Three on the Rooftop: a Retiree Who’s Still Hungry

Click. The lock startles me and the pen rolls across the half-finished crossword. Nine letters: “a person who sees everything in black.” Life’s irony, considering how little that fits me.

The key turns three times in the lock, always three, with that old-movie squeak. I hold my breath, even though I know perfectly well who’s on the other side.

—I’m home! —Laurent’s voice booms through the entryway—. It’s freezing in here!

I get up from the sofa and a groan slips out of me. My back protests. The air conditioner is purring at full blast because July in Málaga does not forgive, and I need the cool air to heal this damned spinning injury that has me sidelined from classes.

I miss sweating like a madwoman in aerobics, owning the choreography like a goddess. But giving up is not in my vocabulary. I plant myself in front of the living-room mirror and smile, satisfied with what I see: the sleeveless top hugging arms that cost me hundreds of hours of weights, the flat stomach that many women in their thirties would envy, the strong legs that are my pride.

Not bad for sixty-two, I tell myself, running a hand through my mane, white with silver streaks. The wrinkles around my green eyes tell stories of laughter, not lament. Yes, Amparo, you’ve never looked better.

Laurent appears with his travel bag, the one I call “Cereza’s secret wardrobe.” He walks with a jerky sway that gives him away: his crotch is raw.

—How was the date, darling? —I ask, kissing him.

—Educational —he replies, dropping the bag—. Very educational.

I follow him to the laundry room, where he carefully takes out the white cherry-print dress and the red wig that transform my husband, retired philosophy professor, into the splendid Cereza.

—Did you get a fanboy? —I tease.

—Let’s say he didn’t know how to moderate his enthusiasm —he laughs, loading the washing machine with the meticulousness of someone preparing an experiment—. I think he’d taken something. He wouldn’t stop. He kept fucking me, came, and five minutes later he was hard again, pressed against my ass, asking for more.

—Oh, come on —I laugh—. At his age?

—At any age, Amparo. That man had artillery-grade cock. He put it in me every possible way: on all fours, on my back with my legs over his shoulders, riding him. And he wouldn’t shut up, the bastard. He kept whispering in my ear that I was his dress-wearing whore, that he loved my fake cunt squeezing his cock, that he was going to fill me up completely.

—Go shower —I suggest, giving his ass a slap that makes him jump—. I’ll finish up here.

***

I pour two glasses of ice-cold white wine and take them out to the terrace. We live in a penthouse and nobody can see us, so I’m wandering around in my panties with zero shame. The humidity frosts the glass in seconds. Málaga summer nights are perfect for talking, and I have a feeling tonight there will be a lot to talk about.

While Laurent showers, my mind drifts to the thing I’ve been turning over for days: Damián, our neighbor in 4C. Sixty years old and a presence that fills any space without opening his mouth. Every time we meet in the elevator, my heart flips as if I were sixteen again. Dark hair shot through with gray, a trimmed beard, those suits with the shirt open just enough... a sin on legs, as my mother would say.

And after five years of drought, since Laurent’s spark downstairs went out, even the greengrocer seems suggestive to me. But Damián is another story. My friend Remedios swears that at our age you no longer get hungry. Remedios, darling, what you don’t have is a neighbor like mine.

I remember yesterday’s elevator. I’d come from the gym, sweaty and with my hair a mess, and he looked at me like I was the most interesting woman in the building.

—Hard day? —he asked, with that smile that wrinkles his eyes in a way that should be illegal.

—My romance with sweat continues —I answered, letting the towel “accidentally” slide toward my cleavage.

—Some of us improve with age, like good wine —he said, following the movement of the fabric without bothering to hide it—. And you look like an excellent vintage.

When the elevator opened, his hand brushed the small of my back, a brief, electric gesture.

—I’m always open to invitations —he murmured before leaving.

The sound of the shower stopping brings me back to the present. Laurent appears with wet hair and his blue robe, moving with the delicacy of someone who’s had an intense day. He drops into the chair across from me and, between laughs, tells me the details of his date: the imposing stranger who got him on his knees as soon as the door closed and shoved his cock down his throat without asking, who didn’t rest between assaults, who whispered sailor filth in his ear while opening his ass with two saliva-slicked fingers before wrecking him with his hips.

