What Happened with the Manager After the Event

I started working at the insurance company a few months ago, thanks to my friend Mariela. She had already been there for over a year, and when a position opened up in her department, she didn’t hesitate to pass my résumé along to Human Resources. One interview, a short spreadsheet test, and two weeks later I had a desk facing hers, a computer, and a folder full of policies to memorize.

The change was abrupt. Before, I managed my time however I wanted, went to the gym every morning, and worked freelance from home. Now I got up at six-thirty, put on a pencil skirt and blouse, and arrived at the office at exactly eight. I went to the gym whenever I could, almost always on Saturdays, and I saw Mariela every day between morning coffee and five o’clock coffee, speaking softly about the things no one talked about out loud.

We had been carrying on like that for several months. The routine suited me fine, I’m not complaining. I had gotten used to spreadsheets, monthly reports, the hum of the air conditioning, and hallway gossip. That said, it had been a long time since I’d been with anyone. A very long time. Sometimes, on Friday nights, I would shut myself in my room with my dildo and one of my own electrically charged stories, and at least I’d be calm for a few days.

“You’re way too pretty to come in every day looking like that,” Mariela would tell me whenever she passed my desk. “Half the men here have their eye on you.”

“I don’t care,” I’d reply without looking up from the screen.

“You should care. There’s one in particular who keeps asking about you.”

“Don’t give me names. I don’t want to know.”

She would laugh and leave. But the names reached me anyway, sooner or later, in the kitchen or the elevator.

One Thursday morning, Mariela messaged me on WhatsApp. The company was organizing an event for one of its major suppliers, a cocktail party in a hall downtown, and all the staff were invited.

“Come on, don’t be a wet blanket,” she wrote. “We’ll shop for a dress together on Saturday and look fabulous.”

I accepted because I couldn’t be bothered arguing about it. And, deep down, because I felt like putting on something that wasn’t office wear.

On Saturday afternoon we went to a small boutique she knew. Mariela picked out a black slip dress for me, falling below the knee, with a side slit that revealed almost my entire left leg when I walked. It had two very thin straps and a bare back. I tried it on in front of the mirror, and it took me a moment to recognize myself.

“I can’t,” I told her.

“Yes, you can. You’re taking it. If necessary, I’ll pay for it.”

I paid for it myself. It left me with almost nothing for the rest of the week, but I walked out of the shop with the bag in my hand and a smile I hadn’t worn in months.

***

On the day of the event, I took every step seriously. I showered slowly, touched up my waxing, and painted my nails with neutral polish. I didn’t wear a bra because the dress wouldn’t allow it, and my breasts, while not large, held themselves up on their own. Just a black lace thong, thin-heeled sandals, and a woody perfume I kept for occasions that never came.

My makeup was minimal: mascara, a touch of blush, and dry red lipstick, barely hinted at.

Mariela picked me up at nine. When she saw me coming down the building’s stairs, she covered her face with her hands and burst out laughing.

“They’re going to eat you alive,” she said.

“Shut up. You too—look at yourself.”

We arrived at the hall around ten. It was a beautiful place, with high ceilings, round tables dressed in white, and a long bar at the back. We greeted the people who needed greeting, smiled for the supplier’s photographs, and headed straight over to order a drink.

“Gin and tonic,” Mariela ordered.

“The same,” I said.

We took our first sip leaning against the bar and looking around the room. She leaned close to my ear.

“Girl,” she said softly, “Leandro can’t take his eyes off you.”

Leandro was one of the regional managers, the man my reports ended up reaching two levels above me. I had seen him only a few times, always in passing, always wearing a jacket and an expensive watch.

“We’ll say hello and that’s it,” I said.

“Mmm. We’ll say hello and see what happens. Just so you know, two or three women from the floor below have already had ‘encounters’ with him.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it either.”

We toasted. I drank the second gin and tonic more slowly.

I saw him cross the room with a glass in his hand, greeting each person who pointed out the way to him with a nod. When he reached us, Mariela smiled at him with an ease I didn’t possess.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said.

He had a deep voice and a very polished accent. He was clean-shaven, with short hair and a white shirt open at the collar, no tie.

“Hi, Leandro,” she replied.

“And you are…?”

“Camila,” I said, extending my hand.

He took it gently and held it a second longer than necessary.

“Camila,” he repeated. “I know you from the reports.”

“And I know you from the organizational chart.”

