It was direct, complete, with her tongue finding mine immediately. She had a warm, expert mouth that knew exactly how much pressure to use and when to ease off. My hands moved over her back until they reached those shiny pants. The fabric was smooth and firm, and through it I could feel the shape of her ass. I squeezed her cheeks with both hands, without asking permission, and she let out a short moan against my mouth and shoved her hips against mine. She immediately felt my hard cock against her stomach and smiled without breaking the kiss.

—You’ve been thinking about this for days, haven’t you? —she whispered against my lips.

—More than I’d like to admit —I answered.

—And what exactly were you thinking? —she asked, sliding her hand down and pressing it over the fabric of my pants—. That you’d fuck me on the desk? That I’d suck your cock on my knees?

—Both —I said, not looking away.

She smiled, pleased, and slowly pulled down the zipper of my pants, searching with her hand until she got me out and held me. She looked into my eyes while she stroked me slowly, gripping the base and sliding her palm to the tip with the technique only women who know their way around one possess.

—So nice —she said quietly, without stopping moving her hand—. I like you better like this.

I turned her gently and led her to the desk. She let herself be guided without resistance, with that certainty of someone who knows she is in control even when she lets someone else set the pace. She braced herself on the edge of the desk and watched me as I unbuttoned her blouse, button by button. Underneath she was wearing a black lace bra that held two big, round breasts, the skin white and soft. I unfastened it from behind and the breasts fell heavy, the nipples already hard and dark. I lowered my mouth and sucked one, nibbling at it while I squeezed the other with my hand, and she threw her head back and took a deep breath.

—You’ve spent years hiding under that serious-looking clothes —I told her, my mouth still on her nipple.

—Someone had to save it for the right occasion.

I pulled her bra straps down and the skin of her shoulders was exposed. I traced her neck with my lips, slowly, feeling her breathing go uneven even as she tried to keep her composure. Her hands found the belt on my trousers.

—You too —she said.

I unbuttoned my shirt while she pulled down the zipper of her pants and stepped out of them with that practical grace women have when they are used to undressing without ceremony. She was left in tiny black lace panties, sitting on the edge of the desk, her legs still closed, looking at me with a half smile that was almost a question. I finished pulling down my pants and underwear in one motion and stood naked in front of her, my cock pointing straight at her face.

Clara looked at it for a second and slowly licked her lips.

—Come here —she said.

I moved closer and she grabbed it with one hand, never taking her eyes off mine, and took it all the way into her mouth. She didn’t tease. She didn’t give timid licks. She opened her lips and swallowed me to the base, and I felt her hit the back of her throat before she pulled off to breathe. She wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb and took me back in, slower this time, sucking with hollow cheeks and her tongue pressed against the underside of my cock. Saliva ran down her chin and spilled between her breasts. One of my hands was tangled in her hair and with the other I held her jaw, watching this fifty-two-year-old woman, my mother’s friend, suck me like she had been needing it for weeks.

—Fuck, Clara —I murmured.

She pulled my cock out of her mouth and used it to tap her lips and nipples, never breaking eye contact.

—I really wanted this —she said—. To feel you in my mouth. To see the face you’d make.

She sucked me for a few more minutes, now using her hand too, twisting her wrist at the base while the tip disappeared between her painted lips. When I felt I was dangerously close to coming, I gently took hold of her hair and pulled her up.

This time I got down on my knees.

I spread her legs with my hands and moved her black panties aside. Her cunt was almost completely shaved, the lips swollen and glossy, soaked with a wetness already spreading down the insides of her thighs. I smelled her for a second and ran my tongue from bottom to clit in one slow lick. I felt her tremble.

—God —she muttered, and it was the first time I heard her lose that calm tone.

I tore off her panties and buried my face between her legs. I sucked her clit with closed lips, tugging on it gently, while I slid two fingers inside and curved them, looking for that spot that made her let the air out all at once. I heard her moan, this time unable to control it, her voice broken and deep. Her thighs squeezed my head. She put one hand in my hair without pressing, just resting there, as if she needed something to hold on to, and then closed it into a fist and yanked my hair when I drove my tongue inside her and started fucking her with it.

—Don’t stop, don’t stop —she said through her teeth, moving her hips against my face.

I kept going until I felt her getting close. I could feel her pulsing against my tongue, her cunt flooding my palm. Then I stopped and stood up.

—Why are you stopping? —she asked, her voice slightly strained, almost angry.

—Because I want you to come with my cock inside you —I said.

I turned her around, made her lean with her elbows and chest against the desk, and spread her legs with a soft kick to her ankles. I positioned myself behind her and dragged the tip along her soaked slit, up and down, without putting it in yet. She pushed her hips back, looking for it.

—Put it in —she said, without shouting, firmly—. Put it in now.

I pushed in slowly, all the way, and heard her exhale sharply. She was so wet I went to the hilt in one thrust and felt her cunt closing around my cock in rings, squeezing me in a way that almost made me come right then and there. I stayed still for a moment, letting her get used to the weight and the depth, my hands digging into her hips.

