My Secretary Helped My Husband While I Was Sick

Several years had passed since Elena and Mateo got married. They had a little daughter, Sofía, and daily life revolved around work, school, and the routines of married life. Elena, a lawyer at a downtown firm, had long since left the choir she belonged to before the girl was born, but music still felt like an unfinished business for her.

One October morning, while she was out walking with Sofía in the park near home, she came across a poster pinned to a board: “Armonía Women’s Choir — looking for new voices. Rehearsals Tuesdays and Thursdays.” Two afternoons a week. It fit her schedule perfectly.

That night, when Sofía was already asleep, Elena sat down beside Mateo on the sofa with the pamphlet in her hands.

—I found something today —she said, handing it to him—. Do you think I could?

Mateo read it without hurry, the way he always read everything.

—If it makes you happy and we don’t neglect the house, I don’t see why not. You know what I think about keeping priorities in order.

—I know —she replied, dropping her gaze for a second—. I don’t want that to change.

It was a conversation they had had many times, in many forms. Mateo was the one who held the helm in that house, and Elena preferred it that way. She signed up the next day.

The choir gave her back something she had missed for years. The energy of singing among other women, the focus of rehearsals, the sense of complicity when one voice blended with the next. The conductor, a tiny woman with a firm character, moved her up to first soprano within weeks. Mateo attended every recital accompanied by Patricia, a mutual friend of theirs, and when he saw her onstage he smiled with quiet pride.

There was a natural dynamic among the three of them that any attentive observer would have noticed. Patricia had been part of the landscape for so long that she no longer felt like a visitor, but like another piece of the domestic balance.

***

In mid-November, Sofía began complaining of a sore throat and fever. A virus that had been making the rounds at school for weeks. Nothing serious, but enough to keep her home for several days.

—I’m going to stay with her —Elena said, brushing a damp lock off the child’s hot forehead—. I won’t go to Thursday rehearsal.

—Whatever you need —Mateo replied—. I’ll help you however I can.

That week he felt less inclined to work than usual. He started bringing home a stack of thick reports, the kind he signed at the company without reading, and handed them to Elena to review while Sofía slept.

—I don’t like seeing you idle —he told her, leaving the documents on the living-room table—. And mine are piling up.

Elena accepted them without protest. It made her proud to be able to help him, even if it meant giving up the free time left to her by caring for Sofía.

But the virus soon found its way to her too. One morning she woke with a heavy head, back pain, and a fatigue that coffee would not lift. When Mateo arrived that afternoon and found her wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, with two unopened reports on her lap, he knew it wasn’t going to hold.

—I can’t concentrate, Mateo. I’m sorry. I’m trying, but the letters keep moving.

He stood there thinking for a moment, frowning.

—We’ll call Camille. She can come to the office after hours and we’ll go over them together.

Elena nodded, relieved.

—Yes. You call her. I’ll text her afterward to thank her.

Camille was Elena’s secretary. A young Hispano-French woman, petite, with shoulder-length blonde hair and honey-colored eyes that changed with the light. Years earlier Mateo, who worked in the same company as his wife but on another floor, had given Camille a small coffee maker for her desk, and since then a habit had formed: every morning, when he went upstairs to greet Elena, Camille had a plain coffee ready for him with two lumps of sugar.

He liked her. More than liked her, if he was honest with himself. The narrow waist, the way she moved, the way she bit the pen when she hesitated, the round, firm ass that showed beneath her straight skirts. They were details he had filed away for years without allowing himself to think about them, stored in a mental drawer where the fantasy of fucking her across his wife’s desk was kept too.

The following morning, when Camille brought him his coffee as usual, Mateo put the idea to her.

—Camille, I need you to help me with some reports this week. Elena and Sofía are in bed and work’s piling up on me. It would be after seven, once everyone’s gone.

She lifted her eyes from the tray. Her eyes brightened for a second before she answered.

—Of course. Count on me.

—In Elena’s office, better. We’ve got more space there.

Elena called her later by phone from the sofa, her voice thick.

—Camille, thank you. Really. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

—It’s nothing —the girl replied—. Take care of yourself, boss. I’ll handle it.

