What Happened with My Boss in the Empty Cafeteria

My name is Matías. I’m thirty-one years old, I’m six feet tall, and I train four times a week because I’m obsessed with my body. I always considered myself heterosexual, although since adolescence I’d carried a curiosity I never really managed to put to rest. I channeled it by watching videos in the early hours, fantasizing about thick cocks going into other people’s mouths, without ever going beyond that. Until Andrés showed up.

I work at a major financial consulting firm, on the twelfth floor of a tower downtown. Six months ago they promoted Andrés to director of the department. He’s forty-four, has two little kids, a wife he almost never mentions, and a body anyone would envy at his age. Broad back, early gray at the temples, well-groomed hands. From day one we got along well. His office was right next to mine and we shared the eleven o’clock coffee ritual.

The conversations started out about work and slowly became personal. Andrés had the habit of closing the door when we talked, as if he wanted to make clear it wasn’t just any conversation. He’d tell me about his marriage, about how Ana—his wife—always went to bed before he did, worn out from the clinic and the kids. About how she hadn’t touched him in months. About how he’d gotten used to masturbating in the bathroom on Sunday mornings because it was the only moment of the day with no witnesses.

“I asked her for something tiny the other day, a quick blowjob before bed,” he told me one afternoon, stirring his coffee. “She looked at me like I’d offended her. Told me I was too old for that kind of thing.”

“That’s not being too old,” I said. “That’s being lazy.”

He laughed. He had a deep laugh that made his whole shoulders move.

We started staying later. The consulting firm had quarterly closings that forced us to stretch the shift until nine or ten at night twice a month. On those days, after seven, the floor was almost empty. Just our two lamps on and the distant hum of the fridge in the break room.

The night everything changed was a Tuesday in May. We’d finished reviewing a report at eight-thirty. Andrés motioned for me to follow him to the small cafeteria on the floor, a little room with three low armchairs, a coffee machine, and a window overlooking the parking lot.

“I need a break from the screen,” he said, sinking into one of the chairs. His tie was loose and the first button of his shirt was open.

I poured him a coffee and sat in the armchair across from him. We talked nonsense for ten minutes: about a colleague who was moving to Madrid, a new client, the rain that was coming. After a long silence, he sighed.

“I’m out of my head today, Matías. I’ve been wound up since last night. Ana fell asleep again before I even got out of the bathroom. I was thinking of jerking off tonight, but I just can’t take it anymore.”

He said it half as a joke, half as if he wanted something else. I looked him in the eyes a second longer than I should have. I thought about what I was about to say, and before I could think twice, I said it.

“A little load and then sleep, that’s what you need.”

Andrés fell silent. I realized he’d gotten hard because, in dress pants, there was no way to hide it. The bulge was rising along his thigh, stretching the fabric in a thick curve up toward his hip. He made a move to turn his body toward the window, as if trying to hide, but it was too late.

“Don’t laugh,” he muttered, laughing awkwardly.

“I’m not laughing. It’s the only cure. Proven and tested.”

He sighed. A few long seconds passed in which the fridge was the only thing you could hear. Andrés was breathing through his nose, slowly, weighing what to say. When he finally spoke, he didn’t look at me.

“And if I told you I’m not joking right now, what would you say?”

I didn’t look at him either. I took a sip of coffee that had already gone lukewarm.

“I’d say the cafeteria door doesn’t have a lock.”

Andrés stood up without saying a word. He walked to the door, turned the latch, and came back. But he didn’t sit down. He stayed standing in front of me, hands in his trouser pockets, waiting.

I raised my hand and rested it on his belt. I didn’t look up, didn’t ask him anything. I undid the buckle calmly, as if I’d done it a thousand times, and with the other hand I pulled down the zipper of his pants. Under the fabric I could feel how hard and throbbing everything was, his cock pressing against the boxer briefs as if it wanted to come out on its own.

