The Client Who Approved Far More Than My Campaign

The early hours were bearing down on me, heavy as a wet blanket. I had the visual campaign right there on the screen, ready and polished, but it still needed the final sign-off. And the only person who could give it to me was Renata, the client, the account manager with a fist of iron. Married, of course. And, as always, nowhere to be found at that hour.

Fed up with all that waiting, I was driven to madness. In the last email, I left her my personal number. “To make it faster,” I wrote. And when I hit send, I felt something inside me let go, like a safety catch snapping.

My home studio felt like a cave at that hour. Only the laptop screen and the little desk lamp lit it, stretching the shadows all the way to the ceiling. The silence was so thick I could hear my own blood pulsing in my ears.

And then the phone vibrated. Not a soft alert: a deep buzz, like a beast purring against wood. A message. An unknown number. My heart slammed hard against my chest.

Tomás. It’s Renata. Sorry about the hour. Are you up for the last bit?

I tapped the button and there it was: “Renata,” just saved in my contacts. A brief, professional message. But the mere fact that it was there, inside my phone and at that hour, was already crossing a line. I took a deep breath. The air smelled like cold coffee and something unfinished.

I replied that the file was on its way and that I was always available for her. The conversation started out normal: technical details, last-minute tweaks, the usual. But each “okay” of hers took a little longer to arrive. And every “perfect” I sent back carried more weight inside me.

The slogan’s font. Are you absolutely sure it’s the right one?

The question was work-related. But that “absolutely sure” sounded like something else to me. Without meaning to, I looked at my left hand on the keyboard. The wedding ring, a dull gold band under the low light. Something tightened in my chest, and lower down, in my fly, my cock was already starting to move on its own, thickening against the fabric of my pants without me doing a thing.

As sure as you are, I imagine, I told her.

A long while passed, sleepless. And then the phone vibrated again. It wasn’t text. It was a voice note.

I hit play and her voice stole my breath. It wasn’t her meeting voice, clear and cold. This one was low, night-rough, like velvet dragged over stone. “Your guarantee is the only thing I care about right now, Tomás.” The words could have been about work. The tone never could.

A wave of heat climbed from my stomach to my face. I braced my hands on the desk, knuckles white, and recorded my reply. My own voice sounded strange, rough, like it wasn’t mine. “Then trust me. Close your eyes and approve the file. Let yourself go with what you see.”

The reply came at once. I’ve opened it. The images are intense. That red palette cuts right through the screen.

My breathing deepened. This was no longer a review. It was a dance. And under my pants my cock throbbed hard, pulling at the elastic of my briefs, wetting the tip against the fabric.

Red is the color of stop. And also of permission. Depends on who’s looking, I wrote.

And what do you think I’m seeing, Tomás? A signal to stop or to go on?

The air in the room seemed to thin out. The tie was choking me, and I ripped it off, letting it fall to the floor. I typed with trembling fingers, but with firm intent.

I think you’re seeing exactly what you want to see. And what you want to touch.

Minutes of silence. Each second was a drop of hot wax on the back of my neck. Another audio arrived. At first, only her breathing, slow, controlled. Then her voice, closer to the microphone, wet: “You talk like you can see me. Like you know where my hand is right now.”

A brutal shiver ran down my back. I sank into the leather chair and my cock thudded against the inside seam of my pants like a trapped animal. The pressure under the fabric was now painfully obvious. I unzipped with two fingers, just to ease things up, and my dick sprang upward, hard and hot, marking the cotton of my briefs with a dark stain of pre-cum.

I don’t. But I can imagine it. And imagination, at this hour, is more dangerous than any touch.

Her next message was a photo. Not of her: of her screen. Our campaign open, with those bodies drawn only by shadows and light. Over the image, the cursor blinked right at the center, on the curve of a back.

The composition is perfect. Every line leads to the focal point. It’s unbearably good.

It was a coded confession. I stood up and locked the studio door. My sleeping house, my whole life, was sealed off on the other side. Now there was only this charged space and the woman on the other side of the screen.

Take off your robe, Renata. I wrote it without hesitation, a clear command that crossed the final boundary.

