The Governor Who Was Waiting for Me Without Security

By the time you’re forty, you already know what kind of man you are. I’m a political economics journalist at one of the country’s most widely read newspapers, someone who has built his reputation on the ability to see beyond what’s said in press briefings. My routine starts at six in the morning with an hour at the gym—not out of vanity, but because I need to tire my body out so my head won’t betray me during the day—and rarely ends before midnight.

I’ve interviewed ministers, CEOs of major corporations, leaders who move markets with a statement. I think I know power. But I had never been so close to someone who embodied it in that particular way, the kind of way that makes you feel the floor tilt slightly when she enters a room.

Valeria Iturriaga had been Secretary of State for Economy for three years and was, without question, the most influential figure in the government. Forty-nine years old and wearing it well, an intelligence that cut through the air, and that particular kind of certainty only people have who have won every battle that mattered to them. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense. She was something worse: she was magnetic. There was something in the way she occupied space—how she tilted her head when she listened, how she left a silence before answering—that made it impossible not to watch her.

I began to obsess over her in a way I didn’t recognize in myself. In the world of political journalism, rumors travel as fast as leaks. And the rumors about Valeria Iturriaga were on another level. People spoke of a private life radically different from her public image. It was said that in private she was a woman without filters, someone who sought the same intensity she brought to everything else. That she left younger men than her exhausted, that she fucked like she was negotiating a financial bailout, that she knew how to suck a cock with the same surgical coldness with which she took apart a congressman in Parliament. These weren’t nasty gossip; they were confidences whispered with a mix of genuine awe and something that looked a lot like respect.

And I, on more than one lonely night in my apartment in Malasaña, had shut my laptop with those rumors spinning in my head. I had surprised myself with a hard cock, imagining her velvety voice in contexts that had nothing to do with interest rates or the trade balance. I had wondered what was beneath those perfectly tailored suits, what shape her tits were, whether her cunt would respond with the same precision as her sentences. What kind of woman she was when no one was recording.

***

The Thursday Valeria visited the newsroom, she arrived fifteen minutes early—unusual for her—and without her usual retinue of advisers. Just two people from her team and the chief of staff. She wore a burgundy suit that must have cost what I earned in a month, and her hair pulled back with that kind of studied carelessness that makes you wonder how it would look loose over her shoulders.

I was going over an editorial at my desk when I saw her cross the room. She made no noise. But everyone looked at her. That is the true sign of power: not the one that shouts, but the one that forces heads to turn in silence.

She passed near my desk when she stopped to exchange a few words with the deputy editor. She had no reason whatsoever to notice me. There were forty people in the room. But her eyes found mine, and it was no accident.

“You’re Marcos Villanueva,” she said, stepping slightly away from the deputy editor. It wasn’t a question.

“That’s me,” I replied, standing up.

“I read your analyses of the debt market. You have a way of describing the tension between what the numbers say and what politicians keep silent about that I find... honest.” She paused for exactly the right second to make the next sentence land harder. “Or do you sometimes write with too much heat to be entirely objective?”

I felt the double meaning before my brain fully processed it. A discreet signal, perfectly calibrated.

“Total objectivity doesn’t exist,” I said. “Only commitment to what one really sees.”

She tilted her head a millimeter. It could have passed for a professional gesture. But her eyes lingered on my hands for a moment—I was gripping a pen too tightly—before turning back to the deputy editor.

“Interesting,” she said, and kept walking.

I stood there for several seconds after she left, with the strange sensation that something had begun without my having decided it.

***

Three days later, the paper was celebrating its twentieth anniversary at the Palacio de Festivales. It was one of those events where the champagne is too cold and the conversations too warm, where everyone pretends they’re there for culture when in reality they’re making hallway politics.

Valeria arrived late. She always arrived late to events where she wasn’t the hostess—it was her way of reminding people who controlled the pace. She had changed her suit for a sleeveless black dress that left her arms and the line of her shoulders bare. Her hair was down. From the far end of the hall, the effect was of someone who had decided to appear exactly like that and no other way.

I watched her for an hour, letting the whisky warm in my hand. She moved between groups with ease, always attentive, always wearing that expression of someone who listens with half her mind and with the other half is already three steps ahead. At one in the morning, I saw her head toward one of the side balconies overlooking the square.

She was alone, leaning on the stone railing, looking down at the street. The city light lit only her profile.

I approached. It was an absurd risk. My editor was inside, several of my sources too, and her communications team could show up at any moment. But there are certain moments when calculation simply stops working.

“It’s easier to breathe out here,” I said, taking my place at her side, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin.

Valeria didn’t startle. She turned her head slowly, and in that light her face looked younger, more direct.

“These kinds of events exhaust me,” she replied, with a frankness I hadn’t expected. “Smiling for three hours is more draining than chairing a crisis meeting.”

