I Confess What Happened With My Coworker That Summer

We left together down the stairs, those on the outgoing shift and the stragglers coming in. That afternoon stretched out like soft chewing gum, with too much heat in the offices and too much clothing on. We all had a couple of days off ahead of us, so on the landing we traded the usual Friday clichés: the beaches, the broken air conditioning, seeing each other when we got back. I was behind the group, trying not to look at her more than necessary, but my eyes kept drifting to the tight ass inside that pencil skirt and to the shadow of her bra showing beneath the thin blouse.

When we got to the parking lot, I headed toward my car without having exchanged a single word with Camila since the last meeting.

—Hey, Mateo! —she called out, loudly enough for everyone to hear. It was obvious the universe had picked her side that afternoon—. Don’t you remember you said you’d take me home? Mine lit up a warning light when I got here and I’m taking it to the garage tomorrow.

I’ve always been a terrible actor, but I managed to get out an “Ah, yes, sorry, my head’s been completely out of my body these days” that sounded almost natural. She was already sliding into the passenger seat before I’d finished the sentence.

I started the car. The others were still loading bags into their trunks when I left the lot. As soon as we crossed the barrier, Camila undid the button on her pants with the naturalness of someone who’d spent the whole day thinking about doing it.

—Find me an alley, an empty lot, an industrial park parking area, anything —she said, low-voiced—. I can’t, and I don’t want to, get home like this. My cunt’s been soaked since the eleven o’clock meeting, Mateo. It shows even when I cross my legs.

She reclined in the seat, hiked her blouse up a little, and slid her hand inside her underwear. She closed her eyes. I watched her fingers sink beneath the lace and the fabric start to bulge where her knuckle worked in slow circles.

—If you stop beside a truck, let me know, because I don’t want to make a scene —she added, already breathing harder—. Though maybe I wouldn’t mind. I’m putting two fingers in and I don’t give a fuck.

Five minutes later we were leaving the city by the old road. It was Sunday night and although summer had just begun, there was very little traffic. I tried to keep my eyes on the white line and not on her hand. Her hand, moving beneath the fabric, squeezing, lingering. She pulled her panties down to mid-thigh and brought out her shiny fingers to suck them with theatrical slowness, glancing sideways at me before sliding them back inside herself. The car filled with the warm, sharp scent of wet cunt, and it made my cock hard as a stone.

Something was tightening in me too. I unzipped my pants without stopping driving, not out of kink but simple survival: the pressure against my jeans was starting to hurt. As soon as I freed my dick, Camila stretched out her free hand and grabbed it by the base without warning, squeezing hard, measuring me in her fist.

—Fuck, you’re huge —she murmured, and started pumping it up and down, her thumb sliding over the wet tip while she kept working herself with her other hand—. Don’t come, okay? Don’t even think about it. This is for inside me.

The scrubland north of the city is full of dead-end side roads that stop in front of some metal fence or an abandoned threshing floor. I knew one from when I was a teenager. I took the turnoff without warning and drove a couple of kilometers through the olive trees until the asphalt turned to gravel. The moon was high and there was still some light on the horizon.

I parked tight against a fence at the end of the road. I switched off the engine. The headlights died a few seconds later on their own. All that remained was the distant hum of a cricket and the two of us breathing.

We opened the doors almost at the same time and met in front of the hood. Neither of us said a word. Camila grabbed the back of my neck and kissed me like she’d been waiting a week for that minute. She had. So had I. She shoved her tongue deep into my mouth, biting my lip, and I grabbed one of her tits through her blouse, squeezing until she moaned into my mouth.

My T-shirt ended up on the gravel. Her bra, folded on top of the bumper. Her tits were free, heavy, with the nipples tight and dark with pure desire. I bent my head and took one into my mouth, sucking hard, barely biting the flesh while she pulled my hair and arched her back against the hot metal. I kissed my way down her belly until I was kneeling on the gravel. I yanked off her panties in one pull, already soaked through, and buried my face between her thighs.

