What Happened When I Took My Coworker Home

We crossed paths again on the office stairs, the people on the long shift leaving at the same time as the stragglers arriving late. That afternoon we had finally closed out an endless quarter, and almost everyone had a couple of days off ahead of them. Hallway comments, jokes that weren’t funny anymore, the usual. I was heading toward my car in the parking lot without having barely exchanged a glance with her all day.

“Adrián!” she shouted so half the department would hear. It was clear that afternoon the universe had decided to put me to the test. “Don’t you remember saying you’d take me home? A warning light came on in mine when I arrived, and I’m not taking any chances. I’ll have it picked up by a tow truck tomorrow.”

I’ve always been a terrible actor, but I forced out a:

“Oh, right! I don’t know where my head’s been these days.”

It wasn’t anywhere decent, that was the truth.

We got into my car, and I was still a little stunned by her move. She fastened her seat belt with one hand while already undoing the button on her trousers with the other.

“Find an alley, an empty lot, a parking garage, whatever you can think of,” she said, lowering her voice even though there was no one left who could hear us. “I can’t, and don’t want to, get home like this.”

As soon as we left the grounds, she slipped her hand inside her trousers, leaned back against the seat, and closed her eyes.

“If you pull up beside a truck, let me know. I don’t feel like putting on a show.”

A few minutes later I was out of the city. Even though it was the height of summer, there was barely any traffic on Sunday afternoons. She still had her hand inside her trousers, breathing with increasingly little attempt at concealment. I could feel something stirring inside mine as well. I was going to have to stop soon, so I lowered my zipper a little to ease the pressure against my jeans and drive without squirming in my seat.

On the outskirts of the city there are plenty of farm tracks that disappear between grazing fields and enclosed orchards. Within minutes we had the car parked on a dead-end track, facing a metal fence, with the air-conditioning engine silent. I turned off the lights. All we had left was the moon—which wasn’t much—and the hum of the crickets.

We opened the doors almost at the same time. We met in front of the hood. Quick, rough kisses, impatient, as if we were afraid the current would go out. I threw my shirt onto the ground, and she unfastened her bra in a single movement. Our trousers were already hanging around our ankles; our panties and underpants were too. She braced her hands on the warm hood and parted her legs slightly.

“Hurry,” she murmured without turning around.

I ran one hand over her waist, then her belly, feeling her skin tighten beneath my fingers. With the other, I swept her hair away from the nape of her neck and slowly bit her shoulder, without tenderness. She hissed and arched her back against me, offering me her ass and her pussy with an almost obscene impatience. I lowered my hand between her thighs and found her cunt soaked, hot, opened by the urgency with which she had been touching herself inside the car. There was no need to search for anything: she was ready, drenched, slick.

I entered her with a single thrust of my hips. A cry escaped her that wasn’t one of pain. The accumulated arousal of the entire afternoon and the fingers she had shoved between her legs herself had left everything prepared. It was like sinking into a wet mouth that had been waiting for me for hours. I stayed still for a second, feeling her squeeze around me, then started pounding her eagerly, short and deep, making the hood creak beneath the weight of her hands.

“More,” she said through her teeth. “Harder.”

I obeyed. I gripped her hips with both hands and forced her to move in rhythm with me. The sound of our bodies colliding mixed with her ragged breathing and the distant hum of a car on the road. She bit her lip, but every thrust drew a dirtier moan from her than the one before. She slipped one hand between her thighs and rubbed her clitoris with trembling fingers, gasping my name as if it were difficult to keep it inside her mouth.

“That’s it, that’s it,” she murmured. “Don’t stop, fuck.”

I held one of her wrists so she wouldn’t pull away from me and let her brace herself more firmly against the hood. Her back was arched, her breasts swinging with every jolt, her nipples hard in the night air. I lowered my head and sucked one hard, then the other, while I kept thrusting into her, feeling her cunt squeeze me tighter and tighter. She threw her head back and let out a long, almost feral groan. The warm metal left marks on the skin of her arms.

