My Secretary Beat Me in the Office Bet

I’d been married seven years when Mariana walked into the office. It wasn’t a thunderclap or a revelation: it was an unease. She came down the main corridor with a folder under her arm, said hello to Human Resources, and kept going to the Purchasing department. I was in my cubicle signing a supplier packet and looked up on instinct. She didn’t anymore.

She was thirty-five, I heard later in the cafeteria. A fully formed woman, with nothing adolescent about her. Wide hips, a short waist, and an ass the corporate uniform couldn’t hide no matter how oversized the blazer was. I’m six foot two. She, I figured, was about five foot seven. Just the right difference to be looking at the nape of her neck every time she passed by my side.

My wife wasn’t bad, to be clear. We’d been together seven years, had two small kids, and a routine that worked. I didn’t go down to the office looking for anything strange. But there are women who get into you through your eyes before your head can decide whether it wants to look at them or not.

For the first few months I only saw her in passing. When it was her turn to come down and sign payroll, she crossed my section to make a copy of the receipt and left without saying hello. I’d lift my head just long enough to watch her walk away. She had a slow, unhurried stride, with a hip sway that didn’t seem calculated and was worse for it.

“Good morning,” I said the fourth or fifth time she passed.

“Good morning, Mr. Ortega,” she answered without stopping.

Mr. Ortega. As if we were twenty years apart and not five. I smiled at my screen and thought that someday I’d ask her to stop calling me sir.

***

The change came six months later. The second-quarter reorganization moved her from Purchasing to Administration, right across from my hallway. Now I saw her every day. Not by accident: I saw her because I made sure my desk faced her table.

She started wearing skirts. Not always, but on Thursdays and Fridays, yes. Straight skirts, knee-length, nothing provocative on the surface. Until she stood up, walked toward the copier, and the fabric clung to her with every step, tracing her ass and the outline of her panties underneath. Mariana had shapely legs, the kind of woman who goes to the gym without obsessing over it, and medium heels that made her move with a confidence that pulled me out of work for entire minutes. More than once I had to stay seated with a folder over my lap until my erection went down.

“Are you okay?” Carla, my cubicle mate, asked me once. “You’ve spent three minutes staring at that email without answering it.”

“Thinking,” I lied.

Thinking about what would happen if at some point she decided to really look at me. Thinking about how her cunt would look if I tore that skirt off her right then and there.

***

The promotion came in October the following year. Deputy Director of Operations. Private office, budget, two assistants assigned. When Human Resources sent me the list of staff available to support the new position, Mariana’s name was first. I read it twice and signed without making any comment.

The first Monday in the new office, I had her sitting three meters from my door. She started coming in four or five times a day with papers to sign, schedules to review, calls to return. Every time she leaned over my desk, her blouse opened two buttons and I lost the sentence halfway through. I caught a glimpse of the beginning of her breasts, the shadow line between the cups of her bra, and found myself thinking about what it would be like to have them in my mouth.

“Should I repeat the last part?” she asked the second week.

“Please.”

She did it without smiling, but I noticed she took longer than necessary to straighten up. I started to believe it wasn’t an accident.

The conversations slowly became personal without either of us planning it. That the coffee on the floor was awful. That Mondays always dawn cloudy. That she had been divorced for years and preferred to keep it that way, no commitments, no explanations. That I had two children. That my wife didn’t understand anything about my work.

“If you need anything, just tell me,” she said one Friday, with the office almost empty.

“Anything?”

“Anything,” she repeated, and paused half a second before leaving.

That sentence kept turning over in my head all weekend. I mentally fucked her in every dead moment: while driving, while watching TV with my wife, while showering. I imagined her on her knees, mouth open and tongue out, waiting.

***

The annual inventory landed in a bad week. Quarter close, two audits on top of it, and nobody on the team available to stay late. I asked Mariana to help me check the second-floor storerooms on a Thursday at seven in the evening. She said yes without blinking.

“My wife…” I started to explain, for some reason.

“You don’t need to justify yourself, Mr. Ortega.”

“Ricardo. Call me Ricardo.”

She said it slowly, as if trying the name on for the first time.

“Ricardo.”

At seven-thirty we both went down to the basement of the building. The storeroom was divided into narrow aisles, with ceiling-high shelves loaded with boxes of stationery and old files. We switched off half the lights so we wouldn’t draw the cleaning staff’s attention and started comparing inventory against the spreadsheet she had printed.

We worked in silence for half an hour. I called out codes, she marked them with a pen. At some point she suggested changing aisles and I decided to follow her.

The stationery aisle was the narrowest. Barely one person could fit, and we both knew it when she went in first and I came in behind her. When I tried to pass to look at the back shelf, she turned at the same time. There wasn’t enough room. Her ass brushed the front of my pants with a pressure that wasn’t accidental, but didn’t quite seem like it either. I felt both cheeks press against my bulge and stay there a second too long.

