What I’m about to tell you is based on a true story—my story. It all started on an ordinary day, or so I thought, when I arrived at the office with the routine buzzing in my head like an old engine. Papers, emails, the sound of phones that never stop ringing. A Tuesday like any other, until she walked in. Verónica. They introduced her as my new assistant, and at first, I barely paid her any attention. She was just another face in the sea of bodies filling the building, someone who’d take on some of the weight of my tasks. Nothing special. Or so I thought.

It wasn’t her face that caught me right away, nor her body hidden under simple, functional clothes. It was her silence. Verónica didn’t talk just to talk; she didn’t fill the air with unnecessary noise like so many do. She said only what was needed, nothing more, and then went back to her work with a focus that bordered on obsessive. She reminded me of myself—how I move through the world: quiet, direct, no frills. She asked only the essentials, always in that low but firm voice, as if every word had a clear purpose. She didn’t fake smiles or try to please, and I liked that. There was something raw in her authenticity, something you can’t fake.

Verónica was introverted, one of those people who pull back when there’s too much company around. Shy, but not weak. You could see it in how she avoided eye contact in the hallway, how her shoulders tensed if someone raised their voice. Like me, she seemed to prefer her own company over anyone else’s. And yet, there she was, sitting just a few feet away from me, typing on her computer with a precision that made me want to watch her more than I should.

The hours dragged on, slow and heavy as always, but something started to shift. Between the paperwork and the instructions I gave her, we exchanged words. First, it was a “Where do I put this?” from her, then a “Bring me yesterday’s report” from me. Short, functional replies, but each one left an echo. I don’t know when it started to take shape, but it was there: a connection. Something electric, subtle, slipping through the cracks of our routine.

At lunchtime, we ended up alone in the break room. The rest of the team had scattered, and the silence between us wasn’t awkward—it was thick, like it carried something neither of us was ready to name yet. I dared to break it. “How do you feel about the job?” I asked, holding my coffee like it was a shield. She looked up from her sandwich, her dark eyes locking onto mine for a second longer than necessary. “Good,” she said, simple, direct. But then she added, almost as if she surprised herself, “I like the pace here.” I smiled—not because it was funny, but because I felt she could unwind with me. And she noticed. Her shoulders dropped a little, her posture softened. It was small, but enough to tell me she felt comfortable.

The rest of the workday passed without a hitch. We finished our tasks, shut down our computers, and said goodbye with a “see you tomorrow” that didn’t feel special. Or so it seemed.

I don’t intend to drag this story out more than necessary. Let’s just say the rest of the week unfolded with a deceptive ease, colored by a growing trust between Verónica and me that I hadn’t expected. Each day, our conversations stretched a little longer, our gazes lingered an extra second, and that initial spark turned into something solid, almost tangible. I was surprised by how quickly this strange friendship took shape, as if the silence we both shared was the glue binding us together. By Saturday, she made the move: she invited me to her place. We’d talked enough to know we were both alone in the world, though she lived with her mom. She pitched it as a simple plan, a girls’ Saturday, and I agreed without hesitation. What happened that day, though, is why I’m sitting down to write this now.

I got to her house mid-morning, the sun beating down hard on the dusty streets. Her mom greeted me at the door with a warm smile, almost too friendly, and Verónica was right behind her, with that reserved but steady stance of hers. They invited me in and, without much fuss, sat me down at the table. They’d made a simple but tasty lunch: stuffed arepas, grated cheese, a bit of black beans. The food was good, homemade, the kind that makes you forget the chaos outside for a while. As we ate, Verónica and I kept catching each other’s eyes over the plates. It wasn’t blatant, but it wasn’t subtle either. Her dark eyes locked onto mine, and I held her gaze, like we were testing the waters, waiting for the other to make the first move. We wanted to be alone, and we both knew it.

The hours crawled by with small talk about the weather and the neighbors, until her mom announced she was heading to church. She left us with a “behave yourselves” that sounded more like habit than a warning. When the door clicked shut, the air shifted. We were alone, and at first it was awkward, like neither of us knew how to break the ice her mom had left behind. Verónica moved first. She popped open a beer with a casual flick, handed me one, and we settled onto the living room couch. We started talking about work, about the bosses who drove us up the wall, and then the conversation veered into life, into the country. Living in Venezuela is a burden we all carry, and between sips of cold beer, we vented about the stress, the inflation, the power outages that kept us on the edge of collapse.

