The senator was waiting for me barefoot that night

At thirty-six, my life is a fragile balance between professional cynicism and a body I sometimes struggle to tame. As a political columnist for the country’s most-read newspaper, my territory is the corridors of the Senate, the discreet cafés on Avenida de Mayo, and the press briefings where the subtext weighs more than the official statement. But outside the newsroom I’m another man. I’m a guy with clear hungers. The gym at six-thirty in the morning isn’t about aesthetics; it’s about necessity: I need to wear my body out so my head won’t play tricks on me for the rest of the day.

Among the women around me, I had a reputation for intensity. Someone who doesn’t settle for the close-up. And in that search for intensity, she had appeared: Camila Urrutia, senator for the ruling party and a required name on any front page worth respecting.

Camila isn’t just a politician. She’s a weather event. She’s forty-nine, an age that for many means calm maturity and in her is a bomb of self-confidence. She has a patient she-wolf stare, a dark mane that always seems on the verge of falling out of place, and a way of crossing a room that says “this city belongs to me” without having to open her mouth. But what obsessed me wasn’t her management of hospitals or her speech about public transport.

It was the myth.

In journalism, everything gets around. At dinners with press officers, after the third glass of Malbec, rumors start flying. They said Camila was a woman with a ferocious sexual appetite, someone who understood power as a natural extension of desire. There were whispers of furtive encounters in downtown hotels, of young advisers who came out of her office with crooked ties and weak knees, of a mouth that knew how to suck as if her career depended on every blowjob, of a pussy that—so they said—left men thirty years younger begging for water and forgiveness. Those stories, halfway between urban legend and hallway confession, had gotten into my head. More than once, late at night in the loneliness of my Palermo apartment, I’d found myself with my cock in my hand and her image plastered to the ceiling: her behind a lectern, giving a speech, and me jerking off thinking about what was under those tailored suits, imagining her tits bouncing on my face, her ass spread over my mouth, that velvety voice turned into a filthy moan when no one was recording her. I’d come fast and badly, with rage, knowing it was an impossible fantasy.

***

Tuesday dawned with a strange electricity in the newsroom. Camila was coming for a “no-filter” interview with the editor-in-chief. The whole operation was in place: photographers, advisers with earpieces, that mix of hairspray and imported coffee that follows the upper circles in any country.

I was at my desk, buried under notes and wire reports, when I saw her come in. The sound of her heels on the wooden floor wasn’t walking; it was a roll of drums. She wore a blood-red dress, fitted just enough to be elegant, tight enough that every swing of her hips was an offense against journalistic objectivity. As she passed near my station, the air shifted. Her perfume—a blend of sandalwood and something almost animal—hit my chest like a gentle slap.

She stopped to greet the deputy editor barely three meters from me. I could see what cameras smooth over: the tiny freckles in her cleavage, the firmness of her shoulders, the wetness of the lips of someone enjoying the attention a little too much. Then her eyes met mine.

It wasn’t a political courtesy glance. It was a head-on collision. Camila held my gaze for three seconds that felt much longer. Her pupils roamed my face, slid down my neck, and stopped on my hands, which were squeezing a pen uselessly hard. Something flashed in her eyes, a spark that said “I know you.” She knew me from my columns, of course. But in that instant she was recognizing me as a man. And I felt, without exaggeration, that my cock was already swelling inside my pants just from that inspection.

—Your Friday columns are… interesting —she said, raising her voice slightly so I could hear, a crooked smile settling on her mouth—. Although sometimes you write with a little too much hot blood, don’t you think?

—Passion is necessary to understand reality, Senator —I replied, standing up. My voice came out deeper than usual, denser.

She let out a short laugh, a low sound that slid down my spine like an icy finger.

—I hope that passion doesn’t cloud your judgment when it’s time to interview me for real. See you around.

She turned away. The movement of her skirt as she spun gave me a glimpse of the perfect curve of her calf and, for a second, the line of her ass outlined beneath the fabric. I stood there, mouth dry, cock half-raised against my zipper, and the certainty that the background noise of my fantasies had become a radio signal I could no longer switch off.

***

The opportunity came three nights later. The newspaper’s tenth anniversary was being celebrated on the terrace of an old hotel downtown, one of those buildings that still keep their high ceilings and the patina of tobacco from previous generations. It was a sticky summer night, the kind that makes the city vibrate under your feet.

The room was full of what we call “the caste”: ministers, businessmen, models whose only apparent job was to be seen. I was trying to keep my composure, but I couldn’t stop scanning the room with my eyes. She arrived late, as always, opening a void around herself. She had swapped the red for a deep black, a dress with thin straps that left bare toned arms and a back that begged to be traced with fingertips.