Too bold, she replied.

No. Necessary. For the campaign. I want to know how the light from your screen hits your skin. To make sure the contrast works.

Another eternal pause. Then, a new photo. Just a fragment: the hollow of her collarbone, bathed in the bluish glow of the monitor, and the curve of a bare breast peeking out from below, the dark areola sharply outlined against her pale skin, the nipple hard, taut, pointing upward. The fabric of her T-shirt had slipped to one side. You couldn’t see everything. You could see enough to drive me insane.

Is the contrast adequate?

My temples were pounding. I undid another button on my shirt. Cold sweat mixed with the heat inside me. I pulled my cock out of my briefs and left it bare, hard, throbbing against my stomach, the tip shining wet with my own juice. I wrapped my hand around the shaft and squeezed lightly, just to calm the pulse. A gasp slipped out between my teeth.

It’s devastating. Now the pad of your finger. Slide it over that light, slowly, lick it first so it’s nice and wet, and then take it down to the nipple. Tell me what you feel. By then I’d already lost my mind; it was my instincts typing for me.

The audio came quickly. A muffled moan, brief and perfect, went straight into my head and settled lower, at the base of my balls. Then her voice, broken: “Heat. And absurd electricity. Like the screen’s burning. My nipple’s gone rock hard, Tomás. I’ve got it between two fingers, pulling, and my cunt’s burning.”

The word in her mouth—cunt, said like that, unfiltered, in her manager voice—made me squeeze my cock so hard it hurt. I started moving, my hand sliding up and down the shaft with a slowness I could barely keep in check. I couldn’t hold on any longer. The tension was a steel cable about to snap.

It’s not the screen. It’s the idea. The idea of my gaze following that finger. Of my tongue on that same nipple, licking it, biting it until the moan you’re swallowing now spills out.

Tomás… this is…

I know. Keep going. Put your hand between your thighs. Tell me how your cunt feels.

The next audio took a while. When it arrived, I first heard the rustle of fabric, then a long gasp, and after that her voice, deeper, more broken: “Soaked. I’m soaked, you son of a bitch. I just slid two fingers in and they come out shining. I’m imagining they’re your fingers, and I want more.”

My cock jerked hard in my hand. I recorded my reply with a wrecked voice, heavy breathing, my hand still wrapped around my shaft. “I’ve got my cock out, Renata. Hard as a rock. I’m jerking off thinking about your mouth. Your cunt. About how it’s dripping between your fingers right now. Tell me more. Everything. Don’t hold anything back.”

What came after was a whirlwind of audios and messages. Cut-off phrases, gasps caught by the mic, urgent descriptions. She told me how she pinched her nipples with one hand while opening her cunt with the other, how she twisted her fingers inside looking for the exact spot, how her palm slammed against her clit with each thrust. I described how I spat into my palm so I could slide better, how I squeezed the head with my thumb, how my heavy balls swelled between my legs, how pre-cum dribbled over my knuckles.

“I’m licking my fingers now,” her voice reached me. “The ones I had inside. I’m eating my own juice, Tomás. I taste like me. Would you like to try it?”

“I’d lick you clean,” I recorded, my hand speeding up over my cock. “I’d start on the inside of your thighs and wouldn’t stop until I had you by the ass with my tongue buried in your cunt. I’d make you come three times before I let you breathe.”

A long moan, completely unfiltered, came through my headphones. There was no modesty left now. “Keep talking. Don’t stop. I’m right there. Tell me what you’d do after.”

“I’d flip you over. On your knees on the bed, ass up. I’d spread your cheeks and look at you properly before I touched you. And then I’d put it in all the way, to the hilt, until you screamed.”

Her answer came in two audios back to back. In the first, all you could hear was her frantic breathing, the wet sound of fingers going in and out, and a high, almost crying moan that broke in her throat. In the second, shorter one: “I’m coming. I’m coming, Tomás. Oh, fuck…”

Hearing her come through the phone, picturing her with her head thrown back and her fingers wet and her legs shaking, was what finished me off. I came over my own fist with a growl that burst out of my guts, hot jets shooting against the edge of the desk and dripping between my fingers. I was left panting, my cock still hard and throbbing in my hand, covered in my own come, staring at the screen like a madman.