He laughed. Without him noticing, Mariela raised her eyebrows at me, and two minutes later she said she was going to greet some other people. She left me alone with him. She planned it, I’m sure.

At first we talked about silly things. How long the suppliers’ speeches lasted. Whether or not it was worth trying the catering. The cold weather coming in. He didn’t leave. I ordered another drink and he ordered another one.

“Do you dance?” he asked when something slow began playing through the speakers at the back.

“I haven’t in a thousand years.”

“Even better.”

He held out his hand and I followed him. We danced close, but not too close. His hand rested lightly on my waist, over the fabric of the dress. Mine lay on his shoulder. We didn’t speak. After three songs I told him I needed to sit down. After four, I told him I was leaving.

“I’ll walk you out,” he replied. “Wait for me.”

I looked around for Mariela to let her know. I saw her near the door, laughing with another one of the managers, a younger man who had his hand around her waist with a certain boldness. When our eyes met, she made a quick gesture with her fingers, a circle with her index finger and thumb, and winked at me. I couldn’t believe her.

***

We walked out to the parking lot together. The night was cool, and when I felt the air on my bare shoulders, I instinctively drew in on myself.

“Here,” he said, handing me his jacket.

I draped it over my shoulders. It smelled woody, similar to my perfume but deeper.

When we reached his car, he opened the passenger-side door for me. Before I got in, he took me by the waist with one hand and kissed me. Without asking, without requesting permission, but not violently either—rather with the confidence of someone who had already decided for both of us. I kissed him back because I had wanted to kiss someone for months and because, at that moment, I didn’t care who it was.

I pulled back slightly and looked at him.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said.

I got into the car.

We didn’t speak on the way. He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other on my thigh, not squeezing it or moving it. I watched the signs outside blur past the window and wondered whether what I was about to do was a terrible idea. I decided I didn’t care.

His house was in a neighborhood of tall trees and long walls. It was less a house than a building far too large for one person. He opened the car door for me, walked me to the entrance with his hand on my lower back, and as soon as he closed the door behind us, he cornered me against the foyer wall.

He kissed me again, this time without the caution he’d shown before. I felt his hand travel from my waist up to my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. I dropped my purse on the floor without looking where it landed and brought my hands to the straps of my dress.

I let it fall.

I was left against the wall in my black thong and sandals. I looked at him.

“Is this okay?” I asked.

“Very okay,” he replied without smiling.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him again. His hand traveled down my back until it reached my ass and stayed there, firm. He kissed my neck, barely at first, then more insistently, biting the skin right where it would show the next day. I tipped my head back. I felt his lips on my collarbone, then on my breast.

“Come,” he said in a very low voice.

He led me down a hallway without turning on the light. His bedroom was at the back, with a large bed and a window overlooking the garden. He took off his shirt while I knelt in front of him. I looked him in the eyes before lowering his belt. I unbuttoned his pants slowly, without hurrying, enjoying it more than he was. I pulled down his underwear.

I took him in one hand at first. I ran my tongue all along the base, kissed the tip, and took him all the way into my mouth. I heard him let out his first breath. I moved slowly up and down, playing with my tongue, attentive to the way his breathing responded. He took me by the nape and pushed slightly. I held his gaze when I pulled away to breathe.

“That’s it, Camila,” he said, his voice already rougher. “Don’t stop.”

I lowered my mouth over him again. I sucked the tip eagerly, tightening my lips, moving my hand in rhythm with my tongue so he could feel the wetness and pressure at the same time. He splattered my face when I moved back a little, and he let out a short, harsh laugh that made me even hotter.

I stood up, and he pushed me gently toward the bed. I fell sitting on the edge, and he positioned himself between my legs. He kissed me again, deep and intense, and opened my legs with his hands, without any unnecessary delicacy, with the confidence of someone who already knew what he wanted. I felt his thumb brush me over the damp fabric of my thong and shuddered immediately.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured.

“Don’t make comments if you’re not going to do something about it.”

He smiled for the first time. He yanked off my thong and threw it onto the floor. Then he parted my thighs with one hand and bent down to kiss me where words were no longer necessary. His tongue found me at once, firm and slow at first, then more insistent. He held my hips with both hands while he ate me out patiently, opening me fully with his mouth. I buried my fingers in his hair and began moving against his face without shame, searching for more, deeper, faster.

“That’s it,” he said without lifting his head. “That’s how I want you to come.”

