What the Old Man in Room 32 Asked Me for in Exchange for the Necklace

I arrived at the residence with the tape measure in my bag and my nerves frayed. All I wanted was to measure the windows for the survey, record my data for my thesis, and avoid the west wing entirely. At twenty-eight, I should already have known how to control myself, but after what happened the week before, I wasn't so sure.

As soon as I crossed the door, the receptionist, Mrs. Mercedes, beckoned to me.

—Ah, Carolina. You just got here —she said, checking a paper stuck to her desk—. Don Heriberto, the one in room 32, asked if you were around yet. He wants to see you when you can.

I went cold. The name didn't tell me anything specific, but the number did.

—Don… who? —I asked, feeling a hollow in my stomach.

—Heriberto. The gentleman in 32 —she repeated, shrugging—. He didn't say why. He just insisted that he wanted to talk to you. He seemed to think it was important.

He didn't say why. Those three words sent my imagination into overdrive. Was it to complain about my having seen him the other afternoon? Or something else? The dream from the night before flashed through my mind like a hot gust: his hand between my legs, my fingers squeezing my clit beneath the sheets, the pillow bitten to keep from moaning too loudly.

I nodded unconvincingly and headed down the corridors. Don Heriberto. Now I had a name. And he was waiting for me.

I didn't go to the common room. My feet, as if they had a will of their own, turned toward the long, silent corridor of the west wing. Every step toward room 32 sounded louder in my ears.

The door was closed. I stopped in front of it with my heart hammering against my chest. I raised my hand and knocked softly.

—Come in —said the voice from the other side, that deep voice I could no longer get out of my head.

I opened the door. He was standing beside the bed in a thin white robe, the fabric almost transparent against the light from the window behind him. The outline of his body could be made out beneath it. As soon as I entered, his eyes traveled slowly up and down my body. That wasn't an old man's gaze. It was heavy, direct.

As he looked at me, he shifted the bulge outlined beneath the loose fabric with one hand. He didn't try to hide it completely, and he knew I'd noticed.

—I thought you weren't going to come —he said.

—They told me you'd asked for me —I replied, trying not to let my voice tremble.

—Yes —he nodded. He stepped over to his nightstand, opened the drawer, and took out several large, thick sheets folded many times—. They're blueprints —he explained, carefully unfolding them over the bed. The paper was yellow and brittle, covered in ink lines—. Originals. From when they built this place. I thought an architect might be interested in them.

He pointed to the unfolded blueprints.

—Come closer. You have to see them up close.

I hesitated, but in the end I took a few steps until I was at the edge of the bed, leaning over the old paper. He positioned himself right behind me. He wasn't touching me, but I felt his warmth against my back, his large, close presence. The robe, so thin, was barely a barrier. And I knew, without having to turn around, that his eyes were no longer on the blueprints. They were fixed on me, on my waist, on the curve of my ass squeezed into my jeans.

The air in the room grew thick and hot. I pretended to study the blurred lines, but I could no longer see them. I could only feel his gaze moving down my back, roaming over me. My whole face flushed, and a wet pulse began between my legs. I felt my panties suddenly grow wet, that warm dampness staining the fabric until I had to press my thighs together to hide it. My pussy throbbed, swollen, as if it had a life of its own.

He said nothing. He only breathed calmly behind me. I stood still, paralyzed, waiting, not knowing whether I wanted his hand to fall on my shoulder or whether I should run out. But I didn't move.

Then he spoke, very close to me.

—Your body… —he said, then paused for a second—. It reminds me of someone. A woman I loved a long time ago.

I felt a blow to my stomach. I flushed all the way to my ears. I couldn't believe what he was saying. So I wouldn't have to look at him, I continued pretending to read the blueprints, but out of the corner of my eye, involuntarily, I looked down at him.

The thin white robe hid nothing. And there, between his legs, I could clearly see him getting hard. Its shape was visible, thick and long, the head pressing against the fabric as if it wanted to tear through it. A dark stain, barely visible, was beginning to form at the tip.

Instant heat rose through my whole body. I got wet all at once, so quickly that even I was surprised. I felt a warm trickle run down the inside of my thigh beneath my jeans. There he was, standing behind me, his cock hard because of me, talking about an old love.

I didn't move. I couldn't. I was frozen, but burning inside. He didn't move either. He only breathed, and I could see, without wanting to, how his cock swelled more and more beneath that robe, long and thick, slowly bobbing against the fabric with every heartbeat.

He drew a deep breath, as if struggling to control himself, and took a step back.

—I'm sorry —he said, his voice rougher than before—. I know this is uncomfortable to see. It shouldn't happen to me. Not at my age, and especially not with you here.