On the other side, there was only silence. A heavy, eloquent silence. Then, one last message, written as if by unsteady fingers.

I’ve closed the file. And I’ve approved the campaign. Tomorrow I’ll take you to breakfast and we’ll tie up the loose ends.

I read her message and knew it was the end for that night. The work was done. The game, not quite. I looked at my free hand on my thigh, filthy and shining: the ring glimmered weakly amid the semen.

Then everything’s confirmed. Good night, Renata.

I turned off the screen and laid the phone face down on the wood. In the sudden darkness, the emptiness left by the tension was immense, physical. The silence was no longer complicit: it was a judge.

***

The morning light came through the café window, hard and revealing, erasing the shadows of the night before. I arrived ten minutes late, on purpose. I needed to see her already seated, that second of advantage to watch her in the flesh, without the digital halo. There she was, at the back, in a sand-colored suit that seemed to catch every bit of sunlight. Renata. The client. The woman from the audio.

As I approached, her citrus perfume cut through the smell of coffee and pastries. She looked up. There was no courtesy smile. Her gaze was a quick scan that dropped from my eyes to my hands —to the inevitable wedding band— and rose again. And it kept dropping, without even trying to hide it, to my fly, where it paused a second too long.

“I thought you’d regret the date,” she said. It was the meeting voice, but with a new rasp to it.

“Not approving the campaign, no,” I replied, sitting down opposite her. “The breakfast? I’m not sure yet.”

We ordered coffee and juice, no food. While I talked, I felt her gaze fixed on my mouth, a shameless study done with her eyes. When we were alone, the silence filled with everything we weren’t saying.

“You slept little,” she stated, not asking. Her finger traced a slow circle on the rim of her cup, and I thought of that same finger the night before, inside her, shining.

“I had to finish a few details after the confirmation,” I said, stressing the last word.

“Yes. The confirmation. It was exhaustive.”

The word hung over the coffee steam. She took a slow sip without taking her eyes off me, and I followed the movement of her throat as she swallowed. I thought about what I’d promised her on audio: my tongue buried between her ass cheeks. My cock started swelling again right there under the tablecloth.

“We needed to talk about the launch,” I began, forcing a professional tone.

“But you need my physical signature,” she cut in. “On the execution contract. In person. Company policy. My office, at eleven. Does that work for you?”

It wasn’t a question. It was an invitation into her territory.

“Perfect.”

She paid, a sharp gesture that made it clear this, here, was professional. But as she stood, her hand brushed my shoulder. It wasn’t an accident: it was an exact pressure that sent all the heat of her skin through my wool.

“See you later, Tomás,” she said, and her voice was already the whisper from the audio.

***

At eleven sharp I knocked on her door. A brass plaque: “Renata. Account Management.” The office air was cold, climate-controlled, smelling of quality paper and that perfume, now more concentrated. One whole wall was glass, with the city beyond. The desk, huge and minimalist, steel and glass, was an island of power. She was standing with her back to me, outlined against the sky.

“Close the door,” she said without turning.

The click of the lock echoed like a muffled gunshot.

“The campaign is excellent,” she began, turning slowly, reading glasses lowered on the bridge of her nose. “The best in years. You nailed the exact approach.”

“That’s what I do,” I replied, keeping my distance. “Nail focal points.”

She gave a low laugh and moved toward the desk. She came at me with the slow certainty of someone surveying territory she already believed was hers, and stopped a meter away. The perfume was a palpable cloud. The first button of her shirt was undone, and through the gap you could see the start of a breast and the black lace of her bra.

“The contract,” I said, forcing neutrality.

“Ah, yes. The contract.” She bent over a drawer, and her skirt tightened over her hips in a full, deliberate statement, defining the line of her ass, the separation of her cheeks under the fabric. She pulled out a document and laid her palm on the glass. “Come. You need to see clause seven. There was a last-minute modification.”

I stepped closer. The distance shrank to centimeters. The side of my arm brushed hers, a contact that burned through the fabric. As I leaned in to read, I felt her breath on my temple, hot and rhythmic.

