The Morning My Boss Handed Me Over to Close the Deal

That autumn morning wasn’t supposed to be any different from any other. My boss, Esteban, called me into his office as soon as I stepped through the office door and handed me a handwritten list, with that cramped handwriting only he could make out.

—I need you to go to Damián’s warehouse —he said, without looking up from the screen—. New materials arrived, and I want someone I trust to check them before I sign anything.

I protested. I wasn’t the right person to evaluate steel profiles or cement shipments; that was the job of the site crew. But Esteban insisted with that calm of his that allowed no argument.

—I don’t trust anyone else. And the way this conversation goes is riding on a big contract. Go, Marina. Do it for me.

Do it for me. He said it as if it were a minor favor, as if he didn’t fully know what he was asking. Though, thinking back on it later, I believe he knew perfectly well.

I agreed, as you’re reading, because I always ended up agreeing. I took my purse, my car keys, and left with the list folded in my pocket, without imagining how that deal was going to be sealed.

The warehouse was on the outskirts, a huge sheet-metal building with a sales room in front and offices at the back, after several work areas filled with coils and shelving. An employee met me and asked me to wait until his boss gave the okay for me to go in. A few minutes later he answered an internal call, nodded a couple of times, and told me to follow him down a side corridor.

Damián opened his office door before I even finished arriving. He was taller than I remembered from the times I had run into him at meetings, with graying hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. He greeted me with a smile from ear to ear and a kiss on the cheek, taking the opportunity to press his body against mine just enough for me to feel his hardness pressing into my thigh. He let his eyes travel over me without hiding it, assessing how I’d dressed, and his cologne filled my nose: expensive, masculine, far too aware of what it was meant to provoke.

That cool morning I had put on a black muslin T-shirt over a lace bra, a denim jumper with a short, slightly flared skirt, opaque lycra stockings, and knee-high heeled boots in a suede blue I liked far too much. Underneath, a tiny flesh-colored thong, barely a thread and a triangle of fabric that covered almost nothing. I had dressed like that for an office, not for this. Or so I told myself while he looked.

—Take off your jacket; it’s hot in here —he said, and it wasn’t a suggestion.

I did as I was told. When I laid my wool jacket on a chair, his eyes finished taking me in and a low whistle escaped him.

—It’s a shame you’re married —he commented, pouring coffee from an espresso machine—. Otherwise I wouldn’t let you leave this office.

I smiled and accepted the compliment the way you accept a pleasant lie. I sat down in a low armchair, one of those that forces you to sit lower than the other person, and hurried to take out the list so I could talk about what had brought me there.

—I know why you came —he cut in, bringing me the cup—. But first we’re going to look at the materials and see what arrangement we can reach. Esteban and I talked price, and that price can improve quite a bit if it depends on you.

If it depends on you. The phrase hung in the air, loaded with a weight we both understood.

We drank coffee and talked. A little about the project, a lot about my life. I told him my husband was a merchant sailor, that he’d been aboard twelve days, and that between my daughter, work, and the house everything felt uphill. I told him, without meaning to, that I missed him. That I missed having him close. Damián listened with his elbows on his knees, leaning toward me, nodding at the right moments.

Then he stood up. He came closer, bent down in front of my armchair, and took my shoulders in both hands.

—Marina, I’m here to help you with anything you’ll let me —he said, lowering his voice—. I know I’m being forward saying this, but I don’t like seeing you like this.

His dark eyes locked onto mine and didn’t let go. I don’t really know how it happened. One second I was thinking about how to answer him, and the next his mouth was on mine, his tongue slipping in slowly, and I was parting my lips for him without resisting at all. His beard scraped my chin, and that rough sting, instead of bothering me, turned me on. He kissed me as if we had already worked everything out in advance, and maybe that was how it was.

I stood up from the armchair so I could press more fully against him. Damián kissed my neck, behind my ear, down my collarbone, and I felt his erection pressed tight against my hip. It wasn’t huge, but it was rock hard, and the way he held it against me, deliberately, without rushing, told me he had control and expected me to accept it.

—Turn around —he ordered in my ear.

And I obeyed. That was the exact word for what I felt: obedience. I turned around and let his hands roam over my ass through my stockings, let him pull me against him, let him do whatever he wanted with me. In my head there was no guilt, not yet a thought for my husband twelve days away; there was only the weight of that man behind me and the urge to belong to him for a while.

***

—Take your pants down —he said, and again it wasn’t a question.