“So what do you do to keep from going crazy with all this?” she asked, leaning back a little more on the couch, the bottle dangling loosely between her fingers.

“I read,” I said, shrugging. “And I write, when I can. You?”

“I read too,” she answered, her mouth curving into a half-smile, the first I’d seen from her all day. “Come on, I’ll show you what I’m reading now.”

I got up and followed her down the narrow hallway to her room. There’s no need to explain how tense the air got in that moment. The click of the door opening hit me like a gunshot in my head. I knew she was leading me into a trap—one where I’d be the prey and she’d be the devourer, with those eyes that stripped me bare without even touching me. But what Verónica didn’t know, what she couldn’t possibly suspect, was that I was a hunter too. Every step I took, every word I let slip, was deliberate. This wasn’t an accident; it was unfolding exactly how I wanted it to.

I stepped into her room, and the smell hit me first: a mix of old books and something sweet, maybe her perfume. The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled like she’d fought with them all night. She walked over to a small table by the window, picked up a hardcover book, and showed it to me, but I barely glanced at it. My eyes were on her—on how her t-shirt clung to her shoulders, on how her hair fell messily over her neck. She took a step toward me, and the space between us shrank until it was almost gone.

“Do you like reading in silence, or do you talk while you do it?” she asked, her voice lower than usual, like she was testing the waters.

“Depends on who I’m with,” I replied, letting my lips curl into a hook she couldn’t ignore.

Verónica held my gaze for a second longer, and then, as if the air had gotten too thick, she turned toward the bed. She dropped onto the messy mattress, patting the space beside her for me to join. I lay down next to her, the creak of the sheets under my weight breaking the silence. She grabbed the book from the table and opened it with slow, almost theatrical fingers. It wasn’t just any book, I realized as she started reading. It was about a twisted place, a corner of the world where every paraphilia came to life, where the darkest desires stripped themselves bare without shame. The way it was written hooked me instantly: perverse, raw, but with an elegance that pulled you in, no chance of resisting.

Her voice slid into a lesbian scene, and I went still, listening. “She shoved me against the wall, her nails clawing down my back as her mouth sank between my thighs. There was no sweetness, just hunger. I writhed under her tongue, the cold floor biting my knees, and when I came, it was like I shattered into pieces, each scream tearing my skin off until I was exposed, bleeding, hers.” The words flowed from her lips with a calm that clashed with the violence of the text, and I felt heat creeping up my neck, a knot tightening in my stomach. It was intense, filthy, perfect.

She snapped the book shut and looked at me, her eyes glinting with something I couldn’t quite read. “Have you ever felt what it’s like to be with a woman?” she asked, straight to the point, no beating around the bush.

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to tell her how I’d trembled under another woman’s fingers, how I’d tasted a woman’s skin until I lost myself, how I’d loved every second of those encounters. But I lied. “No,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected.

She tilted her head, studying me. “I have,” she admitted, her tone dropping, heavy with something unspoken. “I’ve had partners, women. I’m single now, but… I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

“What was your first time like?” I asked, unable to hold back. I wanted to know, wanted her to paint it for me in vivid detail.

She leaned back further, staring at the ceiling like she was reliving it. “It was a hot night, one of those that choke you. She took me to her car, parked on a dark street. She tore my clothes off like they were in her way, and when her hands spread me open, it felt like the world stopped. Her mouth was everywhere, ravenous, and I arched against the seat, sweating, moaning so loud I thought someone would catch us. It was like falling into a pit, Laura—one with no bottom, just pleasure that burns you alive.”

I listened, my skin prickling, my pulse pounding in my ears. “I’ve never felt that,” I said, and for some reason, we both burst out laughing at the same time. Maybe it was the tension, or maybe I sounded like a grown woman playing at being a girl, caught in my own lie. The sound filled the room, dulling the edge of whatever was building between us.

