The Coworker Who Waited for Me Every Wednesday
I had been with the company for three years when Tamara arrived in my department. She came in on a temporary contract, one of those nobody expects to last, and yet she ended up staying far longer than any of us imagined. I still remember the day they introduced us in the boardroom, her with a coffee in hand and a smile that seemed to apologize for how nervous she was.
She was blonde, dyed blonde but well maintained, the kind you can tell has been worked on rather than neglected. She had very fair skin, a broad smile, and a body that drew attention without her having to do a thing to provoke it. She wasn’t tall—she came up to about my shoulder—but she walked with a confidence that contrasted with that early shyness. Her tits stood out under any blouse, big, heavy, the kind you can’t stop looking at no matter how hard you try, and her perky ass bounced as she walked in a way that was impossible to ignore.
At first she was just another coworker. In our department women were in the majority, so gossip moved fast and without a filter. It didn’t take long before someone told Tamara that I’d once been involved with another coworker who had left more than a year earlier. She dropped it on me one day without beating around the bush, half joking, and I just shrugged.
—So you’re the famous one —she said, stirring her coffee with a sideways smile.
—Don’t believe everything they tell you —I replied.
—I don’t believe anything outright either —she answered—. But I like drawing my own conclusions.
During the first few months, things were normal. When we happened to work together, we talked about anything and everything: the project keeping us late, music, what we’d do that weekend. Without noticing it, we became confidants. There was a complicity growing on its own, without either of us pushing it, the kind of electricity you recognize even while pretending not to notice it.
The turning point came at a team dinner, one of those after-hours get-togethers where everyone lets their guard down a little. I had gone by taxi, and when the night was over, Tamara offered to give me a ride home. Nothing else was needed. We both knew what was going to happen before we got into the car, even if neither of us said it out loud.
***
Once we got to my apartment, I put on some music without thinking too much about it, and we kissed as soon as I shut the door. It was a long kiss, held back for weeks, one of those kisses with all the hunger built up inside. I pushed my tongue deep into her mouth and she answered by biting my lip and pressing herself against me, and I could feel her nipples hardening perfectly through her blouse. I grabbed her tits with both hands over her clothes and let out a growl; they were even bigger and firmer than they looked, and she gave a soft, satisfied laugh, rubbing her pussy against the bulge already straining in my pants.
We ended up on the sofa amid laughter and half-undone clothes. I ripped her blouse button by button, faster than I meant to, and yanked her bra down to bar her tits. Her nipples were pink, thick, rock-hard. I went straight for them, sucking first one and then the other, nibbling them, tugging on them with my lips, and she arched her back, pressing them into my mouth, panting harder and harder. I slipped my hand under her skirt and found her panties soaked through. I pushed the fabric aside and drove two fingers into her pussy at once, no preamble, and she let out a rough moan she hadn’t even expected from herself. She was hot and tight inside, and she climbed onto my hand, rocking her hips to fuck my fingers.
—Fuck —she whispered—. Fuck, keep going.
I rubbed her clit with my thumb while I kept working my fingers inside her, and in less than a minute I felt her trembling all over, clenching around my hand and coming while biting my shoulder so she wouldn’t scream. She was still gasping when she slid to the floor between my legs and I discovered that behind that shyness there was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.
She unbuttoned my pants with her teeth, pulled them down along with my briefs, and took out my cock, which was already hard as a post. She looked at it for a second, eyes shining, and smiled like someone who’d just been given a gift. Then she opened her mouth and took it all the way in, to the back of her throat, until I felt her throat hit my glans and she gagged a little but didn’t pull back. She started sucking slowly, drawing it almost all the way out, leaving a thread of saliva stuck to her lips, then swallowing it again to the base. She looked up at me from below with her tits hanging over my thighs, one hand squeezing my balls while the other held her hair back behind her ear so I could see everything.
