I Accompanied My Wife to the Interview and Lost Her There

Camila was too much woman for me. That was the only certainty I was left with after ten years of marriage. The feeling that some ordinary mortal had ended up living with a goddess, and that any moment they were going to wake me from the dream with a jolt. That thought stayed with me every day, like a shadow that wouldn’t go away even under the midday sun.

Camila was the kind of woman who stops traffic when she walks. Five foot nine, straight platinum-blonde hair tied back in an immaculate ponytail, huge light eyes that unraveled you with a single look. She had an athletic, toned body, earned through hours of training and a discipline that was almost frightening. The curves, the hips, the waist drawn with a ruler: privileged genetics that she knew how to use like an expert.

And then there was everything else: elite architect, razor-sharp mind for construction management, a spark for talking to anyone, that natural charm that won people over in thirty seconds. Me, on the other hand, I was a guy with a shaved head, tattooed arms, and thick-rimmed glasses. Every time I looked at her, I still couldn’t understand how I’d ended up with her.

That night she gave me the usual line. That she was meeting up with Vero and Sofi to keep Lucía company, because she was down over a badly ended affair. I listened and felt a knot in my stomach. I knew she was lying. I’d been piecing together clues for months: little notes in her pockets, messages with the chat open at odd hours, perfumes that weren’t hers. I decided that night the show was over. I tightened my jacket to cover my arms, adjusted my glasses, and followed behind her.

***

Lorenzo Bartoli. The Italian. And, very probably, the worst son of a bitch I ever crossed paths with. A guy with contacts everywhere, from the dirtiest nightlife to business that couldn’t be named out loud. Outwardly, a serious businessman, with designer shirts and a neatly trimmed goatee. Inside, a predator who saw women as chess pieces.

The construction company in his name was the front for the whole mess. Offices on a very high floor above Avenida Mitre and projects scattered all along the northern corridor. When the offer reached my wife without her having sent even one résumé, it seemed strange to both of us. But Camila looked at the company’s numbers and her head lit up: the firm was drifting and she felt she had what it took to straighten it out. She accepted without thinking twice.

The interview fell that same week. In Bartoli’s office, facing the park woods, on a street of tall pines and polished concrete. I went with her. I wasn’t missing it for anything in the world. I knew men like Lorenzo and I wasn’t going to leave her alone in that pit.

We arrived at a floor of marble and leather, with high ceilings and a view of the city. Camila was immaculate: a fitted black skirt to the knees, a white shirt buttoned all the way up, a black cropped jacket that closed around her silhouette like a glove. The perfect combination of elite architect and that natural sensuality she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, hide.

Bartoli opened the door with a smile that never reached his eyes. When he saw me coming in behind her, his face changed for a tenth of a second. He couldn’t hide his annoyance. He went up to my wife, wrapped those huge hands around her waist, and planted two long kisses on her cheeks, while pinning her with a dirty, murky look. Then he pulled the chair out for her with cheap gentlemanly manners so she could sit. He didn’t even greet me. I was a ghost in my own story.

Camila began laying out plans, numbers, cost analyses. She spoke with the passion of someone who knows what she’s talking about. I watched her, amazed, all over again. Bartoli, meanwhile, was somewhere else. He opened his phone, typed in the chat, answered messages with the screen tilted toward him. Four minutes later he typed something longer, set the phone face down on the table, and exactly two minutes later the office door opened.

Two men in dark suits came in. Unsympathetic faces, with that Eastern European or southern European look you can smell danger on from far away. Dressed to the nines, but with empty eyes. Bartoli looked up, smoothed his beard with a slow gesture, and said:

—Sorry for my lack of courtesy. These meetings are tedious and your husband gets bored. I took the liberty of asking a couple of employees to take him on a tour of the offices, the projects, the machinery.

Camila shot me a puzzled look. Something wasn’t adding up for her. It wasn’t for me either. I felt a cold crawling up the back of my neck that I knew well. But the two goons had already posted one on each side of me, with a courtesy that was really more of an order, and they invited me to stand up. I had no choice. If I made a scene there, it would end worse. I left the office, leaving my wife alone with the Italian.

***

Later I found out what happened. I pieced it together bit by bit from what she let me infer, what her friends whispered in silence, what the bathroom mirror gave back to me when we got home and I looked at my own idiot face.