—And the most surprising part —he concludes, cheeks flushed— is that, despite his brutality, I came twice. Without touching my cock, Amparo. Just with his cock pounding inside me. The first time he caught me face-down, with my face in the pillow, and soaked my lace panties. The second, riding him, he made me spray while he squeezed my fake tits and called me a slut.

—I don’t believe you! —I exclaim, genuinely impressed.

He sighs and sets down his glass.

—I think I’ve had enough of certain things for today —he says, his French accent thickening when he relaxes—. Now I feel like something more delicate. A subtler dish.

His gray eyes meet mine with an intensity I know far too well. My body responds before my mind does.

—Here? —I ask, though I know nobody can see us.

—Why not? —he answers, kneeling before me with the reverence of someone about to read a sacred text.

His long fingers remove my panties with deliberate slowness, tugging the elastic down until they slide over my thighs and dangle from one ankle. He spreads my legs, palms on the inner thighs, pushing them toward the chair arms, and takes a few seconds to look at my open cunt under the terrace’s yellow light.

—You’re soaked —he murmurs—. I haven’t even started and you’re already dripping down your ass.

—Shut up and use that mouth for something better.

He smiles and obeys. He kisses the inside of my thigh, climbs upward with the tip of his tongue tracing a wet line, and when his mouth finds the exact spot I lose track of every thought. He starts with the outer lips, sucking them one by one, nibbling just enough to draw a spasm out of me. Then he parts everything with two fingers and buries himself completely, his tongue flat as he licks from the entrance of my cunt to the clit in a long, hungry motion that has me gripping the armrests.

—Fuck, Laurent...

He alternates the most exquisite softness with the most precise pressure. He circles my clit slowly, crushes it with the tip of his tongue, lets go, blows lightly, and the contrast between the night breeze and the wet heat of his mouth becomes unbearable. He slips in two fingers and curls them, searching for that spot inside me that only he knows, while his tongue never stops above.

—Don’t stop... please —I gasp, fingers tangled in his hair, pressing his face against me without an ounce of shame.

If this man knows how to do anything, it’s use that educated tongue for the most indecent pleasures.

His hands hold my hips in exactly the right place. His fingers inside me pump in and out, soaked to the knuckles, making an obscene sound that mingles with my moans. He sucks my clit whole, catches it between his lips, and tugs gently, and that tiny gesture is the trigger. Pleasure explodes, tearing a howl from me that can probably be heard all over the building, my thighs closing around his head, feeling myself clench around his fingers once, twice, three times, my whole body tightening before melting like hot wax.

When I open my eyes, Laurent wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his chin shining with me, and looks at me with almost childish pride.

—All this gym is going to end up choking me —he jokes, massaging his neck—. Though I can’t think of a better way to die.

He comes back with the freshly poured glasses and sits across from me, now more serious.

—While I was with that man, I thought of something —he says—. How much I’d like to share Cereza. With you and someone else.

My breath catches.

—A threesome? —I ask directly.

—But not just any threesome —he nods, somewhere between shyness and hope—. One where I can be Cereza, where you’re there, watching me, participating.

I should be scandalized. Instead, a wave of excitement runs through me. I laugh and lean in to hug him.

—You know what’s funniest? I’ve been thinking about Damián for days.

—4C’s neighbor? —He pulls back to look at me, eyes wide.

—The same one. There’s something in the way he looks at me that tells me he’d be... open to experiences.

A slow smile crosses his face.

—And how do you propose we approach Mr. 4C? We can’t ring his bell and just blurt out: “Hi, want to sleep with us? By the way, I’ll be dressed as a woman.”

We burst out laughing at the image. Two retirees planning a mischief like twenty-somethings.

—Leave it to me —I say, with a confidence that surprises me—. I have an idea.

***

I have no idea, but I pretend I do. I spend the night awake, staring at the ceiling while the clock marches from 00:47 to 03:07, turning over how the hell I’m going to approach Damián without looking like a desperate old woman. Beside me, Laurent sleeps with the peacefulness of a saint after a day of miracles.