Andrés held his breath. I pulled his pants down to mid-thigh and saw the black boxer briefs stretched to their limit, with a dark stain at the tip where the pre-cum had already soaked the fabric. He was shaved there, I noticed as soon as I pulled his cock free from the elastic waistband. It dropped heavily against his stomach and bumped my hand: thick, with visible veins running along the shaft, the head purple and swollen, shiny with moisture. It had to be a good eight inches, with a thickness that made me think right away I wouldn’t be able to take all of it. The balls, big and heavy, hung taut against the base, with the skin tight from the built-up arousal.

I ran my thumb over the tip, gathered a thick drop of pre-cum, and brought it to my own mouth to taste it. Salty, warm, with that slight bitter aftertaste. My mouth watered.

“Fuck,” he said softly, more to himself than to me.

I leaned in and ran my tongue over the whole length, slowly, from the base all the way up, pressing the flat of my tongue against the thick vein running underneath. I circled the head, sucked it without taking it in yet, just kissing the crown with closed lips until a tremor ran through his legs. Then I took it all the way in, or as far as my throat would allow. It was hard. It had been years since I’d sucked a man, and never one so thick. I felt my mouth opening wide, the head scraping my palate, the tip touching the back of my throat and making my eyes water. I had to pull off twice to catch my breath, strings of saliva hanging from my chin. Andrés didn’t move. He had both hands braced on the back of the chair behind me, knuckles white.

I started finding the rhythm. I’d go up to the tip, leave it a second in my mouth, create suction with my cheeks, and then go back down, this time deeper, forcing my throat open. I coated it all with my tongue, grabbed the base with my hand and helped set the pace, working fist and mouth in the same direction, so he could feel a single tight tunnel going up and down his cock. Every so often I’d pull it all the way out, spit a strand of saliva onto the head, use it as lube, and drive it back in until I was choking on it. I covered the shaft in drool, running it down to his balls with my free hand.

Andrés started breathing harder, mouth open. One of his hands left the chair back and grabbed my hair. He didn’t pull me, just held me, as if he needed to know I was still there.

“No one’s touched me like that in a long time,” he said through his teeth.

I didn’t answer him. My mouth was full and I didn’t want to stop. I brought one hand up and undid two more buttons on his shirt. I dragged my fingertips over his chest, found his nipple, pinched it gently. Andrés threw his head back and let out a rough, long moan.

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop, please.”

I let go of his cock for a second, just to look at him from below. His eyes were half closed, his mouth slack, his shirt open down to his navel. I pressed it against my cheek, rubbed it hot and wet across my face, and then took it back down all at once until I had it buried in my throat. Andrés cursed under his breath. I kept the rhythm with my hand, moving my head up and down faster and faster, letting my throat make noises that in any other context would have embarrassed me. Here, they turned me on. Every time he heard the wet smack of the head hitting the back of my throat, his balls tightened in my hand.

Saliva was dripping down my chin, falling in thick strands onto my shirt, soaking the base and wetting his balls. I could taste the metallic flavor of the fluid leaking out before the end, thicker, more abundant. I grabbed his testicles with my other hand, kneaded them, rolled them slowly between my fingers, and he let out a moan that tangled with a curse.

“You’re sucking me like the biggest whore in the world,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “Jesus, like that, like that.”

I answered by digging my soft nails into the back of his balls and lowering my mouth until my nose touched the shaved skin of his pubic mound. I stayed there, choking, with my throat squeezing his head like a ring. Andrés bent forward and squeezed the back of my neck.

“I’m gonna come,” he warned. “Matías, I’m gonna come. Where? Tell me where.”

I locked eyes with him and didn’t take my mouth off. I nodded yes, with his cock inside me, so he’d understand. I pulled off for just a second, barely enough to speak.

“In my mouth. All of it. I want to swallow every last drop.”

