The Price the Lawyer Paid to Save Her Father

She walked into my office in that charcoal gray suit I knew from the hearings, the same one that clung to her shoulders as if the fabric were trying to contain something too big to fit inside it. At twenty-nine she still had that diligent student’s face, but the dark circles and clenched jaw betrayed her: she hadn’t slept, she was furious, and she was terrified. Just the way I liked to see her.

I met her in law school, when I taught Civil Procedure and she sat in the front row taking notes she never needed. It was impossible not to notice Mariana Sotelo. Not only because of her body, but because of the way she answered: quick, sure, leaving no opening. I wanted her from the first midterm, and she never gave me the slightest chance. A decade later, chance had put her where I had always wanted to have her. Her father’s future, and with it her whole family’s, depended on the signature I decided to put down.

The file had been on my desk for weeks. A case built on flimsy evidence, witnesses contradicting one another, a prosecutor with more ambition than skill. Any honest judge would have dismissed it on first reading. I let it ripen, hearing after hearing, knowing that sooner or later she would come sit on the other side of this desk. I knew Mariana: she would never let her father rot in a cell without exhausting every last recourse. And the last recourse was me.

I had seen her argue that very morning, standing before the bench, her voice steady, citing case law from memory without a single syllable trembling. That woman did not crack in public. That was why I was so interested in the other one, the one who appeared when the door closed and there was no audience left: the one who was about to discover how far she was willing to go down.

I leaned back in my chair with my robe open and looked her over slowly, without bothering to hide it. I gave her the same slow smile I used in class when I flunked her for not staying behind to review with me. It had worked then and it still worked.

—Sit down —I said.

She obeyed at once, rigid, her hands crossed in her lap as if she wanted to strangle herself. I gave her the news without beating around the bush.

—Your father is out tomorrow. Affirmed acquittal on appeal, everything dismissed. But you know what it costs.

She swallowed. Nodded once. Nothing more was needed. I stood up, walked around the desk, and planted myself in front of her. She smelled of fear and an expensive perfume that no longer fooled anyone.

—On your knees. Now.

I saw her expression crack for a second. She closed her eyes. I imagined she was seeing the photo of her father in his cell, thinner with every visit. When she opened them, she sank to her knees slowly on the rug. Her knees were shaking, but she didn’t complain. I unbuttoned my trousers with all the calm in the world. I’d already been hard since I saw her come through the door. I took it out and brought it close to her face.

—Open your mouth. And don’t make me repeat myself.

She clenched her teeth for a moment. I thought she was going to spit on me, insult me, try something stupid. But no. She thought of her father and opened. I pushed in slowly at first, enjoying the way her lips parted around me, the way her tongue flattened against the shaft by pure instinct. I started moving, setting the pace with my hand at the back of her neck, driving into her mouth with slow, deep thrusts.

—That’s it, slowly… as if your life depended on it.

She did it well, mechanically, tears sliding down her cheeks and a strand of saliva hanging from her chin. She hated every second of it, you could see it in the way her eyes were squeezed shut, in the fists clenched at her sides. And that turned me on even more. I growled, tensed, and came without warning, filling her mouth. She swallowed by reflex, coughing, barely holding back a gag.

—Good girl.

I stroked her cheek like an obedient pet.

—Now stand up and take off everything except your heels.

***

She got to her feet shaking. She took off her jacket, her blouse, her bra. Her breasts came free, heavy, the nipples already hard despite everything. She slid off her skirt, stockings, thong. She was completely naked, trying to cover herself with her crossed arms. Pathetic and beautiful at the same time.

—Hands at your sides. Lean on the desk. Spread your legs.

She obeyed. She bent forward, palms flat on the wood, back arched, legs apart. The office was silent except for her ragged breathing and the distant hum of the air conditioner. On the wall, the framed diplomas and the brass scales watched the scene with the same indifference with which I watched her. I took my time. I ran my palm down her back, feeling the skin rise under my fingers, the slight tremor that ran through every vertebra.

I came up behind her. I parted her lips with my fingers and smiled when I checked: she was wet, shining, betraying herself.

—You’re soaking —I said into her ear—. Even if you deny it.

—No… it’s not because of you —she whispered, her voice broken.

I gave a low laugh. I pressed the tip against her and pushed in all at once, to the hilt. She let out a muffled cry. She was tight, hot, closing around me as if she wanted to push me out and keep me in at the same time. I started pounding her hard, gripping her hips, enjoying every slap against her ass, every time her breasts swung forward. She cried silently, tears falling onto the files, but her body began to answer. I felt it in her breathing, which sped up, and in her hips, which started moving a little, searching for me.

—Tell me you like it —I growled, speeding up.

—I… don’t… like… it… —she panted between sobs.

She was lying. I slid one hand down and rubbed her clit without mercy. She arched, a broken moan escaped her. And then she came: hard, violent, clamping down on me, trembling all over from her thighs to her shoulders. The humiliation made her finish even harder.

—There it is… now you do like it, don’t you?

She no longer denied it. She just panted, her head hanging, hair plastered to her sweaty face. I fucked her harder, feeling her clench around me again and again. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I came inside her, until I felt it spilling out. She shuddered again, a second, smaller orgasm, equally defeated.

I pulled out slowly.

—On your knees again. Clean me up, Doctor Sotelo.

She dropped without resistance. She opened her mouth and took me all the way in, licking the mixed taste of the two of us. She sucked slowly, swallowing everything, no longer gagging, no longer crying. Completely broken.

When she finished, I stroked her hair.

—Tomorrow at nine. And come without underwear… because you’re leaving without it anyway.

***

She dressed in silence, her movements stiff, while I settled my robe as if nothing had happened. I watched her pick up the thong from the floor and stuff it into her purse with clumsy fingers. She wiped the remains of tears from her cheek with the back of her hand, straightened the collar of her blouse, and put the lawyer back together who only minutes earlier had spoken before the bench without a tremor in her voice. The mask slipped back into place with a ease that I almost found tender. But her eyes were still glassy, and her hands wouldn’t quite obey her.

She didn’t look at me once. At the door she stopped for a second, hand on the knob, as if searching for words that never came. I let them die. They weren’t needed.

When she left, I opened the laptop and looked at the hallway cameras. I saw her lean against the marble wall, her chest rising as she took a deep breath, one hand over her stomach. She stayed there a long while, pulling herself together, before walking toward the elevator with legs still weak.

I signed the ruling that same afternoon. I held up my end: her father would sleep in his own bed the next day, free of all charges, never knowing the price. That was the elegance of the arrangement. She would carry the secret alone, and the secret would bind her to me far more tightly than any threat.

Because I know her. I can read her better than she can read herself, just as in those classes when I guessed the answer before she raised her hand. And I know that tomorrow at nine sharp she will knock on this door again. Not only for her father, who by then will already be free and safe. She will come back because part of her —the part that hates herself most tonight— can no longer stop thinking about what she felt today, bent over my desk, coming against her will while she swore she didn’t like it.

And that part always wins.