The First File

I lean back in my leather chair. The only sound is the creak as I shift, watching Robert stare at the carpet like he wants it to swallow him whole. The air in my office is thick with his cologne, expensive and woody, and the raw stink of a man who's been hard for most of the hour and hasn't gotten off.

I cross my legs, letting my skirt ride up so the silk of my stocking flashes in the lamplight. My voice is low. "You said it started with paperwork, Robert. A routine summons. Tell me again, slow, what happened the first time Lucia Robles came through that door after hours."

He lets out a shaky breath. His fingers grip the armrests. Then he starts talking.

***

The fluorescent lights in the hallway were already dimmed for the evening when I heard the soft knock. I had sent the email myself earlier that afternoon: “Ms. Robles, please attend chambers at 6:30 p.m. for additional documentation review regarding your pending work-permit extension. Do not bring counsel.”

I knew she'd come alone. They always do when they're desperate enough.

She came in wearing the same navy skirt suit from the morning hearing. Modest, professional, trying too hard to look respectable. The skirt hugged her hips tighter than I'd noticed before. When she closed the door, the click was loud, like she knew what was coming.

“Judge Smith,” she said, voice small but steady. Her accent curled around the words like smoke. “You wanted to see me?”

I gestured to the chair across from my desk without rising. “Sit, Ms. Robles.”

She sat. Knees pressed together, hands clenched in her lap until her knuckles went white. I let the silence drag out, watching her chest rise and fall faster every second. Her blouse was buttoned to the top, but the button was straining over her tits. I could see the outline of her bra underneath.

I opened her file, though I already knew it by heart. Twenty-eight. From Guadalajara. Overstayed her tourist visa three years ago. Works as a housekeeper, off the books. No record. Desperate. The photo on the front showed her smiling, eyes wide, still hoping for something better.

That hope was gone. Now there was just something raw and animal in her eyes.

I closed the folder. "Your case is complicated. You need this, but the backlog is a mile long. Unless you give me something extra, your application is dead."

Her throat worked. “I have submitted everything asked of me, Your Honor. Letters from my employer, proof of rent—”

"I know what you've sent in." I leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "I'm talking about what you haven't given me yet."

Her eyes met mine, then dropped. She got it. They always do.

I stood up and walked behind her chair, close enough for her to feel my body heat and smell the starch in my shirt. I put my hand on the back of her seat, fingers brushing her neck through her hair. She flinched but stayed put.

"Lucia," I said, her first name sounding dirty in my mouth. "There are ways to speed things up. No one else has to know."

Her breathing was shallow. I watched the pulse jump in her throat.

“I don't… I don't understand,” she whispered.

“Yes, you do.”

I put my hand on her shoulder, thumb running along the seam of her blouse. She stiffened but didn't move. I slid my fingers down, slow, stopping just above the first button.

“Unbutton it,” I told her.

She hesitated, then her hands started to shake as she undid the buttons. One. Two. Her bra was black, simple, barely holding her tits in. Her nipples were hard, poking through the fabric. Fear, cold, or something else—I didn't care.

“More,” I said.

She did what I said. When her blouse was open, I stepped in front of her and lifted her chin with two fingers. Her eyes were glassy, pupils huge.

“Kneel.”

She dropped to her knees, limp as a puppet with its strings cut. The carpet was thin. She'd have bruises later, but she didn't care now.

I unzipped my pants. My cock popped out, thick and already leaking. She stared at it like it was a loaded gun.

“Open your mouth, Lucia.”

She paused, then opened her mouth. I pushed in, slow at first, letting her get used to the size and the heat. Her tongue pressed against the underside. She gagged when I shoved deeper, eyes watering, but she didn't stop.

“Good girl,” I murmured.

I grabbed her hair, pulling the bun loose until her hair spilled over my hand. I fucked her mouth, steady, watching her cheeks hollow out and listening to the wet, choking noises. Spit dripped from her lips onto her chest. Her hands were on my thighs, just holding on.

She was shaking. Shame, fear, and something else burning underneath. Her breathing was quick and ragged, almost matching mine.

I pulled out abruptly. She gasped, lips swollen and shining.

“Hands behind your back.”

She did it right away. I stroked my cock, watching her kneel there with her blouse open, tits heaving, mascara running. Seeing her like that—broken, obedient—made my balls tighten.

I came hard, shooting thick ropes across her lips, her chin, her tits. One spurt hit her tongue before she could close her mouth. She flinched but swallowed anyway.

I stuffed my cock back in my pants, breathing hard.

“Clean yourself up,” I said. “There's tissue on the desk.”

She got up on shaky legs, wiping cum off her face and chest with trembling hands. I stamped the extension form while she stood there, blouse open, skin red.

“You'll receive the official notice in the mail,” I told her. “And Lucia?”

She looked at me, eyes red-rimmed.

“Next month, same time. Don't be late.”

She nodded once, small and mechanical, then gathered her things and left without another word.

I sat down, heart pounding, cock still half-hard. The room stank of sex and her cheap perfume, which now smelled like something rare and filthy.

Back in my office, Robert's voice is rougher now.

“That was the first time,” he says. “I told myself it would be the only time. That I was helping her. That she wanted it, deep down.” He laughs, bitter. “But the next file that landed on my desk was Carla Morales. And I didn't even pretend to fight it.”

He looks up at me. Hungry. Guilty. Hard.

I press my thighs together under the desk.

“Tell me about Carla,” I say softly.