“Clause seven,” she murmured, a centimeter from my ear. “It speaks of full execution. Of both parties’ obligation to consummate the process. No reservations. No outside interference.”

I wasn’t reading the contract. I was reading the tension in the tendons of her neck, the quick pulse in her wrist. And I could feel my cock going hard again, pressing against my fly.

“That’s very explicit language,” I managed to say, turning my head. Our faces were a hand’s breadth apart. Her eyes, behind the glasses, were two pits of controlled fire.

“It has to be,” she whispered. “So there’s no doubt about what’s expected. About total surrender.”

One of her hands came off the glass, floated between us and, with agonizing slowness, settled on my tie. She didn’t pull. She didn’t stroke. She simply held it, wrapping the silk around her fingers, taking possession of the symbol. I felt the slight tug at my neck, an anchor binding me to her will.

“Renata…” I said, and my voice was nothing but a rasp.

“Here I’m the manager,” she reminded me, but her tone contradicted it: it was the voice of the one giving orders and also the one begging. Her gaze dropped to my lips, then lower, to the bulge in my pants. “And you’re the supplier. And good suppliers always receive a special bonus.”

Her other hand joined the tie. This wasn’t violence: it was deliberate tension, a point of no return. The cold glass pressed into my thigh. The city beyond the window blurred away. Only our intertwined breathing existed, and the millimeter of air separating her lips from mine.

The line between desire and action vanished when her firm fingers found my belt. The click of the buckle was the final punctuation to any pretense of the outside world. There was no rush: only the crushing certainty of what was inevitable. She lowered my zipper with calculated slowness, never taking her eyes off mine, and when she reached in and grabbed my cock over my briefs, a short sigh slipped out of her.

“You’re rock hard already,” she murmured. “Just like last night. I can feel it.”

“Last night I had you in my ear. Now I’ve got you all.”

She pulled my cock out with two fingers, freeing it from the elastic. It sprang out stiff, throbbing, against my stomach. She looked at it for a long moment, as if studying it, cataloging it, and a brief smile curved her lips.

“Much better in person,” she said. And she knelt.

As she knelt, the brush of her skirt against the floor was the only sound. Her gaze never left mine, not even when her lips settled over the tip, breathing in the heat. The exhale was a caress, a promise. She stuck out her tongue and licked my glans from bottom to top, gathering the first drop of liquid already beading there, and tasted it with her mouth closed like someone sampling a wine.

“You taste exactly as I imagined,” she said.

And she took me into her mouth. All of me. In one go. All the way down, until I felt the tip brushing the soft part of her throat and she swallowed around me, tightening. A brutal groan escaped my chest. I buried my hand in her hair, still styled, and felt the pins give way under my fingers.

It wasn’t a passive welcome: it was a takeover. Her tongue traced a slow path along the shaft, from base to tip, with the precision of someone signing the most important clause. Then she went down to my balls, took them into her mouth one by one, sucking them carefully while her hand moved up and down my cock with her palm slick with saliva. And always her eyes locked on mine, trapping me in that green web.

In them I read not submission, but another kind of power: the power of deciding the pace, the depth, the intensity. Each rise and fall of her head was a beat of that power, a pressure building in my gut, in muscles taut as steel, in the sweat running down my spine.

She spat on the glans, a generous spit that left everything shining and slick, and took me back into her mouth whole. Now with rhythm. A wet, audible rhythm, utterly shameless, her throat opening to take me deeper each time. Mascara began to run down her cheeks. Her eyes watered and she didn’t pull away. On the contrary: with every gag reflex she used it to press harder, to get me deeper, while her free hand slipped beneath her skirt and I heard, above the wet sounds of her mouth, the splashing of her own fingers entering her cunt.

“You’re touching yourself,” I gasped.

She nodded with my cock inside her, moaning against the shaft, and the vibration shot through me like a current.

