Every Monday I Imagine the Same Thing with My Coworker

Every Monday at ten o’clock sharp I walk into the conference room with my pulse racing, as if my body knows something my mind is still pretending to ignore. I always choose the same chair, the one by the back wall, and I wait. Daniela arrives a couple of minutes late, as she almost always does, with that unhurried walk that doesn’t even try to hide her lack of haste. Her blond hair tied back loosely, her silk blouse outlining her back, a folder pressed against her chest. She sits right across from me, crosses her legs without looking at anyone in particular, and drops a general “good morning” that I, idiot that I am, hear as if it were meant only for me.

The boss gets started with the usual round: quarterly goals, deadlines, numbers going up and numbers going down. We all open laptops and notebooks. Daniela leans forward to jot something down and, as she does, the thin chain she wears around her neck slips into her cleavage. Her tits are outlined against the silk, the hard nipples clearly visible through the sheer fabric, and I look away in time. Almost always I look away in time.

Don’t look. Not today.

But then she lifts her eyes, catches me in the half-second when I’ve been unable to obey my own order, and instead of getting annoyed she holds my gaze a moment too long. She runs the tip of her tongue over her lower lip, slowly, as if testing an idea before saying it out loud. And that’s where the real meeting ends for me and the other one begins, the one that only happens inside my head. I’m already getting hard under the table, pressed tight against the zipper, and there’s no way to hide the heat climbing up my chest.

***

In that other room, Daniela gets up without anyone reacting. She walks around the table calmly while the boss keeps talking about budgets as if nothing’s happening, and comes over to me. She sits on the wood, right in front of my chair, and spreads her knees just enough for her skirt to stop doing its job. Underneath, she’s wearing nothing. Her bare cunt, shaved, already shining with how wet she is, a hand’s breadth from my face. She takes my tie and tugs with two fingers, just enough to pull me closer.

—You’ve been staring at me for weeks and pretending to be distracted —she says softly, just for me—. Did you really think I didn’t notice how hard your cock gets every Monday?

I don’t answer with words because in this version of reality words are unnecessary. I wrap my arms around her waist, pull her to the edge of the table, and bury my face in her neck. She smells citrusy and hot. I move up slowly, bite her earlobe, and she lets out a deep sound that in the real meeting room would be a scandal and here doesn’t even raise an eyebrow.

I unbutton her blouse button by button, unhurried, enjoying the exact moment the fabric gives up. She isn’t wearing a bra. Her tits spill out of the silk, round, with the nipples hard and pointing at me as if they can’t wait to get into my mouth. She watches me do it with a half-smile, her hands braced behind her on the table, offering herself and asking for nothing. I trail my mouth over her chest, first the outline, then the center, and catch one nipple between my teeth, sucking it hard while I pinch the other with my fingers. I feel her arch toward me with a sigh that slips out between clenched teeth.

—We can’t do this here —she murmurs, but she pushes my head lower, contradicting every syllable.

I go down over her flat stomach, kiss her navel, keep going to her pubis and spread her legs wide. Her cunt gleams, swollen, the lips already parted without me doing a thing. I pause for a second to breathe over it before sticking out my tongue and licking her from bottom to top, all of it, tasting her. She lets out a muffled moan and grips the edge of the table. I graze her clit with the tip of my tongue, slow circles first, then faster, while I slide two fingers into her and curl them inside, looking for that spot I know drives her crazy. Her whole body goes taut, her hips move on their own against my face, and she rides my mouth with no shame at all.

—Keep going, keep going, you bastard, don’t stop —she pants, both hands now tangled in my hair, pressing me against her.

The boss changes slides. Someone clears their throat. In my head, Daniela slides to the floor and kneels between my legs, hidden under the conference table like a secret only I know. She lowers my zipper carefully so as not to make a sound, pulls my hard cock out of my pants, and pauses to look at it with shining eyes before spitting on it and stroking it with her hand.

—Look how hard you’ve got —she whispers, admiring it—. All this for me, every week.

She closes her lips over the head first, slowly, playing with her tongue around it, sucking just the tip until a groan slips out of me that I have to swallow halfway. Then she takes it all the way in, deep, to the back of her throat, and I feel her clench around me as if she wants to rip it off me. She rises and falls keeping the rhythm, one hand at the base and the other playing with my balls, and every now and then she takes it out completely to lick it from below, long and dirty, looking up at me with her mouth open and a thread of spit hanging from her lip.

I hold her blond hair with one hand, not to force her but to feel her, to have something to grip while the rest of the room discusses the quarterly report without suspecting a thing. She sets the pace, going up and down, stopping on purpose just when I’m about to come and forcing me to wait. She squeezes the base with two fingers, cutting my orgasm off dead, and smiles with my cock resting against her cheek.

—Not yet —she tells me—. You’re not coming yet, sweetheart.

She knows exactly what she’s doing. She always has.

***

—Tomás? Do you have the May conversion data? —a voice asks from the other side of the table.

I blink. The real room comes back all at once, with its fluorescent lights and its bad coffee smell. I search for the number on my laptop with clumsy fingers, read it out loud, and nobody notices that I’ve just come back from very far away. Daniela writes down the figure in neat, tiny handwriting. Her blouse is perfectly buttoned. Of course it is.

She crosses and uncrosses her legs. Her shoe brushes the leg of my chair for an instant. Or maybe it didn’t brush anything and I’m imagining it. I can no longer tell which things are really happening at this table and which ones I’m placing there myself. My cock is still throbbing under my pants, and I have to set my notebook on my lap as if I were about to write something down.

