The Mature Woman in the Last Car Chose Me

That morning I got on the metro with no plan beyond letting time drift by and watching people. I chose the dead hour, midmorning, when almost everyone is already shut away in an office and the cars run half empty. I walked unhurriedly from one carriage to the next until I reached the last one in the train.

Inside there were only three people. A woman loaded down with shopping bags, sitting at the back. An older man with his cane, standing near the first door. And in the middle, her.

She was no girl. She was a woman in her forties, one of those who wear age the way someone wears an expensive jewel: not hiding it, flaunting it. She had her legs crossed, a dark mane with a few coppery highlights, and a calm about her that filled the whole carriage. She was smiling to herself, as if she knew something the rest of us didn’t.

I sat down opposite her, half stunned by that imposing presence. She lifted her eyes from the book, looked at me, and smiled. She wore a fine cotton cable-knit sweater, a straight black skirt that ended well above her knees, and sheer stockings that traced the shape of her thigh. She held the novel in both hands, not reading it.

Then, slowly, she parted her knees for an instant and closed them again. Just enough for me to understand she wasn’t wearing anything under the skirt. Her laughter rose as she fanned the book at herself.

This can’t be happening to me.

I ran my tongue over my lips without realizing it. She stuck hers out at me, teasingly, and opened her legs again very slowly, staring straight at me, biting her lower lip. Then she slapped the seat beside her, telling me to move over.

At that stop, the woman with the bags got off. I stood up and sat down next to her.

—You liked what you saw —she said, not quite making it a question.

—I loved it. I wasn’t expecting to run into something like this on a Tuesday morning.

—At my age you don’t expect things anymore, darling. You make them happen —she replied, smoothing her hair back—. And what would you like to do, if you could?

—Lots of things. I’d start by looking at you without having to pretend.

She laughed hard, a deep, confident laugh. She looked at me with bright eyes, as if the conversation turned her on just as much as everything else.

—Would you dare touch me? Here, now? —she asked, lowering her voice.

—I’d dare anything you let me.

She opened her legs in a wide, brazen gesture, never taking her eyes off the man with the cane, who at the far end was no longer even pretending to read the newspaper.

—Then what are you waiting for?

***

That calm, unhurried command was what pushed me over. I slid my hand into the inside of her thigh and moved upward slowly. She was hot, wet, ready long before I ever showed up. I traced that center of hers from top to bottom, gathering the wetness with my fingertips.

—Look at you, doing that so well —she murmured—. You need to have lived a little to do it that slowly.

My fingers kept following the groove unhurriedly, up and down, while she tipped her head back against the seat. I pulled my fingers out, brought them to my mouth, and sucked them in front of her. Her taste lit me up like a shot of liquor. I soaked them in spit again and went back, this time straight to her clit, firm and receptive. I barely touched it and she was already trembling.

—Don’t stop —she said through her teeth—. I’ve spent years fucking men who were in a hurry. You don’t be in any.

I obeyed. I kept the caress slow and steady, that patient rhythm she herself had taught me to look for in just a few minutes. The carriage swayed, the tunnel lights came and went past the windows, and neither of us looked away from the other. There was something hypnotic in the way she let herself go without ever losing control of the situation.

Her mouth found mine. I kissed her deeply just as the first orgasm ran through her body, quiet, contained, the kind of woman who can come without making a scene. She closed her thighs, trapping my hand between them, and stayed like that, breathing hard, her eyes glassy.

The man with the cane had moved a couple of seats closer. She looked at him without the slightest shame, one eyebrow raised.

—And you, grandpa, are you going to stand there watching all morning? —she teased him.

The man, around seventy and still looking good for it, sat down on her other side, leaving her in the middle. He stroked her face with a hand that trembled a little, and she held his wrist with affection.

—Relax —she told him—. I don’t bite unless I’m asked to.

***

I took my hand away and let him take over. He knew what he was doing; you could tell he had a lifetime of hands behind him. He moved over her lips slowly, paused for a second on the clit, and went back down, never rushing. She started moaning louder, I don’t know whether because of his fingers or because of mine squeezing her nipples through the sweater.

