My Wife, the Red Dress, and the Boss’s Dinner

We arrived at the hotel a little after nine. The valet was a kid no older than twenty-two, wearing his uniform’s burgundy vest half-unbuttoned and sporting an annoyed expression that vanished the moment I opened the passenger door.

I got out first, circling the car with that eager helpfulness I hate in myself, trying to reach the other side before Carolina had to wait. The kid approached from my side, took the keys to my Corolla with an indifferent gesture, and ignored me completely, fixing his eyes on the door I was about to open.

I opened the door.

Carolina’s exit wasn’t a movement; it was a ceremony. First came the golden shoes, those platforms gleaming beneath the white light at the entrance. Then her legs, white, long, and shining with lotion. As she turned to brace herself, her red dress rode up shamelessly, exposing her thighs almost to the beginning of her pussy. One second more and the valet would have seen the thong wedged between her lips.

I saw the valet swallow, a dry movement in his Adam’s apple. His eyes flew straight to the shadow between my wife’s legs, searching for the line of lace, imagining the wetness. Once upon a time I would have said something, stared him down.

But I remembered what she had thrown at me in the car: “You like them looking at me, getting hard thinking about fucking me.” And damn it, she was right. I felt a cramp in my stomach and a tug in my cock when I saw the kid undress her with his eyes, imagining what I knew was beneath the fabric: the black lace thong wedged into the crack of her ass, barely covering her shaved pussy, which she had wet that very afternoon in the shower.

Carolina, aware of her audience, took a second longer than necessary to brace herself against the doorframe and stand upright. The fabric stretched with a barely audible creak, tightening over her hips and that monumental ass that seemed to have a life of its own. Once she was standing, she shook out her blonde mane and smoothed the dress with her palms, a gesture that outlined her figure instead of covering it. Her hands lingered a moment longer than necessary over her tits, adjusting the neckline, as if making sure her nipples pointed straight ahead.

Her nipples, hardened by the cold night air, made two aggressive points in the red fabric, two thick buttons boring into the dress as if trying to tear through it. They greeted the staff before she even opened her mouth. I saw the valet lower a hand to his trouser pocket, discreetly hiding the bulge that had just grown there.

“Thank you, darling,” she said, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was scanning the entrance to the ballroom, calculating who was coming in and who was leaving, calculating how many men she would get hard that night.

I offered her my arm. She took it without really leaning on it. She gripped me firmly, digging her nails slightly into the fabric of my jacket, as if guiding a skittish horse.

“Remember,” she whispered without barely moving her lips, maintaining a commercial smile. “Head up. Don’t look at the floor. And if someone looks at my tits or my ass, let him. Let his cock get hard looking at me. Let him go home and jerk off thinking about me.”

We walked toward the entrance. The sound of her heels on the marble foyer was authoritative. Clack, clack, clack. I tried to match her pace, but the difference in our height and her determined rhythm forced me to lengthen my stride unnaturally. I felt stiff, like an articulated doll being dragged along by a superior force, my cock already half-swollen and pressing against my trousers.

At reception, a hostess was checking the guest list. She was a slim, very young girl squeezed into a discreet black dress. When she saw Carolina, she had that automatic reflex: a visual sweep from top to bottom, looking for the flaw, the loose seam, the excess. She found no faults, only unfair competition. Her eyes went to the tits and then dropped again as she swallowed her defeat.

“Good evening,” the girl said, recovering her composure. “Name?”

“Andrés Beltrán,” I replied, clearing my throat. “Corporate Accounts.”

The girl ran her finger down the list.

“Beltrán and guest. Table 17.”

“Seventeen?” I asked, feeling the heat rise into my neck. I knew where that table was. In the back, near the kitchen and bathrooms, the territory of the new accountants.

Carolina said nothing, but her hand tightened on my arm. She squeezed hard, reminding me who was in charge that night.

We crossed the threshold of the main ballroom.

“All the way back there?” she hissed without losing her smile. “They really sent us to the forgotten corner?”

I felt my face burning. I searched for a quick excuse, anything to conceal my irrelevance in the company.

“It’s just that… surely the tables in front filled up. Aguirre invites a lot of people from outside and…”

“Please, Andrés,” she cut me off without looking at me, her eyes facing forward and her smile frozen for the audience. “You’re Aguirre’s errand boy. You bring him coffee, take his shouting, sign the papers he doesn’t want to sign, and even then he couldn’t save you a decent table? How embarrassing. You made me dress like this, made me put on this thong that’s digging into my pussy, come out without a bra with my tits out, just to sit next to the waiters rushing back and forth and the clatter of plates.”