***

That afternoon, at a quarter past seven, Mateo locked the hallway door. The building was empty. Only the light in Elena’s office was still on and the distant hum of an air conditioner nobody had turned off.

Camille arrived with two coffees and a smile that was exactly the same as the first day and, at the same time, completely different. She wore a straight beige skirt and a silk blouse with two buttons open, revealing the start of a pair of small, firm breasts, with no bra underneath.

—Bring them here —Mateo said, taking the cups from her—. Sit down.

They began reviewing the first report on the little sofa in the corner. Camille, without thinking or thinking too much about it, sat on his lap, as she had years ago, when she was still not dating the boyfriend she had at the time. It had been a very long time since she had done that. They both noticed it, and both noticed too how Mateo’s cock began to harden under his trousers, pressing against the girl’s ass.

—Do you remember this position? —she murmured, pretending to concentrate on the paper, shifting her hips only slightly to settle better over the bulge.

—I remember.

Mateo’s hand settled on Camille’s thigh while he pointed out a paragraph. He left it there longer than necessary and then slid it up a few centimeters, sneaking beneath the hem of her skirt. She didn’t move away. On the contrary, she spread her legs a little.

—There’s an error in the figures here —he said, without looking at the figures.

—Yes —Camille replied, looking nowhere either.

They spoke in low voices, even though there was no one to disturb. The closeness demanded it. When he leaned in a little more to point something out on the next page, his lips were level with her neck. Camille turned her face and the first kiss was like that, almost by accident, as if neither of them had looked for it in words.

But the second was deliberate. He opened her mouth with his tongue, bit her lower lip, held her by the nape. And by the third, they were no longer separating. Mateo undid the remaining buttons on her blouse and pulled out one breast, squeezing it with his open hand, pinching her nipple until it went hard. Camille gasped into his mouth.

—Camille, you know what happens if we keep going —he said, moving back a centimeter.

—I know.

—And you know I’m not going to stop.

—That too.

Mateo put a hand on the back of her neck and guided her downward until she was kneeling on the office carpet between his legs. Camille unzipped his trousers without needing instructions and pulled his briefs down with both hands. Mateo’s cock sprang upward, thick, the tip already shining with a drop of precome. When she took it fully out, the girl looked at it for a second with an expression that mixed expectation and a little apprehension, as if she were calculating where to start.

She started with the balls. She took them into her mouth one by one, sucking them slowly, her tongue flat underneath, while with one hand she grasped the base of his shaft and jerked him off slowly. She licked all the skin of the scrotum, sucked on them again, and then moved her tongue up the thick vein along the underside to the glans. She pressed a wet kiss to the tip and took the head of the cock into her mouth, sucking it with her cheeks hollowed.

He let out a deep sound. He set both hands on her head, gripped her blond hair hard, and, without warning, shoved his cock all the way to the back of her throat in one thrust.

Camille gagged. She pulled her face away, coughing, one hand going to her throat, tears springing to her eyes and a thick strand of saliva hanging from her chin.

—I don’t like that feeling —she said hoarsely—. It scares me.

Mateo stroked her cheek with his thumb, calmly.

—I know. That’s exactly what I want you to learn to control. I’m going to guide you. Trust me.

She swallowed. She nodded, eyes bright, not entirely convinced. Mateo held her face with one hand and, with the other, brought his cock to her lips, rubbing the tip against her mouth until she opened it.

—Open. More. Stick out your tongue.

Camille obeyed. This time he went in slowly, sliding over her tongue, millimeter by millimeter, until the tip touched the back of her throat. She pulled away again at the first touch, coughing, eyes watering and a trail of saliva dripping between her breasts.

Mateo let her breathe. He looked at her without saying anything and after a moment the girl opened her mouth again on her own, panting, and brought the cock to her lips herself.

—Again —he said—. And now breathe through your nose when it touches the back. Don’t think. Swallow it.

They repeated the motion five, six, seven times. Each time Camille held on a second longer before coughing. He praised every bit of progress with short, clipped phrases, never losing his calm, pushing her a little farther each time.