—Oh, you son of a bitch, yes —she gasped, grabbing my hair with both hands and smashing me against her cunt—. Lick me, lick me all over, don’t stop.

I ran my whole tongue from bottom to top, tasting the thick salt of desire that had built up all afternoon, and stopped at her clit to suck it between my lips, tugging at it with long pulls. I slid in two fingers and curled them upward, searching for the spot that made her shake. She started moving my face with her hips, fucking my mouth without a trace of shame, moaning louder and louder into the silence of the fields. I could feel her thighs clenching around my head and her cunt tightening around my fingers.

—Wait, wait —she said, yanking my hair upward—. Not like that. Fuck me already. I need your cock inside me.

I got to my feet with aching knees and pulled down my pants and underwear to my ankles with zero elegance. She braced herself on the hood with both hands, spread her legs, and turned her head to look over her shoulder at me. She showed me her perky ass, the lips of her cunt swollen and shining, parted and waiting.

—Hurry up —she said—. Put it in all at once. Don’t be gentle.

I grabbed her hips with both hands and went in all the way in one motion, right to the balls. She let out a dry sound, more surprise than discomfort, and pushed her hips back to meet me. There was no awkwardness at all; the whole afternoon and the massages she’d been giving herself in the car had finished preparing her. It felt like going into a house that had had the fireplace lit for hours: a tight, slippery heat that sucked me in every time I thrust.

I pushed hard. I wasn’t looking for tenderness or slow rhythm; I was looking to unload the whole week. The thrusts made my balls slap against her cunt with a wet sound that echoed in the silence of the olive grove. She smashed her tits against the warm hood and arched her back to take me deeper. Camila had immediately sensed that this was going to last only as long as it needed to, so she took her free hand between her legs and started helping herself with her fingertips, rubbing her clit at the same speed I was fucking her cunt. I clung to her hips so I wouldn’t lose my balance on the gravel, leaving red marks with my fingers. Her fingers brushed mine too, unintentionally, every time she moved against herself, and the extra friction was killing me.

—Harder, harder —she panted with her cheek pressed to the metal—. Break me, Mateo, I’ve been thinking about this for days, about your cock inside me, about… oh, fuck, like that, like that.

I let go of one ass cheek and gave it a sharp slap that sounded like a whip crack. She let out a guttural moan and pressed herself even harder against me. I grabbed her hair, tipped her head back, and kept driving into her from that angle, watching her mouth open soundlessly like a fish.

I held out for a few minutes. Just long enough to feel how she, beneath me, began to contract in little pulses she could no longer hide. Her cunt closed in tight rings around my dick and her mouth filled with a long, hoarse gasp that never seemed to end. She came, biting her forearm so she wouldn’t scream. We didn’t look at each other; both our faces were buried toward the hood. Her contractions dragged me under. I dug my fingers into her hips, thrust three more times to the hilt, and emptied myself inside her with a low grunt, feeling my cum shoot out hot in bursts while she pushed her ass back to take it all. When I let go, I let go completely. I collapsed over her back with all my dead weight, my forehead against her shoulder blade, breathing hard, still inside her, feeling the semen start to run down between her thighs.

It took us a while to separate. When I pulled out, a white thread ran down the inner side of her thigh to the back of her knee. The air smelled of cut hay, dry earth, real summer, and now sex too. Only then did I realize that since we’d turned onto the road we had barely spoken three complete sentences; the rest had been moans and commands.

It had been a rough, filthy encounter, too fast to enjoy it the way it should’ve been enjoyed. But it had also been necessary. We’d spent seven days building up a voltage that could no longer keep growing inside an office with cubicles and fluorescent light.

Camila pulled a pack of wet wipes out of her bag and handed me one without looking at me. She wiped the streak of cum from her thigh with two short swipes. We cleaned ourselves in silence. We put our clothes back on in silence. We got back into the car in silence.