He paused and, with a movement that seemed impossible for him to prevent, the robe opened a little farther. This time there was no doubt. His cock was completely erect, pointing straight at me, its pink tip already almost outside the fabric. It was thick, with a prominent vein running along its side, and a thick drop of pre-cum gleaming on the glans. He didn't touch it, but neither did he make any effort to hide it.

—But it's impossible —he continued, looking directly into my eyes now, without embarrassment—. It's impossible not to get like this when someone like you is so close. With an ass like that, with those tits squeezed inside your shirt. You bring back memories, and you make me harder than I've been in years.

My thoughts spun wildly. One part of me screamed that this was very wrong, that I should leave and report him immediately. He was a resident, and I was the student conducting his survey. This could cost me my thesis and my entire career.

But another part, the same one that had had that dream, the one that had touched herself thinking about him, only wanted to look. To look at proof that I aroused him that much. An older man, his cock completely hard because of me. And admitting it.

I said nothing. I looked at him, and then at that distinct shape beneath his robe. The wetness between my legs was a betrayal, a reminder that my body was responding too, despite everything. My nipples had hardened inside my bra and rubbed against the fabric with a tingling that went straight to my pussy.

—Are you going to report me? —he asked, as if he could read my mind. His tone wasn't challenging, but almost resigned, as if he had already accepted the consequences.

I looked at him, and he held my gaze. There was no fear in his eyes, only a strange calm, as if he already knew that being like this in front of me came at a price and was willing to pay it.

I couldn't take my eyes off the fabric, off the impossible-to-ignore shape outlined there. I felt a knot in my throat. My professional mind said, “Yes, report him, this is wrong.” But another, deeper and more confused part refused. That part remembered the dream, the heat in my own body, and the fact that, for the first time in that place, someone was looking at me not as a student or a girl passing through, but as a woman. A woman capable of making a man's cock hard enough to make him tremble.

—No —I said, shaking my head. The word came out hoarse—. I'm not going to report you.

Something changed in his expression. The resignation softened, but it didn't turn into triumph. Only into sharper attention, as if I had just become much more interesting.

—You're more understanding than I thought —he said.

Without breaking eye contact, he went to the wardrobe and took out a small box. He opened it. Inside was a gold necklace.

—It belonged to her —he said—. My old love.

I looked at him without understanding.

—So?

—So now I'm giving it to you —he said, approaching—. If you stay. If you touch me.

He pointed to his crotch, where the robe no longer hid anything. His cock now protruded almost entirely, thick, its veins prominent and its tip gleaming with moisture.

—You can leave and report me —he said, in a tone that sounded like a challenge—. Or you can stay, earn the necklace, and see what happens.

I stared at the gold, then at his body. The decision was mine. I took a deep breath. This went against everything, but something inside me had already decided.

—Just touch you? —I asked, my voice sounding strange to me.

He smiled, a smile that made me tremble inside.

—To start with —he said, leaving the box with the necklace on the nightstand.

I remained standing, hesitating. My head was a mess.

On the one hand, all of this was wrong. He was a resident of the nursing home, and I was the student. If anyone found out, I'd lose my thesis and everything else.

But on the other hand, I was far too horny. Seeing him standing there, his cock hard because of me, made me so wet it soaked my panties. I remembered how I'd touched myself the night before thinking about him, two fingers sinking in and out of my pussy while I bit my lip. The idea of touching him for real, of wrapping my hand around that cock, drove me crazy.

And the necklace? The gold gleamed and looked expensive. But it wasn't because of the necklace. Not really.

It was because of him. Because I wanted to know what it felt like.

He said nothing, only watched me. He seemed to know I was already convincing myself.

At last, moving almost without meaning to, I approached the nightstand and picked up the necklace. It was cold. I squeezed it in my hand for a second, not knowing what to do with it. Then, awkwardly, I put it in the pocket of my sweatshirt, not as a confident gesture, but so I'd have it close and no one else would see it.

He watched everything in silence. When I finished, he only nodded, barely.

—Good —he murmured—. Now that we agree, come here.

He took a couple of steps backward and sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread. The robe opened completely. There, in the full light of the room, everything was visible: his erect cock pointing toward the ceiling, thick, with a swollen, gleaming head, and below it his heavy balls hanging between his thighs. He made no effort to cover himself. He only watched me, waiting.

—Come here —he said, his voice low but clear.

I walked over until I was standing in front of him, a short distance away. My hands were sweaty. I didn't know where to put them.

—Touch me —he requested. It wasn't a plea. It was an instruction.

I looked down at that cock, which seemed even thicker and harder up close. My heart beat in my throat. Slowly, I knelt on the floor in front of him.

From below, the view was even more intense. He watched me from above, his expression serious. His cock bobbed at face level, so close that I felt the heat coming off it.

—With your hand —he instructed.