—Good. Like that. Again. A little more. Don’t close your throat. Very good, girl.

Camille’s makeup ran beneath her eyes. Saliva dripped from her chin and wet her breasts and silk blouse, which clung to her skin. Red marks showed at the corners of her mouth from stretching her lips around the thickness of his cock. And yet, at some point, she stopped coughing. She learned to relax her jaw and the back of her throat, to breathe through her nose in the small gaps he gave her, to swallow when she felt the tip sliding down inside. Mateo’s cock went all the way in, completely, until his balls hit her chin and her nose was flattened against her pubic hair.

He held her by the hair with both hands and started fucking her mouth in his own rhythm, master of the moment, leaving not a millimeter out. He drove his cock to the back, held it there for two seconds, three, feeling the girl’s throat clench around the glans in spasms, and then pulled out only to plunge it back in with one hard shove. Camille gagged a couple more times, spitting threads of thick saliva onto her own chest, but she did not pull away. She wanted to please him. She gripped his thighs with both hands and found the rhythm, pushing her face forward to take him better. And he, now, knew it.

—Good girl. That’s it. All the way in. You’re going to swallow whatever I give you.

When he felt himself close, he clenched his jaw, sped up, and held her head pressed to his pubis. The first wave shot straight into her throat. Then he pulled his cock back two fingers and emptied the rest onto her tongue, jet after jet, watching the thick semen gather in her open mouth.

—Don’t swallow. Hold it there.

Camille obeyed. She stayed kneeling, lips closed and cheeks puffed, holding the load in her mouth while he slowly straightened and ran his thumb over her lips to wipe away a drop threatening to fall.

—Now stand up.

He lifted her, put her on Elena’s desk, spread her legs in one hard pull, and raised her skirt to her waist. Her panties were white lace, tiny, and soaked through in the crotch. He pulled them off in one movement and tucked them into the pocket of his trousers. He opened her thighs until her knees almost touched her shoulders. Camille’s pussy was fully exposed under the desk lamp: swollen, glossy lips, the blond patch trimmed very short, the clit already peeking out.

He leaned over her and began to work her with his tongue, slowly, unhurriedly. First inside her thighs, biting the soft skin. Then he ran a flat tongue over her slit from bottom to top, finishing with a slow lick over the clit.

Camille threw her head back and grabbed his hair, pulling him closer. She was careful not to open her mouth, with his semen still held between her teeth.

Mateo went up and down. He sucked on the lips of her pussy one by one, stretched them with his teeth, pushed his whole tongue inside and drew it out with a smack, circled the clit with the tip until she began to tremble and then went back down to lick her slowly, stretching out the torment. From her sex he moved to her breasts, where he pulled her blouse all the way off and sucked her nipples until she was arched over the desk, moaning between closed lips. He bit her left nipple, then the right, squeezed them in his hands, covered them with saliva.

Then he went back down, parted her pussy lips with his fingers and licked her with the same patience he had used on her throat. He slid in one finger, then two, hooking them against the upper wall while he kept sucking her clit. Camille pushed her pelvis forward, seeking his face, rubbing herself against his mouth.

When he felt her truly trembling, her thighs contracting around his head, he pushed in a third finger and pressed hard inside her, never stopping moving his tongue over her clit. Camille came with a muffled cry, biting her lip so she wouldn’t open her mouth, her back lifted off the desk and her heels digging into his back. Her pussy pulsed in waves around Mateo’s fingers, soaking his hand.

—Now —he said, looking up at her from below, his chin shining—. Swallow it. Every last drop. I want to see it.

Camille swallowed slowly, eyes closed, her body still trembling from the orgasm. The thick lump of semen slid down her throat and she felt it go as if she were returning the favor he had just done her with his tongue. When she opened her mouth to show him it was empty, sticking out a clean tongue, Mateo nodded and ran his thumb over the corner of her mouth to wipe away a thread that had escaped. Then he put it into her mouth and Camille sucked it, looking him in the eyes.

—You’re a good girl —he told her, while he put his clothes back in place—. I’m lucky to have you close.

