She took me to the hotel and said to the receptionist:
—“Give me the room farthest away, so no one can hear. My collagen makes a lot of noise.”
Two years ago, when I was just eighteen, life was a constant struggle. I came from a humble family and had managed what many considered impossible: admission into the state university. But that was only the first hurdle. Reality hit me every single day. I didn’t own a computer—an essential tool for any student—and my notes were a chaotic mess of loose sheets I tried desperately to keep together. Some days, classes stretched from morning until night, and hunger was my only companion. My stomach growled during calculus lectures while I could only drink tap water to fool it, watching classmates head to the cafeteria. Money wasn’t just a problem—it was an obsession, a suffocating need.
One afternoon, on my way home, exhausted and disheartened, I passed through one of the nicer streets in my neighborhood. Just two blocks from my house, I saw a woman in her garden. She must have been around fifty-five, her short silver-streaked hair giving her an air of distinction rather than age. She was curvy, striking, with a commanding presence. She was trying to trim some plants, clearly without a clue, while weeds overran the yard. In my head, a lightbulb went off: opportunity. She needed help, and I needed money.
I gathered my courage, walked up to her gate, and cleared my throat. She turned, wiping sweat from her forehead. I offered my services to fix her garden at a modest price. She looked me up and down openly, a half-smile playing on her lips.
—“Do you have experience, young man?” she asked, her voice low but melodious.
—“Of course,” I lied smoothly. Desperation breeds boldness.
We agreed I would come the next morning, Saturday. Before I left, she said:
—“Your face looks familiar.”
—“I live two blocks away,” I replied.
She smiled again, broader this time.
—“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
At dawn Saturday, I arrived and threw myself into the work. I yanked out weeds, trimmed hedges the way I thought they should look, and cut the lawn. By noon, under a punishing sun, she came outside and invited me to lunch. The table looked like a feast. She served me a mountain of stew, rice, salad, and a tall glass of passion fruit juice. I devoured it like a starving man while she watched silently, that enigmatic smile on her face.
Between bites, she asked questions—about my studies, my family, my age. I answered innocently, not reading between the lines. When I asked about her family, she told me she’d been widowed five years ago. Her husband had left her well-off. Her son lived in the U.S., her daughter in Canada; both sent her money but rarely visited. She was beautiful, wealthy, and alone. The thought flashed through my mind, but I brushed it aside. She was just being kind.
By four o’clock, the garden looked transformed. She came out, shocked at the result, and insisted on paying me five hundred dollars. I refused—it was too much. But she pressed the bills into my hand with authority: “Take it. You earned it.” Before I left, she asked for my number “just in case.”
The next morning, Sunday, I woke to several messages from her. The kitchen sink was leaking—could I fix it? Out of gratitude, I agreed, not planning to charge her.
When I arrived, she led me to the kitchen. But this time, she was dressed differently. Very differently. A short silk robe, barely covering her curves. No bra. Her full breasts pressed against the fabric every time she leaned toward me. Her toned legs brushed near my face as I worked under the sink. Her perfume—a floral, sweet scent—wrapped around me. The job was simple, but my hands shook, my focus shattered.
When I finished, she smiled.
—“Thank you, Juan. You’re a very handy young man.”
She tried to pay me again, but I refused firmly.
—“No, ma’am. Yesterday was more than enough. I’m happy to help.”
She stepped closer, her eyes locked on mine.
—“Fine,” she whispered. “If you won’t take money for what you did today… take it for what we’re about to do.”
I froze, stunned.
—“What do you mean?” I stammered.
Her voice lowered to a husky murmur.
—“Juan, I’m not blind. I saw how you looked at me yesterday… and today. You undressed me with your eyes. And I don’t mind. It’s been five years since a man touched me. Five years without passion, without heat. I’m alone. You’re young, full of life. And I know your struggles. I saw how hungry you were yesterday. I can help you—buy you a computer, give you money for expenses. All I ask is… be with me.”
I hesitated. She was stunning, desirable. But the age difference…
—“You’re very beautiful, ma’am, but I don’t know if it would work. The age…”
She laughed softly.
—“That doesn’t matter, sweetheart. Let me worry about that. I’ll make sure you enjoy every second.”
My mind was a storm—shock, doubt, prejudice… and the crushing weight of my poverty. She was offering me a way out, wrapped in silk sheets and expensive perfume. I looked into her eyes, full of promise and desire, and I made my choice. I accepted.
And let’s just say—an experienced woman knows things no young man ever forgets. Elena, as she asked me to call her, stripped me of all boyish insecurities. She bought me a laptop, new clothes, and gave me money every week. My life transformed. My grades soared.
That was two years ago.
Which brings us to tonight. To celebrate the end of my exams, she booked us a weekend at the city’s most luxurious hotel. At the reception desk, she smiled mischievously at the clerk:
—“Give us the farthest room, so no one hears. My collagen makes a lot of noise.”
My face burned red. The receptionist blinked in confusion. I tried to sound casual, suppressing my laughter:
—“That’s not true, miss.”
Elena shot me a wicked glance over her shoulder. I knew exactly what she meant—and tonight, in that faraway room, she’d prove again who she calls “The Noisy One.” And honestly, I can’t wait.
TO BE CONTINUED… Watch: [in comment] – Made with AI