Around one in the morning I saw her step out onto one of the side balconies, away from the photographers. She was alone, leaning on the wrought-iron railing, looking out toward the lights of the Obelisk. I approached with my heart battering my ribs. The risk was absolute. Her partner was inside, my bosses too, and one wrong move was enough to end my career. But hunger was stronger than fear.

—The city looks small from here, doesn’t it? —I said, standing beside her, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin.

Camila didn’t startle. She turned her head slowly. Under the balcony’s warm light, her face looked younger, fiercer.

—Buenos Aires is never small. You just have to know how to get in —she replied, with a double meaning that left me breathless—. I was watching you in there. You didn’t stop drinking whisky and looking toward the door. Were you waiting for someone or looking for something?

—I was looking for confirmation —I confessed, lowering my voice to a whisper—. I wanted to know whether what’s said about you in the hallways is true.

She stepped away from the railing and planted herself in front of me. Her chest rose and fell with a heavy rhythm. In heels she had a few extra centimeters on me, which forced her to tilt her head just a little to look at me. That tilt was, in itself, insulting.

—And what do they say about me, journalist? —her warm, firm hand brushed my forearm “accidentally.” The electric contact clenched my fists.

—They say you’re insatiable. That power isn’t enough for you. That you fuck as if every time were the last. That you need to feel control… and lose it.

Camila said nothing. Her pupils went almost black. For a second I thought she was going to slap me or call her security. Instead, she opened the small jeweled clutch hanging from her wrist. She took out a white rectangular card with a raised crest.

With a calm that was killing me, she pulled the pen from my jacket pocket—her fingers lingering on my chest for a second too long—and wrote something on the back. She placed the card in my palm and closed my fingers over it with hers.

—That’s the address of my private apartment. Not the official one. Mine. The one the papers don’t know about —she whispered, pressing her lips to my ear. Her breath smelled of champagne and something older, darker—. My driver leaves me there in twenty minutes and goes. If you have the courage your columns suggest, come find me. But think very carefully before you walk through that door. If you come in, there’ll be no recorders, no censorship, no mercy. You’ll end up with your tongue where I tell you and your cock inside me until I let you out.

She turned and walked away with that rhythmic stride I already knew by heart. She left behind a trail of perfume and a promise that pressed my pants tight against my skin. I looked at the card. An apartment number and a street in Recoleta.

***

I took a cab at the door. I gave the driver the address and stared out the window without seeing anything. The whole city seemed to have emptied out for me. I spent the ride thinking about headlines—“Senator receives journalist in private,” “The fourth estate sleeps with the first”—and how absurd it was to think about headlines when the only thing that mattered was the image of her mouth near my ear and that last phrase, “your cock inside me until I let you out,” thundering in my temples like a drum.

The building was an old one, with an Art Deco facade, one of those places where the doorman no longer asks questions. I went up to the sixth floor in a cage elevator that creaked like a protest. Before ringing, I looked at myself in the gilded mirror on the landing. I had the face of a man who knows he’s about to lose something and doesn’t give a damn. My cock had been straining against my zipper since the cab.

Camila opened the door before my finger touched the button. She had let her hair down. She was barefoot. She still wore the same black dress, but she’d unfastened the straps, which hung off her shoulders like an invitation to pull them down.

—You came —she said. She was no longer using usted with me. The taxi ride had been enough for her to decide that.

—I came.

She let me in without touching me. The apartment smelled of her perfume and old books. Low lighting, a thick rug, an entire wall taken up by shelves. There were no family photos anywhere. The place was exactly what she had promised: the one the papers don’t know about.

She closed the door behind me. I heard her turn the lock with surgical calm. When I turned around, she was a breath away. She laid her open palm on my sternum, firm, as if measuring my pulse.

—You know what I liked most about your face when you saw me in the newsroom? —she asked. Her voice wasn’t the voice of speeches. It was rougher, more used—. That you didn’t hide it. Most people hide it. You didn’t.

—I had no way to —I admitted.

—That’s why I brought you here.

She shoved me against the door with both arms extended. Not with force, with authority. The same authority she used to silence an annoying reporter at a press conference. The same authority with which she would blow up a government agreement at three in the afternoon. She grabbed the back of my neck with one hand and kissed me as if she had owed me that kiss for years. She kissed me with teeth, with tongue, with a ferocious calm I had never known. Her other hand went down without ceremony and squeezed my cock over my pants. She measured it, hefted it, squeezed it, her thumb sliding from base to tip.

—Good —she murmured against my mouth, almost in reproach—. I’d already figured it was like that. Don’t disappoint me.

I bit her lip. She laughed against my mouth.