Camille sat on the desk, rearranging her blouse over her still reddened breasts, with her panties still in the boss’s pocket and her pussy throbbing between her open legs. Still breathless. She blushed like a teenager and lowered her eyes.

Mateo adjusted his belt and looked down at her.

—Camille, listen to me. I don’t hide things from Elena. Tell her what happened if you want. I have no problem with that. What happened here doesn’t change what I feel for her.

The frankness unsettled her.

—Thanks for telling me straight —she replied, hesitating—. But I’d rather not tell Diego. I don’t know how he’d react.

Diego Salazar was her boyfriend. They had been together almost three years. A relationship that had been leaking for months, though neither of them dared admit it out loud.

***

Two days later, Camille showed up at Elena’s house with a small bouquet of daisies and a box of chocolates.

—I hope you’re better —she said in the entryway—. I brought you this.

Elena, looking better now, let her in to the kitchen and put water on for tea.

Camille told her everything. Sitting on the high stool by the breakfast counter, her hands wrapped around the hot cup, she recounted the afternoon in the office without leaving anything out. The coffee maker, the reports, the sofa, the carpet. How Mateo had pulled out one breast over the sofa and squeezed it. How he had made her kneel. How he had shoved his cock all the way in until she gagged. Mateo’s voice telling her “open.” The feeling of learning to swallow an entire cock under his control, of losing her fear. How he had emptied his semen from her mouth and forbidden her to swallow it. How he had eaten her pussy on top of the desk, with her panties already in his pocket, until he made her come with three fingers inside her.

Elena listened without interrupting, eyes shining. She felt the pinch in her chest, an old, familiar stab of jealousy, and swallowed it as easily as Camille had swallowed her husband’s semen. She also felt, without wanting to, how her panties were getting wet beneath her house skirt. After a few seconds, she smiled.

—I’m glad it was with you —she said, and she meant it—. And Diego?

Camille lowered her gaze.

—I don’t know. We’ve been like this for months. And now this. I feel split in two.

—Don’t worry about me —Elena replied, squeezing her hand over the marble—. I’m not going to say anything. This is between you and him. And between you and your head.

When Camille got up to leave, Mateo, who had just come home from work, walked her to the door. He kissed her on the lips in front of Elena, calmly, pushing his tongue in, grabbing her ass with both hands over her skirt, and held her there for a moment on the landing.

—Camille. I want you to come to Elena’s season-ending recital, next Saturday. It’s important for her. And for us.

Camille looked at him, not quite understanding.

—If you come —he added, holding her gaze—, I’ll know what’s with Diego is over. That you’re giving yourself to this completely. That this cunt —he squeezed her hand over the fabric, up between her legs— is mine when I say it is. You don’t have to answer me now. Think about it. But understand what it means.

He brushed her cheek with his hand and closed the door.

Camille went down the building’s stairs slowly, feeling her heart in her throat and her panties wet again. Mateo was not the kind of man who shared. The invitation was a declaration, not an invitation. If she went, she would have decided where the rest of her life was headed.

That night, in bed, Elena curled against Mateo’s chest and ran her hand along his side, sliding slowly down until she found his cock already hard over his pajama pants. She pulled it out and began to stroke it slowly, eyes closed, imagining the scene Camille had told her about that afternoon.

—Patricia is going to move to Lisbon —she said softly, as if talking about something else, while squeezing his cock in her fist.

—I know.

—We’ll have a vacancy.

Mateo kissed her hair without answering. No need. He lifted her nightgown, slipped his hand between her legs, and found his wife soaked through. He fucked her slowly, from the side, biting her shoulder, while Elena softly moaned Camille’s name without realizing it. When he came inside her, Elena came right after, biting the pillow so as not to wake the child.

The following Saturday, at the Armonía choir recital, Elena sang the solo in the final piece while looking toward the third row. Mateo was seated in the aisle seat. To his left, an empty chair. To the left of the empty chair, a blonde mane that arrived five minutes late, sat in silence, and placed a hand on Mateo’s knee, then slowly slid it up to his thigh.

Elena smiled from the stage without it showing. And she sang like she had never sung before.