Without Anesthesia

That train was speeding toward the meeting where she was supposed to present the project. She had worked on it all weekend with her production designer; between phone calls and computers, she had slept barely four hours a night.

In the carriage, there were only her and a guy with a massive backpack. Carlotta, with her planner open in front of her, was mentally reviewing the slides. The young man, who looked barely twenty-eight, had been scanning her for a while. That bulky luggage suggested he was heading who knows where to shoot who knows what video; definitely a blogger or something like that. She decided to close the planner, shoved it into her bag along with the computer, and turned toward him. Dark eyes, Asian features, brown irises, and hair gathered in a bun on top of his head.

“Tell me, why are you looking at me like that?”

“You look so anxious while you read. I was wondering what was tormenting you.”

The guy was right. She didn’t know his name, but he was right. What gave her anxiety was the fear of losing the love of her life: that job. It gave her the same adrenaline rush as a love affair that could end from one moment to the next. It was her greatest satisfaction.

“It’s not anxiety, it’s concentration,”

she replied, lying. After all, she didn’t even know him, she could do it without a second thought.

“Can I help you relax?”

A nice offer, she thought, but she didn’t feel like smoking: Carlotta smoked weed only to sleep and never when she had to work.

“What’s your name?”

“Is it important?”

“Honestly, no. What do you propose to make me relax?”

The boy stood up, closed the compartment door, and knelt before her. He lifted her denim skirt and spread her legs, beginning to wet the fabric of her panties with his tongue. He pressed right against her pussy, letting her feel direct contact with her clitoris through the cloth.

Carlotta began to gasp in pleasure. She felt his fingers push her panties aside to part her lips and continue licking her, this time against bare skin. Then he thrust his tongue inside, fucking her with that single movement. He gripped her buttocks to push even deeper, savoring her sharp, intense taste. She was getting incredibly wet. The more Carlotta gasped, the more he persisted with that hot, wet tongue, driving her toward orgasm.

Carlotta let out a stifled cry. When the boy stood up, he looked her straight in the eye and licked his lips. She, still sitting with her thighs spread, stared back with the hungry look of someone who wanted more. The young man, however, simply sat down beside her. He leaned close to her ear and whispered:

“Let that be enough for today. We will meet again.”

She looked at him, not understanding how they could ever cross paths again.

“Now get some rest,”

he concluded.

“Tomorrow is an important day.”

The train kept moving; it would travel all night. A cheap trip, she thought, and a stressful one, but in reality, it turned out to be very interesting. She was about to pick up her planner again when the guy said to her:

“I said rest. I helped you relax, now sleep.”

“Look, thank you, it was very pleasant, but I don’t think what I do or don’t do is any of your business.”

The guy took a book out of his backpack, opened it, and said:

“Sleep a little, I’ll watch your things.”

When she opened her eyes, the planner was closed on her lap, and there was only one stop left. It was seven-thirty, and the meeting was at noon. The guy was sleeping next to her; he had stretched out his legs as if to lock her into her seat. Carlotta took her bag and backpack and climbed over the young man’s legs to go wash up in the bathroom before getting off. He kept sleeping.

Arriving in the tiny bathroom, she took her beauty case, splashed her face, and brushed her teeth. She looked in the mirror and smiled: that night had taken her on a trip down memory lane, to when she used to go out with her friends and move from one man to the next without caring who they were, while the individuals she actually fell in love with never wanted a relationship. At thirty-nine, her dedication to work gave her so much satisfaction that it was useless for her to look for anyone; she didn’t feel the need for it. She quickly put on some makeup, gathered her things, and headed toward the carriage exit.

Passing by the compartment where she had slept, she peeked inside, but no one was there anymore. She got off the train and was welcomed by a scorching hot Milan. That July was tremendously rovente, stifling, you could barely breathe. She headed toward a random café and ordered a coffee and a croissant, or rather a brioche, because yes, in Milan it’s called a brioche. She sat at a small table and opened her laptop to double-check everything one last time. Gerardo, the production designer, called to check on the trip and how she was feeling. He wasn’t exactly a boss—or rather, he certainly was—but he acted more like a friend, a confidant, a fatherly figure at work. With him, she felt safe. They reviewed everything together, then she went to change her shirt.

For the trip, she was wearing a white tank top and a long denim skirt; for the meeting, however, she had brought long jeans and a black shirt with a collar. She did a French braid. Her hair was long and brown, with a few grey strands popping up. Damn it, she needed to dye it. She looked at herself in the mirror again: she could handle this. It wasn’t the first meeting she had attended, but it was certainly her first at the parent company. They were going to meet the CEO of the brand they were preparing the commercial for: a brand-new Korean cosmetics line that was blowing up on the internet for all ages. The Italian headquarters was managed by a group of cosmologists whose boss was the scion of a Korean family.