The next morning I show up at the nearly empty gym. I’ve spent weeks timing Damián’s routines like an amateur spy, so I settle onto the rowing machine, facing the entrance, right at the hour I know he’ll show up.

And he does. Black T-shirt, powerful thighs, that graying beard of a lone wolf.

—Up early even on Saturday —he greets me, coming closer.

—The body doesn’t forgive truces —I answer, increasing the pace so the exercise cuts my arms.

He sits on the machine beside mine, so close I catch his wood-and-spice cologne. We row in silence until he breaks it.

—There’s something about you and your husband that intrigues me —he says—. You seem so free. So in sync. Like you share a secret that keeps you young.

I let a bead of sweat slide down my neck to my cleavage.

—Maybe the secret is having no secrets —I answer, holding his eyes—. Or having them, but together. At our age, life is too short not to explore what makes us happy.

He stops rowing. The tension between us is thick as hot honey.

—And what, exactly, makes you happy? —he asks, his tone lower.

It’s now or never. I take a deep breath and leap.

—We’d like to invite you to dinner tonight. At nine. To find out together. Dessert included... a very special one.

His pupils widen. He runs his tongue over his lips.

—And does that dessert involve both hosts? —he asks with a boldness that leaves me breathless.

—Especially the hostess —I answer, thinking of Cereza—. He has talents that would surprise you.

He stands and offers me his hand to help me up, old-fashioned and charming.

—It would be discourteous to refuse such a succulent invitation —he murmurs in my ear—. I’ll bring wine.

I did it. My God, I actually did it.

***

The following hours pass in a frenzy. I cook a sirloin with red wine sauce while Laurent cleans, puts on music—Chet Baker whispering from the speakers—and disappears into the bathroom with his special toiletry bag at seven sharp.

I choose a black dress, sexy without being vulgar, and emphasize my green eyes with the eyeliner Remedios swears takes ten years off me. By eight-thirty I’m ready. Only Cereza is missing.

When I hear the click of heels in the hallway, I turn, and the sight takes my breath away. Cereza looks spectacular: the white cherry dress hugging his figure, the red wig in soft waves, the makeup so perfect it’s hard to recognize the philosophy professor beneath those pink lips.

—Do you think he’ll like me? —he asks, and for an instant I see the insecure man beneath the makeup.

—If he doesn’t like you, then he’s clinically dead —I answer.

We agree on a plan: he’ll start in street clothes, bare-faced and wearing his glasses, loose clothes over the dress. When the moment comes, he’ll excuse himself and return transformed into Cereza. He’s barely finished squeezing himself into a pair of wide trousers when the doorbell rings.

I open the door and there’s Damián, handsomer than I remember, in a tailored navy suit, a bottle of wine and a bouquet of white lilies.

—You look stunning —he says, and his deep voice runs down my spine.

I lead him to the living room and introduce him to Laurent, who greets him with a certain stiffness because of the extra clothes. There’s a strange spark between them, a familiarity that unsettles me. We pour wine, conversation flows with surprising ease, and after the second glass Laurent excuses himself to “check something in the kitchen.”

Once we’re alone, Damián’s knee brushes mine.

—Amparo —he says, lowering his voice—, before the night goes any further, I have to confess something. I already know Cereza.

The world stops for a second.

—What?

—We’ve crossed paths in the landing once or twice, when she was coming back from her outings —he explains calmly—. I didn’t say anything at the gym because I didn’t know whether you were in on it. I didn’t want to cause trouble.

I let out a laugh that surprises him.

—Trouble? I was the one who helped him pick out that cherry dress.

The tension dissolves into shared laughter. Damián threads his fingers through mine.

—In that case, tonight is going to be even more interesting than I expected.

The click of heels in the hallway breaks the moment. Cereza appears in the doorway, now in all his splendor, and Damián stands to kiss the back of his hand with a gallantry that leaves me breathless.

—I must say, that dress suits you even better up close —he tells him.

