The Night My Assistant Sent Me Those Photos

I’m a man who likes to look. I say that without shame, because by now I’ve made peace with that part of myself. A good image, an unexpected angle, a woman who doesn’t know I’m watching: that’s where I find myself, in silence, letting myself be pierced by it. This story is about that, about looking, and also about the price you pay when you settle for looking and nothing more.

I worked in the systems department of a mid-sized company in Rosario. The title sounded important on business cards, but day to day it was paperwork, spreadsheets, and equipment in bad shape. So much administrative work ended up convincing my boss to assign me an assistant. When they told me she was already hired, I wasn’t expecting much. I’d spent years watching staff come and go: proper faces, proper résumés, proper weeks.

Camila was none of that.

She showed up on a Monday with a bag over her shoulder and a shy smile. Short, very fair-skinned, with extremely long black hair falling all the way to her waist. Her face had that kind of oddness you take time to classify: fine features, full lips, eyes fixed as if she were solving a problem in silence. When she introduced herself, her voice trembled a little.

—Nice to meet you. I hope I measure up —she said.

I assured her she would, that she shouldn’t worry. I didn’t spell out that she was already at a height I was going to struggle to tolerate in silence for months.

***

The first thing I noticed, after her face, was her waist. Camila was one of those women who enjoyed the body they had. She wore tight blouses that left her navel visible, jeans so snug they seemed like a miracle of tailoring, and she was meticulous about her underwear: I’d catch sight of it when she bent over, and it was always lace, always a chosen color. Nothing was casual.

She didn’t have those huge tits that, over time, turn into a caricature. Hers were proportionate, firm, outlined under the fabric, with nipples that sometimes stiffened in the air conditioning and pressed into her blouse like two buttons. But what really made her a topic of conversation in the hallways was her ass. She’d walk through the office and men would stop typing for exactly two seconds. So would I. Then we’d pretend nothing had happened.

I treated her with respect. I was her direct boss, and for me that had always been a line. We joked around, had lunch together when our schedules matched, I’d give her the occasional measured compliment, tell her what a lucky guy her boyfriend was. She laughed and told me that was sweet of me. She had a boyfriend. She’d mentioned him in the interview. I knew it and, for some reason, I respected it for months.

***

The distance broke one Saturday night.

I was in my apartment, barefoot, with a beer, scrolling through my phone with little enthusiasm. A work meme popped up in the feed, something about Monday and a coffin. I laughed to myself. Without thinking too much, I sent it to Camila on WhatsApp.

She replied a few minutes later with five laughing-crying emojis.

—I needed this —she wrote—. Horrible day.

—What happened?

—I fought with Bruno. Same old thing. My stuff.

Bruno was the boyfriend. Until then I’d been a polite ghost in her work life; suddenly I became, without asking for it, someone on the other side of a Saturday-night couple fight. Cracks open like that, without warning.

I answered with something kind, without digging deeper. But a couple of messages later, encouraged by the beer and the new confidence, I wrote something different.

—Did he tell you today how beautiful you are? Because if he didn’t, he’s out of his mind.

Then came the pause with the three dots. The pause that, in a conversation like that, is worth more than any word.

—You’re bad —she finally wrote—. You’re making me blush.

—I’m saying what I’ve been thinking since day one.

Another pause. Another three dots.

—And what else have you been thinking since day one?

***

That’s when I understood the wire had been cut. There was no going back. The conversation moved from compliments to flirting, and from flirting to the sentence that changes everything: send me a photo.

—A photo of what?

—Of you. Something pretty. Something that’ll leave me wanting Monday.

She took a while. She took so long I thought I’d ruined it. Then it arrived.

The first photo was innocent by the standard we’d reach later, but it blew my mind. From the waist up, in front of a mirror, a pink top so tight it looked painted on. She wasn’t wearing a bra. The exact roundness of her tits showed through, two shadows saying what the fabric wanted to hide, and in the center you could make out her erect nipples, two hard points pressed against the cotton.

—Well? —she wrote.

