The Mature Man Who Responded to My Ad

By day, I was invisible. I delivered orders on an old motorbike across half the city, dodging horns and traffic lights, my back soaked under my helmet and the asphalt blazing beneath the wheels. I climbed stairwells carrying bags that smelled of other people’s food, smiled at people who never even looked me in the eye, and collected tips that barely covered the gas. At twenty-two, my life was that constant noise of engine and hurry.

But when I closed the door to my apartment, the other story began.

The first thing was the water. I took a long shower, shaved myself carefully down to every inch, my legs, my chest, everything, until I was smooth as a polished surface. There was something almost ritual about it, about erasing the tired delivery guy and letting another person appear. In front of the mirror, with my skin still damp, I stopped being invisible.

Then came the rest. The red lingerie that was almost invisible, the padded bra that gave me a silhouette I didn’t have by day, the fishnet stockings, the high heels, the dark wig spilling down my back. I painted my lips slowly, watching myself, and for a moment I liked what I saw. It wasn’t a costume. It was the version of me the day wouldn’t let me be.

—Look at yourself —I’d whisper under my breath, hardly believing it—. Look what you turn into at night.

The camera was my stage and my addiction. I turned on the light, adjusted the angle, and showed up in the chat under a name that wasn’t mine. The ad was direct, no beating around the bush: twenty-two-year-old feminine guy looking for mature men who know what they’re doing. And the men came. Some just watched. Others wrote things that made my legs shake before anything had even happened.

The nights turned into a game of words and looks through the screen. I arched for the camera, played with the lingerie, bit my lip, and they told me what they wanted to do to me. It was desire at a distance, safe, controlled. I turned off the camera and went back to being the early-rising delivery guy. Until he appeared.

***

His name was Théo, or at least that’s what he said. Sixty-five years old, European, a deep voice that came through the headphones as if he were speaking into my ear from across the room. The first time he wrote, he didn’t ask for anything. He only said he liked the way I moved, that it was obvious I enjoyed myself, and that disarmed me more than any obscenity could have.

With time, he stopped being polite. In messages he was someone else: a man who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it. He described in detail what he would do to me, slowly, like someone planning something for weeks. I read those messages at traffic lights, my heart pounding, and had to breathe deeply before getting the bike moving again.

—You’re married —I wrote him one night, not as a reproach, just as a fact.

—Even grandchildren —he answered—. And I think about you all day. Does that bother you?

It didn’t bother me. It turned me on. There was something intoxicating about knowing I was the secret of a man like that, the desire hidden behind his expensive suit and ordered life. One night he sent me a video of himself, just his hands and his voice, and I came listening to him say my fake name as if it were real.

—I want to meet you —he finally said—. In person. Just once, if you don’t want more.

It took me three days to answer yes.

***

I rented an apartment for a few hours, one of those neutral places with white sheets and the smell of disinfectant. I arrived early to get ready without rushing. I showered, shaved more carefully than ever, dressed slowly. My hands were trembling when I fastened the garter belt. It wasn’t fear. It was that anticipation that had been growing for weeks and was about to burst.

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror: the perfect wig, the red lips, the heels that made me taller. This is what you want, I thought. Stop pretending you don’t.

When the bell rang, my breath caught in my throat.

I opened the door and there he was. Bigger than the cameras had shown: tall, broad-shouldered, with neatly combed gray hair and light eyes that traveled over me shamelessly from head to toe. He smelled of an expensive cologne and something else, of man, of desire held back for too long.

—So this is you —he said, with that voice I knew by heart—. You’re prettier in person.

I didn’t know what to answer. I stepped aside and he came in as if the place belonged to him. He closed the door himself, slowly, and the click of the lock raised goosebumps all over my skin.

He came closer without touching me yet. He lifted my chin with two fingers and made me look at him. It was a look that didn’t ask, that assumed.

—Are you nervous?

—A little —I admitted.

—Good —he said, smiling faintly—. I like that you are.

He kissed me. It wasn’t gentle. It was a kiss that grabbed me by the nape and didn’t let me move, his tongue setting the rhythm, his firm hand on my back pressing me against him. I felt his whole body, the hardness already pressing against my hip, and my knees went weak.

—On your knees —he murmured against my lips.

I obeyed without thinking, right there in the narrow hallway. I fumbled with his belt, pulled down his pants, and had him in front of me, already hard, thick, heavy. I took him with both hands. He smelled like clean skin and desire. I looked up at him, and he looked down at me with a calm that was almost worse than hurry.

—Show me what you’re good for —he said.

I took him into my mouth slowly, first the tip, then more, as much as I could. He tangled his fingers in the wig and set the pace, deep, unhurried but merciless. I closed my eyes, let my mouth fill, let the makeup smear, and I liked losing control little by little in his hands. I sucked the head hard, ran my tongue along the hard vein of the shaft, and the bastard let out a low groan that vibrated between my legs. I could taste the salt of him, the foreskin tightening, the cock throbbing against my tongue every time I took him deeper.