Cereza lets out a little laugh of pure coquettishness. The tension in the air is an intoxicating mix of desire and possibility. The three of us know we’re on the edge of something extraordinary.

***

Dinner is a success, but none of us has any head left for food. When the glasses are half empty, I propose the inevitable.

—What if we get more comfortable? This Málaga heat is merciless.

Damián lets out a laugh that vibrates through me and offers each of us an arm on the way to the bedroom, where a bottle of champagne waits in the ice bucket beside three glasses.

I slip out of the black dress, letting it fall at my feet. The cool air raises gooseflesh on my skin, or maybe it’s the looks sweeping over my body, barely covered by the black lingerie I bought for the occasion.

—You’re a goddess —Cereza murmurs.

—Your turn —I encourage her.

She removes her dress and reveals a white lace set with tiny embroidered cherries. The contrast between his shoulders and the delicate lace is strangely harmonious. We both turn to Damián, who unbuttons his shirt with deliberate slowness, revealing a surprisingly firm torso and silver hair covering his chest.

When he lowers his trousers, the surprise draws an exclamation from us: instead of sober boxers, he’s wearing a striking lime-green slip. And the bulge stretching the fabric until it warps leaves no doubt about what’s underneath.

—At our age, what’s the point of being predictable? —he laughs—. Besides, green is the color of hope.

Cereza approaches, her heels marking a seductive rhythm, and slides a hand over Damián’s abdomen until it stops over the taut fabric. She strokes him with red nails while brushing his neck with her lips, and in one yank she pulls the slip down to his knees. Damián’s cock springs free, thick, with a purple glans, so hard it sticks to his belly.

—And there’s certainly reason to hope —she murmurs, wrapping her hand around it and stroking him slowly, with the proper wrist of someone who’s spent years handling her own.

Damián closes his eyes and lets out a moan, but his gaze comes back to me, asking permission. I answer with a smile: tonight there are no rules, only shared desire.

Cereza kneels before him without letting go of his cock, tucks the red wig behind her ears, and looks over her shoulder at me with a conspiratorial smile before sticking out her tongue and licking from base to tip in one single slow, obscene motion. Damián shudders all over.

—Fuck... —he mutters.

Cereza wraps his cock with red-painted lips and takes him all the way into her mouth in one go, until her nose bumps his graying pubis. She withdraws slowly, leaving a bright trail of saliva and lipstick along the length, then dives back down. A wet, obscene noise fills the bedroom. I come up behind her, lift the white lace dress, and stroke her ass over her panties. Under the lace, another cock is hard against the silk.

—Our Cereza has come back to life —I whisper, and she moans around Damián’s cock.

We toast with champagne—for second chances, for first times at our age—and then Damián sets down his glass and pulls Cereza by the waist, forcing him to stand. He kisses him without hesitation, a hungry, determined kiss, tongue and all, while his free hand reaches for me and finds my breast inside my bra, pinching my nipple until I gasp.

My God. I never thought seeing my husband kissing another man would do this to me.

I move closer as if in a trance. Damián breaks the kiss and turns toward me.

—Your turn —he says, and his lips fall on mine.

The taste of Cereza still lingers in his mouth, mixed with champagne and something saltier I recognize. His kiss is more dominant than Laurent’s, more demanding, as if he wants to mark me. I feel Cereza’s hand at the nape of my neck, tangling in my hair, holding me, and the other sliding my bra straps down until my breasts are freed, offered to Damián as if they were his to give away.

—Look at them —he tells him in his ear—. Sixty-two years old and these tits. Eat them, don’t be shy.

Damián bends down and catches one nipple with his mouth, sucking hard, biting it between his teeth with just the right amount of brutality. His other hand opens my legs right there, standing up, and finds my panties already soaked.

—She’s dripping —he tells Cereza without stopping sucking my breast—. She gets wet just from seeing the two of us.

—He’s always liked to watch —Cereza confirms, pulling my panties off completely.

The three of us tumble onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and sighs. If my bingo friends could see me now...

Cereza settles to one side, eyes bright with excitement, and hikes up the dress to stroke his own cock over his lace panties.