—Good —she said—. That was the missing part.

She unbuckled my belt without stopping the kiss. Her fingers moved on their own, like someone unfastening a folder of signatures while talking on the phone. She yanked my pants and briefs down to my thighs in one pull. My cock sprang out, hard, swollen, the tip already wet. Camila lowered her eyes, bit her lip, and let out a short, satisfied sigh, like someone confirming an important piece of data.

—Look at me in the eyes —she ordered.

She knelt right there against the door, with no rehearsed elegance at all, with the brutal efficiency of someone who has been doing this for years whenever she feels like it. She grabbed my cock with her right hand, ran her tongue from my balls to the head, and looked up at me from below, smiling, before taking it all the way into her mouth. I felt her swallow me down to the back of her throat and hold me there, tight, without gagging. She closed her eyes for a second, settling in, and then started sucking me as if she were punishing me. Hard. With saliva. With that filthy sound only women who truly enjoy having a cock in their mouth make.

—Shit, Camila —I blurted, throwing my head back against the door.

She pulled off for a second, her mouth shining and a thread of saliva hanging from her lip.

—No “shit, Camila.” Take it —she said, and swallowed me again to the root.

She held me like that for minutes I couldn’t count. She sucked my balls while she pumped my cock with her closed fist. She licked the tip with a flat tongue, slowly, watching me, and then took me in with a single thrust until she was choking on me. I felt her throat clenching around me and tears rising in her eyes from the effort. When I felt my load climbing, I tried to pull her head away. She dug her nails into my hip.

—Not there —she growled, pulling off with an obscene pop—. Not yet. I say when.

She turned me and pushed me down the hallway into a bedroom with the bed unmade, as if she had known in advance we were going to use it. She stripped off the dress in one motion, without theatrics, with the efficiency of someone who has done this a hundred times and still wants to do it a hundred more. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. No panties, no bra. She had the body of a woman who keeps herself in shape for pleasure, not fear. Small scars on her abdomen, a pale bikini line on her hip, firm breasts with dark, hard areolas, her cunt shaved almost to the skin, the inner lips swollen and shiny with moisture. No modesty. Pure presence.

—Now let’s see —she said, sitting on the edge of the bed and spreading her knees wide— if passion can finally shut you up.

I knelt between her legs without waiting for permission. The skin of her thigh smelled of her perfume mixed with something more intimate, something no press officer had ever smelled. I ran my tongue along the inner thigh, slowly, looking up at her. I saw her close her eyes and throw her head back. For the first time all night, she stopped performing.

—Higher —she ordered. The polished arrogance had fallen out of her voice.

I obeyed. When my mouth found her cunt, she let out a low groan, almost angry, as if it hurt to admit she needed this. I opened her lips with two fingers and ran my whole tongue over her, from the entrance to the clit, tasting her. She was soaked. Dripping. I shoved my tongue inside her and she jerked, arched her back, and pressed my head hard against her pubis with both hands.

—There, like that, tongue in, you son of a bitch —she panted, with none of the senator left in her voice.

I held her hips with both hands. She grabbed my hair with unapologetic force and dictated the rhythm with her pelvis, marking my movements like someone conducting a session. I sucked her swollen clit between tight lips, worked it with the tip of my tongue fast and mercilessly, and slipped two fingers inside her at the same time, curling them to find the spot. I found the rough patch and she let out a short, animal howl.

—There, there, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop —she kept repeating, her voice getting higher and higher—, keep going, keep going, you’re going to make me come, you’re going to make me come…

I pushed a third finger into her. I pressed my nose against her mound. I sucked her clit hard, without pity, and felt the walls of her cunt starting to close over my fingers, squeezing them rhythmically.

When she came the first time, she didn’t scream. She clamped her thighs over my ears and went mute for several seconds, trembling, breath cut short, while her cunt throbbed against my tongue and a fresh wave of wetness washed over my chin. Then she loosened her fingers, yanked my hair upward, and looked at me with a new smile, one she had never used on me before.

—Now you get up —she ordered—. And bring the tie.

She’d ripped it from my neck as we passed through the hallway. She had it tangled in her hand. She placed it in my fist with frightening calm.

—You tie my wrists to the headboard —she said, lying back and stretching her arms over her head—. Tight. I don’t want to be able to get free. And then you fuck me like you hate me. I’ll say when to stop. Got it?

—Got it.

I tied her wrists to a wrought-iron bar with the tie, pulling the knot twice as tight as I would have with anyone else. She tugged once to test it, smiled in satisfaction, and opened her legs. I climbed on top. I grabbed my cock with one hand and dragged it over the lips of her cunt, up and down, soaking it in her moisture. She arched her pelvis toward me.