She called a taxi and arrived at the company entrance. She met the assistant director, the makeup and hair department assistant, and the wardrobe assistant. They were all there, all called from Rome.

“Carlotta!” Martina, the makeup artist Lorena’s assistant, ran toward her and hugged her.

“It’s so great that you’re here too! Have you seen Camille?”

Camille was the production manager, a very sharp girl who managed all the commercials for the production company.

“I haven’t seen her, maybe she’s inside...” she replied.

They approached the other assistants and greeted each other. In their industry, everyone knew each other a bit, but stronger bonds had formed with some more than others.

“Have you seen Giorgio? Have you two seen each other since the wrap party last year?” her friend asked, looking at her with curiosity. But with the life they live, everyone knows: relationships last for one set, and then it’s friends just like before. And she was perfectly fine with that.

They entered the building and were led into a conference room, followed by other people from the company. Everyone chose their seat; she and Martina sat next to each other. They distributed folders with the various projects. The CEO was connected via video conference with his camera turned off.

“You must forgive Mr. Yang, but he cannot preside over the meeting in person.”

We didn’t pay much attention to it; our department heads were also present via video conference with their cameras turned off. We proceeded by discussing the various projects: the chosen color palettes, the settings, the costumes for the actors. When the director concluded how he wanted to shoot the various scenes, Mr. Yang intervened:

“I find everything perfect. I would like a historic Roman location for this commercial, do you think that can be done?”

Camille said yes, but some scenes would have to be shot in a soundstage to make the filming smoother.

“If set design agrees, we will proceed.”

Carlotta waited for Gerardo’s response, who didn’t speak up but sent her a text instead:

“Yes, it works for us. We need to consult the builders to refine a few details, but we can proceed.”

“Perfect then. Now relax, tomorrow we will have a meeting on how to proceed with the production company. You are free, enjoy Milan.”

A familiar voice, Carlotta thought, but she didn’t pay too much attention to it. They left the company to head to the hotel they had booked for the night; the next day they were supposed to leave for Rome. Martina caught up with her and they went out.

They went out for a drink at a very nice restaurant along the Navigli. While they were having dinner, an email arrived from the company to figure out how to proceed with the soundstage constructions.

“Ah, damn it! Tomorrow I have to go back to the company. I need to see Mr. Yang’s assistant for some details on the set design.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, another night of work is waiting for me.”

Back at the hotel, she called Gerardo and they started working on a draft of potential historic soundstages that might interest the client. They finished incredibly late. When the alarm went off, Carlotta was exhausted. She got dressed in the same long skirt she had traveled in and a black tank top.

She reached the company, and the assistant showed her into a large, empty office.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Carlotta replied, turning around and finding herself face-to-face with the guy from the train.

He didn’t look so young anymore in a suit and tie. His hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, his gaze severe; she hadn’t noticed on the train just how tall he was. He sat down at the desk and looked at her before speaking:

“Would you like a coffee before we start? Do you need to relax?”

“Oh god, look, I apologize for leaving without saying goodbye, but when I went back you were already gone...”

“I am asking you if you want a coffee before we begin working.”

“Yes, thank you.”

She didn’t expect to see him again, she didn’t expect him to be her client; she wanted to run away, feeling deeply embarrassed. When the coffees were brought in, he stood up and approached her:

“Show me the project. I spoke with Gerardo this morning, he told me you guys made a draft.”

Carlotta took her laptop and began presenting the slides.

“Stand up while you explain it.”

She stood up and, feeling a bit self-conscious, continued explaining the plans. He sat down beside her and watched her. He slid his hand into the center slit of her skirt and began caressing her inner thigh, moving upward. Carlotta froze. Yang looked up:

“Keep talking.”

Carlotta resumed her explanation as Mr. Yang moved his hand up to her panties. He began to massage her slowly. Carlotta struggled to keep speaking, caught between pleasure and apprehension, while he massaged her pussy with expert fingers. He pushed aside her panties and slid a finger inside. When Carlotta gasped, he slowly inserted another, all the way in. He had long fingers. He quickened the pace. Carlotta leaned against the desk; she was on the verge of coming, but he stopped, licked his fingers, and said:

“I like the way you taste. Now take off your panties and put them on the desk.”

Carlotta did as Mr. Yang had asked.

“You may go. The project is good.”