My Office Colleague Had a Double Life

I still find it hard to explain how a conversation between two office colleagues ended up becoming the rawest confession I had ever heard in my life. My name is Martín, I’m forty-two years old, and for the past three years I’ve worked with Valeria at a consultancy in Valencia. She joined the company a couple of months after I did, newly separated, with the iron determination of someone who has hit rock bottom and decided she would never give up ground again.

During the first few months, we barely spoke beyond what was strictly necessary. Valeria had a reputation for being dry, sharp, and unwilling to let anyone invite her for a drink after work or to the Christmas dinners. I was emerging from my own personal storm: a long, messy divorce that left me living in a rented apartment near the old Turia riverbed and wondering what the hell I was going to do with the empty Sunday afternoons.

One Friday, the shift schedule left us to finish a complicated audit together. We ordered Thai food to the office and stayed until eleven at night. It was the first time I saw her laugh for real. She had a low, throaty laugh that didn’t fit the woman in the ironed blouse I knew from Monday mornings.

—You’re not what they told me you were, I said as we gathered up the boxes.

—Neither are you, she replied without looking at me. They told me you were boring.

That night we walked together to the metro entrance. We talked about music. Nothing else happened. But something shifted between us, and we both noticed.

Over the following months, we built a particular kind of friendship, the sort that cooks slowly between grown adults. Long coffees at the machine in the hallway. WhatsApp messages at odd hours. Dinners after work when projects got intense. Valeria began telling me pieces of her life that, as she herself confessed, nobody else knew in full: her fifteen-year marriage to a good but absent man, her daughter, who was now studying architecture in London, the black year she spent medicated and unable to leave her mother’s sofa.

I told her about my marriage, about the silences of the last five years, about the exact day when my ex looked me in the eye over an ordinary breakfast and told me she couldn’t go on pretending.

But neither of us had yet said what we really wanted to say. That came one Friday afternoon at her apartment.

***

She had invited me to dinner after an especially difficult week. When she opened the door, she was wearing a black sleeveless T-shirt I hadn’t seen her in during three years at the office, and a pair of jeans that fit her in a way that forced me to look away whenever she bent down to open the oven. She cooked fresh pasta with prawns and brought out a bottle of Albariño from the previous year, which, she told me, her father had given her when she was promoted.

We ate, talking about silly things. An annoying colleague, a series she was watching, the trip to Lisbon I wanted to take in the spring. Then, after we had opened the second bottle and moved to the sofa, her tone changed.

—Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone completely? she asked.

I nodded without saying a word.

—Since I separated, Martín, I’ve had a life that would kill someone from the office if they knew about it, she said, glass in hand and wearing a new smile. A life completely different from the Valeria they see on Mondays. That’s why I invited you tonight. Because I need to tell someone, and I think you won’t be scared off.

I didn’t know what to say. She continued without waiting for an answer.

—I’ve tried almost everything. Threesomes with another woman, with another man, with two men at once. I’ve been to three private parties in Madrid, a swingers’ club in Barcelona, and an estate outside Seville where I spent an entire weekend without a watch or a phone. I have a married lover whom I see every month and a half, a photographer twenty years older than me whom I will never leave and who will never leave his wife. I like men much younger than me, and I like women, too, although I discovered that last part late, almost when I was thirty-six.

She paused and took a long drink.

—After the divorce, I decided I was going to enjoy every minute of my body until my body told me enough was enough. I’ve kept that promise for six years. I’ve had two cocks inside me at once, one in my pussy and the other in my ass, and I’ve come screaming in ways I hadn’t come in fifteen years of marriage. I’ve sucked cock until my jaw hurt. I’ve swallowed the semen of men whose names I didn’t learn until the next morning. I don’t regret a single night. Not even the ones that went badly.

I was literally speechless. Not because I was scandalized. In my head, I was debating whether to tell her what I had done in my own life, things I had never said aloud outside a couple of very intimate conversations.

—Does it make you uncomfortable? she asked when she saw my prolonged silence.

—No, I said slowly. It surprises me. But the only person I want to surprise tonight is myself, by telling you my side.