I swallowed, unable to defend the indefensible. She was right.

The ballroom was meant to impress. High ceilings, crystal chandeliers imitating something more expensive than they were, round tables dressed in black tablecloths with silver centerpieces. There were at least a hundred people. The murmur of conversation was a constant hum, mixed with the clinking of silverware and generic jazz that sounded like elevator music.

We took three steps inside and the atmosphere changed.

There was no total silence—that would have been cinematic—but the volume dropped sharply at the tables near the entrance. It was an expanding wave. I saw heads turn. I saw glasses stop halfway to mouths. I felt the heavy, tangible stares, like strange hands rubbing my wife through her clothes.

Carolina shone. The red dress was a scandal in the middle of a sea of gray and blue suits and “prudent” black dresses. Beneath the ballroom’s warm lighting, her white skin seemed to radiate its own light. Her magnificent, exposed tits defied gravity and corporate decorum, bouncing softly with every step, two firm melons threatening to spill from the neckline with every stride. She walked with a hypnotic sway, slowly, letting each step send a jolt through her hips, aware that the black lace between her buttocks tightened and pushed farther inside with every movement, rubbing the string against her clitoris.

We passed the Systems table. Quiroga was there, a bespectacled, overweight guy who was always borrowing my stapler and never returning it. He was with two other engineers, quiet types who rarely looked up from their monitors.

When he saw us, Quiroga froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. His eyes opened enormously behind the thick lenses. He elbowed his colleague, nodding toward us.

“No fucking way,” he whispered, loudly enough for me to hear. “That’s Beltrán’s wife? Look at the tits on her, you lucky bastard.”

“Impossible,” the other replied, making no effort to hide it, letting his gaze travel down Carolina’s legs until it disappeared into the shadow of the dress. “The skinny guy can’t even lift a sheet of paper off the floor. How’s he going to lift her? With what cock?”

I felt a mixture of anger and triumph. Yes, I’m skinny. But the skinny guy was the one who would fuck her that night. Or at least that was what I wanted to believe. I straightened a little more, stuck out my chest, tried to project a possessiveness I didn’t entirely feel.

Carolina heard them too. She wasn’t offended. On the contrary, she gave a soft little laugh and ran a hand through her hair, sweeping it back. The gesture made her tits lift and project toward the engineers’ table, tightening her nipples against the fabric until the complete circles of her areolas showed.

“Looks like I have admirers,” she whispered, amused. “Look at them drool. That fat guy’s jerking off under the table, I bet.”

“Keep walking, Carolina,” I said, my voice cracking. “Don’t stop.”

But she stopped. Right in the middle of the central aisle.

“Oh, my heel shifted,” she said aloud.

It wasn’t true. I knew it. But she let go of my arm and sought support on the back of an empty chair. She bent forward to “adjust” the strap.

The movement was lethal.

As she bent over, the neckline opened like an invitation. From my angle, and from the angle of half the office, her tits hung out over the empty space, held up only by the taut fabric. I could see the beginning of her pink areolas, the milky whiteness of her skin, the depth of the cleavage where I liked letting my cum collect on the nights I fucked her between her tits. And behind her, the skirt rode up, outlining every curve of her buttocks and marking the exact line of the lace splitting her ass in two.

A thick silence settled around us. I saw an accounting manager set his glass down to get a better look, his mouth hanging open like an idiot. I saw the executive secretaries whispering among themselves with expressions of shock and envy, criticizing what deep down they wished they had, what their husbands didn’t do for them. A logistics guy shamelessly adjusted his cock over his trousers, not caring that his wife was a meter away.

“There,” Carolina said, straightening slowly, knowing every second counted. She looked at me and winked. A dirty wink. Did you see? it seemed to say. They all want to stick their cocks in me.

I was sweating cold. I felt exposed, ridiculous, as if I were the one standing naked. They’re going to say I’m a bastard, I thought. Or that I’m an idiot who can’t control his wife. But at the same time, my trousers were squeezing an erection I could no longer hide. The thought of those men—my superiors, my colleagues—visualizing my wife on all fours, her pussy open and her ass raised, sucking another man’s cock, gave me a painful, humiliating erection. I felt a drop of pre-cum mark the fabric of my underwear.

“Let’s get to the table, please,” I begged in a whisper.

