The Interview in Which I Learned to Obey

I rode the elevator up, mentally reviewing the answers I had rehearsed all week. Twenty-two years old, final year of Marketing, flawless GPA, and three letters of recommendation folded carefully inside my folder. An internship scholarship at Damián Vergara’s agency wasn’t offered twice, and I had done the impossible to make it to the final round.

I had dressed to impress without looking like I was trying too hard: white blouse, straight skirt to the knee, sheer stockings, and discreet heels. I wore my brown hair loose over my shoulders because someone had once told me that way I seemed more approachable. Professional but accessible, I repeated to myself as the doors opened on the top floor.

The office occupied the entire penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows, all of Valencia at his feet, and at the back a dark wood desk behind which waited a man who bore no resemblance to the photo on his corporate profile. Thirty-something, tall, broad-shouldered, a tailored charcoal-gray suit. He did not smile when I walked in.

—Marina —he said, reading my name off the file without looking up—. Sit down.

I obeyed, crossing my legs carefully so the skirt would not ride up. Behind me I heard a sharp sound. The door. Then a second click, more metallic. The key turning in the lock.

My heart lurched, but I told myself it was normal. Private offices, confidentiality, the usual thing.

Damián flipped through my résumé in silence for what felt like endless minutes. I took the opportunity to look at him: the tense jaw, the big hands, a calm that was more intimidating than any shout. He was in no hurry about anything, and that was precisely the part that made me nervous.

—You’re brilliant on paper —he said at last, setting the folder aside—. Perfect grades, languages, awards. But here paper is useless to me.

—Then what are you looking for? —I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

He looked up for the first time. His eyes were dark, alert, as if he had been reading me for some time and not the file.

—Obedience —he replied—. Dedication. The ability to do exactly what you’re told when you’re told, without arguing. Do you know what that means?

I felt a lump in my throat. Something in his tone did not fit with a job interview, and yet I could not name it.

—I think so, sir. But I only came for the scholarship.

Damián smiled. It was a slow smile, without warmth, the smile of someone who already knows how the conversation ends.

—Stand up.

I hesitated. My pulse hammered my ribs so hard I thought he might hear it from across the desk.

—I’m not going to do anything I don’t want to do —I said, and I knew right away I was saying it more to convince myself than him.

—No one’s asking you to. The door is right there. —He tilted his chin toward it—. Open it, go downstairs, and forget this ever happened. There will be no consequences. I promise.

I looked at the door. Then back at him. My legs did not move an inch.

And we both noticed.

Damián got up slowly, walked around the desk, and stopped a meter from me. He smelled like expensive, woody cologne, and something harder to name that had to do with the absolute certainty of someone who has never asked permission for anything.

—Last chance, Marina. If you stay, you stop being the perfect student on the file. For as long as this lasts, you do what I say. No half-measures. Are you staying?

I swallowed. Part of me, the sensible part, was screaming at me to grab my folder and run. The other part, one I had not known until that afternoon, felt a slow heat climbing my neck, the nape of my neck, places that should not be reacting inside an office.

—I don’t know if I can —I whispered.

He did not touch me. He only took one more step, until the space between us became dense.

—Unbutton your blouse. You have ten seconds. If you don’t, I’ll leave, and you’ll never know what it feels like to surrender completely.

***

I closed my eyes. My fingers rose on their own to the first button and trembled as they opened it. The second was easier. By the third, it cost nothing. The blouse slipped from my arms and fell to the floor with a whisper of fabric. Underneath, a white lace bra, and beneath the lace, my nipples already hardened, betraying me before I said a single word.

—Good girl —murmured Damián, and those two words ran through me completely—. Now the skirt.

—Please… —my voice was barely a thread—. This is too fast.

He lifted my chin with two fingers, not roughly, forcing me to look at him.

—Look at me and tell me you’re not wet. To my face. Say it and I’ll let you get dressed.

I couldn’t. I lowered my gaze, and that gesture was all the answer he needed. The side zipper gave under my fingers. The skirt fell to my ankles and I nudged it aside with my foot without him having to ask.

—Hands behind your back.

I obeyed reluctantly, bringing my wrists together behind me as if an invisible rope were tying them. Damián circled me slowly, not touching yet, just grazing the edge of my waist with his fingertips, the curve of one breast over the lace, the elastic of my thong at my hip. Each brush made my skin prickle.