I had to breathe before answering. I already had a rock-hard cock inside my pants, throbbing, pushing against the fabric.

—Well, nothing. Now nothing that isn’t looking at you like this is any good to me.

—You’re terrible.

—Show me more.

I said it without measuring the impact. I crossed the line on purpose, knowing crossing it was the game. Camila wrote that she slept in underwear and couldn’t send something like that. I told her then we were going to be uncomfortable together: that I’d send first, so she wouldn’t feel alone.

I took off my T-shirt, then my pants. I left the boxers on, stood in front of the bathroom mirror and took a photo without posing, just standing there, with my hard cock outlined under the fabric, a thick bulge pushing the cotton forward and leaving a wet stain over the tip. I sent it without thinking twice.

—Oh my God —she wrote—. Look at you. You can see everything. You can see the size.

—You can see what you do to me.

—Show it to me without the boxers.

I yanked them down. The cock sprang out hard, red, with the vein running from top to bottom and a clear thread hanging from the tip. I grabbed it with my left hand, lifted it toward the mirror, and sent the photo without even looking at how it had come out.

—Jesus Christ —she replied—. I’m shaking.

—Would you suck it for me?

—Right now. All the way down. Without breathing.

And then she started sending.

***

Three photos in her underwear, standing in front of a full-length mirror. The camera focused on her, but behind her there was another mirror, and in that second plane you could see her back, the cheeks of her ass barely covered by the black lace, her firm legs, her hair falling all the way to her waist. It was too carefully composed to be accidental. That woman had thought about every inch.

—You’re a work of art —I wrote to her.

—Don’t say that, I might believe it.

—Believe it. And take those panties off, come on.

There was a long silence. Then came the question I hadn’t dared ask.

—Do you want to see more?

I answered with a capitalized yes. I offered a deal, as if one were needed: I’d take everything off, she’d take everything off. I wanted to see her, I told her. Not in passing. I wanted time, several angles, several lights. I wanted the pussy, the tits out, the ass spread for the mirror. I wanted to look at her like I’d never looked at anything.

She agreed.

***

What came after wasn’t a session: it was a long exercise in patience neither of us could have planned in advance. Camila stripped in stages, sending a photo, letting me react, sending another. First the bra, and her tits came into full view: white, firm, with pink areolas and nipples standing up as if they were asking for a mouth. Then the panties pulled halfway down her thigh, one hand barely covering her pubic mound, playing with doubt. Then the panties on the floor and her neatly shaved pussy, with a thin strip of black hair pointing downward.

Then a full image from behind, bent over against the bed, legs spread and hands pulling her cheeks apart, and there I could see everything at once: the pink, tight asshole, and lower down the pussy open, wet, shining under the bedside lamp, with the inner lips swollen and exposed as if asking for my tongue. Then front-on, sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide open, two fingers parting the lips of her pussy so the swollen clit showed, hard, the size of a pearl.

—I’m leaking —she wrote to me—. It’s dripping down my ass. Look what you’re doing to me.

I kept telling her how each photo was affecting me. I described in detail what I’d do if I had her in front of me. How I’d run my tongue along her neck, how I’d go down sucking each nipple, biting them until she screamed, how I’d stay there for minutes, at that waist that had been haunting me for months from my office chair. How I’d spread her legs and bury my tongue in her pussy to the hilt, how I’d suck her clit with my lips, how I’d turn her over and eat her ass slowly, with my tongue deep inside, until she came from that alone.

—Then I’ll shove it in —I wrote—. All of it, at once. No asking.

—Put it in all the way. Break me.

I sent photos of myself back. I was jerking off with the phone in my free hand, slowly, drawing everything out, squeezing the base of my cock every time I felt I was about to come because I knew this wasn’t going to happen again and I wanted it to last. I had it so hard it hurt. The tip was a puddle, my hand got sticky, and I kept going, looking at her photos on the screen, moving from the tits to the open pussy, from the pussy to the ass, and back again.

—Are you doing what I think you’re doing? —she wrote.