—Put it in already. Don’t make me beg.

I drove it in in one thrust, all the way to the hilt. Camila opened her mouth silently, her eyes white for a second, and then let out a long, rough moan that came from her gut. I stayed there, still, feeling how she clenched around me, how her cunt adjusted to my cock centimeter by centimeter.

—Filthy bastard —she panted—. Move. Hard. Like I told you.

I started fucking her with everything I had. No tenderness. My hips opening her with each thrust, my balls slapping her ass, my hands squeezing her tits until her areolas turned red. I pinched her nipples and she jerked against the tie, baring her teeth. I bit her neck, her throat, that throat with which she dictated laws. I left the clear mark of my teeth right where she wouldn’t be able to hide it with any high collar the next day.

—Harder —she growled—. More. Break me. Fuck me like you never got to fuck again in your life.

I lifted one leg, set her ankle on my shoulder, and rammed my cock into her at that new angle. She screamed, this time for real, a dry ugly scream, and started cursing me under her breath: son of a bitch, more, like that, tear my cunt apart, give it to me, give it to me, give it to me. The bed was creaking. The headboard was hitting the wall with an obscene rhythm any neighbor would have understood perfectly.

I pulled out. Turned her over without untying her, twisting her arms, and put her face down with her ass up. I tangled her hair in my fist, tugging her back. I ran my other hand down her back, over her hip, over her buttocks. I spread her ass cheeks with my thumb and saw her little hole tight and pink, and below it her cunt dripping over both.

—Here too? —I asked in her ear, pressing with my thumb.

—Not yet —she said, breath broken—. Next time. Today you’re fucking me in the pussy and filling me. I want to feel you inside me.

I put it in again like that, on all fours, and fucked her the way she asked. I gripped her hips with both hands and used her like a toy, driving all the way in, pulling her back to bury myself deeper with every thrust. She pushed her ass back against me, shaking it, moaning with her face in the pillow, biting the fabric so she wouldn’t wake the whole building.

She came again, longer, filthier. I felt her walls closing over my cock in waves, and the hot flow washing my balls. Her thighs were trembling. Her back gleamed with sweat under the low light.

—Now, yes —she panted, not giving me a second to breathe—. Come inside me. All of it. Don’t pull out. I want to go to sleep with your cum dripping out of me.

I dug my fingers into her hips, gave her six, seven brutal thrusts, and let go. My orgasm rose from my balls with a force that bent me forward. I poured shot after shot into the depths of her cunt, holding it in there, clenching my teeth, while she let out a long, satisfied moan, enjoying the way I filled her. I felt my cock throbbing, emptying itself into her, and Camila tightening around me with her cunt as if she wanted to squeeze me for the last drop.

I stayed there for a while, on top of her, my cock still inside, my breathing broken. She turned her face on the pillow. Her mascara was smudged, her hair stuck to her forehead, and she had a satisfied cat’s smile I had never seen in any campaign photo.

—Untie me —she said, almost tenderly—. We still have all night.

And so it was. I untied her wrists, gave her water, let her smoke a cigarette on my chest, and then she rode me. She sat on top of me facing away, bracing herself on my thighs, and rode my cock, shaking her ass until she came again, this time pressing one hand to her clit to finish faster. After that she sucked me again, slowly, without hurry, until she made me hard once more, and asked me to fuck her sideways, spooned, with one hand squeezing her neck and the other massaging her clit. I made her come two more times in that position, biting her shoulder, whispering in her ear every filthy thing I’d wanted to say to her for years from behind a keyboard.

Near dawn, both of us exhausted, she let me come in her mouth for the second time. She knelt between my legs, sucked me with her eyes locked on mine, and didn’t move away when I came. She swallowed everything. Licked the tip clean down to the last drop. Then she smiled at me with shining lips and kissed me on the mouth, so I could taste myself.

—Good journalist —she murmured.

***

I left that apartment at six-thirty in the morning, with the tie in my jacket pocket, my shoulders marked by the unmistakable imprint of fingernails, my neck bearing two dark bruises, and my legs weak as if I had just finished a marathon. A cab dropped me at home before the first morning newscast opened with that velvety voice talking about budgets. I heard it from the kitchen while I made myself coffee. It sounded exactly the same as always. No one in the country could have suspected what I knew: that a few hours earlier that same voice had asked me to break her, to come inside her, to not stop.

My later columns never sounded the same again, of course. But the only one that truly mattered—the one that was never published—stayed with me, untouched, filed away in some drawer of memory I reserve for the truly confidential facts. There, where I keep the things that a journalist, luckily, is not always obliged to tell.