My Confession: What Happened on the Hallway Stairs

For those who don't know me, I'm twenty-six years old, slim, of average height, with brown hair down to my waist, always tousled as if I'd just come out of the water. My breasts are medium-sized, but my hips and ass make up for any argument about proportions. I say that without shame because that detail matters for understanding what I'm about to tell you.

Right after graduating, I started working at a huge events complex, one of those places where they hold weddings, conventions, and private concerts. It was my first formal job, and management demanded a very specific image: high heels at all times, modern but serious clothes, impeccable makeup. I treated it like a game. In less than a week, I went from the university's sweatshirts and sneakers to fitted skirts and delicate blouses.

It worked. It didn't take long for me to catch people staring in the hallways, especially the men crossing the office on their way to the setup rooms. I still wasn't used to being watched like that, and at first I lowered my gaze. Later, I learned to hold it.

One of those men was Damián. He didn't work in administration, but in operations: he set up stages, carried structures, and supervised the technical crew. He was forty-seven, dark-haired, slim, with arms that weren't oversized but clearly didn't belong to someone who only worked in an office. He wore a goatee speckled with gray and a sideways smile, the kind that seemed to be keeping something to itself. He wasn't tall: in heels, I was half a head taller than him. And yet, whenever he was in the same room as me, he was the only figure I could see clearly.

One night there was a private concert at the complex. A band I had followed since university was playing, one that had made me cry in my mother's car when I was a teenager. When I found out they were going to perform there, I asked my boss to let me in as a personal favor. I had nothing to do at the event; it was strictly for operations staff. She looked at me over her glasses, sighed, and said yes, but told me not to draw attention to myself.

I arrived that afternoon wearing a skirt above the knee, a camisole with thin straps, and white sneakers. I wanted to feel comfortable, not professional. As soon as I crossed the doors to the main hall, I looked for Damián among the bustle of the setup. He'd told me a couple of times that if I ever needed anything, I should come to him. I wanted to use that open door.

I found him tying cables at the edge of the stage.

—Lost? —he asked without looking up.

—I came to learn —I replied.

He slowly raised his head, looked me over from my feet to my face, and let that half-smile escape.

—Learn what, exactly?

—Whatever I can.

That was the first ambiguous line of the night. Many more would follow.

I stayed with him throughout the entire setup. I followed him around as if he were my mentor, handed him tools, held the roll of tape while he tied things down, and listened as he gave instructions to his coworkers in that low, firm voice. During every break, he asked if I was all right, if I wanted to sit down, if my feet hurt. They didn't hurt. Something else deeper inside did—a sense of anticipation I still didn't know how to name.

When there was half an hour left before the concert started, I asked him:

—Do you think I'd get reported if I had a beer?

—Drinking on the clock is forbidden —he said, pretending to be serious—. Unless you share it with someone who's no longer working.

—You're no longer working?

—I never stop working. But I invite you to sit down and try it.

I laughed more than necessary. I got a large glass, a double. We shared it. The beer didn't seem to affect him; he kept moving among the cables and technicians. It went to my head quickly. I ordered another glass and then one more for myself. By the time the hall lights went down and the band came onto the stage, I was already slightly drunk and far bolder than was good for me.

***

The concert was just as I remembered it: screams, singing, bodies sweating in the dark. Damián was leaning against a wall, making sure nothing got out of place, but he looked at me more than at the stage. I sang along, jumped, and laughed to myself. Every time I turned around, I found him wearing the same quiet smile, as if he enjoyed seeing me so uninhibited.

Halfway through a song, I went over to him.

—Come with me to the office —I said in his ear.

—At this hour? Why?

—For nothing. But I don't want to go alone.

He looked at me for a second longer than necessary and nodded. To get to the administrative area, we had to cross the main hall, packed with people pressed together. Walking straight was impossible. In the middle of the tide, he said without looking at me:

—Give me your hand.

I gave him my hand. He squeezed it with a strength that wasn't polite. I squeezed his just as firmly. That squeeze was our first contract. Neither of us had written it, but we both signed it in silence.

***

The office reception was a large, carpeted space with a couple of deep sofas and a back wall covered by the closed blinds of the main office. Behind those blinds, shadows: three or four people were finishing a setup for another event the next day. We could hear them laughing and see them walking back and forth like figures in a shadow play.