—He’s been dry for five years, as far as I know —he tells Damián, with that cheeky little grin of his—. I’d love to see how you make him feel everything I can’t give him anymore. Fuck her with that beautiful cock of yours. Destroy her cunt in front of me.

—Laurent! —I protest, red as a tomato, but my legs are already spread over the bedspread.

But Damián doesn’t flinch. On the contrary, his eyes burn.

—I’ve wanted you for months —he confesses—. Since the first time I saw you coming out of the gym with that smile that looked like a challenge. I’ve jerked off thinking about your ass in those leggings more times than I’d admit.

Months? My heart pounds against my ribs.

—Me too —I admit—. I’ve imagined you like this more times than I’d admit. Putting it in me in the elevator, against the mirror. Every night.

—Show him —Cereza insists, his voice roughened—. Show him how well you suck it first.

I slide between Damián’s legs and grab his cock, still shining from Cereza’s mouth. I study it up close: thick, straight, with a marked vein running from the base to the crown. I run my tongue underneath, following that vein, and he sighs. I take him into my mouth all the way, just enough to make him feel welcome, and pull back slowly, letting the glans bump against my cheek.

—Fuck, woman... —he growls.

Cereza has positioned herself behind me, kneeling, and caresses my ass while watching me suck Damián. I feel her fingers part me, one wet finger searching for my clit from behind. I moan around the cock in my mouth.

—Get her on all fours —orders Cereza—. And fuck her already, because I can’t stand not seeing it anymore.

Damián grabs my waist and flips me over with ease. I end up on hands and knees, ass up, and feel the mattress dip under his weight as he positions himself behind me. Cereza crawls around to face me, hikes up her dress, lowers her lace panties, and frees her own cock, hard and dripping, right in front of my mouth.

—Suck me while he fucks you —she whispers.

I don’t think about it. I open my mouth and swallow my husband —Cereza— to the throat, with all the practice of forty years together. At the same time, I feel Damián’s glans rubbing up and down against my lower lips, soaking in me, searching for the entrance. When he finds it, he pushes in slowly, with a deliberation that drives me crazy.

—Look at me —Cereza asks, grabbing my hair—. I want to see your face when he goes in.

I lift my eyes with my mouth full, and at that moment Damián sinks in all at once, completely, to the hilt. A muffled scream escapes me against Cereza’s cock. The stretch is delicious, the fullness gradual, pleasure mixed with a point of pain that only heightens it. It’s been five years since I felt anything like this.

—She’s so tight —Damián murmurs, straining to hold back—. Like a virgin. He’s drilling into my cock.

—She’s dying for it —Cereza answers, rocking his hips to push his own cock deeper into my mouth—. He’s been waiting for this for years.

Damián starts moving: first slow thrusts, learning the map of my body, measuring how I open, then a steady rhythm that makes my whole body rock. Each time he drives in, I take Cereza’s cock a little deeper into my mouth, and the three of us find a cadence. Damián’s thighs slam against my ass with a fleshy sound, his hands seize my hips and dig in, and I can feel him losing all politeness.

—Harder —I beg, with a voice I don’t recognize, letting go of Cereza for a second—. Please.

—If I go harder, I won’t last long —he warns.

—Doesn’t matter. Don’t stop.

He grips my hips like a steering wheel and starts hammering me with no mercy. The mattress creaks. The headboard bangs the wall. Every thrust tears a moan from me that Cereza uses to shove his cock back down my throat, swallowing my cries. It’s dirty, it’s obscene, it’s the most alive I’ve felt in years.

—Look at her tits moving —Cereza pants appreciatively, watching the sway under my body—. Fuck her harder, Damián. She loves it.

—French slut dressed as a woman —Damián growls without stopping—, you and your wife are going to finish me.

Cereza laughs and pulls it out of my mouth only to smear it over my face, my lips, my cheekbones, marking me. Then he pushes it back in, all the way, and I suck him hungrily while Damián opens me from behind. At some point the rhythm changes: he pulls out of me in one sharp motion, turns me onto my back, lifts my legs onto his shoulders, and drives back in with one thrust. Now I can see him, see his face, see his abs tightening with every stroke, see his gleaming cock going in and out of me a handspan from my navel.