As I turned around onto the road, her phone rang. I saw on the screen that it was her daughter.

—Hi, sweetheart. No, don’t worry, the afternoon got messed up because of an issue. Yes, I’m leaving the office now. I’ll be there in a bit.

She hung up. She sighed. She looked out the window and then at me with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher: tenderness, exhaustion, guilt, relief, all at once.

—Tomorrow I’ll take a taxi and go pick up the car —she said—. And how much longer until your apartment is ready?

It was more of a rhetorical question than anything else. That week had been hell: me sleeping on a friend’s couch because my place was half under renovation, and her inventing impossible meetings so we could see each other for ten minutes in any empty room. The insurance company had promised everything in two days. I told her so.

I dropped her off in front of her building. She got out like a shot, almost without saying goodbye. I stayed a couple of seconds watching her go up the stairs until she disappeared behind the door. Then I headed to my friend’s place.

I got there late and he was already asleep. I didn’t eat. I got in the shower. I jerked off slowly and in silence against the tiles, left hand on the wall and right hand pumping my cock with soap sliding over my fingers, thinking about how her cunt had opened on the hood, about the salty taste still left on my tongue, about the thread of cum running down her thigh. I came on the tiles with my mouth open and without making a sound, not out of any real need but because my body was still asking for closure. I collapsed flat on the sofa bed in the living room.

***

The next morning the buzzing of the phone on the table woke me up. It was the contractor. The work would be finished on Wednesday, the cleaning company would come on Thursday. I said thank you twice and hung up with a loose smile, not quite opening my eyes yet.

It rang again before I could put it back on the table.

—Good morning. Did you sleep well? —It was her. Her voice finished waking me up faster than any coffee.

—Honestly, yes. I crashed hard. The guy from the renovation just called: I’ll have the apartment on Wednesday.

—Have you had breakfast?

—I don’t even know what time it is —I answered—. But I’m absurdly hungry.

—It’s nine. I went to get the car and brought croissants. The girl —parents still call their children “kids” even when they’re almost off to university— is at my parents’ place. I made up some ridiculous excuse so she’d stay there all morning helping them with some story about the garden. I’m alone until the afternoon. Are you coming?

She didn’t let me answer. She hung up.

Ten seconds later my phone vibrated with a video. I opened it with that mix of curiosity and panic you get when opening her messages. Camila appeared sitting on the edge of her bed in a short cream nightgown, very thin. She slowly slid the straps down, first one, then the other, and let the garment fall away by gravity. One full breast came into view, the nipple erect, before her free hand went to the hem of the nightgown and lifted it to show her shaved cunt, glossy, with two fingers already rubbing between the lips. The recording cut off just as she shoved her fingers all the way in.

I brushed my teeth in sixty seconds. I went down the stairs two at a time. My friend was still asleep.

***

Camila opened the door for me wearing the same nightgown as in the video. The morning light came in through the landing window and fell across her shoulders, her collarbones, the slightly pink skin of someone who hadn’t slept enough. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath; her nipples showed through the thin fabric.

We didn’t even make it to the hallway. We kissed against the entryway wall, with the door still not fully closed. I shoved it shut with my foot. The nightgown went over her head and landed on the dresser. My T-shirt fell onto the doormat. I left my pants at knee height because there was no time for more. She dropped to her knees in the foyer, grabbed my cock with both hands, and took it all the way into her mouth without ceremony, swallowing me to the throat.

—Oh, fuck, Camila —I gasped, leaning against the wall.

She sucked me like she was starving, looking up at me from below, saliva running down her chin. She pulled my cock out of her mouth only to lick my balls one by one, flatten her tongue up the shaft, and take me back in. Her head moved in a quick rhythm that made me grab her hair by instinct. When I felt I was about to come I tugged her hair to make her stop, lifted her off the floor, turned her against the hallway wall, and spread her legs with a light kick.