It wasn’t building: it was accumulating, like a dam about to burst. Every wet sound, every time her hands gripped my thighs looking for a deeper angle, pushed me closer to the edge. My breathing became a series of rough grunts. I buried my hands in her bun and undid it completely, letting her hair fall like a dark curtain over her shoulders. I grabbed her head with both hands and started fucking her mouth myself, pushing her face against my stomach, not letting her breathe between thrusts. She took it, throat open, eyes teary, saliva dripping down her chin and onto the neckline of her shirt.

I saw the moment in her eyes just before it hit. A flash of triumph. She increased the pace, the suction, turning her mouth into a vacuum chamber that pulled out not just pleasure, but will and thought. My fingers clenched in her hair. A guttural warning slipped from my lips.

“Renata, I’m about to come…”

She didn’t stop. She didn’t break eye contact. On the contrary, she deepened it, accepting, challenging. She stuck her tongue out, flat and wide, and looked up at me as if telling me where. And it was at that instant, with her eyes piercing mine, that the dam broke.

The climax was pure electrical discharge, a lightning bolt that split from the base of my skull to my heels. It wasn’t release: it was expropriation. My body arched, rigid, giving her in waves everything I had built up since dawn. The first surge hit her tongue, thick, white, and she took it without closing her eyes. The second shot past her lips and painted her cheek. The third she swallowed, wrapping her mouth around the tip just in time, sucking me dry to the last drop while I trembled with my hand clenched in her nape.

She stayed like that for an eternal moment, until the last spasm gave way. Only then, with ceremonial slowness, did she pull back and swallow slowly, never breaking eye contact. Then she ran her thumb along the corner of her mouth, gathering what had stayed on her cheek, and brought it to her lips. Her smile was the faintest, the most victorious.

“Contract signed,” she said, her voice hoarse.

The office existed again: the air conditioning, the sun flashing on the glass, the folders on the floor. But nothing was the same. I held out a hand to her, not to help her up, but to claim her, to level us out again. Her fingers threaded through mine with a force that spoke of urgency.

When she stood, I yanked her up and sat her on the edge of the desk. I ripped the buttons off her shirt one by one, without care, until the black lace bra was exposed. I pulled the cups down in a tug and her breasts sprang free, heavy, with dark, erect nipples still marked by the elastic. I went for one, sucking it whole, biting it until she arched her back and let out a hoarse cry. I dragged my tongue over the other, tugging with my teeth, while with my hand I shoved her skirt up to her waist.

She wasn’t wearing panties. Or she had taken them off before I came in.

“You prepared,” I murmured against her neck.

“I’ve been prepared since last night,” she panted.

I spread her legs and knelt this time. Her cunt opened before my eyes, shiny, swollen, the inner lips red and parted, already dripping onto the desk glass. I ran my whole tongue over it, from bottom to top, hard, and she gripped the edge of the desk with both hands, throwing her head back with a long moan. I sucked her clit, wrapped it with my lips, nibbled it softly, while I slid two fingers inside her and curled them, searching for the exact spot.

“There, Tomás, there, don’t stop, don’t stop…”

Her thighs started trembling against my ears. I sped up, sucking and pumping my fingers in the same rhythm, and felt her tightening around them in waves, while she dug her heels into my back.

“I’m coming… I’m coming…”

She came on my tongue, soaking my chin, with a furious moan that filled the entire office. I licked up every drop, not leaving a single bit, until she pushed my head away with a trembling hand because she couldn’t take the stimulation anymore.

I stood up with my mouth still shining and kissed her. I kissed her deeply, so she could taste herself on my tongue, and she moaned into my mouth and sucked my lips hungrily.

I took hold of my cock, which was hard again, swollen as if I’d never come at all, and rubbed it between the lips of her cunt, soaking myself with her juice. The cold glass met her back when she leaned against it, and she held her breath in a sharp gasp.

“Here,” she whispered, rough, pulling at me with both hands on my ass. “Now. Put it in.”

There was no more preamble. It was a collision of need, an adjustment of angles under the guidance of her hands on my hips. As I entered her, a long, guttural moan broke free from the deepest part of her chest. I felt her give, open, swallow me whole centimeter by centimeter until my balls hit the skin of her ass. It wasn’t pain: it was recognition. Her eyes closed for an instant, her forehead creased in pure concentration.