On the opposite wall was a security camera pointing directly at the large sofa. I knew that only my boss could see that camera, live, from his office. It never recorded. Besides, that night my boss was in another city.

We sat on the sofa, both of us with our backs to the camera. I let myself fall back, eyes on the ceiling, as if I'd had more to drink than I actually had. Damián settled close against my side.

—Are you all right?

—Dizzy —I said—. I need a minute.

I closed my eyes. I didn't move. And then I felt his hand.

He began at my knee. Slowly, his open palm moved up the inside of my thigh, unhurried. Every time his hand rose, my skirt rose with it, millimeter by millimeter, until the fabric bunched at my waist. I didn't open my eyes. I didn't tell him to stop. I didn't tell him to continue. I only breathed.

—You look gorgeous —he murmured, almost in my ear—. I've been watching you for weeks, and you have no idea what you've done to me.

His fingers brushed the edge of my underwear. I was already soaked. He noticed, because I heard him swallow.

—Turn over a little —he asked.

I turned just enough to give him my back and offer him, without saying so, what he wanted to reach. His hand moved from my thigh to my ass, enclosed it completely, and squeezed it with an avidity that made me bite my own lips. His other hand returned to my thigh. I was being explored by two hands at once, and I could still hear, on the other side of the blinds, the carefree voices of people who couldn't see us.

—Come here —he said.

—Where?

—On top.

I hesitated. Not out of scruples, but because I was afraid the door three meters away might open. I told him so.

—If someone comes over, we'll see their shadow first —he replied—. We'll have time to pull apart.

He convinced me. I straddled his legs, facing the back of the sofa. I sat on him with my skirt already rolled up around my waist, with only the fabric of my underwear and his trousers between us. Beneath me, I could feel the perfectly outlined bulge of his erection. It was considerable. So considerable that I couldn't help moving a little to confirm it.

—Don't do that to me —he whispered.

—Do what?

—That. Not again.

I did it again. And again. His hands closed over my hips and began guiding me in a slow, controlled rocking motion. His mouth found the side of my neck, just below my ear, and stayed there, kissing and barely biting. He whispered things to me. He told me I was delicious, that he'd been imagining this scene for months, that it was going to be hard for him to go home that night.

His hand slipped between us, moved my underwear aside with brutal precision, and touched me there, fully, with two fingers at first and then his whole palm. I let out a sudden breath. I was wet in an obscene way, slippery and hot, and he noticed immediately because he gave a very quiet laugh, surprised and satisfied at the same time.

—Look at you —he murmured—. Look at that pussy, fuck.

He spread my legs wider over his lap and began rubbing me slowly, sinking his fingers into my wetness, tracing my clitoris with an insistence that undid me in less than a minute. I had stopped thinking about the camera, the blinds, and the staff on the other side. All I felt was his hand, the heat of his thigh between mine, and the brush of my own breathing against his neck.

—Touch me —I begged, my voice breaking.

He gave a brief laugh and guided my hand to his crotch. Beneath the fabric of his trousers was a hard, heavy cock, impossible to ignore. I wrapped my hand around it and was surprised by its tension, its thickness, the pulse at the base. Damián closed his eyes abruptly.

—Slower —he said—. If you keep that up, you'll make me come right here on top of you.

—Then don't move.

He didn't move. He let me masturbate him through his trousers while he kept fingering me with filthy precision, searching for the exact spot that made me arch my back. Then he lowered his head, lifted my blouse just enough, and slipped his tongue between my breasts, moving slowly up to the edge of my bra. He sucked one nipple through the cup, barely bit it, and I felt my head truly begin to spin.

—I want to see you come —he said.

—Then take this off me.

He did. He pulled my underwear down my thighs, left it around one ankle, and held my body with one hand on my back while unbuttoning his trousers with the other. His cock emerged slowly, dark, veined, heavy, and I stared at it without pretending otherwise. I licked my lips. He held my gaze as if challenging me.

—Do you still want to do this here? —he asked.

—Yes.

—And you still want me to fuck you?

—Yes.

—Then turn around.