“And what do you do when you don’t have to smile for anyone?”

She looked straight at me. It was one of those looks that appraise without disguise, that weigh without hiding it.

“Depends who I’m with,” she said. “I’ve noticed that tonight you’ve been holding that empty glass for twenty minutes and haven’t gone to refill it. Either you’re nervous, or you’re waiting for something.”

“Both can be true at once.”

A pause. The noise from the hall reached us muffled from inside, as if the world in there belonged to a different conversation.

“There’s something they say about you in the ministry hallways,” I said, lowering my voice until it was almost intimate. “That you write like someone who understands that behind every public decision there’s a person who wants something they can’t say out loud.”

“And you want something you can’t say out loud,” she answered. Her tone was direct, stripped of the diplomatic polish she used in official interviews.

The breeze moved a lock of her hair. She didn’t brush it away.

“They also talk about you in the hallways,” I said. “They say that off camera you’re a different woman. That you have appetites that don’t fit the protocol. That power isn’t enough for you, that you need something else to feel truly alive.”

Valeria didn’t blink. She looked at me for three long seconds.

“And you think that’s a problem?” she asked at last.

“I think it’s the most interesting thing I’ve heard in years.”

Something shifted in her expression. It wasn’t exactly a smile—she was too controlled for that—but at the corners of her lips there appeared something I recognized as satisfaction. The satisfaction of someone who has been told exactly what they wanted to hear and yet doesn’t quite let it show.

She opened the small handbag she was carrying and took out an official card. With a gesture that should have been impersonal and wasn’t, she placed it in my hand. Her fingers brushed mine a second longer than necessary.

“There’s an address written on the back,” she said, in a low voice. “My private apartment. Not the official one. Mine, without advisers or a schedule. My security detail drops me there in twenty minutes and then no one else is there.” A brief, measured pause. “If you decide to go, know that the conversation we’re having here ends the moment you cross that door. What starts after that has nothing to do with journalism or politics.”

She stepped away from the railing. She tucked her hair behind her ear with a gesture that seemed casual and was anything but.

“I’m expecting nothing,” she added, already turning away. “But if you come, don’t be late. I don’t like waiting.”

I watched her walk back into the hall, where someone stopped her to take a photo. She smiled for the camera with the same expression as always, perfectly composed. She was the same person and someone completely different.

I looked at the card. On the back, in tight, firm handwriting, there was an address in Salamanca and an apartment number. Nothing else. No signature. No ambiguity.

I set the empty glass on the stone railing.

That night, the city was still awake. And I had exactly eighteen minutes to decide what kind of man I really was.

***

I arrived with two minutes to spare. The doorman didn’t ask my name; he just nodded, as if Valeria had warned him. I went up in a mirrored elevator with my cock already half hard just from thinking about what was about to happen. When the apartment door opened, she was standing in the foyer, barefoot, still in the black dress, but with her hair gathered into a loose bun and a glass of red wine in her hand.

“You weren’t late,” she said, closing the door with her foot. “I was starting to think you’d changed your mind.”

“I haven’t been this sure of anything in years.”

She put the glass in my hand, took a step, and kissed me without ceremony. It was a long kiss, grown-up, tongues seeking and finding. She tasted of wine and something sharper, more her own. I felt her hands slide down my chest, to my belt, and pause for an instant over the bulge already straining my trousers.

“Well,” she murmured against my mouth, pressing with her palm. “The rumors about you are true too, as far as I can tell.”

“What rumors?”

“That you write with your cock, Marcos. And that you’ve got the cock of a good writer.”

She gave a low, guttural laugh and dragged me down the hallway into a large, dim living room. She set my glass on a low table without looking. Then she turned, took her hands to the back of her neck, and slowly unzipped the dress. The fabric fell to the floor with a whisper. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Just tiny black panties and those long legs I’d imagined for months. Her tits were generous for her age, still firm, with dark nipples already hard.

“I’ve seen you watching me all night,” she said, stepping barefoot onto the rug. “Now look at what you wanted to look at.”

I put my hands on her waist. Her skin was hot, smooth. I lowered my mouth to one nipple and sucked it avidly, barely biting, drawing it with my lips. She moaned for the first time—a low moan, almost one of technical approval—and dug her fingers into my hair to keep me there. I moved to the other nipple. I licked the whole areola, bit the underside of her breast, felt her breathing quicken against my crown.

“Take your clothes off,” she ordered, pushing me back. “I want to see you all.”

I took off my jacket, my shirt, my shoes, my trousers. When I pulled down my briefs, my cock sprang out hard, taut, already shiny at the tip. Valeria looked at it without hiding anything, with the same clinical expression she used when evaluating a balance sheet, and smiled for the first time for real.