My restraint from the entire week couldn’t hold out another minute. I gripped her hips so I wouldn’t fall and drove my cock all the way inside her again and again, each thrust dirtier than the last. She was completely open by then, wet with her own arousal and mine, and it had become a brutal urgency, a need without manners. I felt myself coming, my cock tightening and throbbing inside her, and I kept fucking her all the same, without slowing, until I came inside her in a spasm that emptied my head.

“Shit…” I gasped.

She bore my weight. Her fingers were still moving between her legs, and just as I began to pull out of her, I felt contractions in her cunt that made me stay inside for one moment longer, stuck in that hot wetness squeezing the cum out of me. She came at the same time or a second later, grinding against my hand, trembling from head to toe with a muffled moan that vanished into the night. Her breathing became a wreck. I kept slowly pulling out, feeling the semen run down her thighs. We separated, panting, breathing in that smell of dry earth and grass that the countryside has in summer when the sun has just gone down.

That was when I realized that since we had turned onto the track, we had barely exchanged three words.

***

It had been a dirty, quick encounter, with hardly any time to enjoy it. It had also been necessary. We’d spent a week building up arousal at the office: glances that lasted a second too long, brushes at the photocopier that neither of us mentioned afterward, the way she would hand me a stapler, grazing my knuckles. That encounter by the roadside was a pressure valve, not a real meeting.

She took some wet wipes out of her bag and handed me one. We still didn’t speak. We put our clothes back in order with the same calmness used to seal an envelope, then returned to the car. She looked at herself in the sun visor mirror, ran her fingers through her hair, and bit her lip to put a little color back into it.

A few miles later her phone rang.

“Yes, darling, don’t worry. The afternoon got a little complicated. Yes, I’m already on my way out; I’ll see you in a little while.”

She had just hung up with her daughter. I was already heading toward the main road in the direction of her house.

“I’ll take a taxi tomorrow to go get the car from the office, don’t worry,” she said, turning toward me. She paused. “How much longer until you have the apartment ready?”

It was less a conversation than a monologue. That week had been insane, with a constant undercurrent of arousal that not even work had managed to extinguish. I dropped her outside the door of her building. She shot out of the car, her bag hanging from her shoulder as if nothing had happened. I allowed myself a couple of seconds to look at that ass I liked so much, now framed by trousers decently buttoned up again, then drove to my friend Hugo’s place, where he was putting me up while the renovations on my apartment lasted.

When I arrived, he had already gone to bed. I got into the shower without having dinner, tried to put my thoughts in order, and didn’t quite manage it. I ended up masturbating under the running water to empty out what little I had left. I collapsed onto the bed, still with wet hair. I fell asleep immediately.

***

The next morning my phone woke me. It was the contractor. In two days I could move back into the apartment: the work would be finished, the insurance company would send a cleaning service, everything would be wrapped up. I sketched a victorious smile against the pillow. As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?” It was her. Her voice finished waking me up.

“The truth is, yes. I passed out. The contractor just called me. I’ll have the apartment ready in a couple of days.”

“Have you had breakfast?”

“I don’t even know what time it is,” I replied. “But I’m so hungry I could eat the walls.”

“It’s nine. I went to get the car and bought ensaimadas. The girl is at her grandparents’ house. I made up some far-fetched excuse to take her there so she could spend the morning helping them run a few errands. I’m alone at home until mid-afternoon. Are you coming?”

She didn’t give me time to answer. She hung up.

Ten seconds later my phone vibrated. It was a short video of her. She was wearing a thin white nightgown with narrow straps. She slowly lowered the straps until the garment fell under its own weight. Never had a nightgown done so much for so little. I brushed my teeth at top speed, put on the first clothes I found, and clattered down the stairs, trying not to wake Hugo.

In less than twenty minutes I was standing outside her door.

She opened it wearing the same nightgown as in the video. We started kissing in the entryway before she had even finished closing the door. The nightgown went flying, and so did my clothes. We didn’t make it to the bedroom.

We did it first on the living-room sofa, a completely different version of the night before. This time there was time. This time there was light, a yellow light coming in sideways through the half-closed blinds. This time we could linger over every inch, look instead of guessing, speak instead of gasping in silence. She sat on top of me, wrapped her legs around me, and kissed me open-mouthed, wet, swallowing my tongue while squeezing my ass to force me to move at the pace she wanted. I caressed her tits, squeezing them slowly and feeling them harden beneath my palms, then lowered one hand and pushed two fingers into her cunt, soaked again and immediately ready for more.

