My Confession: That Trip to the Coast with My Boss

Darling, before you say anything, let me finish. I know I promised not to bring this subject up again, but the other night, when you asked me why I sometimes went quiet staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t keep lying. Pour yourself something, sit down, and listen to me until the end. I owe you that.

I was nineteen when I started working in that office downtown. It was my first real job, not the part-time one at the café, but one with a desk, a computer, and a business card. I felt grown-up for the first time in my life. My mom cried the day they gave me my ID badge.

My boss was named Andrés. He was thirty-eight, with a little belly starting to show under his shirt, and he always, always wore the first button undone. He spoke softly, looked you in the eye when you told him something, and never seemed in a rush. For months, I thought he was the calmest man I had ever known in my life.

***

The trip was announced on a Tuesday morning, with no preamble. We had to close a contract with a distributor in Cartagena, and the person who usually went with him was on medical leave. “I need someone who knows how to take minutes and won’t freak out with difficult clients,” he told me. “Up for it?” I said yes with a dry mouth, thinking about the travel allowance, about how this was my big chance, about what I was going to tell you when I got back.

I lied to you. I told you the accountant was going too. I don’t know why I did that; I suppose some corner of me already sensed that being alone with him was going to be different. But I convinced myself it was professional, that he was professional, and that my intuition was just rookie nerves.

***

We got to the hotel after eight at night. I was tired, disheveled, and with that strange feeling of Caribbean humid air sticking to my skin. Andrés walked up to the desk and, after talking for two minutes with the receptionist, came back with his usual calm expression.

—Daniela, there was a mix-up with the reservation —he said, shrugging—. There are only double rooms left, with two separate beds. Does that bother you? If you want, I can try to move heaven and earth, but the event starts early and…

I told him it was no problem. My face must have gone the color of the flowers in the lobby, because he laughed softly and patted my shoulder like a kind uncle. It’s just one night, Daniela. Don’t be stupid. That’s what I kept repeating to myself as I rode up in the elevator, my suitcase trembling in my hand.

The room was spacious, with a view of the sea and two queen-size beds separated by a nightstand. Heavy curtains, the air conditioner on full blast, that disinfectant smell every hotel in the world has. I thought that with the lights on, everything would be fine.

***

That afternoon, no. That night either. But the next morning we went to the beach before the meeting, because he insisted it would relax me and get me fresh for presenting the numbers. I put on the black bikini I’d bought to wear for the first time with you, remember? The one I never ended up wearing at the club pool because I told you I was embarrassed. Yes, that one.

Andrés behaved like a gentleman. He told me about his divorce, about his daughter who lived in another country, about how he had started working at fourteen. He made me laugh. He made me feel that my opinion about the business mattered to him. While we talked, I kept stealing glances at him and thinking how different he was from guys my age, how confident he seemed, how he drank coconut water without spilling a drop. And I also noticed, though I didn’t want to, how his eyes kept getting stuck on my tits every time I bent over, and how the bulge in his wet swim trunks showed with no shame at all when he stood up from the lounger.

The meeting went well. We closed the contract. He introduced me as “my assistant, indispensable,” and the clients praised me for a comment I made about the delivery deadlines. I went back to the hotel feeling important for the first time in my life. I wanted to call you and tell you everything, but there was no signal on the phone.

***

We had dinner in the hotel restaurant. He ordered wine. I never drank wine, you know that, but that night I said yes because I was embarrassed to say no. One glass. Then another. I stopped counting after the third.

By the time we went upstairs, it was close to eleven. I went into the bathroom, brushed my teeth with my hand shaking a little, and put on my nightgown. Not the old cotton nightgown, but the cream silk one my aunt had given me for my birthday, the short one that turns sheer in front light. Why did I bring it on the trip? I have no answer. I swear I don’t. Maybe because I felt pretty that night, maybe because I wanted, without admitting it, to feel desired by someone who wasn’t you. That’s the part that’s hardest to say.

I turned off the light and lay down on my side, facing the wall. I could hear him moving on the other side: taking off his shoes, setting his keys on the table. I thought he was going to sleep. I closed my eyes.

***

The first sound was a longer, heavier breath. I mistook it for a tired sigh. Then came another, and another, and a faint creak of the mattress. I opened my eyes in the dark and turned them just enough to look over my shoulder.