I extended my right hand, trembling slightly, until my fingers brushed his skin. It was hot. Hotter than I'd imagined. The texture was soft and firm at the same time, and it pulsed, beating against my fingers as if it had a heart of its own. I touched it from the side, barely, as if it might burn me.

—Not like that —he said, placing his large hand over mine. Not forcefully, but firmly. He closed it around his cock, guiding me so I would grip it properly.

I felt its weight and hardness fill my fist. My fingers barely reached all the way around it. A gasp escaped me. He released my hand and let me continue.

—Now move —he ordered—. Up and down. Slowly.

I began moving my hand, clumsy at first, sliding up and down its length. The skin moved over the firmness beneath, retracting and exposing the pink, wet head. The drop of pre-cum stretched and stuck to my thumb, viscous. He closed his eyes and released a rough sigh.

—That's it —he murmured—. That's good. Squeeze tighter. Yes, like that.

I tightened my fingers and sped up a little. Every time I moved down, the skin slid back and left the head bare, gleaming with its own moisture. Every time I moved up, it covered the glans, and I felt it pulse inside my fist. I began teasing the tip with my thumb, spreading the pre-cum over it, and he moaned louder, throwing his head back.

—Fuck —he panted—. It's been years since anyone did this to me.

I remained kneeling, staring at what my hand was doing, feeling every inch of him beneath my fingers. At first my other hand clutched my own thigh, looking for something to hold on to, but then, without thinking, it slipped between my legs over my jeans. I pressed myself there, against the seam, and the friction made me moan softly. It was happening. It was really happening. I was jerking off an old man in his room at the residence and touching myself at the same time underneath.

—Spit on it —he suddenly said, his voice thick—. Spit in your hand, so it slides better.

I stopped moving for a few seconds, processing what he was asking. Then, my face burning, I brought my mouth to my own hand and let a thick strand of saliva fall onto his cock. The saliva ran down the shaft and mixed with the moisture at the tip. I gripped it again, and now it slid, making a wet, obscene sound each time my hand moved up and down.

—That's it, baby —he moaned—. Just like that.

I kept moving my hand as best I could, faster and faster, my wrist beginning to cramp a little. He moaned softly, hoarsely, and the veins in his cock stood out more clearly. I thought he was going to come in my fist like that. But suddenly his hand grabbed my wrist and made me stop.

—Enough —he said, breathing hard—. Not yet.

Then his other hand went into my hair and held me firmly, not to hurt me, but to keep me from moving. He guided me downward, toward the cock that was there, hard, long, veined, gleaming with saliva and his own fluid.

—Now with your mouth —he said, staring at me. His tone left no room for refusal—. Suck it.

From where I was kneeling, I looked at him. He didn't take his eyes off me. It frightened me a little, but it also aroused me intensely. I felt my pussy throbbing inside my soaked panties, the fabric stuck to my swollen lips. His hand on the back of my neck pushed gently but surely, and I opened my mouth.

The tip touched my lips. It was hot, salty, slippery. He pushed a little farther, making me take the head inside. My tongue tasted skin and the pre-cum. It was difficult at first; my eyes filled with tears because of how thick it was, and I had to open my jaw wide to accommodate it.

—Easy —he murmured, stroking my face with his other hand—. You'll see. Breathe through your nose.

I began moving my head, letting him guide it. I felt his cock enter and leave my mouth, the swollen head brushing my palate, the shaft sliding over my tongue. Each time he pushed, the tip came close to my throat and made me want to gag, but I held it back. Saliva gathered in my mouth and dribbled from the corners, falling in thick drops onto the hand I used to hold the base.

—That's it, that's it —he panted—. Suck the whole thing. Use your tongue. Move your tongue around it.

I obeyed. I began circling the head with my tongue whenever it reached the tip, sucking hard, my cheeks hollow. When I lowered myself again, I let his cock fill my entire mouth. He released a long, guttural moan and tightened his grip on my hair.

—Fuck… what a mouth you have.

Without stopping my sucking, I raised one hand and grabbed his balls. They felt heavy in my palm, hot and wrinkled. I squeezed them gently, and his whole body shuddered.

—Yes, like that, touch them. Suck them too.

I pulled his cock from my mouth for a moment, a strand of saliva hanging from my lip, and slid my tongue slowly down his shaft until I reached his balls. I wrapped my tongue around them one by one, sucking them as he asked, while my hand continued masturbating his saliva-soaked cock. He let out a moan that sounded almost painful.

—Enough, enough, or I'll come like this —he panted, tugging my hair so I would rise again.

I took his cock back into my mouth, this time with more eagerness, deeper. He began pushing my head at the pace he wanted, faster, deeper. I let him do it, my hands braced on his thighs, feeling his cock enter and leave, saliva and his fluid running down my chin and dripping onto my shirt. I closed my eyes and listened only to the sounds: the wet slurping of my mouth, his hoarse moans, my own breath coming hard through my nose.