I took him back in and sped up, sucking with suction, working my fist at the base in the same rhythm. Andrés closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and his knees went weak for a second. I felt his cock swelling even more against my tongue, felt the vein underneath starting to pulse, and then the first hot spurts hit the back of my throat. Thick, hot, one after another. Four, five bursts in a row, so many that I had to swallow in between to avoid choking. I held the last of it in my mouth for a moment, showed it to him on my tongue before swallowing, and kept sucking him until not a single drop was left, slowly, while he laughed nervously and trembled with spasms that shook his whole abdomen.

When he finally pulled away, he collapsed into the chair beside me, still with his pants at mid-thigh and his shirt open. His forehead was shining with sweat and his cock, still half hard, rested against his stomach, gleaming with my saliva. I took a napkin from the coffee table, wiped my lips and chin, and took a sip of cold coffee as if it were the most normal thing in the world. I still had the taste of semen inside my mouth; the coffee didn’t cover it, only mixed with it.

“Holy shit,” he murmured. “Have you done this before?”

“A long time ago. And never with someone bigger than me. Or this thick.”

“And why me?”

I thought about it for a second.

“Because for six months I’ve been watching you close the door every time you come into my office, and I couldn’t get the question out of my head.”

He laughed. It was a tired, satisfied, almost tender laugh. He stretched out his arm and ran his hand over the back of my neck. With his thumb he wiped away a drop that had slipped from the corner of my mouth and brought it to his lips without taking his eyes off me.

“Ana never swallows. Never. It’s something I’ve imagined my whole life and never even dared to ask her twice.”

“Well. Here you don’t have to ask twice.”

He stayed quiet for a long while, staring at the cafeteria ceiling. Then he adjusted his boxer briefs, pulled his pants up, and buttoned his shirt. I finished the coffee.

“Tomorrow nothing happened here,” I said before he had to say it.

“Nothing happened here,” he repeated. “But next week we have another closing.”

I looked at him. He had that face of a grown man who had already made a decision.

“Next week,” I replied.

***

Andrés left first, five minutes before I did, so we wouldn’t be seen together in the elevator. I stayed in the cafeteria, washed the two cups, turned off the light. I went down to the parking garage by the stairs because I needed the cold air from the landings.

In the car, before starting the engine, I sat there with my hands on the steering wheel. My mouth still had his taste in it, that salty, thick mix that had stuck to my palate. I felt something new, something I didn’t know how to name. It wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t regret. It was an uncomfortable clarity, as if a question that had been circling me for twenty years had finally found a temporary answer.

So that was it. All my life thinking it was curiosity and it turned out to be appetite.

I drove home with the radio off. When I got there, I took a long shower, got into bed. Before closing my eyes I opened my chat with Andrés on my phone. He had sent me a message five minutes earlier. Just one line.

“Next week it’s my turn.”

I smiled in the dark, laid the phone face down on the nightstand, and turned off the lamp. It took me a while to fall asleep. My head was racing. I kept replaying the scene frame by frame, the latch locking, the belt giving way, the exact way he had sighed when I ran my tongue over him for the first time, the weight of his balls in my hand, the hot jet breaking against the back of my throat. I imagined the following week, him kneeling in front of me giving me back the blowjob with that big-macho mouth of his, his beard scraping my thighs. I imagined the Thursday after that week. I imagined a hotel, a bed, and him turning me over to make me his for the first time.

I got hard again just thinking about it. I slid my hand under the sheets, grabbed myself, slowly jerked off while thinking of his cock against my tongue, and came quietly within a couple of minutes, breathing hard against the pillow.

And in the middle of all that replaying, I realized something I hadn’t wanted to say out loud: this wasn’t going to be one time only. It was never going to be one time only. Andrés had opened a door for me and, worse still, I had signed myself up to cross back through it every time it took.

That was the first time. What came after that—the first full encounter, in a downtown hotel, on a Thursday afternoon neither of us asked off but took anyway—I’ll tell in the next story.