My coworker Camila stayed past eleven

Two years ago, Diego and I decided to open up. It wasn’t a crisis, it was a long conversation on the terrace, with a bottle of red wine and the certainty that neither of us wanted to keep lying to ourselves. Since then, I’ve gone out with men, with women, and with whoever turns me on. He does the same. It works for us.

I discovered women about a year ago, and since the first time I haven’t been able to stop. There’s something about having a female body on top of mine, about feeling tits pressed against my own, that no man has ever been able to give me.

A few months ago, a girl joined the agency where I work who stole my sleep from the very first day. Her name is Camila, she’s twenty-six, and she moved to the city from Monterrey. Gym body without looking like a gym body, hard ass, generous chest, and green eyes that made me look twice the day they introduced her. The fantasy began that same afternoon and never left.

Things happen when you least plan them. One Friday we had to finish a presentation for an important client, the kind who pays for three months of office rent. The two of us ended up alone in the meeting room after seven, with the cafeteria already closed and the rest of the floor empty.

Camila had shown up in black Lycra and a semi-sheer white blouse. The Lycra outlined everything. I, wearing a formal dress to the knees and a blazer over it, kept taking layers off as the night went on, first the blazer, then unbuttoning one button, then another. She noticed. I noticed too when she leaned over the table so I could see her cleavage.

—Hey, want to get dinner when we finish? —I blurted out, pretending it was a co-worker suggestion.

—I’d love to, Mariana, but I can’t. My husband is waiting for me.

—Oh, I didn’t know you were married.

—For three years —she said, and smiled at me with a smile that was not a married woman’s smile—. But thanks.

—I’m married too. It’s not a relevant detail.

She looked up from the laptop. She didn’t say anything, but something shifted in the room.

We kept working with the tension floating between us. Every time she got up to fetch something, she passed closer to my chair than she needed to. Every time I handed her a sheet, I brushed her fingers. At one point she leaned over my shoulder to point out a graph and pressed her left breast against my back. She stayed there two seconds longer than necessary.

—Sorry, I’m so clumsy —she said, and pulled away slowly.

—Don’t apologize.

By ten we were missing the appendices. They were in the back archive, that narrow room with shelves up to the ceiling where nobody ever goes. We went together. Her in front. Me behind her, staring at her ass and admitting to myself that my patience was running out.

Camila stretched to reach a folder from the top shelf. Her blouse rode up and her waist showed. She rose onto the balls of her feet. And I went for it.

I hugged her from behind. Pinned her whole body against mine, wrapped one arm around her waist and ran my other hand over her stomach. She went still. She didn’t flinch, didn’t push me away, she just stayed still, the folder half out and her breath caught.

—What are you doing, Mariana? —she asked in a low voice.

—Hugging you —I whispered in her ear—. Does it bother you?

She shook her head. And let herself fall a millimeter back, against me.

I moved her hair off her neck and kissed her just below the ear. She smelled like vanilla and something dirtier underneath. I felt her skin prickle.

—You’re married —I murmured, without moving my lips from her neck.

—So are you.

—Then we’re in the same boat.

She turned around. The folder fell to the floor and neither of us cared. She kissed me like she’d been thinking about it for months, and I think she had been. Her tongue was hot and tasted like coffee and mint. I slid my hands under her blouse and touched her back, her ribs, the edge of her bra. She squeezed my hips like she wanted to grind me into the shelf.

—Not here —she said, panting against my mouth—. The table. Let’s go to the table.

We went back to the meeting room half dressed. I swept the papers off the table in one motion without thinking and sat on the edge. Camila pulled her blouse off over her head. She was wearing a black lace bra that barely held in everything inside it. She unclasped it herself, and stood in front of me with her torso bare and her nipples hard under the fluorescent light.

—Come here —I said.

She came. I kissed her neck, went down to her left breast, and took her nipple into my mouth. I licked it slowly, nibbled it very gently, ran my tongue all around the edge. She buried her fingers in my hair and breathed like it hurt.