The comment hit me straight between the legs. I arched over the sheets, my nails digging into his scalp, and the first wave rose violently, trembling through my belly, thighs, and throat. I came with a muffled sound and was left without air for a second, my legs shaking around his head.

When he lifted his face, his mouth was wet and his gaze dark.

“We’re not finished yet,” he said.

He undressed quickly, no longer with any elegance, and came back over me. I was still dizzy when he opened me again with his knee and settled between my legs. I felt the tip of his cock brushing against me, searching for my entrance, and shuddered again.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

I did, just before he entered slowly. The first thrust drew a long moan from me because I was hard and sensitive from having just come. He stayed still for a second, buried halfway inside me, as if giving me time to take him, and then pushed a little farther. I clenched my teeth, dug my heels into his lower back, and asked him with my eyes to continue.

When he was completely inside, he let out a deep sigh and rested his forehead against mine.

“This pussy fits me so well,” he said, with a bluntness that made me clench around him by pure reflex.

“Then fuck me,” I answered. “And stop talking.”

He laughed briefly and began to move.

At first it was slow and deep, marking every entry as if he wanted to feel my body opening around him as he passed. Then he gained strength, thrusting with more hunger, making the bed bang against the wall with every roll of his hips. I took him with my legs spread as wide as possible, my hands on his back, my mouth half-open, lost in the rhythm he imposed on me. Every time he went all the way in, he drew a sharp, physical burst of pleasure from me, without embellishment.

“Harder,” I told him, almost voiceless.

He obeyed.

He lifted my legs over his shoulders and took me even deeper. I felt his cock striking exactly where it unraveled me, brushing that inner spot that made my entire body tense. My tits moved with every thrust, and he lowered one hand to squeeze them, first one and then the other, while he kept fucking me with a delicious, controlled violence that gradually erased my sense of self.

“That’s it, Camila, that’s it,” he growled. “I want to hear you.”

And I did. I cried out softly, moaned, complained, begged him for more without shame, biting my lips when I felt that familiar trembling begin to rise in my belly again. He sucked one nipple, barely bit the other, and the mixture of slight pain and pleasure left me completely open. I wasn’t thinking about the office anymore, or Mariela, or the event, or anything. All that existed was his cock moving in and out, the wet slap of our bodies, the smell of sex filling the room.

“I’m going to make you come again,” he said.

“Do it.”

He took me to the edge with his hand between my legs, rubbing my clitoris with hard fingers while he kept thrusting into me. The second orgasm rose faster than the first, more intense, my hips shaking and my back arched until it hurt. I remained trembling, spread wide open, feeling my pussy close around him in small, insistent pulses.

“Fuck,” he murmured, jaw clenched. “That’s it, that’s it.”

I was already too sensitive to take much more. I grabbed him by the nape, kissed him hungrily, and wrapped my legs around him so he wouldn’t pull out. He kept moving, more disorganized now, with the tension of a man on the verge of losing control. His breath broke against my neck, and I felt the exact change in his body—the stiffness, the quicker pulse, the need building up.

“I’m going to come,” he warned.

“Come.”

He withdrew just enough and masturbated over my belly and breasts, covering my skin with hot, thick spurts that made me close my eyes on reflex. Some landed on my tits, some on my stomach, and he kept squeezing his cock until he had emptied himself completely, his face taut, throat tight, his broken breathing ending in a low moan.

We both fell backward onto the mattress, disheveled and sweaty, our bodies still trembling from the release.

***

I spent an incredibly long time in the bathroom. I washed myself calmly, looked at myself in the mirror, and fixed my hair. When I returned to the bedroom, he was already sitting on the edge of the bed in his underwear, cellphone in hand.

“Should I call a car?” I asked.

“My driver will take you,” he replied. “He’s outside.”

I dressed slowly. He watched me the entire time, without that hunter’s smile some men get when they think they’ve caught something. Rather, he looked like someone who was thinking.

When I went down the stairs of his house toward the car, the cold early-morning air already touching my arms, I realized that I hadn’t planned any of what I’d done that night, and that I didn’t regret it either. Mariela was going to ask me for details the next morning, and I was going to tell her some of them, the way these things are told.

The driver opened the car door for me without asking.

“Good evening, miss,” he said.

“Good evening.”

I got in, rested my head against the glass, and closed my eyes. Behind me, the lights of Leandro’s house gradually fell away like one more chapter among all the ones I would never tell anyone.