I obeyed. He stood me up just long enough to turn me around, then bent me over the sofa, making me brace my hands on the back. He raised my hips a little with a firm palm and opened me with the tip of his cock, rubbing me first, then pushing, until he entered me in one thrust. He tore a moan from me that I tried to smother against the leather of the sofa. He was enormous. He filled me completely, pressing into the deepest place, and I had to wait a second with him motionless inside me, because otherwise I would have folded immediately.

—That's it —he said through clenched teeth—. Like that. Stay still.

When we started moving, the air changed. At first his thrusts were measured and deep, each accompanied by the dry smack of his pelvis against my ass. One hand was on my waist and the other on my nape, holding me as if he wouldn't let me fall even an inch. I clung to the back of the sofa, then to my own skirt, then to the edge of the upholstery, because there was nothing else to do with so much fire inside me.

—Harder —I begged—. I don't care who walks by now.

I didn't have to tell him twice. He fucked me with a fury that wasn't directed at me, but at time, at the place, at the fact that there was a woman waiting for him somewhere in the city. His hips slammed against mine, making a dry noise that echoed through the stairwell. I moaned with my mouth pressed to his shoulder, biting the fabric of his shirt so my sounds would stay there.

He leaned over my back, brushed the hair away from my nape, and spoke into my ear while continuing to drive into me without pause.

—This suits you —he said—. It suits you fucking perfectly to be fucked hard.

The words went through me and made me clamp down on him even tighter. I felt him opening me with every thrust, felt my pussy tense and release around his cock with delicious violence. One of his hands moved between my legs, found my clitoris, and began rubbing it with quick, almost ferocious fingers. I was already on the edge, trembling and sweaty, lost on that office sofa with my face pressed into the upholstery.

—I'm going to come —I warned breathlessly.

—Do it —he growled—. I want to feel you.

And I came brutally, in one long spasm that climbed up my back and left me pinned in place. My legs gave out. He didn't stop. He kept driving his cock deep inside me, holding me by the waist with one hand while using the other to spread me a little farther and keep pounding that exact spot that made me lose my mind.

—Turn around.

He turned me without waiting for an answer. He placed both hands against the wall above my head and pushed me into bending at the hips. He entered me again and began thrusting again, this time deeper and faster, utterly without restraint. His left hand moved down in front, found that exact spot, and began pressing in rhythm with his thrusts. I had lost count of the moans escaping me between the fingers of his other hand, which once again covered my mouth.

—That's it —he murmured—. That's how I want you. Shut up and let me fuck you.

The way he said it made me tense my body even more, and the next orgasm split me in two. My knees trembled, I arched against him, and Damián kept moving inside me with savage precision. I felt his breathing accelerate, felt his control finally go to hell.

—Look at me —he ordered.

I raised my face just enough to see him over my shoulder. His beard was damp, his eyes dark, his mouth half-open. He looked gorgeous in a dirty, fierce, almost brutal way. He grabbed my chin, held my gaze, and began delivering his final thrusts with animal urgency.

—I'm going to come inside you again —he said—. I'm going to fill you up.

He didn't give me time to answer. He drove into me a couple more times, hard and perfect, and came with a shudder that ran through his entire body. I felt him inside me, thick and hot, spilling in deep pulses as he held me by the waist with enough force to leave marks for days. He stayed like that, motionless, breathing against my nape. I felt his semen begin to trickle down the inside of my thigh and, instead of bothering me, it seemed like the most intimate thing I'd ever experienced.

***

It took us a few minutes to pull ourselves together. He helped me lower my skirt, and I straightened his shirt collar. We both laughed for a moment like two teenagers who had just pulled off a prank, and then we kissed again, this time without hurry, almost tenderly.

When we went downstairs, the concert was still playing on the other side of the wall. No one had noticed our absence. That was perhaps the part that affected me most: the world had kept turning exactly as before while something inside me had changed.

At the service entrance, before saying goodbye so we could each go our separate ways, he held my gaze for too long.

—I have a family —he said, as if I didn't know—. I can't offer you a normal relationship.

—I'm not asking you for a normal relationship.

—Then you know what I want to ask you.

—Ask.

He drew a breath.

—Do you want to be my mistress?

I held his gaze for as long as he'd held mine.

—It will be my pleasure —I replied.

And ever since that night, every time I cross the office reception and glance at the large sofa, I feel again the exact sensation of my thigh rising, the camera switched off, the shadow behind the blind, and the silent promise we both signed without writing a single word.