My coworker was married and still came knocking on my door

My job takes me traveling two or three times a year. I’m a compliance inspector at a logistics company, and each season our team visits one of the branches to review procedures, contracts, and documentation. It’s a job I like, although it means weeks away from home and hotel beds that are far too big for one person alone.

That year I had to go to Santiago, Chile with a coworker from the department named Andrés. We’d known each other for four years, worked side by side every day, and until that trip we had never been anything other than coworkers. Andrés is about forty-two, tall, solidly built, dark-haired with a little gray at the temples. Married, with two children. The kind of neat, calm man who keeps boundaries with a clarity I myself admired.

The flight lasted three hours. We got to the hotel at ten in the morning, asked for rooms on the same floor but on opposite sides of the hallway, and got to work immediately. Long days, a lot of paperwork, meetings with the branch managers. By the time we finished the second day, my shoulders were tight and my head was full of numbers that refused to go away.

***

Andrés was the one who suggested dinner in his room so we wouldn’t have to leave the hotel. I agreed without hesitation. We ordered room service and chose a streaming movie that required no mental effort. While we ate, we started talking, first about work, then about previous trips, then about life in general.

—And you? Have you still been alone since the divorce? —he asked at one point.

—Yes. Almost a year now. I prefer it that way, for now. —I took a sip of the soda I’d ordered.— And you and your wife, how are things?

Andrés took a second before answering.

—So-so, honestly. With the kids and work, finding the time is complicated. We do what we can.

—How often do you fuck?

He looked at me with one eyebrow raised, surprised and amused by the direct question.

—Twice a month. Three if we’re lucky —he answered. And then, before I could say anything—: And you? How long has it been since anyone fucked you?

—Since the divorce. Almost a year with my cunt closed.

He didn’t say anything else. Neither did I. I had always assumed his marriage worked well in every respect. I knew him as someone affectionate when he mentioned his family, always with that image of solidity and stability. But there are things you can’t see from the outside, and that night I had just seen one.

At that moment the movie reached a scene that changed the tone of the night. A hotel bed, two characters who had spent forty minutes building up tension, and a door that closed. We both watched it a second too long before looking away with far too much enthusiasm. We laughed at how obvious the silence had been.

Uncomfortable. But also something else.

***

I went back to my room under the pretense of taking a shower. I showered, put on my pajamas, sat on the bed, and realized I was still thinking about the movie scene and the sex conversation and, above all, Andrés. It had been months since anyone had touched me. The body has a memory of its own, and when the mind gives it an excuse, it doesn’t waste it. I could feel my nipples hard against the fabric of my pajamas and a warm wetness between my legs that wouldn’t calm down on its own.

I sat there for a while with my phone in my hand, not doing anything useful. Then I made a decision I was fully aware of: I put on two T-shirts, a sweatshirt, socks, and a cap I found in the pocket of my suitcase, went down to the lobby for a bottle of wine, and came back with two glasses from the hallway kitchen. I knocked on Andrés’s door.

—Aren’t you asleep yet? —he asked. He was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants and looked like he hadn’t been able to shut his mind off either.

—I brought wine.

He let me in.

I pulled a deck of cards out of my suitcase—I always carry one on long trips—and suggested a gambling game with penalties. I explained the rules confusingly on purpose, going backward, correcting myself, stretching the explanation just long enough for the glasses to be half empty before he understood them fully. When he did, the rules included losing a piece of clothing for every round lost.

—Seriously? —he asked.

—It’s just a game.

It took him a few seconds to decide, weighing the idea with that expression of his I know well. Then he said yes.

I had put on three layers before knocking on his door. Andrés had a T-shirt, pants, socks, and boxer briefs. Four items against my many. I won the first rounds easily and he started losing his socks first, then his pants. The wine was taking effect and the room was losing that formal tension we keep at the office. We talked between rounds, laughed more than we had in months.

When Andrés lost his T-shirt I went quiet for a second. He was right in front of me, shirtless, and it took more than I would have liked not to stare. He was more athletic than his work clothes suggested: broad back, flat stomach, not much room for sloppiness. And there, in the tight bulge of his boxer briefs, an unmistakable erection was clearly outlined, one he wasn’t even trying to hide.