—You’re shaking —he said behind me—. But not from fear.

—That’s not what you think —I lied, and the lie fell apart in my mouth when his fingers slid inside my thong and came back out, glossy.

—This says otherwise.

Shame burned my cheeks and, at the same time, desire tightened my belly with a force I had never felt before. It was humiliating. It was exactly what my body had been asking for all through the interview.

He guided me with his open hand on my back to the edge of the desk.

—On your knees.

I shook my head. The last bit of resistance, more out of pride than conviction.

—I’m not going to beg.

—I’m not asking you to —he answered, and his hand closed in my hair. Not violently, but with a calm firmness that admitted no argument.

When my knees touched the carpet, I heard him unbuckle his belt. The sound of metal against leather made the nape of my neck prickle. He was hard when he freed himself from his pants, and I looked at him for a second, mouth dry and pulse racing.

—Open.

I pressed my lips together for an instant, just enough to remind myself I could still choose. Then I parted them. He entered slowly, attentive to my reaction, letting me get used to him before pushing a little deeper. I closed my eyes and focused on breathing through my nose, on the heat, on the texture, on the way his hand set the rhythm from the back of my neck.

—That’s it. Slowly. As if everything you want depends on it.

And somehow it did. I took him all the way, let him in deeper, moaned around him with a mix of rage and desire I no longer knew how to separate. My eyes were wet from the effort, a thread of saliva sliding down my chin, and I did not stop. I did not want to stop.

***

When he pulled back, he lifted me with a gentle tug on my arm and turned me face-down against the desk. I felt him tug my thong down in one motion until it was tangled around my thighs. A hand between my shoulder blades bent me over the cold wood. The glass fogged against my cheek with every breath.

—Spread your legs —he ordered—. Wider.

I obeyed without protesting this time. I heard him kneel behind me, and then his tongue ran over me completely, slow and precise, searching for the exact spot that made me clutch my fists against the edge of the desk. Two fingers entered me and curled, and a gasp escaped me that I did not even try to hold back.

—Please —I whispered against the wood.

—Please what?

It took me a while to find the words. When I did, there was nothing left of the girl who had ridden up in the elevator.

—Fuck me… sir.

I heard him growl with satisfaction. He positioned himself behind me, placed his hands on my hips, and drove in all at once, all the way. The air fled my lungs. He held me with one hand at the nape of my neck, pressing me down against the desk, while the other delivered one burning slap after another to my skin until the sting blended with the pleasure.

—Say it. Tell me what you are now.

—Yours —I moaned, with not a trace of pride—. I’m yours, sir.

He quickened his pace until the desk creaked under my weight. Then he pulled out, and I felt the pressure shift, higher, tighter. My whole body went tense.

—Easy —he murmured, rubbing the base of my back with his thumb—. Breathe. Push toward me.

I did. He entered centimeter by centimeter, slowly, giving me time to open for him. It hurt and burned and, at the same time, I did not want him to stop. When he was all the way inside, he began to move with deep thrusts while his other hand dropped to rub my clit in slow circles.

—Come —he ordered in my ear—. Now.

The orgasm shot through me like a jolt. My legs shook, my fingers clenched against the wood, and a muffled cry got trapped between the glass and my own mouth. Damián emptied himself inside me with a rough growl, holding my hips until the last wave faded.

For a few seconds there was only our breathing and the distant hum of the air conditioning. Then he turned me carefully, brushed a damp lock off my sweaty forehead, and wiped away a tear with his thumb that I had not even realized I’d shed.

—The scholarship is yours —he said, fastening his belt with a calm I found obscene—. On Friday at seven you have your first meeting. With me. Alone.

I picked up the blouse from the floor with still-trembling hands and put it on backwards without realizing it. He noticed and said nothing.

—And what will the meeting be about? —I asked, because I needed to believe there was still a part of this that resembled a job.

Damián unlocked the door, held it open, and waited for me to go ahead of him.

—About what we just started —he replied—. Be punctual, Marina.

I stepped out into the hallway with the folder clutched against my chest, my heels unsteady on the marble, and a stubborn heat between my legs that stayed with me all the way back. In the elevator I looked at myself in the mirror: tousled hair, smeared lipstick, bright eyes of someone who had just discovered something about herself she would never be able to forget.

Friday arrived at seven on the dot.