“Relax, Andresito. Enjoy the walk. Look how hard they all are for me. Later, at home, when none of them can touch me, I’ll suck you while thinking about them.”

The sentence pierced me. I almost came right there, standing in the aisle.

We started walking again. Now the looks were more blatant. It wasn’t curiosity anymore; it was hunger. Hunger for cock.

“Well, would you look at that,” I heard a hoarse voice to my right.

I froze. It was Sandoval.

He was at Table 1, the “popular” table, right at the edge of the dance floor. Sandoval was standing, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He was tall, with broad shoulders that stretched his suit perfectly. He had that square jaw and three-day beard designed to sell cologne. He was a handsome man, there was no denying it, with conspicuous muscle even beneath his unbuttoned white shirt, black hair showing at the neckline. He took care of himself; he looked strong, solid, everything I wasn’t. The kind of man who had a thick cock, I thought, and hated myself for thinking it.

Beside him stood the one everyone called “the Blond,” a young man with honey-colored eyes and a perfect smile, with the body of a college athlete. He had been laughing at something until he followed his boss’s gaze and went silent, his mouth half open.

“But I must be looking at an angel…”

Sandoval didn’t look at me. His eyes locked onto Carolina’s cleavage with the subtlety of a head-on collision. He ran his gaze over her entire body, stopping at her waist, moving down to her legs, then coming back up to anchor on her tits. He didn’t hide it. He didn’t try to be polite. He looked at her the way one looks at a cut of meat in a butcher’s display, calculating where to sink his teeth first.

“Good evening, Beltrán,” Sandoval said, raising his voice enough to alert the nearby tables. He stepped toward us, invading the aisle with his physical presence. “I didn’t know you brought… company. And what company. How did you hide her, you bastard?”

I felt the urge to lower my head, smile nervously, and keep walking toward my corner table. Carolina’s hand clamped down on my biceps, digging in with her nails. Don’t move, that pain said. Look how he wants me. Look how hard he’s getting.

“Good evening, Sandoval,” I answered. My voice came out firmer than expected, fueled by the memory of our conversation in the car, trying to sound like the owner of the circus and not the clown.

Carolina let go of my arm and extended her hand toward him.

“Carolina,” she said. Her voice was sweet, with a metallic edge. “Andrés’s wife.”

Sandoval took her hand. He didn’t shake it; he held it. He leaned slightly closer, coming too near, imposing his height over mine, allowing his eyes to travel blatantly down the valley between her tits. He inhaled her perfume without hiding it, breathing deeply as if he were drawing in the scent between her legs.

“A pleasure, Carolina. A real pleasure.” His gaze was dirty, but wrapped in the charming smile he used to close difficult sales. “No wonder good old Beltrán runs out at six sharp. I’d run too if I had this waiting for me at home… these two magnificent reasons to get home early.”

Sandoval made a vague gesture with his hand, pointing at the air before my wife’s chest, as though trying to encompass the volume of her tits without touching them. Yet. I saw his fingers moving, imagining their weight, their feel.

“I don’t know how he manages to concentrate at the office,” the Blond added, laughing with that nervous laugh that revealed pure envy. “I couldn’t even answer the phone. My cock would be hard all day.”

Carolina didn’t retreat. On the contrary, she threw her shoulders back, tightening the red fabric even more over her nipples, giving them a better view of those “reasons” that interested them so much. The buttons were so hard they looked ready to rip through the cloth.

“There are plenty of reasons to get home early, Sandoval,” she replied, her voice velvety and promising trouble. “Some are visible at a glance… and others you have to know how to look for. With your tongue.”

Sandoval let out a hoarse laugh and stepped closer, completely breaking into my personal space until he stood in front of her. I saw the bulge in his trousers move.

“I like looking,” he said, lowering his voice. “With my tongue, my fingers, whatever it takes. In Sales, we specialize in finding opportunities where others see nothing. And believe me, Carolina, I see some opportunities here… enormous ones. The kind that get lodged in your mind.”

“Oh, really?” she asked, tilting her head, amused. “And what kind of opportunities?”

“The kind you handle with both hands,” Sandoval replied, fixing his eyes on her waist and slowly moving them upward until they stopped at her nipples. “The kind that require… personal attention. Firm. Prolonged.”

The comment went straight for the jugular. It implied that I didn’t have the hands, the size, or the cock to handle her. And worst of all, the Blond let out a mocking laugh.

