The Mature Woman from the Fitting Room Invited Me to Her Closed Shop

That October afternoon, I had gone down to the Santa Cruz district to buy myself a pair of trousers. A coworker from the office had told me about a small tailor’s shop on one of those narrow, cobbled streets where the sun didn’t reach until noon, and I’d got it into my head to stop by before they closed.

The shop smelled of clean fabric and varnished wood. There were two fitting rooms at the back, facing each other and separated by burgundy curtains that didn’t quite reach the floor. When I went in, both were occupied. I picked out three pairs of trousers, sat on a stool beside the counter, and prepared to wait.

I’ll take this opportunity to confess something: I’m a voyeur. It isn’t a discreet little habit or a youthful whim; I’ve spent half my life enjoying other people’s bodies from a distance, without permission and without intending to touch. So when the curtain of the fitting room on the right shifted and left a gap two fingers wide, my eyes went there on their own.

There was a woman inside. I guessed she was around forty-eight, perhaps fifty. Brown-haired with highlights, her hair gathered into a loose bun from which a few curls had escaped. She was standing in front of the mirror in a bra and panties, both black, with the kind of flesh on her hips that can only be earned through years of living without asking forgiveness. Her breasts were full and generous, and the bra barely held them up. Her nipples showed through the lace, two dark points pulling at the fabric.

I learned long ago how to look without moving. Keep the face still, the neck rigid, the eyes the only things working. But she must have noticed something, or perhaps sensed it, the way certain women do when someone is watching them, because she raised her eyes toward the mirror and met mine head-on.

I looked away at once. I felt heat climbing up the back of my neck and pretended to study the wool of the gray trousers lying across my knees. I counted to ten. When I looked again, I expected to find the curtain completely closed.

It wasn’t.

The gap was still the same, and instead of covering herself, she had dressed completely and was beginning to undress again. Slowly. She undid the buttons of her blouse one by one, without looking directly at me, letting the mirror’s reflection show me everything. The blouse fell. The bra appeared again. She reached her hands behind her back as if she were going to unclasp it, then left them still at the last moment.

She knows exactly what she’s doing.

She began to move very slowly, turning her body by only a few degrees, offering me different profiles. The bra, the curve of her hip, her thigh. By then she was looking at me openly, with a crooked smile, knowing that every gesture was raising my temperature. I didn’t look away. What would have been the point?

I made a small gesture with my hand, almost imperceptible, an expression of disbelief and desire. She answered with a wink and a bite of her lower lip. She ran her tongue over her teeth and lowered her right hand to her panties, sliding a finger over the fabric, slowly tracing the cleft of her pussy so I could see it properly.

Then the other fitting room opened. An older man came out with a jacket draped over his arm, and the saleswoman gestured to me: the room was mine. I had no choice but to get up. I passed in front of the burgundy curtain without daring to look at her again and entered the fitting room opposite with the three pairs of trousers, my head clouded and an erection that was going to make trying anything on impossible.

I took twice as long as necessary. When I finally managed to put on one of the pairs, I heard her voice outside, saying goodbye to the saleswoman with the pleasant manner of a regular customer. I came out as quickly as I could, paid for the first pair I’d tried on without looking at myself too closely in the mirror, and pushed open the shop door with my blood still thick in my veins.

Out on the street, I looked right and left. Not a trace of her.

I went into the first café I saw, a narrow tavern with old tiles and a crowded bar. I ordered a small beer, leaned against the counter, and tried to get my thoughts in order. I couldn’t. The image in the mirror was burned into my mind, and my cock was still hard, hidden beneath my new trousers.

***

I saw her come in ten minutes later.

She located me with her eyes before crossing the threshold, as if she already knew I would be there. She squeezed between two regulars, ordered a zurito, and took advantage of the crowd to move close enough to press her hip against mine. At first she said nothing. She only smiled at me and took the first sip of her beer.

“You got away quickly,” she said at last, without looking at me. “I was starting to enjoy myself.”

“So was I,” I replied. “But they didn’t give me much choice.”

Her right hand moved down my side and brushed my fly as if by accident. It wasn’t. She felt the bulge and smiled a little more. She pressed two fingers against the fabric, assessing me, and slowly traced the length of my cock over my trousers before withdrawing her hand.

“Well, what you’ve got hidden in there isn’t bad at all,” she murmured.

I let a second pass, then held out my other hand.

“Mateo,” I lied.

“Lorena,” she said, squeezing my fingers.

She asked whether I had liked the tailor’s shop. I told her I had liked both things: the thrill of the situation and what I had seen in the mirror. She confessed that she had been turning men on like that for years—in fitting rooms, in elevators, on bar terraces whenever the mood took her—and that very few of them reacted as well as I had.

“And you?” she asked.

“I’m a voyeur. I’ve been that way since adolescence. I like watching.”

“Then we make a good pair. I like being watched. And if the person watching gets this horny, so much the better.”