At first we didn’t go much further. What she liked most was using her mouth, and I have to admit I liked it too. She was strangely modest about some things. The first two times she asked me not to look at her, to cover my face with a pillow while she went down on me. I would obey for two seconds, just long enough to make her feel comfortable, and then I’d pull the pillow away to watch her work my cock with that diligent-student concentration. She always pretended to be annoyed, though the smile around my cock gave her away.
The problem was finding somewhere to do it. I shared the apartment with a coworker and she lived with her mother, so spaces were scarce. That was when we discovered the car.
One afternoon, while I was waiting for her in the company parking lot, I noticed her car windows had dark tint that made it impossible to see inside from the outside. I mentioned it half seriously, half testing my luck, and to my surprise she agreed without much drama.
—But if we get caught, I swear I’ll quit and move to another city —she said, laughing and trembling with nerves.
We went down to the parking lot on an ordinary midday. She sat behind the wheel and I in the passenger seat. Even though it was broad daylight and the sun streamed in, from the outside the interior was a black mirror. We kissed for a while with tongues, I unfastened the first buttons and pulled one tit out of her bra to suck it right there while she laughed nervously and checked the rearview mirror. Then I pulled my pants down to my knees and she didn’t hesitate: she bent over the handbrake, let her hair loose, and took my cock into her mouth in one go, as if she’d been waiting for that moment all morning.
What turned me on most wasn’t the act itself, but the risk: people crossing the parking lot a few feet away, carrying bags, searching for their keys, with the slightest idea that inside that blue car there was a woman sucking cock with hunger. Tamara sucked with a concentration that disarmed me. She used her mouth and hand with a skill that improved week by week, moving up and down the full length, closing her lips tight on the tip to suck my glans, spitting a little saliva so it would slide better, then swallowing it all the way down again. I slipped my hand under her blouse and pinched her nipples while she moaned with my cock in her mouth, and that vibration nearly made me come on the spot.
When I warned her I couldn’t hold on any longer, she asked where I wanted to finish.
—You decide —I said, voice breaking—. It’s your car, I don’t want to mess it up.
She didn’t answer. She took me all the way back in, sped up the rhythm with her hand at the base, and sucked my balls with the other until I shot the first load straight into her mouth. I felt the stream hit the back of her throat, felt her hold it there for a second without pulling me out, and she kept milking me until the last drop, squeezing the base of my cock in her fist. That first time she opened the door and spat onto the parking lot floor, took a sip of water from the bottle she kept in the cup holder, and pulled out as if we were just coming back from buying lunch. We went back upstairs to the office separately, her first, me five minutes later, both of us looking as innocent as could be.
We did it again the following week. That time, when I finished, she swallowed every drop without being asked, with my cock buried in her throat, and pulled it out licking it clean like it was an ice cream cone. She did it out of curiosity, she said, like someone trying something forbidden just to see what it felt like. She let out a giggly little laugh, that mischievous laugh of a naughty girl, and showed me her empty tongue like a magician showing a trick. From then on, swallowing it all became one of her habits.
***
Even so, the car made her nervous. She lived with her heart in her mouth, thinking someone would recognize the car or come over to say hello. One afternoon she told me she was going to find a better solution, and by her tone I knew she’d already been turning it over in her head.
It only took her a few days to come up with a plan. Her mother went to mass every Wednesday afternoon and didn’t return to the apartment until around six. Our shift ended at five, and between each of us getting our car and arriving at her place, no more than twenty minutes passed. That left us at least half an hour alone. Half an hour was all we needed.
To make sure, Tamara called her home landline on the way, let it ring several times, and if no one answered, we knew the apartment was empty. She was meticulous even about that, and her caution, far from cooling me off, only turned me on more.
The first Wednesday we arrived and the apartment was silent. There was one detail in our favor: to reach her door, you had to cross a metal gate that creaked like a tortured soul. If anyone came while we were in the middle of it, that noise would give us plenty of time to pull ourselves together. And did it ever save us more than once.