Verónica got up from the bed with a quick, fluid motion, leaving the book forgotten in the tangle of sheets. “I’ll grab another beer,” she said, and walked out, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

She came back with two ice-cold beers in her hands, the glass fogged with chill. She handed me one, and the brief brush of her fingers against mine was electric. She settled back beside me, the mattress dipping under her weight, and took a long sip before looking at me. “Put the bottle on the table,” she said, her voice low, almost a command wrapped in a suggestion. I turned to comply, setting the glass next to the abandoned book, and when I straightened up, her hands found my face. She held me firmly, her warm palms pressing against my skin, and kissed me. It was fast, direct, but she pulled back just a few inches, her eyes locked on mine, searching for my reaction.

I didn’t make her wait. I closed the gap between us and kissed her back, my lips crashing into hers with an urgency I didn’t hide. We didn’t close our eyes; we stared at each other, caught in a silent duel as our mouths played, testing, grazing. Her lips were soft but insistent, and soon our tongues met, tangling with a slowness that quickly turned ravenous. I don’t know how she felt, not yet, but for me, a fire raced under my skin, scorching, wild. I could feel the air slipping into every corner of my body, despite the clothes still covering me, as if the heat of her breath had stripped me bare without a touch.

The kiss deepened, and Verónica slid her mouth down my neck, her teeth grazing just enough to make me shiver. Her hands tugged at my blouse, yanking it off in one swift motion, and I let her. She shed hers next, the fabric dropping to the floor like a surrendered flag. I stayed still, reclining, letting her take control, letting her savor me. I wanted her to explore me, to mark me at her own pace, to use me however she pleased. But deep down, a part of me roared with desires I didn’t voice. I wanted to tear her clothes off with my nails, feel her ripping into me, binding me tight, her palm striking my skin until it glowed red, her saliva dripping onto me, her body claiming me in dark, wet ways I didn’t name but pictured with brutal clarity.

I said nothing. I stuck to pretending, letting her believe she was my first, my initiator in this game. My eyes tracked her, my breathing quickened, but I kept my cravings locked inside, waiting for her to set the next move.

Verónica didn’t waste time. Her hands found the waistband of my pants, unfastening them with a precision that made me hold my breath. She slid them down my legs with a firm tug, leaving me exposed, vulnerable, and I didn’t resist. She leaned over me, her hot breath brushing me first, and then her mouth sank between my thighs. It was a slow but relentless assault: her lips traced me with a mix of softness and hunger, carving wet paths that made my back arch. Her tongue moved with devastating confidence, circling deep, sucking right where the heat became unbearable. Each motion was a jolt of pleasure piercing through me, and I felt my body betraying me, trembling under her, my skin blazing like it might split open.

I couldn’t think, only feel. The fire that started with the kiss was now an inferno, burning me from the inside, and every touch of her mouth stoked it higher. Then I felt her finger slip inside me, a welcome intruder that tore a gasp from my throat. It was just one at first, moving with a slowness that clashed with the urgency of her tongue.

“Does this feel good?” she asked, her voice rough, lifting her gaze to lock me in with her eyes.

“Yes,” I answered, nearly breathless, my hands clutching the sheets.

She added a second finger, stretching me further, filling me with a pressure that made me bite my lip. Her movements were steady, deep, and my body yielded to her, giving in without a fight.

“And like this?” she said, her tone laced with a perverse curiosity, as if she wanted to unravel me with every word.

“Keep going,” I begged, my voice cracking on the edge of desire.

A third finger joined, opening me wider, and then I felt her thumb pressing against that other place, that forbidden spot that pulled a choked moan from me. It was a total invasion, her fingers claiming me from the inside while her tongue kept devouring me right where the pleasure turned blinding. She knew exactly where to touch, where to linger, and she did it with a mastery that had me teetering on the edge of madness. My body writhed, sweaty, lost in the intensity of her hands and mouth working in sync, dragging me toward a cliff I didn’t want to escape.

“Can I go faster?” she asked, her gaze pure fire, her lips glistening with my own surrender.

“Yes, please,” I pleaded, and she obeyed, picking up the pace, her fingers thrusting in and out with a force that made me shake, her tongue relentless, pushing me into an abyss of raw, shameless pleasure.

Verónica rose from the bed with a fluid motion, leaving my body still throbbing under the echo of her touch. She stood in front of me and, without a word, began stripping completely. Her clothes fell to the floor like they weighed nothing, and there she was, exposed, showing me that part of her body that gleamed with a crude, brazen intimacy. The wetness between her legs was obvious, a mirror of her desire that needed no words to explain itself. She climbed over me, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of my hips, and looked at me with a mix of challenge and curiosity.

