The Price of a Permit

The scent of browned butter and dark chocolate clung to my apron, a perfume I usually found comforting. Today, it felt like a shroud. I stood in the sterile, beige hallway of the city’s licensing bureau, my fingertips pressing against the cool, laminated surface of my application folder. Inside was a dream, meticulously iced and carefully presented: the business plan for my patisserie, “Sucré Désir.” And it was stalled, caught in the molasses-slow gears of bureaucracy for the third consecutive month.

Every visit was the same. A queue that snaked like a lazy river. The hum of fluorescent lights. And him. Mr. Alden, the department supervisor. He was a man carved from soft wood and middling ambition, with a smile that never reached his eyes and a voice that made even the air feel tired.

“Miss Johnson,” he said today, not looking up from his computer screen. “The zoning clarification from the property manager is still insufficient. And the health department’s preliminary inspection waiver needs a notarized signature from the head of the committee, not just a stamp.”

My heart sank. “But the property manager assured me this was the correct form. And the committee head is on a sabbatical in New Zealand. I was told the stamp was sufficient.”

He finally looked up, his gaze a dull blade. “Rules are rules. I’m sorry.”

He wasn’t sorry. He was… savoring it. There was a new glint in his eye, a flicker of something that wasn’t part of the bureaucratic script. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. “You know, these things can sometimes be… expedited. With a little… extra effort.”

The air in the room changed. The hum of the lights grew louder. I wasn’t a naive girl; I knew what “extra effort” often meant. But hearing it here, in this soul-crushing place, from this man whose very presence made my skin feel dusty, was something else entirely. I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach, a mix of revulsion and a terrifying, pragmatic curiosity.

“My shop… the investors are getting impatient,” I said, my voice softer than I intended. “I can’t wait another month.”

He smiled, a thin, bloodless line. “Perhaps we could discuss the specifics over a drink. After hours. My office offers more… privacy.”

The decision felt less like a choice and more like a door slamming shut behind me. I nodded, the movement stiff. “Alright. A drink.”

That evening, I returned. The building was empty, the silence a stark contrast to the daytime din. His office was exactly as I imagined: cheap laminate desk, a dying ficus plant, and the faint, acrid smell of old coffee. He had a bottle of cheap whiskey and two plastic cups. He poured two fingers for each of us.

“To new ventures,” he said, clinking his cup against mine.

I drank. The whiskey burned, a harsh, unwelcome flavor compared to the complex notes of a good Grand Marnier reduction. He didn’t waste time. His hand, damp and soft, found my knee under the desk. I focused on the grain of the wood on the wall behind him, trying to transport my mind back to my kitchen, to the feel of pliable dough under my hands.

“You’re a very beautiful woman, Virginia,” he murmured, his breath a cloud of whiskey and mint. “It’s a shame to see you so stressed.”

His other hand came up to my cheek, turning my face towards his. His kiss was wet and demanding, his tongue pushing past my lips with an entitlement that made me want to gag. I kissed him back, my body moving on autopilot. This was the transaction. This was the price. I kept repeating it in my head like a mantra.

He fumbled with the buttons of my blouse, his fingers clumsy. When he finally got it open, he groaned at the sight of my simple lace bra. “Oh, yes. Just as sweet as your pastries, I bet.”

He didn’t bother with the clasp. He just yanked the cups down, my breasts spilling out. His mouth was on me instantly, sucking and biting with a crude hunger that held no tenderness. There was no art to it, no savoring of the texture or the taste. It was consumption, plain and simple. I arched my back, not in pleasure, but to give him better access, to get this part over with faster. I made a sound, a low moan that I hoped sounded genuine. It was the most important performance of my life.

He stood up, unbuckling his belt with a sharp rasp. “On the desk,” he commanded, his voice thick.

I lay back on the cold laminate, displacing a stack of forms. They fluttered to the floor like dead leaves. He pushed my skirt up, ripped my stockings and panties aside in one rough motion. He didn’t check if I was ready. He was hard, and that was all that mattered. He positioned himself and pushed into me with a single, grunting thrust.

It was dry and uncomfortable. There was no warm-up, no seduction, just the mechanical reality of penetration. I cried out, a short, sharp sound of genuine pain that he mistook for passion.

“Yes, you like that, you little baker slut,” he panted, his hips slapping against mine in a rapid, monotonous rhythm.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, not to pull him deeper, but to stabilize myself, to create a buffer against the jarring impact. I turned my head to the side, my cheek pressed against the cold desk. I focused on a small, framed certificate on his wall. “Certificate of Administrative Excellence.” I focused on the rhythm of his grunts, counting them in my head. I thought of the delicate layers of a mille-feuille, the patience required to laminate the butter into the dough. This was the opposite of that. This was destruction.

He fucked me with a focused, joyless intensity. One of his hands groped my breast, pinching the nipple hard. The other hand slid under my hips, lifting me to meet his thrusts. His face was flushed, his eyes closed. He was in his own world, and I was just the vessel. The vulgarity of it was breathtaking. The wet, slapping sounds, his animalistic grunts, the way my body jolted with each push. It was raw and base, stripped of any pretense of intimacy or pleasure.

“I’m gonna cum inside that tight little pussy,” he groaned, his pace becoming frantic, erratic. “You’re gonna get your permit, you fucking whore. You’re gonna get it.”

And that was it. That was the moment. The final piece of the transaction, laid bare. His body stiffened, and he let out a long, shuddering groan, collapsing on top of me, his weight heavy and suffocating. I lay there, trapped, feeling the wet, hot pulse of him inside me. I felt used. I felt hollow. I felt like a commodity.

After a moment, he pulled out, tucking himself back into his trousers. He didn’t look at me. He just walked to his computer, tapped a few keys, and the printer whirred to life.

He handed me a single sheet of paper. It was a temporary operating permit, stamped and signed. “Full approval will come in the mail in a week,” he said, his voice back to its bureaucratic monotone.

I slid off the desk, my legs trembling. I pulled my clothes back on, my fingers fumbling with the buttons. The taste of his mouth was still on my lips, the ache of him still between my legs. I took the permit. The paper felt flimsy, insignificant.

“Thank you,” I whispered, the words ash in my mouth.

I walked out of the building into the cool night air. I stood on the sidewalk, the permit clutched in my hand. I had won. My dream was now officially viable. But as I started the walk home, the scent of his cheap cologne and my own shame clinging to me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had left a piece of my soul on that cold, laminate desk. And I wondered, with a sickening clarity, if the sabor of this victory would ever be anything but bitter.