My older co-worker asked me to go with her

After three tries, I finally passed the civil service exams for the justice administration. I was thirty-four, and after a decade of stringing together badly paid jobs, I decided to bet everything on a permanent post. The place I ended up being assigned was miles from my town, a corner of inland Murcia right on the Albacete border. They sent me to Albormeda de la Frontera, deep in Cádiz province, more than five hours away by car. Even so, the adjustment couldn’t have gone better. I fell in with a group of coworkers who dragged me into their plans from day one.

I landed at the courthouse in January 2019, the year before the world shut down. During the first few months, a couple of coworkers showed me around the whole city. One of them, Marisol, rented me, for next to nothing, an apartment her husband’s family owned in the center. I still couldn’t believe where I was living or what I was paying for it. I enjoyed it almost always alone, because my girlfriend was still back in the village: she worked as a cashier for a supermarket chain and only came to visit me on the weekends she had off.

That’s how the months went by until May, when the city’s big event takes place: the fair. For one whole week, Albormeda becomes a hive of casetas, lanterns, and people determined not to sleep. It doesn’t reach Seville’s level, but it’s a spectacle of color and joy. From the first time I experienced it, I was hooked, above all because I experienced it in the company of people who had been born there.

Meanwhile, my relationship with some coworkers grew closer until it became real friendship. Or something more, in Marisol’s case. My landlady was a mature woman who was extremely easy on the eye, a dark-haired beauty with a glorious past and an even more mouthwatering present. People said that in her youth she had been a true femme fatale, and between us a tension had been slowly building that neither of us ever named.

Friday of fair week arrived, the day when, by tradition, all the courthouse staff went to lunch together at a caseta. After lunch, everyone split off into groups. I, of course, stayed with my closest coworkers. Between rebujitos, manzanilla, and dancing, the afternoon slipped away. And then some.

There are few things as sensual as a well-marked sevillanas dance. Marisol and I launched into one that raised the temperature far beyond what was sensible. I ended up with my arms around her waist, facing her, our lips only a couple of inches apart. The situation was begging for a kiss, and that woman, nearly twenty years older than me, sealed it with a quick peck that left our audience speechless for a second, just before bursting into applause.

By then alcohol had made us both pretty irrational. Neither of our partners was there. My girlfriend was arriving the next day, Saturday. And Gonzalo, Marisol’s husband, had spent a couple of hours with the group before leaving, understanding that this was his wife’s get-together with her workmates.

Right after the dance, Marisol got the urge to go to the bathroom.

—The lines are endless —she said, fanning herself with her hand—. Come with me to the parking lot; I’ll take the chance to get something from the car.

The vacant lot beside the fairgrounds served as an improvised parking area. Pissing in the street, between two cars, at our age, is neither civic-minded nor elegant, but at this kind of fair it’s more common than people admit. We walked, dodging families and drunks, until we were lost among the rows of cars in the dark. The buzz of the music fell behind us, muffled, and all we could hear was the distant hum of a generator.

We slipped between two vans. Marisol lowered her pants and panties without the slightest embarrassment, right there in front of me, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She crouched and started to pee. I didn’t look away.

Let her catch me looking, I don’t care.

I didn’t miss a detail. The stream fell onto the dry earth with a hiss that, for some reason, I found devilishly arousing. I saw her cunt open between her thighs, the dark patch trimmed against the gloom, the swollen lips shining with moisture. She looked up and caught me staring at her.

—Never seen a mature woman doing this before? —she asked, with a half-smile.

—Truth is, I need to piss too —I replied.

—Then don’t hold back on my account.

So I pulled mine out and started pissing beside her, a couple of steps away, both of us crouched in that dark vacant lot. Marisol watched me without trying to hide it, her eyes fixed on my cock, following the stream as if fascinated. When I finished, I didn’t put it away. She stood up, still with her pants half-pulled up, and came closer.

—Fuck —she murmured—, your girlfriend must be very happy.

I didn’t know what to answer. My throat was dry and my heart was pounding against my ribs. She took my cock in her right hand without asking permission and began to stroke it slowly, squeezing it with her warm palm, feeling it swell and harden under her fingers. She licked her lips without taking her eyes off my hand.

—It’s gorgeous —she whispered—. Look at it, getting all hard.

She jerked me off with calculated slowness, sliding the foreskin up and down, pressing the tip with her thumb every time she got to the top. I was trembling. I felt the cold air of the vacant lot on my thighs and her hot fingers wrapping around my cock faster and faster.

—Do you want me to suck it? —she asked, looking me in the eyes.

—Yes —was the only thing I could get out.

***

What happened after that I remember in fragments, as if the alcohol and adrenaline had wiped away the edges, but the important details were burned into me. Marisol knelt down on the dirt without caring about her pants or the fair or the twenty years between us. She looked up at me, mouth half open, eyes shining, and stuck out her tongue to lick the tip of my cock as if it were an ice cream.

—Mmm —she moaned—. So tasty.

She licked it all the way, from base to tip, drawing wet circles around the glans, pushing the tip of her tongue into the little opening. Then she went lower and took my balls into her mouth, one by one, sucking them carefully while her hand kept slowly jerking my shaft. I clenched my teeth so I wouldn’t groan too loudly.

When she came back up, she opened her mouth wide and took me all the way in, closing her lips around the shaft and sucking with a technique only experience can give. She took me down to the throat in one go, without gagging, without blinking, until her nose touched my pubis. She stayed there for a few seconds, deliberately choking herself, her tearful eyes looking up at me from below.