As soon as the office door closed, Lorenzo dropped the mask. Camila noticed it in the change in his posture, in how he sat on the edge of the desk instead of going back to his chair. She held his gaze for a second and knew the interview wasn’t going to be about plans.

—You’re too pretty to be wasting your time with a guy like that —he told her, bluntly.

Any other woman would have stood up and walked out. Not her. Something about that brutality lit her on fire. For months she’d been sleeping with me out of habit and tenderness, but not out of hunger. The hunger had moved to another neighborhood a long time ago, and now that neighborhood had a name, a smell, and a deep voice speaking to her from above.

Lorenzo stepped two paces closer and ran the back of his hand over her cheek. She didn’t move. Then he slid his hand down her neck, over the lapel of the cropped jacket, and brushed her neckline with his fingertips. He hooked the first button of her shirt between his index finger and thumb, turned it slightly, and felt Camila press herself against his hand. He undid it. Then the second. The pad of his middle finger traced down her sternum and caressed the swell of her breasts over the black lace bra. Camila closed her eyes for a second, just enough for him to understand he had free rein.

—Take all that off —he ordered in a low voice.

The jacket fell first. Then the shirt, opened button by button with deliberate calm. The skirt came last: she took it off herself, standing in front of the desk, her gaze locked on his. She was left in bra and lace thong, showing off that athletic, toned body like a work of art. The defined abs rose and fell with her quick breathing, her breasts pushed the lace upward begging for air, her erect nipples stood out beneath the fabric like two hard points betraying everything her mouth wasn’t saying. Lorenzo looked her up and down without touching her, letting the silence do the work.

—The bra too.

Camila reached behind her back and unclasped it. The lace fell to the floor. She showed him her natural breasts, round, with dark pink nipples standing up. Lorenzo came closer, took one breast in each hand, squeezed them with a force that scared me to use, and pinched her nipples until a short moan escaped her.

—Look at how they perk up. I haven’t even touched your pussy and you’re already wet, aren’t you?

He slid his hand into her thong, without ceremony. Two fingers went straight in. Camila opened her legs slightly, on reflex, and he smiled when he felt how soaked she was.

—Slut —he told her, almost affectionately—. My new slut.

He moved his fingers inside her with a slow rhythm, curling them upward, looking for the exact spot I’d never learned to find in ten years. With his thumb he pressed her clit, making small, precise circles. Camila had to grip the edge of the desk so she wouldn’t fall. Her whole body trembled, she lost her breath, and he pulled his fingers out just before she came.

—Not yet. On your knees.

Camila dropped to the floor without needing to be told twice. On the imported carpet, in front of that man she’d been talking to about concrete and budgets minutes earlier, she unbuckled his belt, pulled down the zipper of his pants, and tugged the fabric down to his ankles. What appeared in front of her made her eyes widen and left her speechless for a second. A thick cock, long, slightly curved upward, covered in swollen veins throbbing with every breath, crowned by a purple, glossy glans. Much bigger than mine. Much of everything. A string of pre-cum oozed from the tip and hung there, almost reaching her hand.

She grabbed it with her right hand and still couldn’t wrap all the way around it. She weighed it in her hand, gave it a small shake, ran it across her lips without taking it in yet, smearing her mouth with that salty fluid. She stuck out her tongue and licked the underside from the balls to the tip, in a long, slow motion, looking him in the eyes like someone asking permission to do something they’d already decided to do anyway.

—Take it all in.

She took it into her mouth slowly, gauging it, measuring how far she could go. The first thing she felt was the weight, the bulk filling her tongue, the heat of that taut skin against her palate. She pushed it in little by little, forcing herself, until the head touched the back of her throat and she gagged. She pulled back, inhaled through her nose, swallowed, and tried again. This time her throat opened another inch. Saliva was spilling from the corner of her mouth and dripping down her chin in thick drops onto her naked breasts.

Lorenzo ran his huge hands through her platinum hair, undid her ponytail, and wound the hair around his fist. He began setting the pace himself, without asking permission. He drove her hips with an authority that admitted no argument, forcing her throat open to the limit. Each thrust scraped the inside of her neck, brought tears to her eyes, made her spit out strings of thick drool that fell onto the imported carpet. She surrendered, looking up at him with glassy eyes and smeared mascara, while the wet sounds and muffled gagging filled a desk that seconds earlier had been a temple of serious work.

—That’s it, baby… keep going, it’s all yours.

