The Night the Elevator Trapped Me with My Intern

It was nearly eleven at night when I left the auditorium with a dry throat and a loose tie. The conference on twentieth-century Argentine essay had run two hours longer than expected, and the old wing of the School of Philosophy was completely empty. Only Camila and I were left: the intern they’d assigned me for the microphones and projector, and who had spent eight hours turning my evening into a silent interrogation.

Camila Vidal was twenty-two, with dark hair to her shoulders and a way of crossing her legs on the edge of my desk that no internship handbook contemplates. That night she wore a short black skirt, a white blouse half unbuttoned, and heels that clicked down the empty corridor as if they were warning me about something.

My name is Esteban Quiroga, I’m fifty-one, and I’ve been married to the same woman for twenty-four years. I’ve taught literary theory since before Camila learned how to read. I’m one of those professors who sign on time, stay out of trouble, and receive Christmas cards from three generations of students. That was, at least, the version on my lapel.

—This way, Professor —she said, pressing the elevator button with her painted nail—. Unless you’d rather take the stairs like an old gentleman.

—I prefer efficiency, Miss Vidal —I replied sharply—. And a little respect.

Camila rolled her eyes and went in first. She moved her hips a little more than necessary, biting her lower lip with that smile she’d been giving me all evening from across the stage. The doors closed with a metallic sigh.

We went up one floor. Halfway through the second, the machine jolted violently, groaned, and stopped. The lights flickered once before settling into a weak, emergency yellow glow. The control panel died. Silence filled with the distant hum of a transformer somewhere in the building.

Camila let out an ironic laugh.

—Great —she said—. Trapped in a tin box with the most boring professor in the whole faculty.

I pressed the emergency button three times. Nothing. I took out my phone and held it up to the ceiling: no signal. That section of the building was famous for dead zones; everyone knew it, even the administrators, but nobody had ever done anything about it.

—Exactly what I needed —I muttered, loosening my tie completely—. One longer night, with you.

She leaned back against the mirrored wall and crossed her arms under her chest, pushing it up without a trace of shame. Her perfume was sweet, overdone, almost dizzying in that two-by-two-meter cubicle.

—Are you afraid your wife will think you’re taking too long with a student? —she asked, tilting her head.

—I get the feeling your mouth is quite a bit faster than your work —I answered without looking at her.

—Maybe I know how to use it better —she said, and stepped closer—. Never thought about it, Dr. Quiroga? All those nights grading papers in your office while your wife sleeps... I’d bet you imagine shutting up insolent girls like me. With that dick of yours that shows when you cross the classroom.

***

The air inside the elevator grew heavy. I was a man of firm habits, of Fridays with red wine and Sundays with my mother-in-law. But the way she looked at me —defiant, amused, her tongue showing for a second between her teeth— woke something in me that had been asleep for far too long. It wasn’t desire in the abstract. It was a very concrete decision, making itself, without asking my permission. My cock was getting hard against the fabric of my trousers and she was watching it without a shred of embarrassment.

—Careful, Camila —I said, lowering my voice a notch—. You’re playing a game that could end up costing you quite a lot.

—Oh, yeah? —She ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip—. And what are you going to do, Professor? Give me an ethics lecture? Or are you finally going to admit you’ve spent eight hours thinking about how my cunt would look spread open for you against that wall?

Something broke in me. It wasn’t thunder. It was more like a dry crack, like when an old branch finally gives under the weight. I took the three steps between us, grabbed her by the waist, turned her, and pressed her back against the mirror.

Camila let out a gasp that immediately turned into a broken laugh.

—Finally —she murmured—. The serious professor broke.

—Shut up —I growled, pressing my body to hers.

I took her jaw in one hand and kissed her with my mouth open, driving my tongue all the way in, biting her lower lip until a moan escaped her. With my other hand I ripped open her blouse; a couple of buttons flew off and bounced on the elevator floor. Her breasts spilled free, without a bra, her nipples already hard, dark, pointing at me. I lowered my mouth and sucked one whole, tugging it with my teeth until she arched her back against the mirror. Then the other. I bit the white skin around the areola and left the wet mark of my saliva shining under the yellow light.

—Suck them hard —she panted—, like that... like that, Doctor, don’t stop...

One of my hands slid up her thigh and lifted her skirt to her waist. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Of course she wasn’t. I ran my fingers over the bare skin and down to her cunt: it was completely soaked, the lips swollen, slippery all the way up to the top of her groin.

—Look at you —I said softly, almost to myself—. So much provocation and you’re already dripping for a married man twice your age.

