She Took a Drink with the New Guy from Her Office

Camila had been with Rodrigo for two years. They didn’t live together, but they called each other every day and had dinner together three times a week. It was the kind of relationship that no longer brought any surprises: steady, calm, predictable. She worked as an analyst at a public institution in the city center, on a bright floor with high ceilings and windows overlooking the avenue. She was thirty, with wide hips and an ass that her coworkers looked at when they thought she wasn’t looking.

Rodrigo was different. Forty-two years old, he worked on his own from home, and he had never been what Camila’s friends called a catch. Medium height, soft around the waist, modest in every way. But he was good. He made her coffee before anything else. He had told her “I love you” in the third week without thinking it through.

Camila thought that was enough. Until Lautaro came into the office.

***

He arrived on Monday at nine thirty. Camila heard his voice before she looked up: deep, confident, with that cadence of men who grew up never worrying about money. When she looked, she saw him in front of the boss’s desk, nodding with his hands in the pockets of his gray trousers. Almost six-foot-three. White shirt open two buttons, a sharp jaw, hair still salted with sea spray.

—Lautaro Salinas, the new analyst —the boss introduced him as she passed by—. Camila will explain the reporting flow to you.

He smiled, held out his hand, and held her gaze a second longer than necessary. Camila blushed and hated herself for blushing.

During the next two weeks they crossed paths in hallways, in meetings, in the cafeteria. Lautaro always found a way to sit beside her, to lean in and look at Camila’s screen from way too close, to brush her back when he passed behind her chair. He asked her questions that had nothing to do with work.

—Did you go out last night? You look like you didn’t sleep.

—That skirt suits you in a dangerous way, huh.

Camila told herself it was only flirting, that it meant nothing, that a man like that would never seriously notice her. And every morning in front of the mirror she repeated to herself that she had a boyfriend.

***

Sebastián worked two floors below, in finance. He was Rodrigo’s friend from school. He knew Lautaro from playing padel on Wednesdays, without knowing that the newly hired guy upstairs was the same one his friend talked about as “my life with Camila.”

One afternoon Sebastián ran into Lautaro at the coffee machine in the basement.

—Hey, did you see the analyst on the fourth floor? —Lautaro said, stirring in the sugar—. The ass. Camila, I think. I’ve got her already.

Sebastián froze with the cup in his hand.

—You’re hitting on her?

—I’ve been after her all week. She eats me up with her eyes. I’m taking her out for a drink on Friday. I swear, on Friday I’m fucking her all the way.

Sebastián said nothing. Later, in the elevator, while he went up to his floor, he thought about calling Rodrigo. He didn’t. He told himself Camila would probably have better judgment. That maybe nothing would happen.

***

On Friday at seven fifteen, Lautaro approached Camila’s desk with his jacket over his arm.

—A drink, right across the street. To close out the week. I can’t let you go without celebrating your report.

She was going to say no. She felt the word rise in her throat and veer off on her tongue.

—One, that’s all —she heard herself say.

The bar was half a block away. They ordered wine. They talked about work, then about college, then about anything at all. Lautaro poured the second glass before she had finished the first. When he leaned in to make a comment in her ear, his hand fell on Camila’s thigh under the table.

—Hey —she said, without moving it—. Hey, no.

—We’re just talking.

The hand crept higher. Camila drank. The hand went higher still, slid under her skirt, and Lautaro’s fingers brushed the inner part of her thigh, very close to the seam of her panties. Camila felt everything go wet at once, without permission, and she squeezed her legs together, trapping his hand against her own skin. Camila laughed at something that hadn’t been funny. If I get up now, nothing happened. She thought that with a clarity that would later make her ashamed. And she didn’t get up.

—Come to my place —Lautaro said on the third glass—. We can watch something, listen to music, whatever you want. I live nearby.

—It’s late. I have to go back.

—For a little while. I swear I’ll behave.

She looked at the time. Thought about Rodrigo, who by then would be reheating whatever was left from lunch. Thought about how she had never done anything like this. Thought that precisely because of that, now.

—For a little while —she said—. But you behave.

***

Lautaro’s apartment was on the twentieth floor of a new tower. All gray, all leather, all too much. The moment he closed the door he kissed her against the foyer. Camila put her hands on his chest with a staged resistance. He shoved his tongue into her mouth, deep, without asking, and grabbed her ass with both hands over her skirt, squeezing it, spreading it, until she felt the hard bulge of his zipper pressed against her stomach.

—Just kissing —she murmured, already knowing it wasn’t.

He opened the zipper of her skirt in the living room. The skirt fell to the floor and Lautaro ran his hand over the front, over her panties, and felt how wet she was through the fabric. He gave a low laugh against her neck.

—You’re soaked, kitten. And you said we were just talking.