The ritual was always the same. She left her purse and keys in the hallway while I settled onto the living room sofa. Then she came over, straddled me, and we devoured each other’s mouths as if we hadn’t seen one another in months, even though we’d shared an elevator ten minutes earlier. I got my hands on her wherever I could, and what I wanted most were those huge tits spilling out as soon as I lifted her blouse. I pulled them out of her bra and buried my face in them, sucking them hungrily, tugging on her nipples with my teeth until she was panting.
Across from the sofa there was a low TV stand with a couple of little glass-fronted doors at the bottom. In that dark reflection we could see ourselves, and I ended up always sitting in the same place so I could watch her face while she sucked me off. Seeing her in person and in reflection at the same time, with my cock filling her mouth, had something filthy about it that I never fully admitted to her.
I remember that at first she lacked practice. She handled me too gently, almost afraid of hurting me, barely moved her hand and only sucked the tip, and I felt almost nothing. Little by little I taught her, without rushing, what I liked and how. I put my hand over hers and showed her how to squeeze harder, how to move her wrist along the full length of my cock, how to twist her hand when she reached the glans. I taught her to take it deep, to relax her throat and breathe through her nose, to lick my balls while she stroked me. Tamara was a good student. She learned fast and put her heart into it, and within weeks the difference was enormous.
Watching her work reflected in that glass, kneeling between my legs with her tits out and her cheeks hollowed from sucking, was one of the hottest things I remember from that time. When she stopped to use her hand, she did it with real firmness now, gripping my cock at the base and stroking it with saliva mixed with the precum she drew out of me, exactly how I liked it, and I learned to hold back just to stretch the moment out. She knew Wednesdays were our day, so I’d spend a couple of days saving up on purpose, not touching myself or coming, and I’d show up loaded so full that it made her laugh when the first jet shot out and hit her on the forehead.
—One of these days you’re going to drown me —she’d joke, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand and then sucking her fingers.
—Just say the word and I’ll stop —I’d answer, knowing I never would.
Sometimes I held her face with both hands, gently, just for support, and set the pace myself, fucking her mouth as if it were a cunt, driving my hips upward while she stayed still with her lips tight around my cock. Every so often I’d go too deep without meaning to and tears would spring to her eyes, her mascara would run, and thick ropes of spit would dribble down between her tits, but instead of getting annoyed she’d laugh and show them to me like a trophy, proud of being able to take it. A couple of Wednesdays she even let me come all over her tits, and afterward she collected the semen with her finger and took it to her mouth, staring straight at me. That mix of modesty and shamelessness was exactly what drove me wild about her.
She also had a very particular way of asking for it. She called what we did “the bottle.” She’d text me midmorning, a simple “bottle today?”, and I couldn’t focus on anything until five o’clock rolled around. Just that one word, said in her low voice in the middle of the office while everyone else typed away oblivious to everything, was enough to ignite the rest of my afternoon and have me arriving at her place with my cock already half hard in my pants.
***
What seemed like a passing whim for a few weeks stretched into six years. Six years of stolen Wednesdays, creaking gates, coded messages, and complicit looks across computer screens. No one at the office ever knew, or at least no one ever said anything, and that was part of the thrill: having a secret entirely for the two of us in a place where everything got talked about.
It was never a conventional relationship. We didn’t promise each other anything, there were no future plans or formal introductions. It was something else, simpler and in its own way more honest: two people who wanted each other, who understood each other through desire, and who had found a gap in the routine to feel free one afternoon a week.
With time, life separated us, as it tends to do. Department changes, a transfer, the sort of things no one chooses and that suddenly change everything. We stopped crossing paths and, without any real ending, Wednesdays simply went dark.
Now and then, when I pass by a church on a Wednesday afternoon, I think of her without meaning to. I wonder where she is, whether she still laughs with that mischievous laugh, mouth full, whether anyone else knows the secret that for six years belonged only to us. Wherever you are, Tamara, this is as close as I’ll ever come to thanking you.