—Still in? —he asked.

—Still in.

One more round and he had nothing left to lose. He covered himself with the blanket, laughing, and I teased him while I finished my glass. It was two in the morning. I stood up, gathered the cards, and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek goodbye. As I bent toward him, the blanket slipped slightly. I saw it for a second: a thick, long cock, hard against his belly, the tip already shining with pre-cum.

Only a second. Enough to burn it into my head.

I left the room at an easy pace and closed the door carefully.

***

I lay back on my bed with a heat over me that had nothing to do with the room temperature. I took off the sweatshirt, the shirts on top, the shorts, and my panties. I looked at the ceiling. I ran a hand over my stomach and brought it down without restraint to my cunt. I was soaking, my lips swollen and my clit already throbbing on its own.

I started touching myself without overthinking it. I slid two fingers inside and pulled them out wet, used them to rub my clit in faster and faster circles. I thought about him, about the hard cock against his belly, the blanket slipping, that conversation about twice a month. I imagined myself kneeling between his legs, taking him down my throat, feeling him shove into me. I came not long after, arched on the bed, biting my lip so I wouldn’t shout, but it didn’t relieve me. Sometimes the body asks for more than one is willing to admit, and I wanted that cock inside me, not my fingers.

I was staring at the ceiling with my hand still between my legs when someone knocked on my door. Three soft raps.

I pulled a T-shirt over my naked body and opened it. The hallway was empty.

I went to his door and knocked. He opened immediately, as if he’d been standing by the door for a while, unsure whether to cross it or not.

—Was that you? —I asked.

—Yes.

We looked at each other for a moment. Then we moved toward each other at the same time, without the slow buildup from movies. We kissed with our mouths open, tongues deep inside. His hands found my face, then slid down my neck to get under my T-shirt and grab my tits hard, pinching my nipples with his fingers. Mine went straight to the bulge in his sweatpants and I squeezed his hard cock over the fabric. A growl slipped out against my mouth.

—You’re wet already —he said, slipping his other hand between my thighs to check.

—I’ve been wet since your fucking blanket slipped.

He took me to the bed without letting go of my waist. We lay down. He yanked my T-shirt off and paused a second to look at me naked before bending down and biting a nipple, tugging with his teeth until I let out a moan. He moved to the other one, sucking it into his mouth, one hand sliding down my stomach without stopping. When he reached my cunt, he slid two fingers in at once and pried my legs wide open with his elbow.

—Fuck, you’re soaked —he murmured against my chest—. You’re dripping.

He went down my stomach kissing me, leaving red marks from his beard, and when he reached between my legs he didn’t even hesitate. He spread my cunt lips open with his thumbs and ran his tongue all the way from my entrance to my clit. I screamed. He covered my mouth with one hand and kept eating me like he hadn’t fucked in months, sucking my clit, licking me open, alternating with two fingers he curved inside me, hitting the exact spot that made me writhe. I dug my heels into his back. I pulled his hair. I came with a muffled cry against his hand, my legs shaking, squeezing his head between my thighs until he stopped moving his tongue.

When he lifted his face it was shining, his beard wet with me. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled.

I stayed there for a moment unable to move, but only a moment. I sat up and shoved him back onto the mattress. I yanked his boxer briefs down and his cock sprang free, as hard as I’d seen it under the blanket. Big, thick, veined, the glans swollen and dark, dripping. I wrapped my hand around it and I still couldn’t close my fingers all the way.

—Fuck, Andrés —I said.

I took him into my mouth slowly, first the tip, sucking the head, playing with my tongue in the slit. I went a little lower, swallowing, feeling him fill my mouth all the way to my throat. I came back up, dripping saliva. I sucked his cock in full, with both hands, alternating my mouth with a slow handjob, spitting on the glans to make it slide better. I licked his balls, one by one, taking them into my mouth while I kept stroking him with my hand. I went back up the shaft with my tongue flat and swallowed him again, this time all the way down, choking a little.

—Like that, like that —he panted, his hand on the back of my neck not pressing, just following the rhythm I set—. Don’t stop, fuck, like that.