***

In the other room, the one that actually matters to me, Daniela rises from the floor with ragged breathing, her chin shining with spit, and pushes me back against the chair.

—Not like that —she says—. I want more. I want you to fuck me right now.

She sweeps laptops and folders to one end of the table with her arm, clears a space, and lies back on the polished surface, legs bent, waiting for me. Her skirt hiked up to her waist, her cunt wide open, soaked, shining under the fluorescents. I stand up, position myself between her knees, and watch her for a full second, that second of anticipation worth more than everything that comes after. She tugs at my shirt, impatient, grabs my cock with her hand and brings it to the entrance of her cunt, rubbing the head against her clit before taking me inside.

I go in slowly, holding myself back, feeling the breath catch in her throat and then return as she settles around me. She’s tight, hot, wet as a fountain, and she squeezes my cock as soon as I’m inside her. I thrust all the way in with one stroke and she arches her back and digs her nails into my forearms.

—God, you’re so big —she pants—. Fuck me hard, don’t treat me gently.

I start moving calmly, marking each thrust, coming almost all the way out before pushing back in, and she digs her heels into the small of my back so I won’t ease up. The table creaks a little under our weight. I grip her hips, lean over her, bite a nipple until she screams, and whisper things in her ear I would never dare say out loud in daylight.

—This is what I think every Monday while I pretend to listen —I confess—. Fucking you on top of this fucking table. Driving my cock into you while everyone talks about deadlines.

—I know —she answers, biting my shoulder—. It shows on your face. Your cock prints in your pants every time I look at my tits.

I speed up. I drive into her faster and faster, and with every thrust her tits shake and a moan slips out of her that she no longer even tries to silence. She clings to the edge of the table with one hand and reaches for the back of my neck with the other, pulling me toward her mouth. We kiss clumsily, hungrily, biting each other’s lips, while the rest of the team, a hand’s breadth away, keeps debating delivery dates. Nobody sees us. Nobody will ever see us, because none of this is happening anywhere except behind my eyes.

I pull out abruptly, turn her over on the wood, position her with her back to me, bent over the table, ass lifted and legs spread, and slap one cheek before burying myself in her from behind again. She drops her forehead onto her crossed arms and stifles a moan against her own skin. I grab her blond hair in a fist, pulling her head back, and run my open palm down her back, from the nape of her neck to her waist. I move deeper, harder, driving my hips against her ass with every thrust, and the table starts knocking rhythmically against the wall.

—Don’t stop —she pants, pushing back to meet me, fucking me too—. Don’t stop today. Come inside me, I want to feel it.

I don’t stop. I hold her hips with both hands and let the rhythm speed up on its own, governed by something I no longer control. I drive into her to the balls, over and over, with a wet skin-on-skin sound filling the whole imaginary room. She reaches one hand down, touches her clit with two fingers, rubs it fast, looking for her own finish while I look for mine, and for a moment we both go in the same direction, synchronized, without needing to say another word. I feel her cunt clench around my cock, her thighs tighten, her whole body start to tremble, and when she comes with a long moan, squeezing me inside her, I let go too and empty myself deep inside her in waves, gripping her hips so I won’t lose her.

***

—Tomás, do you agree with that estimate? —the boss’s voice cuts through me like a blast of cold air.

I lift my head too quickly. The whole room is looking at me. The table is immaculate, every folder in its place, not a single paper out of line. Daniela is still sitting across from me, calm, her blouse intact, the pen between her fingers, waiting for my answer like everyone else. Not a wrinkle in her clothes, not a strand out of place. She looks at me with that perfect professional courtesy, as if in her entire life she had never thought of me beyond the figure I share on the screen.

I swallow. My shirt is stuck to my back with sweat that is very real this time, my cock still hard and throbbing inside my underwear, and my heart is beating in places I shouldn’t be aware of during a work meeting.

—Uh… yes —I clear my throat, adjusting my tie with a slightly trembling hand—. Yes, that seems reasonable. We’re on track with the deadlines.

The boss nods, satisfied, and moves on to the next agenda item. The room fills again with numbers and monotonous voices. I sink a little deeper into my chair and take a deep breath, trying to get my pulse down to something resembling normal.

***

Daniela lowers her gaze to her notebook and writes something in her tiny handwriting. For a moment I think it was all in my head, that this impeccable woman has the slightest idea of the movie I just projected behind my eyes with her in the lead. That I’m the only one who comes back every Monday to this same table to torture himself in silence with a hard cock under his pants.

But just before I look away, she lifts her eyes. Just for a second. She runs the tip of her tongue over her lower lip, exactly the same as at the beginning, exactly the same as in my fantasy, and gives me a tiny smile no one else in the room would know how to read. A smile that says, “I know exactly what you were thinking, I know exactly how you were fucking me.”

And then she goes back to her notes as if nothing happened.

The meeting goes on. The boss talks about goals for next quarter. Someone suggests moving up a delivery. I jot things down in my notebook that I won’t understand tomorrow, and under the table I count, without meaning to, the days until the following Monday.

Because I know I’ll sit back down in this same chair, facing her, with the bad coffee and the fluorescent lights and the quarterly figures. And I know that, at some point during the round of deadlines, Daniela will look up, hold my gaze for half a second too long, and everything, absolutely everything, will happen the same way again.

Even if it never happens at all.