I knelt in front of him on the carpet, unbuckled his belt, and yanked his pants down. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath. His cock sprang out in front of my face, hard, the glans shiny and taut, and I took it with both hands like someone receiving something that belonged to her. I kissed it first at the base, slowly, tracing upward with my tongue to the tip, feeling his thigh tremble.

—Like that, Marina —he murmured, gathering my hair into a fist behind my neck—. Slowly.

I took him all the way into my mouth, as much as I could, and let him touch the back of my throat before pulling back. I sucked him without hurrying, with my eyes closed, listening to his breathing change rhythm above me. He set the pace with his hand in my hair, neither rough nor gentle, just enough to remind me who was in charge. And I liked that he reminded me.

When he pulled away, it wasn’t because he wanted it to end like that. He made me kneel on the low armchair, with the velvet back between my hands and my ass toward him. I still had my thong on and my stockings up to my waist, soaked through, stuck to my skin from how wet I was. I felt his breath first, then his mouth over my lycra, biting slowly, before he pulled my stockings down to my thighs and slid the thong’s string aside with one finger.

His tongue arrived without warning and ripped a sound from me I couldn’t hold back. He licked me from bottom to top, lingering, sometimes going up to the other place, that one I never expected, leaving it wet and throbbing.

—Stay still —he said every time I pushed my hips toward him—. When I say.

And I stayed still, trembling, my knuckles white on the backrest. Making me wait was part of what he enjoyed, and I had stopped having any will of my own somewhere between the first kiss and that moment.

—I’m going to give you everything, nice and slow —he whispered against the nape of my neck, placing the head of his cock between my lips—. But you’re going to ask me for it.

I pushed my ass back, searching for him, and he moved it a couple of centimeters away, playing, until I had no pride left.

—Please —I said, and my voice came out broken—. Put it in me. Please.

Only then did he take my hips with both hands and push in, working his way forward slowly, centimeter by centimeter, until I felt his pelvis slam against me. He stayed there a second, buried completely, letting me feel every millimeter. Then he started to move, a firm, deep rocking, leaning over my back to kiss the nape of my neck and bite my throat, that beard scraping my skin and melting me whole.

—You’re mine this morning —he said, marking every thrust—. Say it.

—I’m yours —I answered, and I meant it, without thinking twice—. I’m yours.

I felt empty when he pulled out all at once. I heard him crouch down again, felt his tongue again farther back, wetting me, preparing me, while I spread my ass cheeks with both hands and offered myself to him without being asked. This time I was the one who asked.

—I want you to give it to me there —I said, surprised by my own voice—. Let me do it.

He pressed the tip against the center and didn’t move. He waited, giving me control over that part, knowing it was the best way to have all of me. I braced my hands on the backrest and started to push back, feeling him yield slowly, feeling him work his way in, filling me little by little while I controlled the speed. It was a sensation right on the edge of too much, exactly on the side of pleasure, and I wanted all of it. I pushed until his pelvis hit me again, and then I pushed a little more, just to feel him all the way in.

—Good, Marina —he said in a rough voice, his hands digging into my waist—. Move yourself. Like that.

And I moved. It had been months since I had felt so much like the owner of my body and so surrendered to it at the same time, both things together, tracing myself around to feel him from every angle, searching for the rhythm that would break him apart. He let me go on for a while, giving me the illusion of control, until his breathing cracked and he took back command with both hands, driving me against him, going deeper than I dared.

—I can’t hold on —he gasped into my ear.

—Don’t take it out —I begged—. Inside. Stay inside.

I felt him tense all over, that unmistakable throb announcing the end, and he gripped my hips hard to drive himself in as far as he possibly could. He came with a growl against my nape, pressed to my back, while I clamped around him over and over to draw out the last drop. We stayed like that for several seconds, locked together, breathing hard, unwilling to move. Then he came out slowly and turned me around to hold me, both of us still trembling.

I dressed in the office’s tiny bathroom, pulling my stockings up over the soaked thong, looking at myself in the mirror with a strange calm, without a speck of guilt. Damián was waiting, leaning against the desk when I came out.

—Tell Esteban the discount is guaranteed —he said, and kissed me long on the lips—. He learned how to do business.

We said goodbye at the door. I drove home with the windows down and my head strangely light. Before I got there, I sent Esteban a voice message: that everything was in order with the materials, that I’d secured an important discount, and that I was going to take the rest of the day to recover.

Only then, stopped at a traffic light, did I understand what had really happened that morning. Esteban hadn’t sent me to check steel profiles. He’d sent me because he knew exactly how to close that deal, and I was the tool. The strangest part is that instead of making me indignant, the idea made me smile. My boss had handed me over, and both sides had gotten the perfect deal.