“Want to try it?” she asked, her voice thick with an invitation that left no room for doubt.

I laughed, a short, nervous laugh, and nodded. “Yes,” I said, and in that moment, I knew exactly how she felt. I knew it from the torrent radiating off her skin, a flow so abundant it seemed to flood the air between us. When she moved closer, when her body aligned with mine, I felt that essence of hers slide down to my throat, a thick, exquisite nectar I swallowed greedily. It was so much, so intense, that for a moment I thought I’d drown in her, and still, I didn’t want to stop. Verónica tried to guide me, her hands reaching for my cheeks, but I didn’t need it.

I knew how to taste her, how to trace her with my tongue, how to pull the pleasure from her that she’d just taught me minutes before.

“God, you’re so good at this,” she moaned, her words broken by the breath slipping out of her. “I like it, Laura, I like it too much.”

Her moans were loud, echoing through the room like a wild reverberation, each one stronger than the last, filling the space with her surrender. I didn’t stop, drinking her in, losing myself in her taste until the trembling of her thighs told me she’d hit her limit.

When we were both sated, we collapsed onto the bed, exhausted but still hungry in some deep corner of ourselves. We lay side by side, our hands moving slowly, caressing each other with a mix of tenderness and lingering desire. Her fingers found my most sensitive skin, tracing lazy circles, while I tangled mine in her hair, sliding through the dark strands. We talked—first about sex, then about trivial things that felt out of place after what we’d just done.

“Is it always this intense for you?” she asked, her voice soft but curious.

“Sometimes more,” I replied, smiling, and she let out a quiet laugh.

“What do you do on weekends when you’re not working?” she pressed, like she wanted to know me beyond the bed.

“Read, write… and now, it seems, this,” I said, and we shared a knowing look.

We wanted more, we both knew it. This conversation was just a pause, a halftime to catch our breath, because neither of us thought this was over. Then Verónica propped herself up slightly, resting on one elbow. “Want to see something?” she asked, but didn’t wait for my answer. She got up and walked to her dresser, pulling the drawer open with a quick motion. My eyes widened a bit when I saw what was inside: a collection of toys that betrayed how much fun she had on her own. But what she pulled out was special—a massive dildo, one of those designed to bind two people in a single act. She held it in her hands, looking at me with a smile that promised more, and I knew what was coming would be unforgettable.

Verónica set the toy between us like a silent challenge, her eyes gleaming with a mix of eagerness and mischief. It was thick, double-ended, a tool crafted to tie us together in one unrestrained act of lust. She took it in both hands, stroking it like she already knew what it would do to us, and looked at me.

“Lie down,” she ordered, her voice sharp, and I obeyed, spreading my legs without a second thought, offering myself to her.

She leaned in, guiding one end toward me, and pushed it in with a slow, relentless thrust. I felt it stretch me, filling me to the brink of what I could take, and a rough moan escaped me, my fingers clawing at the sheets.

“Can you feel it?” she asked, her breath brushing me as she positioned herself across from me, easing the other end into her own body.

“Fuck, yes,” I replied, watching her sink it into herself, her face twisting for a split second before melting into pure pleasure.

We tried to move, our hips crashing together with hunger, but the toy fought back. It slipped out of me with a wet, lewd sound, and I growled, frustrated.

“Shit, this isn’t working,” I said, sitting up to adjust it again.

“Let’s try it this way,” she countered, turning to kneel in front of me, her hands firm on my thighs as she fit it back in.

She tried again, her on top, me below, riding me with a fury that left me gasping. But the angle was awkward, and this time it slipped out of her, falling between us like a taunt.

“I want your mouth while I have you,” Verónica growled, leaning down to lick my lips, but we couldn’t reach—the space between us was a chasm.

We twisted, trying it on our sides, my legs tangled with hers, the toy buried in both of us again. I thrust toward her, chasing her lips, but the sharp movement dislodged it once more, and we stopped, sweaty, desire dripping off our skin.

“It’s because we’re fucking animals,” I said, laughing between pants, wiping the sweat stinging my eyes.

She grinned, a wicked curve to her lips. “You’re right. Let’s go slow, Laura. Let me show you how to keep it in.”