He slapped her ass sharply. The sound echoed off the acoustic walls. Camila didn’t shrink back. She doubled down, pulling it out of her mouth to run her flat tongue over his balls, sucking them one by one, inhaling them hungrily. Then she returned to the cock, grabbed it with both hands at the base, and ran her tongue around the edge of the glans with a technique I’d never seen in ten years. She sucked the tip with her mouth sealed like a tight ring, spat on it, sucked again, spat again. The cock shone all over with saliva. Camila shook it with her right hand while she took his balls into her mouth with the help of her left. Lorenzo laughed softly, with that smugness of a man who’s already collected his trophy.

—Married women are the best —he murmured, leaning his head back—. The ones who come with a ring and everything. Look how it shines on your finger while you suck my cock.

Camila lifted her left hand and showed him the ring, without stopping sucking him. Then she shoved his cock down her throat again and held it there, choking, until he yanked her hair back so she could breathe.

***

Meanwhile, I was two floors down, in the ground-floor cafeteria, listening to one of the goons explain the operational advantages of a fifth-generation industrial mixer. The other kept refilling my whiskey whenever I emptied the glass, with a smile that was meant to be friendly. I was already on my second. It was five in the afternoon on a Wednesday.

Twenty minutes passed, then thirty. I asked the bigger guy how much longer. He told me to relax, that in a serious meeting the numbers take time. I smiled like a kid and looked at my watch. Something in the back of my neck kept screaming at me to stand up, to kick the elevator door open and go up.

But I didn’t stand up.

I took another sip and answered with some stupid joke about cement prices. That was my greatest shame that day: sensing it all and still staying seated.

***

Upstairs, Lorenzo had decided to change angles. He yanked the cock out of her mouth with a sudden motion that left Camila a thread of saliva hanging from her lip to her chest, and he pulled her up by the arm. Camila could barely stand, with her knees marked by the carpet and her breasts red from all the sucking.

—Over the desk. Ass up.

She bent over the polished wood, resting her palms between the plans nobody cared about anymore. She arched her back downward, stuck her ass out, spread her legs as far as the skirt already bunched on the floor would allow. Lorenzo positioned himself behind her. He hooked her thong at the sides and yanked it down, left it hanging around her ankles like a mark. He spread her butt cheeks with both hands, contemplated for a second the shaved, open pussy, shining wet, and the other tight little hole trembling on its own in the air.

He crouched and buried his face there, without disgust, with savage hunger. He ran his entire tongue from her clit to her asshole, in one long lick that ripped a sharp moan from Camila, muffled against the office’s high ceilings. It was the first time in her life a man had eaten her with that kind of hunger. I had never done it like that. I made love to her.

Lorenzo ate her pussy with his lips and tongue, sucked her whole, pushed his tongue inside her like it was a little cock, pulled it out, bit her inner lips, went back up to her clit and sucked it between his teeth. Camila moved her hips against his face, searching, riding him, with no shame at all. He shoved one finger into her ass without warning, while keeping his tongue on her pussy. The contrast arched her like she’d been electrocuted. He slid in a second finger, then a third, moving them in her hole while he licked her clit. He landed a loud slap on her ass with his free hand, leaving a red handprint on her fair skin. Another slap. And another. Camila dug her nails into the wood, scattering the budgets across the floor, completely surrendered to a pleasure unlike anything she’d ever known.

—Come on my face, slut —he ordered from below—. Come, and then I’ll fuck you.

Camila came right there, over the Italian’s mouth, with a muffled cry and her legs trembling like they were made of rubber. She gushed everywhere, and he drank it all, without letting go, sucking her dry to the last drop like his life depended on it.

He straightened up with his beard gleaming and his smile smeared. He coated his cock in spit with quick tugs, shook it three times while looking at her open ass, grabbed her hips with those iron hands, and drove it all the way in with one hard thrust. Camila let out a scream that died against the desk and felt the air leave her chest all at once. The cock was reaching a place no one had ever reached before, pushing at her uterus, touching something inside her she didn’t even know she had.

He started pounding her with savage rhythm, a back-and-forth that made the wood creak, that made the pencils clink against the marble, that made her tits slap the edge of the desk with every thrust. His balls bounced against her clit with a wet smack that filled the office. He grabbed her loose ponytail, wound it around his fist again, and yanked her head back, arching her like a bow.