Andrés was sitting on the edge of his bed, facing me. The light coming in through the curtain gap illuminated half his body. His shirt was unbuttoned, his pants and briefs pulled down to his knees, and his cock was out in the open, hard, thick, bigger than anything I had ever seen. He held it at the base with his right hand and stroked it with a slow, long rhythm, going up to the head and back down to the root, as if he were measuring himself. With the other hand he was rubbing his balls. Eyes closed, head slightly tipped back, mouth parted, letting out hot air that could be heard all over the room.

He wasn’t looking at me. Or that’s what I wanted to believe at first.

I should have done a thousand things. I should have gotten up, screamed, locked myself in the bathroom, called reception. I did none of them. I stayed still, my breath caught, feeling my heart rise into my throat and, between my legs, something I had never felt with that force beginning to wake up. My cunt was soaked all of a sudden, without warning, as if my body had decided for me. I pressed my thighs together and felt the sticky wetness running upward, staining my silk nightgown.

I had never seen a man like that, love. I’ve seen you, of course, but between us things were always quick, rushed, almost clandestine, with the lights off and no looking at each other. This was different. He was completely given over to his own body, shameless, not asking permission, not offering explanations. His whole cock was visible, throbbing in his hand, shining at the tip with a drop that slipped out and he used as lubricant to slide his fist more smoothly. He was thick, hairy, nothing glamorous, and at the same time I couldn’t stop looking at it. I felt my mouth water. Literally. I swallowed and could not believe I was thinking what I was thinking.

I watched him through my lashes, pretending to sleep. But my breathing gave me away. Mine, not his. I started breathing faster, deeper, and without realizing it I pressed my thighs together, moving only slightly, seeking the seam of the nightgown with my vulva to touch myself without touching myself. I knew then that he knew I was watching him. And I knew because he lowered his hand a little slower, and stroked himself a little longer, so I could see well.

***

He got up without finishing. He walked the four steps separating the beds barefoot, his hard cock swinging in front, pointing at me. I closed my eyes all the way, like a little girl hiding under the sheets. I felt the weight of the mattress sink beside me.

—Daniela —he whispered, very close to my ear—. Are you awake?

I could have said no. I could have pretended to snore, pushed him away, laughed nervously, asked to sleep. Anything. Instead, I opened my eyes and looked at him.

—Yes.

One single word. The word that’s haunted me for years.

***

He wasn’t rough, darling. That’s the worst part of all. He was patient. He started with my neck, his mouth barely brushing my skin. Then my ear. Then the curve of my shoulder where the nightgown had already slipped down on its own. While he kissed me, one hand traced the edge of my thigh over the silk, not going inside, not rushing anything, as if he had all the time in the world and knew exactly how long it took my body to ask for what he already knew it was going to ask for.

When he slid the strap of my nightgown down and left one tit bare, I didn’t say no. He sucked my nipple slowly, with his whole tongue, and then bit it just a little, tearing a moan from me that I couldn’t swallow. When he pulled the silk down to my waist and left both tits naked, I still didn’t say anything; I only arched my back so he could reach better. He ran a hand over my stomach, downward, downward, until he slipped it under the elastic of my panties. When he put his fingers on my cunt and found everything soaked, he laughed softly against my neck. —You’re dripping, Daniela —he told me—. You’re dripping from watching me. And when he asked, his voice hoarse against my hair, if I wanted to, if I really wanted to, I told him yes. I told him yes, love. He didn’t force me, he didn’t drug me, he didn’t threaten me. I agreed. That’s the confession I owed you, and the one that hurts me most to make.

***

He did things to me I didn’t know could be done. And he did them slowly, looking at my face, waiting to see the exact moment when I stopped thinking.

He took off my panties with his teeth. Literally like that, grabbing the fabric with his mouth and pulling them down my thighs while he held my knees apart with his hands. Then he spread my legs wide open, so wide I felt the stretch in my groin, and stayed there, kneeling between my legs, staring at my open cunt like someone studying something for the first time. —Look at yourself —he told me—. Look at how you are. And he shoved two fingers into me all the way in at once. I pulled them out dripping, he took them to his mouth and sucked them one by one in front of me. I couldn’t breathe.