I parted her lips with two fingers and stroked her thoroughly, from bottom to top, very slowly, pressing her clit at the end of each pass. Camila wriggled against the mirror and dug her nails into my shoulder over my jacket.

—My boyfriend doesn’t make me come —she whispered, her voice breaking for the first time all night—. Ever. He lasts two minutes and falls asleep. You only need two fingers.

I put them in. Both of them together, to the knuckles. Camila bit the back of her hand so she wouldn’t scream and the inner walls of her pussy closed around my fingers like a hot fist. I started moving in and out, curling them, looking for that soft spot up top, while with my thumb I rubbed her clit in tight circles. In seconds I felt her gush over my hand, a warm stream running down the inside of her thigh to her knee.

—That’s it —I said in her ear—, that’s how a girl gets wet after eight hours wanting a dick inside her. Say it.

—I want your dick inside me —she panted, her whole body trembling—. Please, Professor, put your dick in me already.

I shoved her down by the shoulders. Camila fell to her knees in front of me, hair wild and breasts out, and reached for my zipper without being asked. She lowered it with her teeth, tugging at the fabric with her mouth, and when my cock slipped out of my pants —hard, thick, the tip already shining— she let out a hungry little sound deep in her throat.

—God —she murmured—. It’s huge.

—Open your mouth —I ordered.

She opened. I rested the head on her tongue and pushed in slowly the first time, letting her settle around it. She closed her lips around me and started sucking with a hunger that had nothing of the irony from before. She took the base in one hand and stroked my balls with the other, while her head went up and down, saliva running from the corner of her mouth and dripping onto her bare breasts. I grabbed her hair with both hands, wrapped it around my fist, and set the rhythm.

—Deeper —I growled—. All of it. Come on, insolent girl. Suck it all like it’s your boyfriend watching you.

Camila obeyed. She took me until the tip hit the back of her throat and she gagged, eyes filling with tears, her tongue working me underneath. I pulled out for a second so she could breathe and shoved back in, fucking her mouth at the pace I wanted, watching her makeup smear while the reflection in the far mirror gave me back the image of a fifty-one-year-old man with his balls resting on the chin of a twenty-two-year-old intern.

—Enough —I said abruptly, pulling out—. If you keep going like that I’m going to come in your mouth, and not yet.

I hauled her up by the arms, turned her around, and pressed her back against the mirror again. No: I turned her once more, facing the glass, palms flat against it and her ass pushed back. I lifted her skirt above her waist and opened her legs with a gentle kick of my shoe. Her cunt was shining everywhere, lips parted, a thread of wetness hanging between her thighs. I took my cock in my hand and ran it from top to bottom along her slit, soaking myself well before I pushed in.

—Is this what you wanted all night? —I asked, hoarse.

—Yes —she answered without a trace of irony—. Fuck me, Professor. Fuck me like I’m insolent. Break me.

I entered slowly the first time, making the path, feeling how each centimeter tore a new moan from her. She was so wet the cock slid to the bottom without resistance, and even so she held me like a hot glove. I gripped her hips with both hands and stayed still for a second, all the way in, letting her feel the full length.

—Jesus Christ —she panted, her cheek pressed to the mirror—. You’re splitting me open...

After that there was no possible caution. I started fucking her properly, pulling almost all the way out and driving it back in with a dry thrust each time. Every hit made her breasts bounce against the glass, her nipples leaving two damp marks that smudged with the motion. Her breath fogged the mirror in little circles that vanished and returned. The sound of my hips slamming into her ass filled the elevator —thud, thud, thud— mixed with the wet splashing of her cunt dripping over my cock.

—More, more, more —she kept repeating with her eyes closed—. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.

I grabbed the back of her neck with one hand and pushed her face against the mirror. With the other I found her clit from below and started rubbing it while I kept fucking her from behind. She writhed and her ass tightened around my cock in waves.

—This never happened, do you understand? Tomorrow you’re still my intern. Tonight you’re a whore getting fucked in an elevator. Say it.

—I’m... your whore —she panted—. Fuck me harder, Professor, please...

I bit the curve of her neck, right where a shirt collar can’t hide it. She would have the mark for two days. I wanted her to see it in the mirror the next morning. I wanted her to remember it every time she walked back into my classroom with that smug little smile and her perfectly ordered notebook. I licked the mark, sucked it, and bit lower, on her shoulder, leaving another one.

—Harder —she begged—. Please, Doctor, harder, I want to come with your dick inside me.

