Lust Under the Lights

I’m a 23-year-old college student living in Seattle, standing a bit over six feet with a buzz cut, a lean but toned physique from hitting the gym, and a smile that seems to work on most people. I’m no heartthrob, but I do alright, especially when I’m out at the bars and music venues around town, where I’ve had my share of fun with women my age.

My mom owns a small alterations shop in our neighborhood, stitching up hems and fixing jackets for locals. She’s always buried in work, so I often play delivery guy to help her out. One rainy afternoon, I was lounging at home, scrolling through social media to kill time after finishing a paper for school, when Mom asked me to drop off a tailored jacket to one of her clients.

Older women have always been my weakness – their confidence, their curves, the way they carry themselves. I’ve met plenty of them through Mom’s business: the barista at the coffee shop, the woman who runs the bookstore, and a few vendors at the weekend market. They’ve fueled countless fantasies, and a few have turned those fantasies into reality.

Mom handed me a garment bag with the jacket and told me to collect $30 from Marissa, who owns a flower stall at the market. The job was intricate, hence the price. Marissa’s place was a five-minute walk from our house, so I threw on a hoodie and headed out. When she answered the door, I was hit with why she’d been on my mind for years. Marissa’s in her late 50s but looks a decade younger – long auburn hair with a few silver strands, sharp green eyes behind chic glasses, and a figure that’s all curves. She’s widowed, has a bit of money, and the neighborhood whispers about her flirty reputation since her husband passed when I was a teenager. I’ve always found her magnetic.

Hey, you’re looking good, kid, – she said with a teasing grin, leaning against the doorframe.

Thanks, Marissa. Got the jacket Mom fixed for you. How’s it going? – I replied, trying not to stare too hard.

Just wrapping up some orders. Come in, get out of the rain, – she said, waving me inside.

I asked about her son, Jake, who’s my age but kind of a loner. I don’t know much about him, and frankly, I don’t care. I told Marissa she looked amazing, which wasn’t a lie – she was in a fitted sweater and jeans that showed off her figure, and my pulse was already racing.

She offered me a iced tea, and I accepted, happy to linger. As we chatted, she mentioned she was about to shower and head out for the evening. Feeling a spark, I suggested we grab dinner and catch a live music show at a local venue. Her eyes widened, but a smile crept across her face. She’s known me since I was a kid, but I could tell she saw me differently now – a grown man, not the boy from years ago.
Dinner and a show? With you? – she said, her tone playful. – What’ll the neighbors say?

They’ll wish they were you, – I shot back, winking.

She agreed, and I waited while she got ready. The bathroom door was cracked open, and I couldn’t resist a glance. Through the steam, I saw her under the shower, water cascading over her smooth skin. Her breasts were full, defying her age, and she ran a loofah slowly across them, then down her stomach, lingering between her thighs. Her movements were deliberate, almost like she knew I was watching, and I felt a surge of heat. I started to touch myself but stopped, not wanting to ruin the moment. It left me aching for the rest of the night.

Marissa emerged in a sleek black dress that hugged her hips, her hair swept up elegantly. We drove in her convertible to a trendy jazz club downtown, grabbing a table in the back. The music was smooth, and the dim lighting gave us cover. Over drinks – a martini for her, a craft beer for me – I leaned in, telling her how stunning she was, how she made every woman in the room look ordinary.
Oh, please, – she laughed, sipping her drink. – I’m old enough to be your mom.

You’re sexier than anyone my age, Marissa, – I said, my voice low. – You’re killing me here.

The music shifted to a slow, sultry number, and we hit the dance floor. The club was packed with couples like us – older women with younger guys – so we didn’t stand out. As we swayed, I let my hand rest on her lower back, then daringly slid it lower, brushing the curve of her backside. She pressed closer, her hips grazing mine, and I could feel her warmth through the thin fabric of her dress. My body responded instantly, and when she tilted her hips slightly, I knew she felt it too.

We left the club, both a little tipsy from the drinks and the chemistry. In her car, parked in a quiet lot, I couldn’t hold back. I slid my hand up her thigh, feeling the heat of her skin through her stockings, and leaned in to kiss her neck, tasting the faint salt of her skin.

Take me somewhere, – I murmured. – I need you.

Her son was probably home, so her place was out. She suggested a boutique hotel she knew in Capitol Hill. We checked in, and the room was plush – soft lighting, a king-sized bed, and a view of the city. I ordered a shot of bourbon to steady my nerves, and then we were on each other.