The crush at the bar concealed anything that might have been noticed. Taking advantage of a group ordering three rounds at once, I slipped a hand between her legs. She was wearing a knee-length wool skirt. I slowly raised the hem with my fingers, taking my time, barely moving my elbow, until I reached the fabric of her panties. She was hot and soaked to the touch. I could feel her pubic hair through the cotton and, lower down, the wetness running between her thighs.

Lorena brought her lips to my ear and opened her legs as wide as she could without arousing suspicion.

“Put a finger in,” she whispered. “I can’t take it anymore.”

I moved her panties aside and entered her. I found her pussy open, swollen, and drenched, so wet that my finger slipped all the way in without any resistance. I began moving very slowly, tracing her clitoris with my fingertip, unhurried, staring straight ahead as if I were reading the bar’s chalkboard. She bit her lip to keep from making a sound and gripped the edge of the counter with her free hand. I put in a second finger, curled them upward in search of her spot inside, and began pumping her slowly, feeling the walls of her pussy close around me whenever I reached the back.

“You son of a bitch,” she whispered against my ear, smiling. “If you keep that up, I’ll come standing right here.”

“How much time do you have?” she asked after a while, without moving my hand from between her legs.

“A couple of hours.”

“Enough. Come on, if you keep touching my pussy like that, they’re going to throw me out of the bar.”

***

She went out first. We each paid for our own drinks so as not to attract attention, and I waited thirty seconds before following her. Beneath the bar, where no one could see me, I sucked my fingers, tasting her juices before I left. I saw her at the end of the street, standing as if waiting for a bus. When she saw me appear, she started walking without looking back.

I followed her through four or five alleyways. We ended up in front of a small premises with a frosted-glass display window and a faded sign on which one could barely read “Lorena Antiques.” She took out her keys, unlocked the door, went inside, and left it just ajar for me.

When I came in and locked it from the inside with two turns of the key, she was already at the back, peering into the office.

“This way,” she said.

The premises were spacious, with antique furniture covered by white sheets, an unlit Art Deco lamp on the ceiling, and a dry smell of dust and varnish. The office was in one corner, separated from the rest by a glass partition. Inside were two worn leather armchairs facing each other, a low table, and an empty coat rack.

Lorena closed the office door, switched off the only bulb, and let the shop’s light filter in through the glass. We were left in late-afternoon gloom, with the street still on the other side of the door and the rest of the world impossibly far away.

“Sit there,” she said, pointing to one of the armchairs. “And don’t move. No touching me until I tell you to.”

I obeyed. She positioned herself two yards away, standing in the center of the office, and stared at me for a few seconds without moving, as if allowing the image to settle. Then she began.

She unbuttoned her blouse one button at a time, just as she had in the fitting room, except for the last one, which she left for me. I had to press my fingers into the leather of the armchair to keep from standing up. The blouse fell over the back of the other chair, and she remained in her bra, the same black bra as before, emphasizing the deep line between her breasts.

She undid the two clips of her skirt. It slid to the floor, and she brushed it aside with the tip of her foot, lifting it slightly to the right first, then slightly to the left, like someone taking off her shoes without hurry. She was left in black panties, soaked at the front, with a dark stain spreading through the cotton from the cleft of her pussy up beyond her pubic mound.

She began striking poses. One hand on her waist, the other at the nape of her neck, her weight resting on her left hip. Then her right hip. Then facing me, opening her legs just slightly, bringing two fingers to the edge of her panties as if she were about to put them inside, and stopping just before she did. Each pose lasted just long enough for me to fix it in my memory. Every gesture was an invitation she took care not to complete.

“Keep looking,” she said, though there was no need. “You’re not going to miss a single detail today.”

She slipped a finger beneath her panties and caressed herself without pulling it out, slowly pushing her pelvis a little toward me so I wouldn’t miss the movement beneath the fabric. Then she lowered her panties to mid-thigh, let them fall, and kicked them aside. She was naked from the waist down, her pussy opened by two of her fingers, glistening with juices, her lips swollen and parted to show me the vivid pink inside. She brought her fingers to her mouth, sucked them, and lowered them again, this time sliding two of them all the way in. She began fucking herself while looking me in the eyes, her breathing growing increasingly ragged.

I could feel my new trousers growing tighter, my cock completely rigid against the fabric, a thread of pre-cum already seeping through my underwear.

“Can I?” I asked, putting my hand to my fly.

“I was waiting for you to ask. Take it out. I want to see it.”

I stood up. I began undressing with the same leisurely deliberation she had used, leaving one garment after another on the empty armchair. My shirt, my shoes, my new trousers folded clumsily, my socks. When I was down to my underwear, my cock outlined in full against the cotton, Lorena licked her lips and came closer. She sat in the armchair opposite me, spread her legs wide, and beckoned.

“Come here. On your knees.”

I crossed the two steps between us and knelt between her thighs. She ran her tongue over the fabric of my underwear, unhurried, tracing the entire outline of my cock and balls. Then she gripped the sides of the garment and slowly pulled it down until my cock sprang free, hard and pointing at her face. She licked her lips.

“My God, what a marvel.”