Camila closed her eyes. His fingers pushed the fabric aside and found her cunt directly, no detours, two fingers sliding in up to the knuckle. A short moan slipped out of her against his mouth. He pulled her blouse off in the hallway, ripping off a button, while his fingers kept moving inside her and he bit her shoulder. By the time they reached the bedroom Camila was in bra and panties, and he was still dressed for the office, which made her feel more exposed, more degraded, and at the same time more aroused than she remembered ever feeling.

Lautaro gently pushed her against the bed, kissed her neck, lowered her bra straps with his teeth. He tore the bra off and sucked her nipples one after the other, biting them until she arched her back. Then he went lower, biting her stomach, and ripped her panties off with both hands until they split at the seam.

—Please go slow —she whispered.

—Slow —he repeated, and he was not slow.

He spread her legs, got down over her face and drove his tongue into her cunt in one long stroke. Camila opened her mouth soundlessly. Lautaro licked her from bottom to top, slowly, pinching her clit between his lips, sucking on it until she trembled. He slid two fingers in again, curling them, searching for the spot inside her, while he kept sucking her clit. Camila gripped the headboard with both hands and came three minutes later, screaming, squeezing his face with her thighs. He didn’t stop. He kept licking while she was still convulsing, dragging another orgasm out of her on the heels of the first, until Camila pushed at his forehead because she couldn’t take any more.

When she stripped completely, Camila saw what was in front of her and her mouth went dry. She had seen something like it in a video Rodrigo had once shown her, laughing and saying those things didn’t exist. They did. Lautaro’s cock hung between his legs, thick and veined, the head purple and shiny, as long as her forearm. She touched it with her hand, unable to get her fingers around it, and gave a nervous laugh.

—It’s not going to fit.

—It’s going to fit.

He put her on her knees at the edge of the bed, her ass toward him, and spread her cheeks with both hands. He dragged the head of his cock along her slit from top to bottom, soaking it with what she herself was dripping. He set the tip at the entrance to her cunt and entered her without warning, with one single thrust that split her in two. Camila bit the sheet. The first shove tore out a moan that didn’t sound like hers, a hoarse howl that scraped her throat. Lautaro gripped her hips and drove all the way in, to the hilt, until she felt his balls slam against her clit, and for the first time in years she felt something that resembled fear, mixed with a heat burning her from inside.

—Tell me you like it —he ordered, pounding into her.

—I like it —Camila said, and hated knowing it was true.

—Tell me you like it when I fuck you like this.

—I like it —she repeated, her face crushed into the mattress—. I like it when you fuck me like this.

—Harder.

—I like it! Fuck me, please, fuck me.

He fucked her like that, without changing the rhythm, without talking too much, for a long while. He slapped her ass until it went red. He pulled her hair, throwing her head back like they were reins. He bit her shoulder until it marked. With one hand he searched for her clit from the front and rubbed it in circles while he kept hammering her from behind. Camila came again, this time squeezing his cock from inside in spasms that drew a groan from him. She begged him to hold her and he didn’t hold her. She begged him to say something nice and he told her she was naughty, that she was a horny little slut, an office whore, that she’d been waiting for this since the day she walked in and he saw that ass moving down the hallway.

—I’m going to come —he growled, grabbing her hips with both hands, digging his fingers in.

—Outside, outside —she managed to say.

But he shoved his cock all the way in and left it there, and Camila felt the hot jets spilling inside her, one after the other, while Lautaro clamped her hips and moaned against her nape. When he came inside her, without warning, Camila took a second to realize the amount of semen he was leaving inside her.

—You weren’t wearing anything —she said, still face-down, feeling the liquid run down her thighs when he pulled out.

—Take the pill tomorrow.

***

He didn’t stop. He arranged her on her back, with his come still dripping out of her cunt, spread her legs and ran his tongue along her slit, cleaning his own from her pussy. Camila covered her face with her hands, dying of shame, dying of heat. When his cock was hard again —and it was hard right away— he went back in before she could finish protesting. This time he held her face with one hand and forced her to look at him while he pounded her, his open palm on her jaw, his fingers squeezing her cheeks.

—Look at me. Look at me when I fuck you.

He opened her legs wider, hooked her ankles over his shoulders, and folded her almost in half until she could see his cock coming in and out of her, shining with how wet she was. Camila watched her own cunt opening around that thick shaft, watched his belly slam against her clit every time he drove in, watched her own breasts shake with each thrust, and felt like she was watching a movie that wasn’t hers.

He grabbed her tits with both hands and pinched her nipples, twisting them, while he hammered her faster. He spit in her mouth. He ran his fingers over her lips and made her suck them.

—Suck them. Like that. Like that, kitten.

Camila came twice, one on top of the other, with tears in her eyes that she didn’t know if they were from pleasure or something uglier. Her cunt squeezed his cock in spasms she couldn’t control, and he kept going and going, without stopping, until she begged him to let her rest.

After the second time, Lautaro sat back against the headboard and yanked her by the hair toward his groin. His cock was hard again, red, wet with her, gleaming under the bedside lamp.

—Now suck it.

—I’ve never done that before —she said very quietly.