“Sorry,” she said, without moving.

“It’s fine.”

Neither of us stepped away. She moved her hips back with a measured slowness, rubbing her ass against my cock through the fabric. I got hard instantly, so much it hurt. I already had an erection there was no way to hide and she, as I found out later, had spent fifteen minutes looking at it every time I bent over the shelves. She turned back around, this time slowly, and stared into my eyes. She dropped her gaze once, to the strain in my pants, and brought it back up without hurrying.

***

“I need you to help me with something,” I said.

“Whatever you need, I already told you.”

“This isn’t work.”

“Even better.”

She took a step forward. I stayed still, my back against a stack of boxes. She put one hand on my belt without taking her eyes off mine and with the other squeezed my cock over my pants, measuring it, weighing it.

“I’ve been waiting seven months for you to ask,” she said in a low voice. “In the department we made a bet the day the promotion list came out. To see who’d sleep with the new deputy director first. The other two already gave up.”

I let out a short laugh, half disbelief, half excitement.

“And you’re going to win?”

“I’m going to win.”

She lowered my zipper with one hand, unhurried. She slipped her fingers into the waistband of my boxer briefs and pulled them down to mid-thigh. My dick sprang out, hard, with the head shiny and a drop of fluid hanging from the tip. She gave a little approving moan at the sight of it, licked her lips, and knelt on the cold tiles without asking permission.

“Look at what you had hidden away, boss,” she murmured.

She took my cock in her right hand, squeezed it from the base, and licked the head as if tasting something sweet. Her tongue made a full circle around the glans, gathering the drop of precum, and then she took me all the way into her mouth in one go. I felt the tip hit the back of her throat and saw her close her eyes, holding back the gag, not pulling away.

What came after was anything but innocent. She was a thirty-five-year-old woman who knew exactly what she was doing. She started sucking me with a deliberate slowness, moving her head up and down, lips tight around the flesh, leaving strings of saliva running down her chin. Every time she reached the base she looked up at me from below, eyes wet, and I had to brace both hands against the boxes to keep from losing my balance.

“Fuck, Mariana,” I gasped.

She popped my cock out of her mouth with a smack, laid it against her cheek, and jerked me with her hand while licking my balls one by one. Then she took me back in, this time faster, her hand following the movement of her mouth. Her head bobbed back and forth, her hair sticking to her forehead, and from her throat came wet, guttural noises that echoed down the empty aisle.

“Mariana,” I said, and my voice came out broken.

“Shut up, boss. Let me work.”

I grabbed her head with both hands and started fucking her mouth myself, thrusting my hips against her face. She opened wider, stuck out her tongue, and let me do it, her hands resting on my thighs. Tears filled her eyes from the depth of it. I felt like I was about to come down her throat.

***

I pulled her up after a few minutes because otherwise it would have been over before it started. I turned her against the inventory table and unbuttoned her blouse from top to bottom, one by one, unhurried. She was wearing a black bra, simple, without lace. I yanked the cups down and her tits sprang free, white, big, with the nipples already hard and dark. I grabbed them with both hands, squeezed until she let out a moan, and lowered my mouth to suck on them. I ran my tongue over the nipples, bit them carefully, stretched them with my teeth until her back arched. I kissed her breasts with a fury that wasn’t exactly desire: it was something dirtier, closer to surrender.

“Take off the fucking skirt,” I told her.

She did it without arguing. She hiked it up to her waist and leaned over the table, propped on her elbows. She had on a black thong, as plain as the bra, and the fabric in the middle was dark, soaked. I pulled it down to her knees and stood there for a second looking at those two cheeks I’d been imagining for eighteen months. They were exactly as I’d pictured them: firm, hard, rounded, with the shadow of her cunt peeking between her thighs. I laid my hands on them and she arched her back, offering herself to me.

I knelt behind her and spread her ass with my thumbs. Her cunt was pink, swollen, shining with how wet she was. I ran my tongue from the clit upward in one long lick, and she wriggled against her elbows. I did it again, slower, pausing to suck on her lips, sliding my tongue inside her. She tasted of salt and hot woman. I bit one cheek, sank my teeth in until I left the mark, and stood up to grab her hair.

“Faster,” she murmured. “Put it in already, I can’t take it anymore.”

I dragged the head of my cock over her lips, up and down, getting it wet, teasing. She pushed her hips back, looking for me, and I drove into her in one go, all the way to the hilt. Mariana let out a stifled sound, bit down on her forearm, and pushed back to make me go in even deeper. She was tight as hell, hot, soaked through. I felt the walls of her cunt close around my cock like a glove.