—That’s it —he panted—. Exactly like that.

I kept going, taking him almost to my throat, spitting a little saliva from the corner of my mouth, stroking him with one hand while the other clutched his thigh. He smelled my hair, held my head, and let me use his mouth on him exactly as he wanted for a long while, until his breathing grew heavier and he gently pulled me away.

—Not yet —he said—. To the bed.

***

He led me there, a hand on my waist, as if we were going to dance. In the bedroom he turned me around and bent me over the edge of the mattress, my face against the cold sheets, my body open for him. He pulled down my red thong with a slowness that made me moan before he even touched me.

—Look at you —he said, running his palm over me—. All this for me.

He prepared me patiently. First my mouth, his hot tongue wrenching sounds out of me I didn’t know I had. He spread my ass cheeks with both hands, licked slowly along the crack of my ass, tasting me, making the air stick in my chest. I felt the wet, obscene, direct rub of him, and I arched more, pushing my ass back, wordlessly asking him to keep going. Then came the fingers: one, two, three, entering slowly, opening me one by one, twisting inside until he left me shaking, dripping, my thighs loose and my breathing broken. I had imagined this for weeks, but no fantasy came close to feeling the real weight of his breath on my nape and his fingers dirtying me from the inside until I was ready.

—Please —I said, my voice breaking.

—Please what.

—Please, now.

He laughed softly, satisfied. I felt the tip pressing in, and then the entrance, slow, unstoppable, making me bite the sheet and moan long and low. He filled me centimeter by centimeter, stopping each time I tensed, giving me time, until I had him all the way in and his hips were pressed against mine. His cock opened me in a brutal, hot way, filling everything, and I clutched the sheets as if they could save me from how good it hurt.

—That’s it —he murmured—. Take it.

He started moving. First deep and slow, each thrust stealing my breath, one hand firm on my hip and the other sliding up my back. I was falling apart against the mattress, repeating his name, begging him not to stop. The room filled with the sound of our bodies, the dull slap of his hips against my ass, the wet smack each time he withdrew and plunged back in. I could feel him brushing my prostate from the inside, making me see stars with each measured thrust.

—You like being broken like this, don’t you? —he whispered in my ear.

—Yes —I moaned—. More.

—That’s it, little whore. Open wider.

He grabbed my hair, forced my neck to arch, and started fucking me harder, faster, the bed creaking beneath us. I touched my clit between my thighs, desperate, and he didn’t let me slow the pace. He squeezed my waist, held me motionless, and drove into me full force until I was gasping for air, while my ass bounced against his thighs and every blow tore a humiliating, delicious cry from me.

—Turn over —he ordered suddenly—. I want to see your face.

He turned me himself, folded my legs against my chest, and came back in with one single motion. Now I was looking him in the eye while he fucked me, and that changed everything. This wasn’t a screen, wasn’t a message. It was his real weight on me, his sweaty forehead, his gaze locked on mine as if he wanted to see how far he could take me.

—Tell me it’s better than on camera —he panted.

—It’s better —I moaned—. So much better.

He leaned down, sucked a nipple through the shifted bra, pinched the other one with two fingers, and I lost the last bit of shame I had left. I dug my nails into his shoulders, begged him to give it to me harder, deeper, and he obeyed. The mattress hit the wall, my legs trembled open, and his cock drove into me to the very depth with exact violence that made me writhe with pleasure.

He grabbed my waist and sped up. I touched myself to the same rhythm, and the pleasure began to gather at some point from which there was no coming back. When he felt I was at the edge, he leaned over me, his mouth against my ear.

—We’re going together —he said—. Now.

That was what unraveled me. I came between our two bodies, trembling, the orgasm rising from my stomach and exploding at the base of my back, while I still felt his precise, firm thrusts, never slackening. I felt him tense, drive in deep, and stay there, throbbing, while heat flooded me from the inside. His name slipped out of my mouth one more time, and then there was only our broken breathing.

He collapsed beside me, sweaty, shaken, with a smile that suddenly made him look younger. I stayed still, still trembling, feeling my heartbeat slowly drop. My body was sensitive, open, my skin burning where he had touched me and my groin pulsing with a heavy, dirty feeling that left me looking at him as if I didn’t know who I was.

—Are you okay? —he asked, and the hardness in his voice was gone.

—I’m better than okay —I said.

He brushed a strand of the wig off my face, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and looked at me for a long time without saying anything.

***

It wasn’t just once, of course. We both knew that before he got dressed. From that night on, we met whenever he could slip away from his orderly life, in borrowed apartments and stolen hours. He always wrote me the same thing before we saw each other, a single line that left me waiting all day: tonight you’re mine alone.

And I, at some traffic light, helmet under my arm and the bike idling, read that message and smiled. By day I was still invisible. But I didn’t care anymore. I knew that when night fell, someone would look at me like no one ever had before.