What Happened at the Real Estate Office Wasn’t in the Catalog

At fifty-two and with an orderly life on the surface, Cristina Valera was exactly the kind of woman who made a twenty-two-year-old boy go quiet in the middle of a sentence. I’d known her since I was little: my mother’s friend, the most active real estate agent in the north side of town, always immaculate and always with something in her eyes that didn’t quite fit her role as a respectable lady.

I’d spent months stuck in that limbo that is the third year of college: morning classes, unfinished notes, too many dead hours. I lived at my parents’ place to save money, which meant running into my mother’s visitors every time I went downstairs for coffee. Cristina showed up often. Always with some pretext: the apartment of clients who were thinking of selling, pending paperwork, a coffee that stretched into two hours. My mother adored her. I started adoring her in a different way.

I never paid her much attention until that Saturday in October.

That day she arrived in dark, very tight fabric trousers, low-heeled boots, and a turtleneck sweater that marked her waist and clung to her tits in a way that left no doubt about what was underneath. My mother opened the door and I was in the hallway, about to leave for the gym. We crossed paths in the entryway, half a meter apart.

—Look how grown-up you are now —she told me, giving me the two obligatory kisses. Her lips lingered a second too long near my cheek—. You’re the spitting image of your father when he was young, only taller.

—Hi, Cristina —I replied, trying not to look at her too much. I failed.

She laughed. A short laugh, a little hoarse, with the confidence of someone who knows exactly the effect she has and doesn’t bother hiding it.

For the next hour, while my mother and she went over documents at the dining table, I stayed in the living room with my laptop open, not reading a thing. From where I sat I could see Cristina’s profile: the curve of her neck, the way she leaned back in her chair when she listened, the way she bit her pen when she was thinking. She was the kind of woman who fills everything without trying, who turns any room into the place you’re looking at. I got hard under my sweatpants just from seeing her thigh crossed over the other, and I had to put the laptop over my lap to hide it. At one point my mother went to the kitchen to get something and Cristina turned her head toward me without warning.

—Studying? —she asked, lowering her voice a little.

—Trying to.

—You’ve got a bad concentration face —she said, with half a smile—. Looks like you’re thinking about something else.

I didn’t answer. She went back to her papers without losing her smile. But before she turned fully away, she held my gaze a second longer than necessary. Just a second. It was enough to keep me from concentrating on absolutely anything for the rest of the afternoon, and to make me jerk off twice that night thinking about her mouth.

***

Two weeks later, my mother asked me to take a folder of documents to Cristina’s office. “You go, I’ve got an appointment,” she told me. The office was downtown, on the first floor of a nineties building, with a storefront window onto the street and a private office at the back separated by a glass partition. I double-parked and went up with the folder under my arm.

The receptionist looked up and told me Cristina was waiting inside. I knocked with my knuckles on the half-open door and pushed it. As I stepped in, I heard the click of the door closing behind me. I hadn’t closed it. She had, calmly, without my seeing her do it. She also turned the bolt. That little metallic sound told me everything before she opened her mouth.

—Thanks for coming —she said. She came up for the usual kisses, but this time the second one brushed the corner of my lips, just a millimeter farther in than innocence allowed.

She was wearing black leather pants, tight from hip to ankle, and a cream silk blouse slightly open at the neckline. Hoop earrings. The same perfume as last time, only now it was much closer and there was no way to pretend I didn’t notice.

—Here are the documents —I said, offering her the folder.

She took it without looking. Put it on the table without looking. Looked at me.

—Are you in a hurry?

—Not especially.

—Then sit down for a minute.

I sat in the chair in front of her desk. She leaned against the edge of the table, crossed her arms, and studied me with that calm that was slightly dizzying, as if she had all the time in the world and complete control of the situation, which was probably true.

—You’ve been staring at me for a while —she said. It wasn’t a question.

—I don’t know what you’re talking about.

—Of course you do —she replied, almost tenderly—. The other day at your mother’s place. Just now, when you came in. It’s fine. I look at you too.

I swallowed. She straightened up, went around the desk slowly, and sat on the edge closest to me. Her knees were thirty centimeters from mine.

—I’m twice your age —she said—. And I’m married. You know that.