I shoved my cock into her from behind without warning. She was so wet I went all the way in with one thrust. She braced herself on her forearms against the wallpaper and arched her ass toward me. I fucked her standing up, one hand on her hip and the other squeezing one breast from behind, biting her neck while she panted with her cheek against the wall.

—To the sofa, to the sofa —she moaned—. My legs are shaking.

We did the first proper round on the sofa in the living room. No rush this time. No tension from a cold hood and a metal fence behind us. I laid her on her back, spread her legs, and ate her out slowly, giving long licks from bottom to top, sucking her clit between my lips, sliding my tongue in and out of her cunt until she twisted and dug her heels into my back. When she was about to come I kissed my way up her belly and climbed on top. I sank my cock into her all the way with a slow thrust and stayed there, still, looking into her eyes.

—Fuck me slowly —she whispered—. I want to feel every centimeter.

I did it slowly. Going all the way in, coming almost all the way out, going in again, feeling her push her hips forward to meet me each time. I grabbed her wrists over her head and held her down against the cushion. She wrapped her legs around my waist and started moaning softly against my mouth. There was nobody there to pretend for. Each of us could stare at the other for whole minutes before moving. She came slowly, with a long shiver that started in her thighs and ran up through her belly, and I held off because I wanted more.

We went from the living room to the hallway, from the hallway to the bathroom. There I sat her on the sink, spread her legs, and shoved it into her again while we both watched ourselves in the mirror. She watched me fuck her, mouth slightly open, seeing me drive between her thighs, seeing her tits bounce with each thrust.

—Look at it going in —she murmured, never taking her eyes off the reflection—. Look at how you’re fucking me.

We looked at each other for a long while in the mirror, both of us disheveled and serious, before continuing. From there to the bedroom, where I let myself fall onto my back on the bed and she sat on top of me with her knees on either side of my hips. She lowered herself onto me slowly, bracing her hands on my chest, and started riding me while looking me in the eye, her tits bouncing in front of my face. She grabbed the headboard bars, threw her ass back, and moved up and down faster and faster, squeezing her cunt with every drop. I grabbed her hips and pushed from below, meeting her in the center.

—I’m going to come again —she panted—. Come with me, come inside.

I sat her up without pulling out, laid her beneath me, and grabbed one leg over my shoulder. I drove my cock into her from that angle, deep, fast, watching her face tighten. She came while clinging to the sheets and I emptied into her for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, with a rough groan escaping into her neck, feeling her cunt clench around me in long waves.

We stayed like that, locked together, breathing. In one morning we recovered the caresses the office had stolen from us for weeks. I had learned to memorize places on her body at the same speed I passed by her desk: the neck, the waist, the inside curve of the knee. In her home, at last, I could linger on each one. I ran my tongue along the line of her collarbone, bit the inside of her thigh, sucked her nipples until they turned red.

There was no rush. No schedules. No stairs with coworkers going down them. No phones vibrating in other people’s pockets.

After noon we went down to the kitchen wrapped in a sheet each, barefoot on the cold tiles. The ants had already discovered the croissants. A dark column was coming in through a gap by the window and climbing the table leg toward the paper bag.

Camila tossed them in the trash, laughing. I opened the fridge looking for anything at all.

—There’s cheese, tomato, and a piece of yesterday’s bread —she said, peering over my shoulder.

—That’s a feast.

We sat on the counter, her with her legs hanging down, me standing between her knees. We ate in pieces, without plates, with June sunlight pouring through the kitchen window. For the first time we talked about things that had nothing to do with the office or the past and, even so, not with the future either. Only with that morning.

At four in the afternoon she would have to go pick up her daughter. By midweek I would have my own apartment. The following Mondays there would be meetings, copiers, staplers and pens on the desks, and stolen looks over the cubicles.

But that Monday morning in June, in her kitchen, was one of the cleanest I remember from a summer that got much more complicated afterward.