His breathing changed. His thighs tightened under my breasts. When he reached the limit he warned me with a growl and I took him to the back of my throat, pressing my lips tight, and held him there while he filled my mouth with hot spurts of thick semen. I swallowed as much as I could. When I pulled him out, a white thread hung from the corner of my mouth. I wiped it off with my finger and licked it while looking into his eyes.

We lay there for a while without talking. The city lights in the middle of the night came through the crack in the curtains and drew an orange line across the ceiling.

—It’s been a while —he said quietly.

—For me too.

***

I climbed on top of him. We started kissing again, slower than before, without the urgency of the beginning, and I felt him harden again beneath me, growing between my ass cheeks while I rubbed against his belly. I asked if he had protection. He took a condom from the nightstand without saying anything. I tore the wrapper with my teeth, rolled it onto his cock calmly, squeezing the head before drawing the rubber down to the base while he watched me with narrowed eyes.

I grabbed his shaft and rose onto my knees. I rubbed the tip against my soaked lips a couple of times, wetting it, sliding it over my clit. Then I lined it up with my entrance and lowered myself slowly, millimeter by millimeter, feeling myself open. I let out a sharp breath when I had him all the way inside. I stayed still for a second, sitting on him, feeling him pulse deep in me.

—Fuck, you fill me up —I whispered.

I started moving. First slowly, rising almost to the tip and lowering all the way, searching for the angle. His hands settled on my hips, controlling the depth, guiding me on him. I leaned forward and put my hands on his chest, riding him with my tits hanging in front of his face. He sat up just enough to catch one nipple in his mouth and suck on it while I sped up the rhythm. At one point I pressed my forehead to his and we stayed like that, moving slowly, not talking, with only the sound of breathing and the wet slapping of his cock entering and leaving me.

I changed position. I got off him, turned around, and got on all fours at the edge of the mattress. He moved behind me, kneeling. He grabbed my hips with both hands and drove into me in one thrust, all the way in. I screamed into the pillow.

—That’s it, you bastard, like that —I panted—. Hard.

He fucked me mercilessly, with long, deep thrusts that shook my whole body. His hips slammed against my ass with a dry smack at every hit. The headboard banged the wall and at some point I stopped worrying about the hotel’s thin walls. He grabbed my hair, winding it around his fist, and pulled back, forcing me to arch my back. He shoved even deeper from that angle. With his other hand he landed a hard slap on my ass cheek that tore a moan from me. Then another.

—Tell me you like it —he panted, never stopping his thrusts.

—I fucking love it, don’t stop, shove that cock all the way in me.

He reached a hand underneath and found my clit, rubbing it with two fingers at the same rhythm he was fucking me. It was too much. I came with a shudder that ran from my hips to my shoulders, clamping down on him, screaming into the pillow while the orgasm shook me in waves. He held on for a few seconds more, pulling my hips against his, and when his turn came he did it with a series of slower, deeper thrusts. I felt every one until he unloaded inside me with a long groan and stayed pressed to me, pinning me against his belly, emptying himself completely.

We collapsed onto our sides on the mattress, still joined. He slid out of me slowly, took off the tied-off condom, and dropped it in the trash. He put his arm under my head without saying anything. I closed my eyes and didn’t open them again until dawn.

***

When I woke up, the light was coming in through the curtains and Andrés was still asleep with his arm in the same place. I stared at him for a moment before getting up. My cunt felt swollen and there was a sweet soreness between my thighs that confirmed none of the night had been a dream.

I dressed in silence, picked up what was mine from the floor, and left the room. In my room’s shower I stayed under the hot water longer than necessary. Andrés had a wife and two children. I had chosen that night fully consciously from the moment I went down to the lobby for the wine. There was no version of the story in which I was a victim of anything.

That morning at breakfast we sat together as always, ordered coffee, and reviewed the schedule for the last day of the inspection. We didn’t mention any of what had happened. There was no need.

What started in Santiago did not end in Santiago. In the months that followed there were more work trips, more hotel rooms, more nights that began with some reasonable excuse and ended with his cock inside me in some new position. I knew exactly what my place was in that story: I was the other woman. I chose it anyway, with my eyes open.

It’s not the wisest decision I’ve ever made in my life. But I don’t regret it either.