—I know.

—And yet here we are, the two of us alone, and you’re looking at my pants instead of my face. And your dick has been hard since you walked in, so spare me the part where you pretend otherwise.

—Do you want me to leave?

It took her two seconds to answer. Two very long seconds, during which the only sound was the muted traffic on the other side of the window.

—No. I want you to stand up and show it to me.

***

What happened after that was direct and unhurried. I stood up with my legs a little weak. She leaned toward me and kissed me right on the mouth, her hand on the back of my neck. She had a warm mouth and a way of kissing without rushing, without anxiety, sliding her tongue all the way in with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where this is going and doesn’t need to hurry to get there. She sucked my lower lip, bit it, and her other hand went straight to my fly and squeezed my cock through the fabric.

—Fuck —she murmured against my mouth—. You’re rock hard.

We stayed pressed together. I felt the heat of her body through the blouse, the pressure of her hips against mine, the perfume now mixed with something more concrete. Her hands moved slowly down my sides and found my belt without any rush and without any doubt. She unbuckled it, lowered my zipper, and slid her hand into my underwear. When her fingers closed around my cock, a gasp escaped me that I couldn’t control.

—You’ve been thinking about this for a while —she told me in my ear, while she started stroking me slowly, very slowly, her palm open and her thumb brushing my tip.

—Since Saturday, at least.

—Me since before that —she answered, and I believed her easily—. Since summer, when you came out to the pool in your swim trunks and I kept staring at your back. I’ve spent four months thinking about how I’d suck your cock.

I undid the first buttons of her blouse with fingers that didn’t quite obey me. I pulled her tits out over her black lace bra, two heavy breasts still firm, her nipples already hard. I ran my tongue over one and then the other, sucked them hungrily, nibbled them. She threw her head back and let the air out through her nose, squeezing her hand harder around my cock.

I turned her gently and laid her back against the desk. She let herself fall back, palms flat on the surface, not taking her eyes off mine. I ran my hands over her waist, over the generous curve of her hips trapped in that black leather that tightened with every movement.

I lowered her pants slowly, first to her thighs, then farther. I took them off completely and folded them over the chair, unhurried. Underneath, she was wearing dark lace panties that were soaked in front, with a dark wet patch right in the center. I stroked her through the fabric and felt the silk clinging to her swollen cunt. She sighed and spread her legs a little wider.

—Take them off me —she told me—. With your teeth, if you know how.

I knelt in front of her. I hooked the elastic with my teeth and pulled the lace down her thighs, millimeter by millimeter, until the panties fell to her ankles and I slipped them off over her heels. She stayed braced on the desk, blouse open, tits out, heels still on, looking at me with that exact mix of calm and urgency that had been throwing me off since day one. She was completely shaved, her lips shining from how wet she was, and a thick drop was already hanging almost down to the inner part of her thigh.

—What a pleasant surprise —she murmured, twining her fingers in my hair as I brought my face to her pussy.

I dragged my tongue very slowly from bottom to top, one long flat lick that tore a low moan from her, tasting the salty thickness of a woman who had been horny for weeks. I spread her lips with my thumbs and ate her without rushing. I sucked her swollen clit, rolled it with the tip of my tongue, licked it in circles, then took it all into my mouth and sucked it gently until her hips pushed forward wanting more. I slid two fingers into her cunt while I kept sucking her clit, first slowly, and felt her tighten around my knuckles inside.

—Fuck, yes —she gasped—. Just like that. Don’t stop.

I took all the time I wanted. I learned her reactions one by one: what made her hold her breath, what made her grip the edge of the table, what made her tilt her head back and let the air out very slowly between her teeth. When I moved my fingers upward, searching for that rough spot inside, her whole belly tightened. When I licked her clit from top to bottom with my tongue flat, she squeezed my hair in her fingers. She responded without exaggeration, without putting on any show, just reacted. And that made everything much more intense than anything else.

—Put it back in me —she whispered—. Three fingers. And don’t stop licking.