—Whores like you need to be handled well, baby. You need to be given what you deserve. Opened up until you beg.

—Yes —she answered, voice breaking—. I’m your slut. Give me more. Break me.

—And your idiot husband out there, drinking whiskey… —he laughed, without slowing down—. A textbook cuckold. Tell me he’s a cuckold.

—He’s a cuckold —she moaned, squeezing her eyes shut—. My husband is a cuckold. You’re fucking me better than he ever has in his life.

Camila didn’t answer with any more words. She pushed her ass back, seeking him deeper, confessing with her body what her mouth had already finished saying. She was fucking herself on him, impaling herself, asking without asking. Lorenzo spat on her back and ran his thumb through the saliva, then shoved that same thumb into her ass while he kept fucking her pussy. Camila howled. That double filling, the thumb in her ass and the cock up front, sent her somewhere she wasn’t coming back from.

He flipped her onto the desk and threw her onto her back, over the plans that no longer mattered. He lifted her legs into a V, grabbed her ankles to open her wider, and slammed back in with one hard thrust. He pumped her with animal fury while squeezing her neck with his free hand, just enough to frighten her, just enough to turn her on. He watched her breasts bounce with each hammering stroke, pinched her nipples with the fingers he had left free, bent down to bite one while still driving into her below. Camila moaned with an intensity that kept rising, out of control, unable to cover her mouth even if she’d wanted to.

—Look at how I’ve got you, architect —he growled—. Look at how I’m opening you wide. Look at your pussy stretched by my cock.

He put one hand behind her nape and lifted her head, forcing her to look down, to see that entire cock going in and out of her, shiny with fluid, the lips of her pussy sticking to and peeling away from the shaft with every pump. Camila looked and her vision blurred.

—I’m going to come —she whispered—. Again.

—Come. Come on my cock, slut.

She came with a spasm that shook her whole torso, with her feet trembling in the air and her fingers gripping the Italian’s wrists. He didn’t even slow down. He kept fucking her with the same hunger, while she floated in that orgasm that still hadn’t fully passed. He gave three, four, five final thrusts, short and violent, each one all the way in, and pulled out at the very last second. He climbed over her, put the tip between her breasts, and came out with a hoarse roar. Thick semen streamed over her chest, her neck, her chin, her parted lips. A long shot, another shorter one, another that landed straight on her tongue. She opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue without being asked, taking what was left, swallowing the last of it with her eyes closed and a silly smile she’d never once worn in bed with me.

—That’s personalized service, baby —he said, flicking the last drops off his painted lips—. And this is only the beginning.

He ran two fingers across her chest, gathered semen, and brought it to her mouth. Camila sucked them like they were candy. Then he cleaned her neck with the tip of his still-hard cock, drawing lines over her fair skin, and she followed it with her tongue like a cat. Only then did he adjust his clothes with the calm of a man who has just signed a contract, and he tossed a towel beside her so she could clean herself up.

—Go to the bathroom, fix your hair. In ten minutes your husband’s coming back.

***

When they called me back to the office, Camila was already dressed. The cropped jacket neat, the skirt in place, her lips slightly pinker than normal. Only one thing gave it away: the desk was completely empty. The phone, the lamp, the folders with the plans: everything had been moved against the wall.

Bartoli came over with that winner’s smile and laid his huge hand on my wife’s shoulder.

—That was one hell of an introduction you gave me, kid. I had no choice but to hire her. If she wants, she’s our new architect already.

Camila made a sharp shoulder movement and shrugged that hand off at once. I saw it. I understood it. I saw the aversion, I saw the guilt too, I saw the exhaustion of someone who has just crossed a line and knows there’s no going back from the other side. She held my gaze for two seconds. I smiled at her like an idiot.

—Congratulations, baby —I told her.

We went down in silence. In the elevator I asked if she wanted to go eat something. She said she’d rather go straight home, that she was tired. I drove her home in silence. I thought about stopping halfway and asking her to tell me, to tell me the truth, to end it right there. But I didn’t stop. I didn’t ask for anything. I drove slowly, watching the lights, glancing at her at every stop.

We got home and she went to shower. She stayed under the water for forty minutes. When she got out, she went to sleep without dinner. I sat in the kitchen with a beer in my hand, knowing that the next day she was going to accept the job and that this interview would be the first of many. Knowing, above all, that I was no longer the one making her scream.