We started over, slower, more deliberate. She slid it into me with cruel precision, making sure I felt every inch, then settled the other end into herself, her movements smooth, almost torturous. It didn’t slip out this time. We locked eyes, a silent agreement forming in the thick air between us.

“Like this—got it deep enough?” she asked, rocking carefully, her gaze pinned to mine.

“All the damn way,” I replied, matching her rhythm, letting the pleasure swell like a tide.

And then we found it. The perfect position. Our legs twisted together, a knot of flesh and sweat, and we adjusted the toy until it was buried completely in both of us. We moved in sync, and suddenly our most intimate parts collided, connected by that brutal thickness piercing us both. It was a filthy, exquisite fusion: our slick skin touching, the toy vanishing inside us, our hips grinding until there was no space left between her flesh and mine. I could feel her pulsing against me, her heat spilling into mine, and the pleasure was so intense, so perverse, it tore an animalistic scream from me.

“Fuck, Verónica, you’re all over me,” I moaned, my nails digging into her skin as I thrust harder, the toy still, our hips doing the dirty work.

“You’re a delicious mess,” she shot back, her voice cracking with pleasure, her movements growing deeper, more desperate. “Tell me you love this twisted union.”

“It’s driving me insane,” I gasped, lost in the sensation of having her so deep, so fused, our flesh melting together in a wet, scorching grind that consumed us.

It was a thrilling experience, a vile and glorious act that left us trembling, sweating, moaning in a chaos of pure desire. We were joined, penetrated, devouring each other with every thrust, and the whole world could go to hell as long as it lasted.

The pleasure had me on the edge, a burning knot tightening more with every move. Suddenly, the climax hit me, a flood that made me arch against Verónica, my body shaking as a scream broke free. But she, with unexpected strength, grabbed my legs, stopping me cold.

“Hold on, just a little more,” she said, her voice ragged but firm, and I sank back into the sheets, my breathing heavy.

I looked at her, unable to tear my eyes from her face. She was lost in her own chase, her features taut, her lips parted with soft gasps as her hips kept moving, hunting her release. It was an incredible sight, a vision that seared itself into my mind with fierce clarity: Verónica, sweaty, surrendered, beautiful in her abandon. She caught me staring and smiled, a slow, knowing curve full of complicity.

“Almost there, wait,” she whispered, her eyes blazing with a fire that held me spellbound.

“Don’t worry,” I replied, my voice hoarse but genuine. “Take all the time you need. I’m enjoying this view too much.”

And then it hit. Her body stiffened, her legs quivered against mine, and a huge, almost feral moan ripped from her throat, filling the room. We stayed like that, bound by the toy still piercing us, our sticky skin pressed together, grinning like we’d conquered some hidden triumph. We stroked each other’s thighs, lazy fingers tracing lines over tender flesh, savoring the afterglow of what we’d just done.

Until the jangle of keys shattered the spell. It was her mom, coming through the front door. Panic jolted us, and in a whirlwind of stifled laughs and clumsy moves, we scrambled to get dressed. I put my blouse on inside out, she fumbled with her pants, and we both raked our hands through our hair, trying to erase the traces of our lust. As we stepped into the hallway, pretending normalcy, a certainty slammed into me: I’m sure her mom knows exactly what happened. Maybe not the sordid details, but she knows her daughter, knows Verónica burns for women, and that look she gave me when she greeted me had an edge I couldn’t ignore.

Now it’s Monday, and here I am, sitting across from her in the office, writing this story. My fingers fly over the keyboard, and every word brings that Saturday back with a precision that shakes me. Reliving it is more thrilling than living it, because my mind sharpens it, intensifies it: the taste of her skin, the heat of her breath, the pressure of that toy binding us in an act as filthy as it was sublime. Having her right there while I write is exquisite, a sweet torture that makes me clench my thighs under the desk. She’s there, typing quietly, her face calm, professional, like nothing ever happened.

We’re still the introverted office girls, the ones who say little, who go unnoticed. No one suspects the incredible lust that erupted between us, the perversion that consumed us in that messy room. No one imagines that behind our formal exchanges, our measured words, there’s a blazing secret still searing my skin. I hope to do it again with her, to dive back into that maelstrom of desire. If it happens, I’ll write it, and these pages will hold the echo of our second encounter, just as intense, just as ours. For now, I revel in the silence, in her presence, and in the perverse pleasure of reliving her with every letter I spill here.