—Feels so good —the man murmured—. It’s been years since I touched a woman like this.

She sat up, kissed him on the mouth with a tenderness I hadn’t expected, and with her other hand she reached for me. We were both focused on her, and she handled herself with the calm of someone directing the whole scene. She came again, clutching my neck, trembling against the old man’s fingers.

—Enough for today, gentlemen —she said afterward, adjusting her skirt with a smile—. The free show is over.

The man got off one stop before us, grinning from ear to ear, leaning on his cane as if he were floating. She blew him a kiss from the seat.

—Have you got somewhere to go? —she asked, turning to me—. Because I’m only just getting started.

—There’s a hotel three stops away. Discreet.

—Perfect. I detest rushing.

***

We got off the metro and walked to the hotel with hardly a word, our fingers brushing. We went up to the room and, by the time I closed the door, she had already taken off her sweater and was unbuttoning her skirt with astonishing ease. She had the body of a mature woman who takes care of herself: firm, full breasts, a soft belly, wide hips. Nothing like the nervous stiffness of younger girls. Every inch of her knew exactly what it wanted.

—Come here —she ordered, lying down on the bed—. And take your time. You’ve shown me all morning that you know how.

I knelt between her legs without quite taking off my clothes and started licking her slowly. I parted her lips with my fingers and settled in on her clit. Her moans were deep, open, with not a trace of modesty. She lifted her hips to offer herself, grabbed my hair, and set the pace herself.

—Like that, just like that —she panted—. God, I needed this so badly.

Taking advantage of how soaked she was, I brought one finger to the entrance of her ass and stroked it very gently while I kept working with my tongue. She opened up little by little, without tension, letting the first knuckle go in slowly. She shuddered, cried out, and came trembling against my mouth, clenching around me with her thighs.

I straightened up for a moment to look at her. Her skin was flushed, her chest rising and falling, and she had that satisfied-woman smile she didn’t bother hiding. There wasn’t a single pose in her, not a single gesture for show. It was all real, and that made it a thousand times hotter than any fake performance.

—Stop, stop —she said, laughing and breathless—. Now it’s your turn. I’ve been in charge too long.

***

I put her on all fours on the bed and entered her drenched cunt in one thrust. She threw her head back and pushed her hips against me, wanting more.

—That’s it —she moaned—. Don’t you dare go easy on me. I’m not made of glass.

I moved hard, gripping her waist, and she answered every thrust with one of her own. She had that confidence of women who’ve fucked a lot and well, who aren’t performing, just enjoying themselves. It drove me crazy to see her so completely in charge of herself.

—I want more —she said, looking back over her shoulder at me—. Up for the other?

I spat on her and aimed slowly at that other, tighter place. I pushed with patience, letting her body take me in centimeter by centimeter. She regulated her breathing, relaxing, until I felt her give way completely.

—That’s it —she whispered—. Slow, because I know what I’m doing.

I sank all the way in and stayed still for a moment, feeling her tight around me. Then I started a slow, deep back-and-forth that drew a moan from both of us at the same time. She gripped the headboard, rocking against me, setting the beat once again.

—Don’t speed up yet —she begged—. Let it last.

***

I held out as long as I could, stretching every movement until the pleasure became unbearable. I grabbed her breasts, pulled her against my body, and thrust with everything I had. She came one last time, letting out a long moan that ended in a laugh of pure satisfaction, while I emptied myself inside her.

We collapsed onto the rumpled bed, sweaty and weak, laughing like two old accomplices. Only then did it hit me that we still didn’t know each other’s names.

—Marisa —she said, guessing my thought, resting against my chest.

—Hugo —I replied—. Do you always pick men like this, on the metro in the middle of the morning?

—Only when I feel like it and the carriage is almost empty —she answered, stretching like a cat—. At my age, you stop wasting time on shame. If I see something I like, I go for it.

I glanced at the bedside clock. It was barely noon. I had a whole afternoon ahead of me with that woman who had chosen me amid the dull hum of the metro, without asking anyone’s permission. And from the way she slid her hand over my belly again, I knew that the dead hour of that morning was going to stretch well into the night.