I grabbed her by the hair with one hand and by the waist with the other. I started moving at a rhythm that had nothing careful about it. I slammed into her to the hilt, pulled almost all the way out, and drove back in with a hard thrust. My thighs struck her ass and made a wet, fleshy sound that bounced off the walls of the storeroom.

“Like that, Ricardo. Like that. Harder.”

“You like it like that, you slut?”

“Like that. Break me.”

The hard slap of my hips against her echoed in the empty storeroom. I tugged her hair until she arched her neck and slapped her ass with my free hand. My handprint turned red on her cheek and she moaned louder. I hit her again. And again. Every so often I stopped for a second, afraid someone had come down to the basement, but she ordered me to keep going and I did. I ran my hand over her stomach and then lower, until I found her clit, and started rubbing it with two fingers while I kept pounding into her. She was completely ready, and I told her so.

“I’ve been like this since we came down,” she panted back. “I’ve been like this since the first day, really. How many times do you think I’ve shoved my fingers into myself in the bathroom thinking about your cock, you asshole.”

***

I pulled out of her cunt, turned her around to face me, and lifted her by the hips. I sat her on the table, spread her legs wide, and drove back in to the hilt, not giving her a second to breathe. She let out a long, guttural moan and dug her heels into my lower back. Now I could see her face: eyes half-closed, lower lip caught between her teeth, hair coming undone, tits bouncing with every thrust.

I took one breast in my mouth and sucked it down whole, hungry, while I kept fucking her. With my other hand I pinched the other nipple until she let out a choked cry.

“Fuck me, Ricardo. Fuck me like you’re never going to see me again.”

I took her neck in my left hand, not squeezing, just to feel her, and kissed her mouth for the first time all afternoon. It was a dirty kiss, with tongue, with teeth. I bit her lip, she sucked on my tongue. She tasted like coffee and something else, something I couldn’t identify and later understood was just old longing.

“I’m on the pill,” she whispered in my ear, as if answering a question I hadn’t asked. “You can come inside. I want to feel it inside.”

That was what finished me off. I grabbed her under the knees, lifted them until her ankles were beside her ears, and started driving into her from top to bottom, brutal, with all the force I had. The table slammed into the wall. The inventory papers fell to the floor and neither of us made any move to pick them up. She started saying broken little things between gasps: more, like that, don’t stop, give it all to me, you bastard. I answered with the same language, calling her a slut, my slut, the hottest slut I’d ever fucked.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that. Ten minutes, fifteen. I felt her thighs tightening against my waist, her breathing catching, her nails digging into my back through my shirt. Her cunt started squeezing my cock in rhythmic spasms, faster and faster, and suddenly she came, throwing her head back, mouth open in a silent scream. She bit my shoulder to keep from screaming for real, so hard I felt the skin give under her teeth. I held out thirty more seconds, watching her whole body shake, and finished inside her, unloading in long streams, one after another, while I gripped her hips and pinned her against me so not a drop would escape. Just as silently, with my forehead resting against hers.

We stayed still for a while. She still had her legs around my waist, I had my hands on her hips and my cock still inside her, throbbing, emptying. When I pulled out, a thick thread of cum ran down the inside of her thigh to the edge of the table. She wiped it with two fingers, brought them to her mouth, and looked at me while she sucked them clean.

“You won the bet,” I said.

“It wasn’t a bet,” she replied, and laughed softly. “I made that up just now. I wanted you to understand this wasn’t the first time I’d thought about it.”

***

We dressed slowly. She fixed her hair in the reflection of a dirty pane of glass, buttoned her blouse, and checked the inventory spreadsheet as if nothing had happened, although her cheeks were still red and there was a dark stain on the thong fabric she had just put back on. I pulled my zipper up, found my belt on the floor, and tried to recover something like a professional expression.

“I’ll deliver the corrected report first thing Monday, Mr. Ortega,” she said when we left the storeroom.

“Mariana.”

“Yes?”

“Monday.”

She nodded without looking at me. We went up in the staff elevator without speaking, she in her corner, I in mine. On the fourth floor she got off first. Before the doors closed, she turned her head.

“And, Ricardo,” she said very quietly. “Next time, a hotel. And bring stamina, because today was just the sample.”

The doors closed. I was left alone in the elevator, my pulse still racing, the smell of her cunt stuck to my fingers, thinking about my wife waiting for me with dinner ready and about what I was going to invent to explain the smell of another woman’s perfume stuck to my shirt.

In the end I didn’t invent anything. I got home late, said the inventory had gotten complicated, and went upstairs to shower before dinner. My wife didn’t ask. She never asked.

On Monday, first thing, Mariana came into the office with the corrected report and a contained smile. She closed the door behind her without me asking. And I understood, as I watched her come toward the desk, that this wasn’t going to be an isolated episode, but the beginning of something that was going to cost me far more than I was willing to admit that morning.