I did as she said. I slid in three fingers and started fucking her cunt with my hand at the same rhythm I was sucking her clit. Her thighs began to tense on either side of my face, the hand in my hair closed into a fist, and when she came she did it with her hands tangled in my hair and her thighs clamped on the sides of my face, in near-total silence except for a very restrained guttural sound that seared itself into my mind. A thick spurt of fluid slipped out and ran down my chin while I kept sucking her until she pulled away, oversensitive, murmuring “stop, stop.”

***

I stood up with a shiny mouth. She was still leaning against the desk, never having moved from the spot, her hair a little disheveled, her tits still out, and that serene expression of someone who has just confirmed something she already knew from the start. She looked at the bulge in my pants, my cock now almost completely out of my underwear, and licked her lower lip without the slightest shame.

—Come here —she said—. Now it’s my turn.

She pulled me close. She finished lowering my pants and underwear to my thighs with the same slowness she’d used to answer all my questions. No rush. She took my cock in one hand, weighed it, and looked up at me with a smile that was half calm, half hunger.

—Pretty cock —she said—. Probably a little wasted on girls your age.

And without taking her eyes off me, she bent down and took it all into her mouth in one go. I felt the back of her throat, the heat, her tongue pressing me against the roof of her mouth, saliva starting to slide over my balls. She took it out slowly, with a thread of spit hanging from her lip, and took it in again. She sucked me with no rush at all, taking her time licking me from the base to the tip, sucking one ball first and then the other, taking my cock deep enough to make her eyes water and pulling it out with a wet sound before swallowing it again.

—Fuck, Cristina —I murmured, resting a hand on the back of her neck—. You’re going to make me cum.

She pulled it out of her mouth with a pop and looked up at me, chin shining.

—Don’t even think about it yet. First you’re going to put it in me against the desk, and you’re going to fuck me hard.

She turned around, bent over the table, swept aside a few papers in front of her with one hand, and offered me her open ass, still in her heels and with the wrinkled blouse hanging from her shoulders. I came up behind her. I ran the head of my cock up and down along her cunt slit, soaking it in her own juices, and she let out a long, restrained moan when the tip caught at the entrance for the first time.

—Put it in already —she said—. Don’t make me beg, baby.

I drove it into her in one thrust all the way to the hilt. Cristina let out a deep gasp and arched her back, both hands braced on the desk surface.

—Oh God, like that, like that, fuck, exactly like that —she whispered, her voice tight.

I started fucking her slowly, coming almost all the way out and then pushing back in to the hilt, listening to the sound of my balls slapping against her cunt with each thrust. I grabbed her hips with both hands and picked up the pace. The table started to creak. She pushed back with every thrust, meeting me, guiding me with her hips with the precision of someone who’s gone too long without letting herself have this and isn’t going to waste it. Her blouse came fully open, her tits bounced underneath with every hit, and I could see her face in profile reflected in the partition glass, mouth parted and eyes half closed.

—Harder —she asked in a very low voice—. Fuck me harder, hurt me a little.

I grabbed her hair from the nape, wrapped it around my fist and pulled back, forcing her to arch. I started driving into her with all the force I had, delivering sharp, hard blows that made her let out a choked “ah” each time. I smacked her ass, first a test, and when I heard her moan I gave her another, harder one that left the red print of my palm on her pale cheek.

—Like that —she told me—. Exactly like that. Don’t stop. Don’t stop until I come again.

I pulled out, turned her around, sat her on the desk, and put her legs over my shoulders. I went back in from the front, looking her in the face. She gripped my arms with both hands, heels still pointing toward the ceiling over my shoulders, and locked eyes with me while I fucked her faster and faster. She had that ability women have when they’ve decided to enjoy themselves without apologizing: presence, attention, total clarity. Nothing she did was accidental or performative. Every reaction carried the weight of something real, and that was more unsettling than anything else I’d ever experienced up to then.

—I’m coming again —she murmured through clenched teeth—. Cum inside. I’m clean and I’m not staying, cum inside, I want to feel it.

It was enough just to hear her say that. I gave her four more brutal thrusts and buried myself in her as I started to cum. I felt her cunt contract around my cock in her second orgasm just as I began emptying into her, my face buried in her neck and my hands clenched on her hips, shaking a lot more than I would have liked to admit. She squeezed me with her thighs against her body so I wouldn’t slip out, so I’d leave it all inside her, and kept rocking slowly, coaxing the last drops out of me.