“Yes…” she hissed, nails digging into my arms. “Like that. That’s what I wanted. All of it. Put it all in.”

The rhythm began slow, deep, charged with the memory of every message and every stolen glance. I came out almost all the way before sinking back in fully, and each thrust tore a new moan from her. I could see her from above: the breasts bouncing with each shove, sweat beading on her neck, mascara smeared, mouth open. Soon patience ran out. Her breathing turned ragged.

“More, Tomás,” she ordered through clenched teeth, opening her eyes, green fire in them. “Don’t hold back. It’s too late for that. Fuck me like you hate me.”

Her words were a straight shot to my self-control. I sped up, the thrusts firmer, deeper, making the desk frame creak with a metallic groan. I grabbed her under the knees and lifted her legs until her heels rested on my shoulders, folding her in half, sinking in deeper. She arched her back, offering herself, daring me.

Every word out of her mouth was fuel. She moaned with every thrust, low sounds she made no effort to muffle. Language was reduced to the essential, to the visceral.

“There… right there,” she demanded, her heels pressing into the back of my head, forcing a depth that left us both breathless. “God… harder. Harder, you son of a bitch.”

The contained force of weeks exploded. There was no longer manager or supplier, only two bodies settling a debt with sweat and skin. The sound of our bodies crashing together filled the room, a primal, obscene, wet rhythm that drowned out the ticking of the wall clock. I grabbed her tits with both hands, squeezed them, pinched her nipples until she screamed, and kept thrusting.

“Turn around,” I ordered, yanking my cock out at once.

She obeyed without protest. She turned around, bent over the desk with her breasts pressed flat against the glass, and stuck her ass out with her legs open. I saw her cunt open, red, dripping my spit and her own juice, and above it the other hole, tight, dark, in full view. I ran my thumb over it, pressing lightly, and she moaned and shoved her hips back for more.

I grabbed her hips and drove into her again in one single thrust. She let out a howl that bounced off the glass walls. I started fucking her like that, brutally, one hand in her hair and the other on her hip bone, pulling back so she could be impaled with every thrust. Her tits squeaked against the sweaty glass. The sound of my balls slapping her clit filled the office.

“Don’t stop… don’t stop…” she begged now, between broken moans, her voice undone, far from any corporate order. “You’re doing it perfect. More… deeper… break me…”

Her inner muscles started pulsing around me, an anticipated spasm. Her face, pressed sideways against the glass, twisted into a rictus of abandoned ecstasy. I let go of her hair and shoved two fingers into her mouth. She sucked them, moaning, coating them in spit, and I pulled them out and took them down to the other hole. I wet it well and slid one finger in, all the way, while I kept pumping her cunt with my cock.

It was too much for her.

“Tomás!” she screamed my name, not as a whisper but as a furious declaration, and that recognition in the climax was the match.

Her body was seized by waves of contractions. I felt her explode under me, a torrent of tremors and muffled cries, her cunt biting my cock in rhythmic spasms, her ass tightening around my finger. Seeing her, feeling her, hearing her lose all control was too much. With a rough groan from deep in my chest, I let go. I pulled out at the last second and emptied myself over her ass and lower back, marking her, thick hot ropes of semen sliding down her skin and staining her wrinkled skirt. Still convulsing, she turned her head to look at it, and smiled with her mouth open.

The silence that followed was physical, heavy, broken only by our lungs fighting for air. The desk, our fragile world of glass, was fogged beneath us and splattered with fluids. Her legs were still trembling.

There were no words for a long while. Only the slow ebb of the fever, the return of consciousness: the cold air on wet skin, the wreckage on the floor, the closed door, the semen cooling on her skin. She slowly sat up, ran two fingers over her lower back, gathering a bit of my come, and brought them to her mouth, sucking them while never taking her eyes off me.

“The contract… is more than fulfilled,” she whispered at last, her voice rough and worn out.

It was an affirmation, a closing, and perhaps the beginning of something infinitely more complicated. I moved away from her, and the world, with all its rules and consequences, slipped back in through every crack in the room. I looked at the wedding band on my hand and knew that this dawn wasn’t going to stay trapped in the screen.