Below, unable to stop myself, I squeezed one of my tits with my free hand, pinching my nipple through my clothes. At that moment I was no longer the student. I was only this: a cock filling my mouth and the sound of his pleasure above me.

His moans came faster and faster. I no longer thought about anything, only the taste and the pressure of his hand on the back of my neck. His cock pulsed between my lips, growing hotter and more swollen.

—Don't stop —he growled, his breathing becoming ragged—. Now… now… now I'm going to fill your mouth…

He pushed my head harder, deeper, until I felt the tip strike the back of my throat. I choked for a second, but he held me there. His cock pulsed violently against my tongue. A guttural sound came from his throat.

—I'm coming —he warned, and he didn't let me go; instead, he tightened his grip.

I continued, knowing what was about to happen. A moment later I felt the first jet explode hot at the back of my mouth. It was thick and dense, with a bitter, salty taste. Then another came, and another, filling my tongue, my palate, the insides of my cheeks. They were long spurts, as if he hadn't come in years. He moaned for a long time, trembling, his hand clenched in my hair while semen continued spilling between my lips.

The semen accumulated so quickly that it began running from the corners of my mouth. I swallowed what I could, feeling the hot fluid slide down my throat, thick and salty. The rest dripped down my chin and onto my neck.

He didn't let me go until his cock had finished pulsing against my tongue. Then, slowly, he pulled away. One last thick strand hung from the tip to my lip. He was panting, eyes closed, his cock still hard and gleaming in front of my face.

I remained kneeling, swallowing what I could, the heavy taste in my mouth and warm semen staining my chin. He opened his eyes and looked at me. They gleamed when he saw my smeared face and the white strand running down my neck toward my cleavage. Without saying anything, he searched the nightstand and handed me a tissue.

—Thank you —he said, his voice very tired.

I wiped my mouth, chin, and neck. The tissue was stained white. I didn't know what to feel. It had happened. I'd done it. I'd sucked an old man's cock until he came in my mouth. And the worst part, or the best part, was that I was still wet, my swollen pussy throbbing inside my soaked panties.

The silence lingered, heavy. He lay back on the bed, covering himself with the robe. I remained on the floor, my knees aching and that strange taste in my mouth.

—I'm sorry —he said without looking at me—. I got carried away. It was wrong.

I didn't answer. I didn't know what to say.

—Please, don't tell anyone —he asked, looking at me now. His face seemed older, worried—. They'd make me leave, and I have nowhere else to go.

—I won't tell anyone —I said. And it was true.

He nodded, relieved. Then his expression softened.

—Could you put on the necklace? —he asked in a kinder voice—. I'd like to see how it looks on you. I've always imagined how it would look on a neck like that.

His request was no longer an order. It sounded genuine, almost nostalgic.

I nodded. I stood and carefully took the gold necklace from my pocket. The metal was cold. I put it on; the clasp resisted beneath my clumsy, still-stained fingers. The pendant fell onto my chest, right over the skin where a drop of semen had dried.

He looked at me from the bed. A small, sad smile crossed his face.

—It looks beautiful —he murmured—. Thank you.

Those words gave my stomach a strange lurch. I gathered my things.

—On Thursday, if you want to stop by the garden, the door will be open —he said softly, without pressuring me.

I promised nothing. I left the room. The necklace no longer felt so cold, but its weight, and his words, stayed with me.

***

I closed the door to room 32 with the blueprints in my hand and the necklace beneath my shirt. I walked quickly toward the exit, still feeling my soaked panties sticking to my pussy with every step.

Mrs. Mercedes saw me pass.

—Are you leaving already, Carolina?

—Yes, I'm done for today —I said, without slowing much, praying she wouldn't see my reddened chin or smell my breath.

I went out into the street and took a deep breath. I couldn't believe what I'd just done. I'd sucked the cock of an old man from the residence until I swallowed his semen. But at the same time, I remembered the sensation, the weight of his cock in my mouth, the thick taste, and a strange heat rose between my legs again. I wanted more, even though I knew it was wrong.

I boarded the bus home, squeezing my thighs together in the seat. I couldn't stop thinking on the way. He had said “Thursday.” There was almost a week until my next visit. One part of me said I should never go back, that it had been a huge mistake. But the other, the one that touched herself thinking about him and had just proven it, was already wondering what it would be like next time. Whether he would ask me to take off my clothes. Whether he would put that cock inside my pussy. Whether he would make me scream.

I got off with my head in a whirl. I felt the necklace cold and heavy against my chest. By Thursday I had to decide: forget all this, or go back for more.