She parted her lips and took me all the way in at once, down to her throat. I felt her close around me, her tongue working underneath while she looked up at me through misted eyes. Her other hand rose to one of my nipples and pinched it hard between two fingers. I closed my eyes and let her do it. She began sucking me slowly, swallowing me to the bottom every time, letting saliva run down her chin and drip onto her breasts.

She pulled me all the way out, watched me gleaming with saliva, ran me across her lips like a lipstick, and took me back in to the back of her throat. Every so often she released me and went down to my balls, sucking them one by one, holding them in her mouth while she slowly stroked my cock with her hand. Then she rose again, drove her tongue into my frenulum, and swallowed me in one motion. She kept at it for a long while, unhurried, measuring every inch with her tongue, sucking me as if her life depended on it. I felt my orgasm building in my balls and had to push her head away with both hands.

“Stop, stop, I’m going to come,” I begged.

She pulled away with her mouth open, a strand of saliva hanging from her lip to the tip of my cock, and licked her lips with a smile.

“Not yet. Save it. Now you sit down.”

I let myself drop into the armchair. She remained standing in front of me. She reached behind her back, unclasped her bra, and let it fall forward. Her breasts spilled free, heavy, their nipples already hard, dark, and thick, pulling downward under their own weight. She turned around without a word and, with her back to me, came to sit on top of me. She took my cock in her hand and ran it between her thighs without putting it inside, trapping it against the wet cleft of her pussy and squeezing her thighs around it.

She leaned her back against my chest, raised her arms behind her, and wrapped them around the back of my neck. The position left her breasts level with my hands and her pussy perfectly accessible in front of me. I took a while to begin. First I wanted to enjoy the weight of her body against mine, the smell of perfume mixed with sweat and wet pussy, the warmth of her nape against my collarbone, the feel of my cock sliding between her thighs whenever she moved her hips. Then I began to touch her.

I ran my hands up her ribs, circled her breasts without touching them, skirting them like a child trying to prolong the anticipation. When I finally cupped them, she let out the first sound of the afternoon, a short moan escaping through her nose. I massaged them slowly, opening and closing my fingers, playing with her nipples between my knuckles, pinching and tugging them until gooseflesh rose across her chest. Lorena shifted on top of me very slowly, setting the pace with her hips, dragging my cock up and down between her buttocks and thighs.

“Yes, like that, touch them hard,” she panted. “As if you wanted to tear them off.”

I moved my hands down over her navel, reached her pubic mound, and entered without asking. I found her pussy open and dripping wet, all her sex swollen and throbbing. I began caressing her with my whole hand, moving over her from top to bottom, coating my fingers with her juices. Every time I reached her clitoris, I paused for a second and moved down to her entrance, slipping in one finger first, then two, then three, curling them upward in search of her spot inside while working her clitoris in circles with my thumb.

Lorena couldn’t keep still. She writhed against my body with every thrust, rotated her pelvis, and dug her fingernails into the back of my neck. I could feel her pussy contracting around my fingers, feel her juices running down to my wrist, feel her wetness coating my balls. At one point she took my head in both hands and pulled it against her shoulder.

“Don’t stop,” she begged. “I’m almost there. I’m coming, you bastard, I’m coming.”

I sped up the rhythm of the three fingers inside her and my palm against her clitoris. I rubbed her hard, mercilessly, while squeezing one breast with my other hand and twisting her nipple. She came in a long shudder, biting the back of her free hand to keep from letting out a cry that could have been heard from the street. I felt her pussy spasm around my fingers in dry contractions, one after another, and a hot gush run over her hand and stain my thigh. I heard her panting against my neck for about twenty seconds, then she relaxed completely against me, her muscles loose, her body heavy, her eyes closed.

We stayed like that for a while. Five minutes, perhaps more. I stroked her belly with my free hand and brushed the curls from her face with the other, my cock still hard and trapped between her thighs, soaked with her juices. She breathed deeply and slowly, like someone returning from a very distant place.

Then she sighed, sat up, turned around, and kissed me on the mouth in a gesture that was almost grateful. A deep, lingering kiss with her whole tongue, while she squeezed my cock with one hand and slowly stroked it. She looked down, smiled when she saw that I was still hard, the tip gleaming and throbbing, and knelt between my legs.

“And now I’m going to drain every last drop from you,” she whispered. “You’ve earned it.”

She closed her eyes, leaned in, opened her mouth wide, and swallowed me all the way to the bottom again. She began sucking me eagerly, with both hands, one at the base and the other on my balls, swallowing, sucking, moving her head up and down at a rhythm that wasn’t going to let me hold out for long. When she felt my thighs tense and my cock swell in her mouth, she pulled away just enough to leave the tip between her lips and stroked me with her hand, looking me in the eyes.

I came in her mouth in three long spurts, giving her the entire orgasm I’d been storing up all afternoon. She received it without pulling away, swallowing what she could and letting the rest run over her lip to her chin. When I finished, she took my cock out of her mouth, wiped her chin with two fingers, and slowly sucked them clean without taking her eyes off me.

“Good boy,” she murmured with a smile.

Outside, on Santa Cruz Street, evening continued to fall without anyone knowing a thing.