When I finally pulled out, a thick thread of semen slid from between her cunt lips and dripped onto the desk. She looked down, looked at the stain, and then looked at me with a very small smile.

—Good —she said. Just that.

***

We got ourselves together in silence. She cleaned herself with a tissue, with that efficiency of hers that didn’t feel like discomfort but simple organization. She fixed her hair in front of the small mirror by the bookshelf. I fastened my belt and tried to think of some way not to look completely dazed.

—And now? —I asked.

Cristina turned and looked at me with an expression that wasn’t exactly a smile, but came pretty close.

—Now you go home calm, study something, and tell your mother you delivered the documents to me.

—And after that?

—After that depends on you.

She picked up her phone from the table and handed it to me without further explanation.

—Put your number in. If I feel like calling you, I will. If I don’t, I won’t. No drama.

I put it in. She gave the phone back.

—Is it really that easy? —I asked her.

—Everything is easy when both people know what they want —she replied—. The problem is that almost nobody does.

***

She called me three days later. A Tuesday afternoon, when I was in the library pretending to study statistics. The message just said: “I’ve got an empty apartment to show at six. If you want to see how this works.”

I went.

The apartment was on the fourth floor of a new building, big windows, the smell of fresh paint still hanging in the air. Cristina arrived with the key in her hand and a suit jacket that she didn’t take long to hang from the bedroom door handle. She looked at me from the far end of the empty living room with that expression of hers, half calm, half hunger.

We didn’t need many words. We’d already had the important conversation the time before.

She took off her suit skirt on the way to the bedroom, without turning around, letting it fall in the hallway. I followed, unbuttoning my shirt. When I came in, she was already on her knees on the bare parquet floor of the bedroom, no furniture, nothing, blouse undone and tits out, waiting. She took my cock out of my pants with both hands and put it in her mouth without ceremony, looking up at me. She sucked me slowly at first, then faster, spitting on me and swallowing me back to the throat, until a thread of saliva ran down her chin and reached her chest.

Then she lay back on the cold parquet boards, without a mattress, nothing underneath, and spread her legs.

—Come —she said—. Fuck me here. No frills.

I lay on top of her. I slid into her and this time I fucked her more slowly, longer, with my hands laced with hers over her head, looking her in the eyes the whole time. She moved her hips up to my rhythm, breathing against my mouth, biting my lip now and then. I pulled out, turned her over, got on top and rode her with my hands braced on my chest, her tits rising and falling in front of my face as she rocked herself on my cock. I grabbed her hips to set the rhythm from below, driving myself upward with each of her drops, and she let herself fall faster and faster until she arched her back, closed her eyes, and came astride me, clenching my cock inside her with contractions that almost took me over too.

We were there for more than an hour. The parquet floor creaked with every movement, which in any other context would have been a problem. We finished with her on all fours again, braced against the window frame, cheek against the cold glass and the city below looking without seeing, while I fucked her from behind with my hands gripping her tits and came for the second time across the lower part of her back when I couldn’t hold out any longer. With the afternoon light coming in through the windows and Cristina looking at me with that total attention she had, it was almost funny, a small domestic inconvenience in the middle of something that had nothing domestic about it.

—You’re getting better —she told me afterward, leaning on the sill with her jacket back over her shoulders, still without underwear underneath.

—Are you serious?

—I mean it as a compliment. Take it that way.

We laughed. It was the first time we’d ever done that together, and it felt more intimate than everything else.

We saw each other six or seven more times over that semester. Always in empty apartments from the listing, always in the afternoons, always with our own logic of very few words and plenty of clarity about what we wanted from each other. Cristina never asked me for anything I couldn’t give her. I never asked her for anything she wasn’t willing to offer. The tacit agreement worked better than most of the explicit agreements I’d had in my twenty-two years.

My mother kept inviting her over for coffee. I kept coming down the hallway when the bell rang. And every time Cristina and I crossed paths in my parents’ entryway, with my mother in the background making something in the kitchen, we exchanged exactly the same look as always: brief, calm, completely ordinary to anyone who saw it from the outside.

A look that said everything without needing to say anything at all.