Cereza lies down beside me, presses against my side, and mouths my breasts while whispering in my ear.

—You’re beautiful like this —he murmurs—. Open, surrendered. With your cunt full of the neighbor’s cock. Tell me you like it.

—I love it —I gasp—. I love it, Laurent, I love it.

—Tell him —he insists—. Tell Damián.

—I love your cock —I blurt out, looking him in the eyes—. Put it all in me. Ruin me.

Damián growls like an animal and folds over me. His hips work at a different angle, striking me inside a spot nobody’s visited in years, and I feel the orgasm beginning to build from somewhere deep. Cereza nibbles one nipple, then the other, and with his fingers he finds my clit between the two bodies, rubbing it in precise circles.

—Come —my husband orders, his mouth against my neck—. Come around his cock, darling. I want to feel you clench.

The orgasm catches me by surprise, building from somewhere deep and spreading like a supernova. I scream without caring about the whole building, my body arching beneath his, my legs closing around Damián’s back. I feel my cunt contract in waves around his cock, feel myself squeeze him, milk him. I feel him tense, his breathing break, a guttural sound rising from his chest.

—Inside —I manage to say—. I want to feel you. Come inside.

—Yes, inside —Cereza urges in his ear—. Fill my wife with cum, Damián. Let it spill out of her.

With a groan torn from his deepest core, Damián drives in one last time, goes still, and I feel his cock swell inside me and start spurting hot ropes. One, two, three, four. I’m filled to overflowing. His face in that moment of total surrender is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen: vulnerable and fierce at once, eyes shut, mouth open, neck taut.

When he collapses on top of me, sweaty and tangled, I feel his semen sliding down inside my thighs as he finally pulls out. Cereza doesn’t wait. He crouches between my still-open legs, looks up at me from down there with a mischievous smile, and runs his tongue along the inside of my thigh, collecting what Damián has spilled. Then he climbs up and kisses me on the mouth, letting me taste the mixture of both of them.

—Now me —he whispers against my lips.

I look at him, dazed and happy. Cereza has his cock hard, red, throbbing with pure, contained desire. I gesture for him to come closer and he positions himself over me, planting his hands on either side of my head, the red wig forming a curtain around our faces. He enters with the ease of so many years, sliding in the wetness Damián has just left behind. It’s a different rhythm —familiar, known, husband and wife— but wrapped in that cherry dress and with Damián recovering beside us, it becomes something new.

Damián recovers faster than I expected and, barely five minutes later, he already has his hand on Cereza’s ass while she fucks me. He hikes the dress to the waist, bares the cheeks, and wets the entrance with two saliva-slicked fingers. Cereza moans over me without stopping.

—Yes... yes, please...

—I still have some gas left —Damián murmurs, positioning himself behind her—. And that ass has been asking for a turn since I walked in the door.

I watch him penetrate her from behind while Cereza remains inside me, and suddenly all three of us are strung along the same line. Every thrust Damián gives Cereza is transmitted to me through his body. Cereza moans, gasping against my neck in French words I don’t understand but whose meaning is obvious, surrendering to the double sensation.

—The two of you are going to kill me —Cereza pants—. It’s happening, it’s happening now...

Cereza comes inside me with a long shiver, collapsing onto my chest, and Damián follows seconds later with another growl, emptying himself for the second time tonight, now inside my husband.

The three of us are left limp, a sticky tangle of skin and lace and sweat, trying to catch our breath. Cereza leans in and covers us with light kisses on the shoulders, cheeks, and forehead, with a strange tenderness after so much savagery.

—Thank you —Damián says, his voice hoarse—. For inviting me to this. For sharing something so special.

Cereza smiles, that smile that is pure Laurent in its warmth.

—The pleasure is ours —he answers, kissing his forehead.

I stay between the two of them, staring at the ceiling that stole my sleep last night, and think that maybe life hasn’t just not ended with me: maybe, at sixty-two, it’s only just beginning.