—Yeah. I’ve had it in my hand for half an hour. You?

—A while now. I’ve got two fingers inside. I’m rubbing my clit with my other hand.

—Put three in.

—I already put three in. I want more. I want yours.

I’ve spent years watching this woman walk down a hallway and it turns out I’ve got her in my hand.

I asked her for one more photo, just one. To touch herself for me. To show me her fingers, nothing else, I wasn’t asking for her face. Two minutes later it arrived: her hand open, three fingers shining with fluid up to the knuckles, with clear strands hanging between them, and her other hand holding the phone with a steady pulse I could hardly believe. Below, just out of focus, you could see her pussy swollen, all red, open, with her clit throbbing.

—Lick them —I asked her—. Send me another one licking them.

It came right away: the three fingers inside her mouth, all the way to the last joint, and those full lips I’d watched in the office closing around them, leaving a thread of saliva mixed with her own when she pulled them out. That was the one that finished me.

I came immediately. It wasn’t elegant. It was a long, thick stream that hit my chest and splattered the mirror. The first two spurts were hard, almost painful; then came the aftershocks, one after another, until my hand was full of warm semen running between my fingers. It was the kind of orgasm that leaves you silent, staring at the ceiling, not quite sure what just happened, with your cock still throbbing, slowly going soft against your thigh.

—I just came —I wrote her when I could—. You got my mirror dirty.

—I just came too, idiot. Twice. I’m soaked, I can’t even close my legs.

***

That night Camila wrote something that stuck to me for a long time. She said she didn’t care that she had a boyfriend. That what was happening between us had been hanging there from day one. That on Tuesday we could meet anywhere, an apartment, a downtown hotel, whatever, but we couldn’t keep doing this without touching. That she wanted to feel me inside her. That she wanted me to fuck her from both ends. That she wanted to swallow me whole, not taking me out of her mouth until I came down her throat.

I answered yes. That we’d sort it out on Tuesday. That right then it was too cloudy for me to think.

—Go to sleep —she wrote—. We’ll talk tomorrow. And dream of me open.

I turned off my phone. My breathing was heavy, my body wrecked, the images still open in my memory. I fell asleep thinking about Tuesday, thinking about driving my cock all the way into her wet pussy, grabbing her by her long hair while I rammed her from behind, watching her on her knees sucking me down to the bone.

***

Tuesday never arrived the way I had imagined it.

On Monday first thing, my boss called me into his office. A branch in Mendoza had lost its network. They needed someone with a technical profile for an on-site audit, three weeks, leaving that same afternoon. There was no discussion. I got home to pack with my phone ringing.

—Three weeks? —Camila wrote when I told her.

—Three weeks. I’ll call as soon as I’m back.

—I’ll wait for you.

***

She didn’t wait for me.

When I got back to Rosario, at the office they told me Camila had requested a transfer to another branch. That she’d gone with her boyfriend, that he’d gotten a job in Córdoba and she’d decided to go with him. That she’d left a greeting for me, nothing more.

I wrote to her. It took her a day to answer. The message was short.

—I thought about it a lot. What we had was going to get complicated, and I’m not up for complications. I’d rather keep the night we had. Take care.

I answered politely. Told her I understood. Told her to take care of herself. Then I deleted the chat, not out of anger, but because I couldn’t stand seeing the three dots without anything appearing.

***

Years have passed. I’m still the same man, the voyeur who prefers to look. I still look. But that night with Camila I keep differently. I don’t keep it as a victory; I keep it as a lesson.

Sometimes, when I’m alone and the apartment falls silent, I open the old folder on my phone where I still keep the photos. I look at them slowly. I recognize every detail: the mirror in the background, the waist, the hair, the open pussy shining, the wet fingers in her mouth, that fixed gaze she had when she knew she was being looked at. I start jerking off again, I come again thinking of her, and I feel the other thing too, the thing that hurts: that I had that woman a message away and chose to wait until Tuesday.

I don’t wait anymore. Now, when something appears, I grab it with both hands. Life taught me late, but it taught me.