I exhaled at the pressure on the head. I braced one hand against the cold panel of the van so I wouldn’t lose my balance and with the other I grabbed the back of her neck, burying my fingers in her hair. She set the rhythm, slow at first, deep afterward, all the way down, every so often looking up at me with those dark eyes that had held my gaze so many afternoons in the courthouse.

—Like that, suck me like that —I whispered—. Fuck, you do it so well.

She yanked my cock out of her mouth in one sharp motion, with a smack, and rubbed it over her lips and cheeks, smearing her face with her own spit.

—Talk dirty to me —she begged, gasping—. Tell me I’m a slut. That I’m the filthy landlady sucking your cock hidden between two cars.

—You’re a slut —I obeyed, my voice rough—. A mature slut with a mouth made for sucking cock. Look at all that spit dripping off you, Marisol. How much you like having it in your mouth.

She took it back in all the way. Faster now, tighter, helping herself with her hand, jerking me while she sucked me. She’d pull my cock out, spit on it, and shove it back to the hilt. The van’s panel was so cold it burned my back, and still I was sweating.

—I’ve spent months imagining this —I confessed softly.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She just sped up, squeezing harder, as if she wanted to prove that none of my fantasies did her justice. One hand was squeezing my balls, the other had opened her pants and was slipping her fingers into her cunt. I could hear it sloshing in her own wetness while she sucked my cock.

—You’re soaked —I told her, looking down at her—. You can hear it. You can hear how wet you are from here.

She pulled her shiny fingers out from between her legs and ran them over my lips, smearing them with her juices before plunging them back into her cunt. She was sucking me with her mouth full of saliva and her other hand rubbing her clit furiously. She came before I did, with my cock still in her mouth, trembling all over, thighs clamping together, groaning with a muffled growl that shot through my shaft like a jolt.

Ten minutes. Ten endless minutes kneeling between two cars, with the fair music in the background and the fear that someone might show up multiplying every sensation. I held out as long as I could, biting my knuckles, but the end came all at once, intense, almost painful. I felt my balls tighten, the surge rise up my shaft, and I warned her with a grunt:

—I’m cumming. Marisol, I’m cumming in your fucking mouth.

She tightened her lips around my shaft and sucked even harder, drawing the load deeper inside. I came in spurts inside her mouth and she didn’t pull away. The first burst filled her palate; I felt her choke for a second, swallow, and clamp down again to squeeze the next one out of me. Spurt after spurt, while my legs shook and I pushed her head against my pubis without meaning to. She swallowed it all, every last drop, and when she thought there was nothing left she milked my shaft with her fingers, from base to tip, to lick up the last white pearl that appeared at the opening.

She stood up slowly, her knees stained with dirt, and wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. A thread of my semen was still hanging from her lower lip. She caught it with her tongue without taking her eyes off me.

—This didn’t happen —she said, straightening her pants, pulling her panties up over her soaked cunt.

—This didn’t happen —I repeated, still out of breath, putting my cock away with clumsy fingers.

We looked at each other a second too long. We both knew it was a lie.

***

We went back to the fairgrounds making sure we arrived separately, with that obvious awkwardness of people who think they’re hiding it. I got there first; she arrived a minute later, fixing her hair. And then, just when I thought the worst of the heart-pounding had already passed, I saw the thing I least expected.

Gonzalo had come back.

Marisol’s husband was in the middle of the group, tipsy and happy, laughing his head off at something a coworker was saying. As soon as he saw his wife appear, his face lit up and he went straight to her with his arms open.

—There’s my queen! —he exclaimed.

He grabbed her around the waist and ate her mouth in front of everyone. Marisol tried to dodge him, turning her face aside with a discreet cobra, but he insisted and ended up kissing her on the lips. I stood there petrified, with my glass of rebujito halfway to my mouth, staring at that kiss without being able to stop myself.

Those lips. Those lips still taste like my cum.

It was the strangest second of the whole night. An impossible mix of guilt, vertigo, and a kind of arousal I was ashamed to admit. Gonzalo knew nothing, of course. He was kissing his wife with my semen still on her tongue, his arm around her shoulders as if nothing were happening. For him, his wife had just come back from getting something from the car with a trusted coworker. He kept on with his story, completely unaware, while Marisol searched for my gaze over his shoulder and, without anyone noticing, bit her lip one last time and ran her tongue over her teeth, as if savoring what was left of me in her mouth.

***

My girlfriend arrived the next day, as planned. I took her to the fair, introduced her to my coworkers, we danced, toasted, and laughed at the same old jokes. Marisol was there, on Gonzalo’s arm, impeccable, greeting me with the exact cordiality of a landlady and a coworker. No one would have guessed a thing. Not my girlfriend, who chatted with her as if nothing were happening. Not Gonzalo, who offered me a cigar. Not the other court staff, who kept commenting on how well we danced the sevillanas.

It never happened again. Marisol and I kept an impeccable professional distance for months, as if we had signed a silence pact without needing words. Only now and then, in the courthouse corridors, our eyes would meet a second longer than necessary and I would hear again, inside my head, the hiss of that stream hitting the dry earth, the wet slapping of her mouth on my cock, and the murmur of the fair in the background.

I never told anyone. Until today. And I still wonder whether, at home beside Gonzalo, she remembers that night as often as I do, and whether when she sucks her husband’s cock she thinks of mine.