I obeyed. I held her hips with both hands and drove in to the hilt, again and again, each thrust more brutal than the last, feeling the mirror creak behind her and her heels shift a couple of centimeters with every blow. She wasn’t arrogant anymore. She was a twenty-two-year-old girl with her forehead against the glass, mouth open, saliva running down to her chin, repeating my last name like it was a forbidden word.

—Doctor... Quiroga... Quiroga... oh God, Quiroga...

I pulled out suddenly, turned her around, lifted her by the backs of her thighs and pinned her against the mirror with her legs wrapped around my waist. I drove into her again like that, facing her, watching her face while I fucked her. Her breasts shook between us, our mouths sought each other out, biting more than kissing. In that position the cock hit her from another angle and she started screaming, no longer biting her hand, not caring about the empty building or the cameras that probably weren’t working.

—There, there, there! —she shrieked—. Don’t stop, I’m coming, I’m coming!

Her walls began squeezing me rhythmically, short spasms growing closer, longer each time.

—I’m going to... —she started.

—Come —I told her in her ear while I pushed all the way in—. Come on the cock of a married man. After that you can go right back to being the perfect girl on campus.

Camila broke. She threw her head back against the mirror, opened her mouth in a silent scream, and I felt the shudder rise from the soles of her feet to the nape of her neck. Her cunt exploded around my cock in a series of violent contractions, so strong they almost made me come right then and there. A warm stream ran down over my balls and soaked my trousers bunched around my ankles.

I held out of pure pride. I kept her pinned to the mirror while she finished coming, feeling every spasm around my flesh, and when her body finally loosened I lowered her, turned her back around, and drove into her from behind again. I wasn’t done with her.

—Again —I told her in her ear—. You’re going to come twice before I’m done.

—I can’t take it —she panted, her legs trembling—. I can’t take it, Professor...

—You can.

I fucked her more slowly this time, with long, deep thrusts, hunting for the spot inside with the tip of my cock. I ran one hand over the front and grabbed her breasts, squeezing them, pinching her nipples between thumb and forefinger. The other hand went back down to her clit. In two minutes I felt her break again, moaning my name against the mirror, a second orgasm softer but longer than the first, lasting almost half a minute.

Then yes. I drove in one last time to the hilt, dug my fingers into her hips, and came inside her with a growl I had to smother against her shoulder. I felt my cock pulse inside her, one thick pulse after another, filling her cunt while she kept trembling through the last spasms of her orgasm. Everything I had been holding back that night —the long looks, the touches that morning, the feigned contempt during the lecture and the desire I’d kept hidden since March— emptied into her cunt in a matter of seconds.

When I pulled out, my semen ran down the inside of her thigh in a white thread all the way to her knee. I ran two fingers through the drip, gathered it up, and brought them to her mouth. Camila sucked them without taking her eyes off the reflection, glassy-eyed, tasting the mixture of both.

We stayed there pressed together, breathing. The yellow light stayed the same. My shirt had slipped loose from my belt without my noticing and there were patches of moisture on my chest. Camila had smeared makeup in a small black tear under her right eye, a thread of dried spit at the corner of her mouth, and her breasts were still out, marked with red bites, and I couldn’t have said whether the tear was from pleasure or from something more complicated.

Just as I moved away and started pulling up my zipper, the machine gave a buzz. The white lights came back all at once. The panel flickered and showed the floor number. The elevator resumed its climb as if nothing had happened in the last ten minutes.

***

We had exactly fourteen seconds to become two other people again.

I straightened my tie. Ran my fingers through my hair. She buttoned her blouse as best she could —two buttons were missing, left on the elevator floor and pushed with my shoe into a corner—, pulled her skirt down, pressed her thighs together so the come wouldn’t keep running out, fixed her hair while looking at her reflection, and ran her pinky under her eye to erase the black line. When the doors opened on the professors’ floor, we were once again the professor and the intern.

—Professor —she said softly before stepping out—, should I email you tomorrow when the new microphones arrive?

—Yes, Miss Vidal —I answered in the most neutral voice I could manage—. And please, be on time.

I walked to the parking lot still feeling the weight of her body against mine, the smell of her cunt on my fingers, and her perfume clinging to the collar of my shirt. I stopped beside the car, took two deep breaths, and looked at my hands under the lamplight. They weren’t shaking. That was what frightened me most.

My wife would be asleep. Tomorrow I’d tell her the conference had run late, that an elevator had broken down, that I’d arrived home late. Almost all of it would be true. Almost.

Twenty-four years of marriage and not once had I felt guilty before getting into the car. That night I didn’t feel it either. What I felt was worse: the calm certainty that I was going to seek her out again, fuck her again, and that she already knew it when she’d told me, “be on time.”