Something happened at work today that is still vibrating on my skin. I had to visit a dealership of the luxury car brand I work for.
It wasn’t normal flirting.
It was something else. Sharper. More dangerous. The kind of thing that isn’t said… but understood.
He walked in like any other client: jacket perfectly in place, calm eyes, confident steps.
But when he looked up… he looked at me differently. Not the way you look at an assistant. Not the way you look at a stranger.
As if he had seen me before.
I was sitting at a desk they had lent me, wearing my black mini skirt, legs crossed… and underneath I carried a secret that wasn’t only mine:
a black lace thong, tight, precise… and already with a story.
Because I hadn’t chosen that thong “just because” that day.
It was a special order. For a client.
And it wasn’t the first day I had been wearing it.
It was the second.
That kind of piece, after living a full day with you, stops being underwear and becomes something else: a silent tension that takes control.
He approached with an easy excuse, a simple question.
And still… he didn’t leave.
He stayed one second longer.
One second too long.
As if confirming something in his mind.
In the middle of the conversation, he made a slow gesture… and let his credit card fall to the floor.
But it wasn’t an accident.
Too smooth.
Too calculated.
He bent down slowly, close to my chair, too close to be coincidence.
And I saw it from the corner of my eye: the way he positioned himself, how he lingered half a second more…
As if the card were only an excuse to be there.
At my height.
At my distance.
In my space.
And I felt it: that perfect moment when you realize someone is breathing differently. Slower. Deeper.
My perfume wasn’t strong.
But I didn’t smell only like Agneta by Eight & Bob.
I smelled like a real woman, a full workday, warm skin…
and that black lace that had been holding what cannot be copied for two days.
He picked up the card calmly, stood up slowly… and slipped it back into his wallet without even looking at it.
As if recovering it hadn’t been the important part.
As if the important part had been going down.
When he looked at me again, his smile was polite… too polite.
And that’s when I understood completely.
He had that look of someone who has seen La Musa Tentadora.
Not the face. The energy.
The girl behind the mask.
The one who doesn’t reveal herself, but is sensed.
The one who sells things that aren’t spoken about.
And I felt that delicious, dangerous certainty:
this man is my client.
I’m sure that somewhere in his home there’s a discreet, vacuum-sealed package…
and inside it, one of my pieces.
One of my stories.
One trace of me.
But of course… that cannot be said.
He cannot confess it.
And I cannot give him confirmation.
So we continued the performance.
We talked about financing, timelines, extras, warranties…
as if there wasn’t an order in progress beneath my mini skirt.
As if he weren’t standing centimeters away from a woman he might have already “known” in another way.
When he left, he thanked me again.
And before fully turning away, he dropped a sentence casually:
— “I think we may have crossed paths before…”
I smiled.
Just a little. Just enough.
— “Maybe.”
And I watched him walk away with the calm of someone carrying something in his mind… and not planning to let it go.
Because sometimes what’s most exciting isn’t being recognized.
It’s being suspected.
And staying silent.
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