“You have no idea what I thought about all week every time you walked past my desk,” she told me, leaning against my chest, one finger lazily tracing circles over my collarbone.

“I had some idea. I haven’t slept much either.”

“Last night doesn’t count,” she added. “Last night was something else.”

“Last night was urgency.”

“Last night was almost an accident.”

I pushed the nightgown aside, lowered her face to my chest, and sucked one of her nipples until it was hard and shiny. She arched beneath me, burying one hand in my hair to push me harder. Then she lowered herself between my legs and gave me a slow, thorough blowjob, taking my cock in and out of her mouth until I was breathing through my nose, trembling with sheer pleasure. Saliva ran from the corner of her mouth, and she didn’t seem to care at all. When I sat up, she grabbed me by the waist and rode me with a determination that left me pinned to the sofa for a few seconds, feeling her slide over me with that slow, deep motion that makes you lose your head.

We moved from the living room to the bedroom in midmorning. The sheet ended up crumpled like an ancient map. There were long kisses, caresses that led nowhere, fingers, saliva, bites on places we had passed over the night before without stopping to look. She took a small box containing a couple of toys and a water-based lubricant from the bedside drawer. She laid them on the bed with the calmness of someone who no longer had any reason to pretend to be in a hurry. She had me try one of the toys while she straddled my face, gripping the headboard and pushing her cunt directly against my tongue. In one morning we recovered all the caresses that the office, the schedule, and concern for appearances had stolen from us during the past week.

Then I took her from behind, face down, her hands buried in the pillow, and fucked her until she began trembling from the waist down. I spread her legs farther with one hand and opened her ass with two fingers just to hear a darker, more broken moan escape her. She came with brutal ease, digging her nails into the mattress while I kept thrusting, smeared with her wetness and mine. In another position, facing the wardrobe mirror, she made me watch her while she sucked my cock, mouth full, her tongue moving beneath the glans with an insolent patience that brought me to the edge. When she sat up, she grabbed me by the nape and kissed me with the taste of semen before lying back beneath me so I could enter her again, more slowly, as if she wanted to stretch it out to the limit.

After noon we went down to the kitchen to regain our strength. The ensaimadas she had brought were overrun by an army of ants that had found their way along the edge of the countertop. They went straight into the bin. We made coffee, toast, whatever there was. She lent me an old T-shirt that hung huge on her but fit me snugly across the shoulders.

We ate sitting on high stools, barefoot, with the sun coming in sideways through the kitchen window and a comfortable silence in the background. She had a piece of toast in one hand and her coffee in the other.

“And now what?” she asked.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know whether she was asking me, herself, or the entire kitchen. I took a bite of my toast to buy time and thought about her husband, my half-finished apartment, the office on Monday that was coming, the desks where we would sit again a few feet apart, pretending nothing had happened.

“Now we have breakfast,” I said at last. “We’ll see about the rest as we go.”

She smiled with that half-smile that drove me crazy in meetings, the one she always hid behind her pen when someone said something stupid in a boardroom. She stole a piece of toast from me and chewed it slowly, looking me in the eyes over the rim of her cup.

At exactly three, the intercom buzzer rang: her daughter was coming back early from her grandparents’ house. I got dressed in thirty seconds, collected my shoes from beneath the sofa, went out through the service door leading to the garage, and got into the car with the feeling that I had lived two lives in less than twenty-four hours.

I drove to Hugo’s place with the radio off. I wasn’t in the mood for music. I only wanted to replay, one by one, everything that had happened between Sunday night and Monday noon, before the details began to fade.

I still didn’t know what was going to happen for the rest of the week, or what would happen when I returned to my newly finished apartment while she still had a husband, a daughter, and a schedule full of commitments. I didn’t know whether the empty-lot encounter would happen again, or whether the living room in the yellow light would remain a single morning in the middle of summer.

The only thing I knew for certain, as I drove up the street toward Hugo’s place with the air conditioning turned all the way up, was that the office would never smell the same on Monday again.