Then he lowered his head and ate my cunt. Love, I don’t know how to say it any other way. He ate it like it was the only thing he was ever going to have in his life. He dragged his whole tongue from bottom to clit, long, slow, once, again, and again, until it wasn’t a tongue anymore but his whole mouth, sucking me, licking me, pushing his tongue inside and pulling it out, coming back to the clit to make circles that made me lift my ass off the bed. He grabbed my ass with both hands and pushed my pelvis against his face, as if he wanted to drown there. I came in his mouth the first time without even realizing I was coming. I screamed. I screamed hard, covering my mouth with the pillow, and he kept sucking me while I shook, stretching out my orgasm until my clit was so sensitive I shoved his head away so he’d stop.

He didn’t stop. He turned me onto my stomach, put a pillow under my hip to lift my ass, and spread me open with both hands. I felt his tongue go over there too, over my asshole, and I died of shame and pleasure at the same time. No one had ever done that to me. Never. And he did it as if it were the most natural thing in the world, moving his tongue there and then back to my cunt again, alternating, until I was asking, asking him out loud, without even realizing it.

—Put it in me —I told him—. Please, put it in me now.

He laughed. He stood up, took off the pants that were still tangled around his ankles, and stood beside the bed with his cock pointing at the ceiling. —Suck me first —he told me—. I want to see how you suck it. And I, who had only sucked you twice in my life and always with the lights off, knelt on the bed and opened my mouth for him. He pressed it against my lips, rubbed it over my face, my cheeks, my closed eyes, while he held me by the hair. Then he pushed it into me slowly, all the way in. I sucked his cock whole, darling. I took it with both hands, worked it from tip to base, licked his balls while I jerked him with my fist, did everything he asked and everything my body did on its own without him asking for anything. I saw his face, for the first time, the face of his pleasure, and that face is burned into me like a brand.

When he laid me on my back again and got on top of me, there was nothing left to discuss. He opened my legs with his knees and shoved himself in with one slow thrust, all of it, everything, until I felt his balls hitting my ass. I ran out of air. I had never taken something so big, something that filled me so much on the inside. He stayed still for a second, looking at me, and said: —See? This is what you needed. And he started fucking me. Slowly at first, long strokes, pulling almost all the way out and then pushing back in to the hilt, watching my eyes roll back. Then faster, harder, grabbing one tit with his hand, sucking the other, biting my neck.

He changed my position three or four times that night. He put me on all fours, my face against the pillow and my ass in the air, and drove into me from behind while spanking my ass hard enough to leave marks the next day. He rode me astride, made me bounce on him, grabbing my waist to ram himself deeper, making me jolt while he watched my tits bounce. He laid me on my side, with one leg lifted in the air, and slid into me like that, slowly, looking me in the eyes, whispering filthy things in my ear. He called me a slut, he told me I was his slut that night, he told me he loved how tight I was, he told me things I won’t repeat to you and that I answered with even filthier things, asking for more, asking harder, asking him not to stop.

I came three more times. Three. One while riding on top, another on all fours, another with him on top of me, pinching my clit with his thumb while he thrust into me. And when he finished, he pulled out of my cunt at the very last second, stood beside my face, and came in my mouth and on my tits, thick hot spurts that I swallowed, darling, that I swallowed without thinking, because at that moment I wasn’t me. That night I discovered what it was to lose control of your own body, what it was not to want something to end, what it was to ask for more with your eyes when your voice wouldn’t come out anymore. What it was to surrender completely.

After that I slept. I slept deeply, like I hadn’t in years, with his semen still drying on my chest and my cunt burning. When I woke up, he was already showered, dressed, drinking coffee by the window. He looked at me and smiled as if nothing had happened. We went down to breakfast, took the return flight, and at the airport he thanked me for the work with a handshake like any boss to any employee. He never touched me again. He never mentioned it again. Two months later I quit, without giving any explanation, and I never heard from him again.

***

I came back to you. I came back to our bed, our plans, our Saturday afternoons. And I kept quiet. I stayed quiet for all these years, darling, because I thought that if I told you, I’d lose you. And because, deep down, I didn’t fully regret it, and that was the hardest thing to carry alone.

I told you at the beginning to let me finish. I’m finished. Now do what you have to do. But please don’t ask me to tell you it was a mistake I didn’t understand. I understood it perfectly. And that’s why, tonight, I’m telling you.