My Husband’s Co-Worker Wouldn’t Give Up Until He Had Me

To make you understand how I ended up where I ended up, I have to start with something so silly I still can’t believe it. My husband, Darío, ran out of credit one night and, using dinner as an excuse, didn’t go out to buy a top-up. He asked for my phone to let a co-worker from the construction company, Mauricio, know about some paperwork. I heard him laughing while he talked.

—I’m calling you from my wife’s phone, so I don’t use mine —he said, amused, with no idea of anything.

If he had known what that joke was about to unleash, I would have ripped the phone out of his hands.

A few days later I got a message. It was Mauricio, saying hello, asking how I was doing. We knew each other from a few company gatherings, the kind where they invited couples and families, so I wasn’t too surprised. I replied politely and didn’t think much of it.

But the messages started coming more and more often. They all arrived while he was at work, next to my husband, or at least at times when I knew Darío wasn’t with me. That caution, I now understand, already said plenty about what he had in mind.

—I’ve liked you for a long time —he wrote one afternoon—. I didn’t know how to get close to you until I got that call with your number.

I asked him about his wife, almost as a way to put on the brakes. He answered that they were going through a rough patch, that it would pass. A total lie, I learned later, but at the time it gave me an excuse to keep replying. And so, almost without realizing it, I started answering messages that got a little more suggestive every day.

***

I have to be honest: Mauricio was not my type at all. I would never have given him a second look. He was thirty-nine, tall, with a slight belly and inherited baldness that made him look older. Sedentary, and according to my own husband, quite the ladies’ man. Nothing about his body did a thing for me.

And yet there was something in the way he insisted, in how he focused on me as if I were the only thing that mattered in the world, that ended up trapping me. We texted whenever he wanted. He asked me if I had a lot of work, how I’d woken up, and, above all, what I was wearing.

At first I answered without any wickedness. I’d tell him I was wearing a lilac blouse, a black skirt, low-heeled shoes. I had no idea how fetishistic he was. Little by little he started asking for more details.

—What color is your bra? —he wrote one morning.

That time I cut the messages off immediately. But the next day he came back to it, patient, not getting angry, until I finally gave in.

—White —I confessed—. It matches the blouse. I’m wearing blue pants and ankle boots.

That still wasn’t enough. On another occasion he asked about my panties, and I, already caught up in the game, told him I wore thong panties. That drove him crazy. I started noticing the pattern: when I told him I was wearing a skirt or a miniskirt, he got much more anxious than when I told him I had pants on.

One day I let slip the detail that finished him off.

—When I wear a miniskirt I always put on lycra pantyhose. And underneath, nothing.

After that, there was no stopping him.

***

One afternoon, after he’d been flattering me so much that I have to admit I was getting turned on, he made the move that was left.

—I want to see you —he wrote—. I need to see with my own eyes what you’re telling me.

This guy is crazy if he thinks I’m going to show him my underwear, I thought. And I told him so, straight up, no beating around the bush. But Mauricio wasn’t the kind to give up once he set his sights on a woman.

—No photos —he clarified—. I don’t want anything your husband or my wife could see. I just want to see you for a moment.

Fate decided to help him. That morning my boss, Esteban, had traveled to another city to close a job, and my co-worker was on sick leave. I was going to be alone in the office for two days. I got bold.

—If you want, stop by my work —I typed, and hit send before I could regret it.

He took advantage of an errand and showed up in less than an hour. He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. He smelled good, with a strong perfume I hadn’t expected. He took my right hand and slowly spun me around, as if I were on a runway.

—Wow —he said, looking me up and down—. You’re gorgeous.

—Don’t exaggerate —I answered, though my face was burning.

I was wearing a white blouse with a black ruffled collar, a pink knit cardigan, a chocolate-colored miniskirt, and long suede boots with high heels. By text I had already told him that underneath I had a black lace bra and lycra pantyhose, with no thong.

He couldn’t take his eyes off me. And after a while he said it outright, without even trying to hide it.

—I want to see to believe it. That you really don’t have a thong on.

—Don’t push it —I replied, smiling, not the least bit annoyed. That was my first betrayal, I suppose: the smile.

—I won’t insist anymore, anyway —he said, lowering his voice—. Darío always talks about you, about how well you treat him. He says he doesn’t need anyone else. And that drives me crazy.

He should have stopped me dead in my tracks when he mentioned my husband. Instead I felt something strange, half guilt, half excitement. There were still thirty minutes left in my workday.

—Let’s go somewhere I know, nearby —he suggested—. Just that.

—Mm —I said. Neither yes nor no.

—I’ll wait outside, in case you change your mind.

***

When I left, there he was, inside his car. I walked up to the window.