—Move —she told me—. Fuck me.

I started moving. At first slowly, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in to the hilt, listening to the splash of wetness and the dull slap of my pelvis against her ass. The muffled sound of the office enclosed us. Clara had both elbows on the desk and her head slightly bent forward, her hair falling over her face and her breasts swaying with every thrust. Each time I fucked into her, she took the blow with that body that was still solid and warm and perfectly able to handle everything I gave it.

—Harder —she said—. Don’t be afraid to break me.

I did. I grabbed her hair with one hand and pulled her back a little so I could see her face in the reflection of the framed mirror on the opposite wall. I fucked her hard, the sound of my body crashing against hers filling the office, and she began to moan without any restraint, mouth open and eyes closed.

—That’s it —she answered, in a tone that was almost professionally satisfied, as if confirming that something was going according to plan—. Like that, don’t stop, fuck me like that, sweetheart.

I increased the pace. My hands found her waist and held her while she clung to the edge of the desk. At some point her papers fell to the floor and neither of us mentioned it. The framed mirror on the opposite wall gave us back the image: her bent over the desk with her tits bouncing against the wood, me behind her with my hands on her waist, both of us completely focused on the same thing. I slapped her ass hard and left the red imprint of my hand. She moaned louder.

—Again —she asked.

I slapped her again. And again. I could feel her tightening around me every time my palm struck her cheek.

I felt her breathing change, her moans turning into short, sharp gasps. Her hips started moving to meet me, pushing back against me so I could go deeper.

—Don’t stop —she said—. I’m coming, don’t stop.

I didn’t stop. I fucked her with everything I had, no rhythm left, driving for the bottom with every thrust, feeling her cunt contract in stronger and stronger waves around my cock.

When she came, she did it almost silently, clenching her teeth and closing her eyes, a tension running through her whole body that took several seconds to unwind. Only a guttural groan escaped her, long and low, while her cunt pulsed in spasms around my cock and I kept moving slowly to prolong it. It was more intimate than anything I had expected. When she finally exhaled, she rested her forehead on the desk for a moment, her hair stuck to her temple with sweat.

Then she straightened, turned, and looked at me. Her breasts were red from rubbing against the wood and her mascara was a little smudged under her eyes.

—Your turn —she said.

She sat me in her desk chair and knelt in front of me, between my spread legs. She grabbed my cock, still shiny with her own wetness, and took it into her mouth without the slightest hint of disgust. On the contrary: she moaned at the taste. What she did next was methodical and absolutely deliberate, with that same focus she brought to everything. She sucked with her whole mouth, hollowing her cheeks, and used her hand to match the movement at the base. Every so often she pulled back to run her tongue over my balls, sucking them one by one with closed lips while looking up at me with narrowed eyes. Then she took me back to the hilt, and I felt her throat closing around the tip.

—I’m going to come —I warned her, gripping her hair.

She didn’t ease off. She sped up. When I came, with an involuntary thrust of my hips upward, she didn’t pull away. She swallowed me whole, my cock all the way down her throat, and didn’t let go until I stopped shaking. Then she pulled back slowly, ran her thumb along the corner of her mouth, and showed me it empty.

—Perfect —she said, like someone signing a contract.

***

From that afternoon on, we met many times. Always on her terms, always in places she chose: empty apartments she had on her books, where she fucked me against freshly painted walls or on my knees on the bare floor; her car parked in the industrial estate north of the city, where one night she straddled me in the passenger seat and rode me in silence until the windows fogged up; once in the bathroom at my parents’ house during a family dinner, with her braced against the sink and her panties hanging from one ankle, biting my shoulder so she wouldn’t scream while I took her from behind in exactly three minutes, and the two of us kept up the conversation for two hours as if nothing had happened twenty minutes earlier.

Clara never lost control completely. That was part of what made everything so addictive. While I was finishing pulling my clothes back on, she already had her phone in hand checking emails, her hair perfectly in place and that neutral expression of a real-estate director who knows the next client is arriving in ten minutes, my cum still inside her and a handkerchief folded neatly in her bag.

But she sent me photos. At eleven at night, when her husband was already asleep. Photos with those shiny pants pulled up to her navel, or her nipples peeking over the top of the black bra I already knew by heart, or her fingers between her legs with the wetness gleaming on her fingertip. Short, direct messages that came without warning and said everything in four words: “Come now. I’m wet.”

I read them and thought about the woman my mother had introduced to me as “Clara, you know, the one from the real estate agency.”

And I still couldn’t forget her.

There’s something about a woman who knows exactly what she wants and doesn’t apologize for it. Clara was fifty-two, had a husband who didn’t pay her any attention, a full schedule, and infinite patience to wait for the exact right moment. She didn’t need me to tell her she was incredible. She knew it. She only needed me to be there when she decided, with a hard cock and a willing mouth.

And I, every time I saw that number on my phone screen, answered yes without thinking twice.

Because there are trains you simply can’t let leave without getting on board.