“Come here,” she said, and sank down onto the leather sofa, opening her legs just enough. “Kneel.”

I obeyed. I tore off her panties in one pull. Her cunt was almost completely shaved, with a narrow strip of black hair above it, and it was already gleaming, swollen, the pink lips parted and wetness running down to her perineum. I buried my face there without preamble. I licked her from bottom to top, all along the slit, and she arched her back sharply.

“Fuck,” she hissed. “Like that, exactly like that.”

I sucked her clit slowly, circling it with the tip of my tongue, and slipped two fingers into her at once. She was soaked. I felt her inner walls clench around my fingers, searching for the angle. Her hand gripped my neck, setting the rhythm, and orders came from her mouth in a low voice—faster, don’t stop, suck me harder—that had nothing of the diplomatic tone she used on camera. It was the voice of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and had no intention of pretending otherwise.

She came like that, with my fingers inside her and my tongue pinned to her clit, trembling all over, pressing my head against her cunt with both hands until it became hard for her to breathe. When she loosened, my chin was slick with her and her eyes were half-closed, her cheeks flushed.

“Now you,” she said, tugging my arm up. “Stand.”

I stood in front of the sofa. She slid to the edge, knelt on the rug, and took my cock in both hands. She studied it for a second—weight, thickness, the thick vein underneath—then took it all in one go, all the way to the back of her throat. I felt the impact in my knees. She began to suck me with precise technique, taking me all the way up and down, not gagging, not pulling away, sucking hard when she reached the head and easing off on the way down. Her dark eyes locked on mine the whole time.

“You’re going to make me cum in three minutes like that,” I panted.

She pulled my cock out of her mouth with a wet click and smiled.

“No. Not yet. I want you to fuck me first. On top, so I do the work.”

She pushed me until I fell seated onto the sofa and climbed onto me astride. She grabbed my cock with one hand, rubbed it against her open cunt a couple of times—two, three, four slow passes over the clit that drew a rough moan from her—and lowered herself slowly, impaling herself all the way to the hilt. I felt her close around me, hot, tight, wet to the root.

“Jesus,” I murmured through clenched teeth. “You’re so tight.”

“That’s what happens when you fuck little and fuck well,” she panted, starting to move. “When you fuck, you fuck.”

She began riding me at a slow rhythm at first, almost bureaucratic, rising to the tip and sinking all the way down, squeezing her thighs against mine on every drop. I grabbed her tits with both hands, squeezed them hard, pinched her nipples. She threw her head back and sped up. The sofa creaked. The sound of her ass slapping against my thighs filled the room along with her gasps—each one rougher, each one less controlled—and the wet sloshing of her cunt swallowing my cock whole.

“Bite me,” she ordered, leaning forward and offering me her neck. “Hard.”

I bit the hollow of her collarbone. I left my mark. She growled like an animal and sped up even more, fucking me, using me like a breathing dildo. I felt a second orgasm coming in waves—the cunt pulsing in rhythmic spasms around my cock, her thighs trembling, her nails digging into my shoulders—and held on as best I could, grinding my teeth, not cumming yet.

When she loosened, I lifted her in my arms, turned her, and set her on her knees on the sofa, with her chest against the backrest and her ass arched toward me. I spread her buttocks with both hands. Her cunt was gleaming, still open, and above it her asshole tightened, pink, tempting.

“Fuck me like that,” she panted, looking back over her shoulder. “Hard. Don’t treat me like a minister. Treat me like what I am tonight.”

I drove my cock into her to the hilt in one thrust. She gave a long, filthy moan. I started fucking her from behind with hard, dry thrusts, holding her by the hip with one hand and by the bun with the other, pulling her head back. The sound of our bodies slamming together was obscene, rhythmic, impossible to ignore. She touched her clit with two fingers while I hammered into her, moaning louder and louder, with no attempt whatsoever to hide it.

“I’m going to cum again,” she warned, her voice breaking. “Cum with me. Inside. I want to feel it inside.”

I sped up. I let go of her hair and grabbed both hips, digging my fingers into her flesh. Three, four more thrusts and I felt the load explode from the base of my cock, racing up my entire back. I emptied into her in long spurts, growling against her nape, while she came too, squeezing my semen against the walls of her cunt, trembling all over, biting the leather of the backrest so she wouldn’t scream too loud.

We stayed like that for a long minute, her kneeling, me on top, my cock still inside, still hard, feeling her cunt continue to pulse in softer aftershocks. When I finally pulled out, semen streamed white down her thighs.

She turned slowly, sat on the sofa with her legs still open, utterly shameless, and looked at me with the same black eyes she’d worn for the camera hours before in the photograph. Only now they were something completely different.

“Go to the kitchen and pour me more wine,” she said. “And come back fast. I’m not done with you yet.”