—Will you take me home? —I asked, choosing what seemed like the safest option.

—Not in a million years am I leaving you alone dressed like that —he said—. There are too many degenerates on the street.

I laughed at the irony and got in. The ride started off relaxed, talking about our relationship by text. I confessed, without shame now, that I liked imagining him getting hard from my descriptions, that it turned me on to know the effect I had on him.

He couldn’t stop looking at my legs encased in black Lycra. At a traffic light he got up the nerve and rested his right hand on my left thigh. I think he waited for me to react badly. I didn’t. He stroked me gently, from the knee to mid-thigh, and I let him go on.

I thought that since I’d fantasized about it so much, he might as well check for himself what I’d told him. I relaxed my body and opened my legs a little, giving him permission without saying a word.

—I go crazy for feminine women, the ones who wear stockings like that —he murmured, as his hand moved up.

He reached my crotch and rubbed me through the pantyhose. We looked at each other knowingly. I closed my legs to feel his fingers better against the tight fabric, already wet. He touched me like that, slowly, until the car stopped in front of my house.

I got out soaked, my heart pounding, and went in alone.

***

Several months passed. We kept texting, but we never met alone again. Maybe because, deep down, Mauricio didn’t attract me that much, except for how well he knew how to sweet-talk me. The tension stayed there, latent, like an ember neither of us ever quite put out.

Until Darío’s company year-end party. We were assigned the same table: him with his wife, me with my husband. We ate dinner, chatted about the project and family, and drank a lot, way too much alcohol. When dancing started, each of us went out with our partner, laughing, completely uninhibited. Mauricio kept tossing me compliments in front of everyone and Darío laughed, not suspecting a thing.

At one point, dizzy from the drinks, I went to the bathroom. I went in, closed the door, and when I turned around I almost died of fright: Mauricio had come in behind me.

—I can’t stand it anymore —he said, his voice thick—. I look at you in that dress and I can’t think about anything else.

I was wearing a short gold Lycra dress, high gold sandals, and underneath, flesh-colored lycra pantyhose. He knew it, of course he knew it.

—They’ll see us —I warned him—. Go away, please.

He didn’t listen. He grabbed me by the waist.

—Even if our partners see us, I’m not letting this pass.

—Mauricio, stop with the little game already —I managed to say before he covered my mouth with his.

He pushed in his tongue, thick and rough, and I responded. I don’t know if it was the alcohol fogging my head or the months of built-up tension, but I stopped weighing the danger. His hands were already lifting the skirt of my dress and squeezing my ass as we kissed like two desperate people.

I pulled away from his mouth for a second. And then I said the sentence I never thought I’d say.

—Let’s do it quickly. I want you inside me.

I climbed into one of the stalls. He came in behind me and shut the door. I braced myself against the wall and pushed my ass back. He pulled my pantyhose down to mid-thigh and knelt to lick me between my legs.

—Mmm… hurry up… —I panted, biting my lips so I wouldn’t make noise.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I leaned better to give him the right position. I reached for him with my hand and felt how hard he was: not long, but thick, and firm like few I’d ever had. I guided him to where I needed him and let him bury himself in me with one thrust.

—Ahh… come on… all of it… —I begged.

He knew exactly what to do. He slammed into me hard, fast, without stopping. I felt like the sluttiest woman in the world in that position, against the wall of a bathroom, with the party music in the background and our partners only a few feet away. I bit my lips to keep from moaning. I felt him tighten, throbbing inside me, until he came with a shudder that filled me completely.

It was quick. I didn’t get off, but I didn’t care. At that moment I only wanted to give him what he wanted, to reward him for all those months of words that had kept me burning.

***

He cleaned himself up with toilet paper, put everything back in place, and left first. I slipped on a panty liner I had in my purse, pulled my pantyhose back up, fixed my dress, and came out as if nothing had happened. Darío didn’t even ask why I’d taken so long; he was still holding his glass, happy.

—Let’s go home, love, I’m tired —I told him.

I wasn’t tired. I was hot. Mauricio had left my blood boiling, wanting more, and my husband had no idea it was him who was going to put that fire out.

We got home. Without taking off his clothes, I started kissing his neck, went lower, opened his pants and sucked him slowly, licking and nipping at him until he begged me to let him fuck me.

—Of course, my love —I told him—. Wait for me in bed, I’m going to the bathroom for a second.

There I pulled down my pantyhose and took off the soaked panty liner. It had a strong smell, the trace of what had happened a little while earlier, and instead of making me feel guilty, it turned me on even more. I washed up in the bidet, took a deep breath, and went out to look for Darío, who was waiting for me without suspecting that that night, without knowing it, what someone else had started would come to an end.