The Janitor's Key

The cold in Denver, pana, it’s a different thing. It gets inside your bones, this dry, bitter freeze that makes you remember the heat of Maracaibo like a lost paradise. I’d walk to that cleaning job, my cheap jacket doing nothing against the wind, thinking about my wife’s sancocho, the noise of my kids, the sun. Here, there was just gray. Just me, alone, sending money back to Brazil where they were waiting, trying to be a man but feeling like a ghost. My hands were cracked from the chemicals, my back always a little stiff. This wasn’t the American dream I sold them on. This was survival.

Everything changed with Monica. Monica with a ‘c’, not a ‘k’, she told me that the first time I saw her properly. She wasn’t just the lady who signed my checks. She was the owner of the accounting firm, a woman who carried herself with a silence that felt heavy. Always in elegant clothes, pantsuits mostly, in colors like navy blue or black. Classy. But even through that wool and silk, you could see the shape of her, you know? A woman who took care of herself. Delgada, slim, with a pair of tetas that were just… perfect. Not too big, not too small, just right, always held up high like a proud offering. Rubia, real blonde hair, not from a bottle, and these eyes azules that looked right through all my bullshit.

For weeks, our routine was the same. I’d come in at 7:30 PM, the office empty and dark except for the light under her door. I’d start with the vacuum, trying to be quiet, but she’d always come out around 8. “Jhonatan,” she’d say with a small nod. “How’s the family?” She remembered their names. Maria. Luis. Little Sofia. I’d ask about her day and she’d give me a tight smile. “Busy. Numbers never sleep.” We’d talk for five minutes, never more. But it was a connection. A tiny spark of human warmth in that freezing city.

Then came the night her door was open a little wider. I knocked softly, the vacuum cleaner silent at my side. “Señora Monica? I start cleaning now.”

She was sitting at her desk, not working. Just staring at a glass of something amber. Her blouse was unbuttoned one more than usual. I could see the lace edge of her bra, white against her skin. “Come in, Jhonatan. Close the door for a minute.”

My heart did a stupid little jump. I thought I was in trouble. That she’d found a speck of dust I’d missed or something. I left the vacuum in the hall and stepped in, closing the door behind me. The office was warm, smelled of her perfume and expensive whiskey.

“Sit,” she said, not a command, but an invitation. She poured another glass from a bottle on her desk and pushed it toward me. “I’ve had a day from hell. And I don’t want to drink alone.”

So I sat. We drank. The whiskey burned a good path down my throat, warming me from the inside out. We started talking, but it was different. The wall between boss and cleaner, it just melted away. We were just a man and a woman in a quiet room. She told me about a client who tried to cheat her, about the loneliness of running this place, about eating dinner alone at her kitchen island every night watching bad TV.

And then, after the second glass, she got real quiet. She looked at me, really looked at me, and her eyes were shiny. “You know what the worst part is, Jhonatan?” she said, her voice low. “It’s been over a year. Since a man has… touched me. Since I’ve felt anything.”

I almost choked on my drink. ¿Un año? This woman? This beautiful, put-together, elegant woman? It was a crime. A sin. “No me digas eso,” I said, leaning forward. “Monica, that’s… that’s impossible. A woman like you?”

She gave a sad little laugh. “What ‘woman like me’? A forty-four-year-old divorcee who works too much? That’s not exactly a magnet for passion, Jhonatan.”

The confession just fell out of my mouth. It was the whiskey, it was her eyes, it was the months of loneliness. “I understand,” I said. “Maybe not a year, but… months. Many months. Since I came here. My family, they are in Brazil. Waiting for me to make things stable. This job… working for you… it was the first good thing. The first light I seen in a long time. You… you gave me that.”

The air in the room got thick, man. Thick with something you could almost touch. She was looking at me not like her cleaner, but like a man. A man who understood her. I saw her eyes drop to my hands, to my arms. I’m not a big guy, but I’m strong. Work makes you strong.

She didn’t say anything. She just stood up, walked around the desk, and stood in front of me. She put her hands on my shoulders. They were trembling, just a little. I looked up at her, my heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted out. This was a line. A big, fucking bright red line. I had a wife. Kids. But in that moment, I wasn’t Jhonatan the husband. I was Jhonatan the man, alone and starving.

I reached up and put my hands on her hips. Through the fine fabric of her trousers, I could feel the curve of her. She let out a breath, a soft sigh, and closed her eyes. That was all the permission I needed.

I stood up and my mouth found hers. It wasn’t a wild, crazy kiss. Not at first. It was slow, deep, full of all the loneliness we’d both just confessed. She tasted like whiskey and mint and want. Her hands came up and tangled in my hair, pulling me closer. I could feel her tetas pressed against my chest, soft and heavy. My hands slid down from her hips to her ass, squeezing it. It wasn’t big, not like the women back home, but it was firm and perfect in my hands.

“Jhonatan,” she whispered against my lips, and the way she said my name, like a prayer, broke something in me.