And I told her. Without embellishment, without order, haltingly. I told her about the two homosexual relationships I had at the end of university, with a roommate whom I ended up sucking off one night during exams, and then with a guy I met at a festival in Sitges and fucked against the wall of a chemical toilet that smelled of beer. I told her about the threesome I had with a couple who were friends of my ex during a getaway to Ibiza: how she straddled my cock while her husband put his tongue in my ass, something my wife found out about six months later and that nearly ruined my marriage five years before the actual divorce. I told her that over the last two years, already divorced and bored, I had started going alone to a swingers’ club in the El Carmen district, and that I had learned to come while watching a stranger fuck his wife against a mirror.

—And I hadn’t told anyone until now, I finished.

Valeria listened to me with her eyes wide and a kind of restrained smile. When she realized I was finished, she put her glass on the table, stood up, and sat beside me on the sofa. Very close. Still not touching me.

—You’ve told me exactly what I wanted to hear, she said. Do you know what this means, Martín?

—No.

—It means we’re the only two adults in this city who can talk out loud with each other.

***

And then she threw herself on top of me. Without warning, without any further preamble, she thrust her tongue down my throat in a kiss that tasted of Albariño and pent-up hunger. She bit my lower lip and pulled it until I moaned. Her left hand was already on my cock over my trousers, squeezing and gauging me, and her low, throaty laugh sounded in my ear like a threat.

—I’ve been imagining this at the coffee machine for three years, she whispered. Three years wondering what you had between your legs.

I unbuttoned her jeans while she pulled the black T-shirt over her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her tits were smaller than I had fantasized about at the office, with dark, erect nipples that went into my mouth before I had time to think. I sucked them one after the other, biting them until Valeria arched her back and dug her nails into the nape of my neck.

—Harder, she begged. Don’t hold back, damn it. Bite them.

I pushed her onto the sofa and yanked her jeans down. She wasn’t wearing panties. Her pussy was shaved, already glistening, her lips swollen and parted by their own moisture. I spread her legs and spent a second looking at it before lowering my face. When I ran my tongue all the way from her perineum to her clitoris, slowly and completely, Valeria let out a hoarse moan that bounced off the living-room walls.

—There, there, don’t stop, she panted, gripping my hair. Eat my pussy, Martín, eat all of me.

I ate her pussy with real hunger, pressing my tongue against her clitoris in slow circles, sliding two fingers inside her and curling them, searching for the spot that would make her jump. When I found it, she stopped talking. She only thrust her hips against my face and breathed like an animal. She came on my tongue in a long spasm, soaking my chin, clutching my hair with both hands and whispering obscenities I had never heard in her office voice.

—Now I want your cock, she said before the trembling had passed. Now. Inside me. All of it.

She stripped me by yanking at my belt as if she hated me. When she pulled out my cock and saw it hard against my stomach, she smiled with an expression I hadn’t believed she was capable of. She knelt on the floor between my legs, gripped me at the base, and took me all the way down her throat in a single movement. I felt her mouth close around my glans, wet and tight, and had to rest my head against the back of the sofa to keep from coming at once.

—Fuck my mouth, she said when she pulled off for a second to breathe. I want you to fuck it like it was a pussy.

I grabbed her hair with both hands and began moving her head to my rhythm. She looked up at me through tear-filled eyes, drool running down her chin and dripping onto her own tits, moaning each time I reached the back of her throat. She sucked my balls one at a time, licked my shaft from base to tip, and swallowed me whole again. When I felt I was about to come, I pulled her away by force.

—Not yet, I told her. To the sofa. On your knees.

She climbed onto the sofa with her back to me, knees spread and hands on the backrest. I saw her open, glistening pussy between her buttocks, and a little higher, her small, tight ass. I spat on it before driving my cock into her pussy in one thrust. She was so wet that I sank all the way in without resistance, and she screamed into the back of the sofa.

—That’s it, fuck, that’s it, give me all of it, she begged while I began fucking her hard, gripping her hips. Don’t stop, Martín, split my pussy open.

I fucked her standing behind her, squeezing her ass with both hands, watching my cock slide in and out, shining with her wetness. I slapped her ass, and she moaned louder. I slapped her again. On the third one, she asked for more. I put my thumb in her mouth, then buried it in her ass while I kept fucking her, and Valeria began trembling all over, coming for the second time with my cock inside her and my finger knuckle-deep in her asshole.

—Lie down, I told her when she relaxed. On your back. I want to see your face.

She let herself fall onto the sofa with her legs spread, panting, her hair stuck to her forehead and her cheeks red. I lifted her legs against my chest and thrust into her again. I fucked her while looking into her eyes, slowly at first, gauging her trembling, then harder and harder until the sofa banged against the wall. She dug her heels into my back and begged me to come inside her.