—I want to eat you —she said suddenly, pulling back a little.

She gently pushed me down so I’d lie across the table. She hiked my dress up to my waist. She moved my panties aside, without even taking them off, and ran her whole tongue from bottom to clit in one slow motion.

I had to bite the back of my hand not to scream.

Camila ate pussy like she’d been doing it all her life. There was nothing clumsy about her, no hesitation. She knew exactly where to press with her tongue, when to add a finger, when to pull everything away to blow and leave me hanging for a second before going back in. She grabbed my thighs and opened them wider, almost violently, and got between my legs like she was hungry.

—God, Camila, where did you learn to do this.

—Practice —she said, without lifting her head.

She slipped two fingers inside me and curled them upward while she kept her tongue on my clit. I felt my throat close. I’d spent weeks thinking about her, and reality was hitting harder than fantasy. I came with my back arched over the crumpled papers, my heels dug into her shoulder blades, never taking my eyes off the top of her head between my legs.

***

—Your turn —I told her when I got my breath back.

I sat up and moved her into place. I pulled down the Lycra and her thong in one hard yank, and I laid her on the table, in the same spot where I’d just been. I knelt on the carpet and spread her legs.

She was soaked. I smelled it before I touched her. I ran my tongue flat over her first, bottom to top, just like she’d done to me, and heard her let out a deep moan that didn’t sound like her. I put my whole tongue in her, then sucked her clit with my lips, nipped the inside of her thigh very gently, and went back. I repeated the cycle until she started moving on her own against my mouth.

—Mariana, please, fingers, put your fingers in me.

I slid two in. Then three. Her pussy was tight and hot and took everything I gave it. While I fucked her with one hand, with the other I grabbed a breast and pinched her nipple. She looked down at me from above, chin sunk against her chest and green eyes wide open.

—Faster. Harder.

I did as she asked. The meeting-room table was glass, and I could hear it creak under us. I didn’t care. Camila started trembling, first her legs, then her belly, and she came, soaking my wrist and the table. It wasn’t a discreet orgasm. She screamed. I had to laugh in the middle of her orgasm because I thought the building guard was going to come upstairs.

When she came down, she lay there with her arms spread, breathing deeply. I climbed on top of her and kissed her mouth with my own taste still on my lips. She wrapped her legs around me.

—Don’t let go —she said.

—Wasn’t planning to.

We stayed like that a long while, both of us naked from the waist up, her still in her Lycra halfway down one leg, me with my dress wrinkled at my waist. I stroked her hair. She traced circles on my back.

—Do we do it again? —she asked, with that same smile from before.

We did it again. This time we pressed our vulvas together, scissoring, face to face, holding onto each other’s ankles to create pressure. That movement has always driven me crazy, especially when the other woman knows how to keep the rhythm. Camila knew how to keep it. We looked into each other’s eyes the whole time, saying nothing, listening to the wet sound of our cunts knocking together, until we came again almost at the same time, her first, me right after.

***

At one thirty we finished the presentation. I swear it. It was impeccable.

When we went downstairs, her husband was waiting for her in a car parked double-parked at the curb. Camila introduced me as her office colleague. He gave me two polite kisses on the cheek, opened the door for her, and they left. As I watched them drive away, I thought that less than an hour earlier I’d had his wife’s mouth between my legs, and that he wouldn’t smell anything strange because the two of us had cleaned up well in the bathroom before leaving.

Camila and I repeated it two more times, always at the office, always under the excuse of some urgent project. Six months later she was transferred to the Querétaro branch and we stopped seeing each other. I never told Diego anything, not because it was a secret, but because she asked me not to. What we had stayed there, on that glass table, in that meeting room that we still use for meetings and that every time I see it makes me smile.

Sometimes I wonder if her husband knows. I hope not. I hope, above all, that she’s happy.