—There’s a first time for everything.

Camila took him into her mouth with the clumsiness of someone who doesn’t know how. The head pushed against her palate and made her gag. Lautaro set the rhythm with his hand on the back of her neck, forcing her lower each time, until her lips reached the base and she felt his cock batter her throat. He gathered her hair into a ponytail with his fist and used her, moving her head up and down, fucking her mouth without courtesy. She swallowed saliva, tears, her own taste mixed with his. Snot ran from her nose, mascara ran down her face, spit hung in strings from her mouth to her tits. Rodrigo would never have asked me for this. She thought about him, and thought that maybe that was exactly why she was there.

—Stick out your tongue.

Camila obeyed. He pulled his cock from her mouth, grabbed it, and jerked himself off twice quickly over her face, spilling another load over her tongue, over her cheeks, over her forehead. He made her swallow what had landed in her mouth. He made her suck the tip until nothing was left.

—Good girl.

***

The anal was his idea. He was still hard, pressed against her back while he kissed the nape of her neck as if they had been lovers all their lives. He dragged the tip of his cock between her cheeks, up and down, teasing her.

—I’ve never done it —Camila said.

—Even better.

—It’s going to hurt.

—I can take it.

He smeared her with something from the bedside-table bottle, a cold stream that ran down the crack of her ass. He worked her with his fingers, one first, then two, opening her slowly, pushing them in to the knuckle while he whispered in her ear. She clung to the pillow when she felt him press. The head of his cock, thick, pushing against that ring that had never been opened. She wanted to say no and said something else, said “slow,” said “not so fast,” said “wait,” but Lautaro heard all of that as instructions on how to keep going and not how to stop. He pushed, stopped, pushed again, until the head went in all at once and Camila screamed into the pillow. He didn’t pull out. He gripped her hips and kept entering her, centimeter by centimeter, feeling the way her ass clenched around him, until he was buried all the way in.

When he was all the way inside, Camila was crying in silence, biting the fabric, and at the same time arching her back toward him. Pain and pleasure had merged in the same nerve. Lautaro started moving, first short, then long, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in to the hilt. He ran his hand over the front, found her clit, rubbed it with two fingers while he kept fucking her ass. Camila came with a guttural howl she didn’t recognize as her own, with his cock buried all the way in her ass and his fingers in her cunt, and that orgasm didn’t resemble any other; it shook her entire body, made her tremble for what felt like minutes.

—Tell me you’re mine —he asked in her ear, thrusting slowly.

—I’m yours —Camila answered, and couldn’t believe she was the one saying it.

—Whose ass is this?

—Yours. It’s yours.

—And this cunt?

—Yours.

When he finished, spilling the third load of the night into her ass, pressing against her to the bone, Camila felt the heat pouring inside her and came once more, dry, exhausted, covering her face with both hands. An hour later, she had no idea how many times she had come or what time it was or whose she was. She only knew that Lautaro was holding her now, finally, and that that word —yours— kept pulsing between her ribs as if it had been a vow.

***

On Saturday at seven thirty in the morning, Sebastián poured himself a coffee in his kitchen and opened Rodrigo’s chat. He had taken the photo the night before, standing on the other side of the avenue, while the two of them left the bar hand in hand and got into a taxi. He sent it without text. Just the image. Then he set the phone face down on the table and stared at the ceiling.

At nine, Camila opened her eyes in her own bed, her body aching in new places and her head split from the wine. On the bedside table there were fifteen messages from Rodrigo and four missed calls. She didn’t open any of them.

She sat on the toilet and thought. She thought with a hangover clarity she mistook for courage. She thought she had spent two years with a good, boring man. She thought she had felt more in one night than in two years. She thought maybe she had been wrong all this time.

She wrote to Rodrigo: “Love, I’m sorry, but I need to end this. I want to try other things. It’s not about you, it’s about me.”

As soon as she sent the message, she wrote to Lautaro: “Lunch? Pick me up.”

She took in the reply while making coffee. It was a photo. Lautaro was in the club locker room, phone raised in front of the mirror, and below him, kneeling, a blonde girl Camila didn’t know was doing the same thing she had done to him the night before. Under it, the message: “Can’t today, kitten. I’m busy.”

Camila stared at the screen. She looked at her message to Rodrigo, marked with two blue ticks. She looked at the photo again.

She thought about calling Rodrigo and telling him she had made a mistake, that it had been a slip, that it had meant nothing. But she knew, before dialing, that Rodrigo wasn’t going to answer. She knew, before searching for the reason, that someone had sent him something more concrete than a suspicion. A photo, or a message, or a dirty favor done by a friend who was a little too loyal. And she knew that that thing, added to her own message at nine in the morning, had explained to Rodrigo everything he needed to know.

She sat on the kitchen floor. She cried without making a sound, with the cup still steaming on the table.

Then she stood up, washed the cup, and stayed there looking out the window as a Saturday began that no longer belonged to anyone.