—Come in my pussy, Martín, I want to feel it, come inside me, don’t pull out.

I exploded inside her with a growl I didn’t recognize as my own, thrusting all the way in and emptying myself in spurts that I felt pulsing through my entire cock while she squeezed me with her legs and whispered obscenities in my ear. When I pulled out, a string of cum ran from her pussy to the sofa. She ran two fingers over her lips, dipped them into her pussy, full of my come, and put them in her mouth without breaking eye contact.

The second time was slow, almost an exploration we conducted together, with the living-room light coming through the half-open door and her asking me questions in a very low voice about what I liked and what I didn’t. She climbed on top of me, straddling my cock, and moved over it as if she were dancing, squeezing me with the muscles of her pussy in a way I had never felt before. She asked me to bite her neck and her tits, to pull her hair, to call her a slut. I did. She laughed with that throaty laugh and came again, squeezing me so tightly that she made me come too, this time over her tits, splattering her chest and neck while she ran her hand over herself, spreading my semen across her skin as if it were cream.

This is what a confession between adults who aren’t afraid of each other sounds like, I thought at some point before falling asleep with Valeria’s hand still resting on my limp, sticky cock.

When I went home at noon on Saturday, we both already knew that this wasn’t going to become a conventional relationship. We did try, in fact, for two months. It didn’t work. We’re too alike in the things that matter and too different in everyday things. But we discovered something more valuable than a relationship: total complicity, an unnegotiated honesty.

Since then, we’ve shared everything. We tell each other, in lavish detail, everything we do separately. We send each other photos from other people’s hotels with captions just right for setting the mood: her with another man’s cock in her mouth and a smile above it, me with the face of a stranger coming against my tongue. Sometimes we meet for a night together, sometimes to arrange something between the two of us with another person or another couple, and sometimes just to have dinner on a Monday and laugh while we tell each other about the outrageous things we did the previous weekend.

A few months ago, Valeria suggested that I write all this down. She said it was worth telling, that between our two lives there was enough material to fill two books and part of a third.

—But if we don’t use our real names, she said while pouring me another glass, we can tell everything without fear. Everything we do together, everything we do separately, everything we’ve done over the last few years.

I thought about it for an entire week. I agreed for one very specific reason: because the few times I’ve been lucky enough to hear sincere sexual confessions from other people—not porn, not vague fantasies, real lives—I’ve learned something useful about myself. And I think we should all be able to read confessions like that without asking permission or feeling strange.

So this is going to be a four-handed notebook. Valeria will tell you about her nights in Madrid, her dates with the married photographer who fucks her against the picture window of his studio in Malasaña, the party at that estate in Seville where she had five cocks in a single night, the first woman who kissed her on the mouth and then ate her pussy until she cried. I’ll tell you what happens on Thursdays in El Carmen, the two nights I spent with that couple from Lisbon whom I met online and ended up fucking at the same time—him in front, me behind—and the Ibiza threesome that nobody else has read until today. We’ll also tell you about the times we’ve done something together: the threesomes we’ve arranged with another girl whose pussy we ate by turns, the couples we met and swapped partners with in the same bed, the time she took me to my first swingers’ dinner six months after that confession in her apartment, where I ended up with a married woman’s mouth around my cock while her husband fucked Valeria beside me.

If anyone reads us, let them know that nothing that follows is invented. We’ve changed the names, the cities, and sometimes the professions. But the scenes happened. The conversations took place exactly as we tell them. The bodies were real. The come was real.

And let them know this, too: what binds Valeria and me most isn’t the sex we share from time to time. What binds us is that we both arrived at the same place by similar roads: a long marriage, a painful ending, and the firm decision never to live half a life again. Each of us decided, separately, that we were going to take our bodies seriously, the way someone takes a profession seriously.

Valeria taught me that a forty-year-old woman can desire much more, and much better, than she did at twenty, and that she can ask to be fucked in the ass without lowering her voice. I taught her that a man like me, raised in silence and shame, can also learn to ask for what he wants without lowering his voice: a long blowjob, a finger inside me, another cock in the room. We learned from each other, and now we want to tell it.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for staying. In the stories to come, you’re going to read things that will probably seem impossible to you. Most of them seemed impossible to us, too, before we lived them.

A kiss wherever you want it.

Valeria and Martín.