I walked her back until her desk was against the back of her legs. I swept my arm across it, sending papers, a stapler, a framed photo clattering to the floor. I laid her down on that big, polished wood desk. Her blonde hair fanned out around her head. Her eyes were wide, watching me, her lips swollen from our kiss.

I unbuttoned her blouse with fingers that fumbled, not from nerves, but from pure need. I got it open and there it was. A white lace bra, and her tetas were even more beautiful than I imagined. Pale, with pink nipples that were already hard little points. I bent my head and took one into my mouth through the lace, sucking hard. She cried out, a sharp, gasping sound, and her back arched off the desk. “Yes… oh God, yes…”

I pulled the bra down, freeing them, and worshiped them with my mouth and hands. I was like a dying man finally getting water. I kissed my way down her stomach, my fingers working the button and zipper of her elegant trousers. I yanked them down, along with her panties. They were white lace too. A matching set. The thought that she wore this under her serious clothes all day just for herself drove me crazy.

And then she was naked from the waist down on her own desk. And pana, let me tell you. She was completely depilada, smooth as a pearl, and already so fucking wet. Her cuca was swollen, pink, and glistening under the office lights, her little clit begging for attention. The smell of her, that pure, clean female arousal, hit me and I almost came right there in my pants.

I didn’t waste time. I dropped to my knees on the carpet and buried my face between her legs. She screamed. A real, loud scream that probably echoed in the empty office. Her hands clamped on my head, holding me there. “¡Dios mío! Jhonatan! Right there! Don’t stop!”

I didn’t stop. I ate her like it was my last meal. I licked and sucked and fucked her with my tongue, drinking every drop of her. She was moaning and begging in English, words I barely understood but whose meaning was perfectly clear. Her hips bucked against my face, grinding into me. I could feel her thighs starting to shake around my ears. I slid two fingers inside her cuca and she was so tight, so hot and wet, it was incredible. I curled them, finding that spot inside, and worked it while my tongue circled her clit.

She came with a choked cry, her whole body seizing up, her cuca pulsing around my fingers. I didn’t let up. I kept licking, gentler now, through her orgasm, until she was pushing my head away, sensitive and trembling.

I stood up, my own pants feeling like they were about to burst. I fumbled with my belt, my cock springing out, hard and aching. I was about to just push into her, but she sat up on her elbows, her face flushed, her hair a mess. She looked at my cock, thick and ready, and licked her lips.

“Wait,” she breathed. She slid off the desk, onto her knees in front of me. She took me in her hand, looked up at me with those blue eyes, and then took the whole head of my cock into her mouth.

I groaned, my head falling back. Her mouth was hot and wet and expert. She sucked me deep, her tongue swirling around the tip, her hand working my shaft. I tangled my hands in her blonde hair, not pushing, just holding on for the ride. Watching this classy, professional woman on her knees sucking my dick in her office was the most erotic thing I had ever seen. I was close, so close, but I wanted to be inside her. I needed to feel her.

I pulled her up. “I need to be in you, Monica,” I growled, my voice rough. “Now.”

I turned her around, bending her over the desk. She braced her hands on the wood, her perfect ass in the air, her wet cuca on display for me. I rubbed the head of my cock through her wetness, teasing us both. She was pushing back against me, begging. “Please, Jhonatan. Please fuck me. I need it.”

I drove into her in one smooth, deep thrust. She was so tight, so warm. She screamed again, a raw, grateful sound. I held onto her hips and started fucking her, not savagely, but with a deep, steady rhythm. Each thrust was like a word in a conversation we’d been wanting to have for weeks. This wasn’t just a fuck. It was a connection. It was two lonely people finding a moment of fire in the cold.

I pounded into her, the desk creaking with every thrust. My balls slapped against her skin. I reached around and found her clit, rubbing circles on it as I fucked her from behind. She was moaning constantly now, a stream of “yes, yes, oh god, right there, don’t stop.” I felt her cuca start to clamp down on me again, getting even tighter. She came a second time, her inner muscles milking my cock, and that was all it took. I groaned her name, a deep sound from my chest, and emptied myself inside her, my own orgasm shaking me to my core.

I stayed inside her for a minute, both of us breathing hard, leaning over the desk. The only sound was our panting and the hum of the computer server in the closet. I slowly pulled out and turned her around. She looked wrecked. Her makeup was smudged, her lipstick was gone, her hair was a disaster. She had never looked more beautiful.

We didn’t speak. We just got dressed in silence, our clothes a mess. She looked at the messy desk, the papers on the floor, and a slow blush spread across her cheeks. But she was smiling. A real, genuine smile.

As I was about to leave, to go finish my cleaning like nothing happened, she stopped me at the door. She put a hand on my chest.

“Jhonatan,” she said, her voice soft. “The… plumbing in my apartment. It’s been making a strange noise. Could you maybe come by this weekend and take a look at it?”

I knew what she was really asking. I smiled, a real smile for the first time in months. “Of course, Monica. Anything for you.” It was the start of something. Something complicated, something wrong, but something that felt too damn good to give up. The cold outside didn’t seem so bad anymore.