“Don’t push it, Sandoval,” the Blond said, still staring at my wife’s hips, no doubt imagining how her ass would look raised on a bed. “You’re going to make Beltrán turn red. Look at him; he looks like he’s about to have a fit. Poor guy’s cock is going to fall off from the shock.”

Carolina didn’t blink. She held Sandoval’s gaze and, very slowly, reclaimed her hand, deliberately brushing his palm with her fingertips as she pulled away. A slow, almost obscene touch, dragging her nails along his lifeline as if she were caressing his glans.

“It’s a question of priorities, Sandoval,” she said in an almost confidential voice, while arranging a lock of hair. “Andrés knows the office isn’t going anywhere, but… let’s just say that at home, the demands are different.”

She paused, smoothing the dress over her hip, drawing both men’s eyes toward the movement of her hands, toward where the fabric tightened over her pelvis, exactly where I knew the black lace cut into her skin, right above her shaved pussy.

“And believe me, I’m much stricter than any boss. Andrés shouldn’t come home tired when he’s with me. There are things you can’t do halfway. A man has to keep me wide awake down there, hard and wet, or he’s no use to me.”

There was a two-second silence. The Blond let out another nervous laugh, spitting a little of his drink. Sandoval stood with his mouth half open, processing the challenge and the implicit promise. His eyes gleamed. He liked it. He liked that she was in control. He got harder; it showed in the taut bulge of his trousers.

“Well…” Sandoval murmured, recovering his smile, now more predatory. “You’ve got claws at home, Beltrán. I like that.” He looked at Carolina again, this time in the eyes, ignoring me completely. “I like strict women. The kind who know how to give orders and how to ride good shows. The kind who leave the bed sticky.”

I felt an emptiness in my stomach. They were flirting in front of me with brutal shamelessness. And I was standing there, holding my wife’s purse like a useless accessory, watching my coworker imagine what I possessed, measuring the width of her hips, calculating the weight of her tits, imagining how my wife’s pussy would open around his cock.

Shame burned me, but arousal kept me rooted to the floor, my cock throbbing inside my trousers. Look at her, I thought. She’s yours, but he wants to fuck her. And she’s letting him want to fuck her. Tomorrow he’ll be thinking about you, Sandoval, while he jerks off in the shower imagining your hands on her tits.

Before I could answer, a shadow fell over us.

“What’s going on here? Why are you blocking the way?”

It was Mr. Aguirre. The owner.

Aguirre was fifty, but one of those men who looked forty. Tall, slender but wiry, with silver hair combed back and the air of a classic film actor. He was undeniably attractive, with a natural elegance that intimidated people. He wore an Italian suit that cost more than my car and fit him perfectly. Beside him, his wife, a thin woman with a sour face, looked away in boredom, as if the employees’ presence gave her an allergy. She looked like a woman who hadn’t come in years.

Aguirre looked at me first, with the indifference reserved for furniture, but then his eyes slid toward Carolina. And stayed there.

I saw the change in his pupils. It was instantaneous. Aguirre collected beautiful things, and at that moment he decided to examine this new acquisition. His eyes traveled over the red dress, stopping at the absence of straps, imagining the weight supported by the fabric, calculating the value of the piece, calculating what it would be worth to get those tits in his mouth.

“Sir,” I said, inclining my head slightly, submissive out of habit. “Good evening. Let me introduce my wife, Carolina.”

Aguirre ignored my greeting. He stepped forward with crushing confidence, ignoring Sandoval as well, and stopped in front of her. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with my wife’s perfume.

“Carolina…” he repeated, savoring the name the way one savors a nipple before nibbling it. “What an appropriate name. You certainly light up the room.”

“How kind of you, sir,” she replied, changing her posture. She threw her shoulders back, thrusting her tits forward aggressively, almost obscenely, as if offering them to him on a platter. She smiled with the mixture of coquettishness and feigned respect she used with difficult clients. “Andrés has told me a lot about you. About your leadership.”

“Has he?” Aguirre smiled. He had a perfect smile, hard-lined and magnetic. “Beltrán is a good man. Loyal.”

He looked toward the back of the ballroom, toward Table 17, where a couple of accounting boys were waving at us. Aguirre frowned, a crease of displeasure marking his tanned forehead.

“Where were you headed?”

“To our table, sir. Seventeen.”

Aguirre shook his head, clicking his tongue.

“Seventeen? Nonsense. I’m not going to seat a woman that beautiful beside the kitchen.” He turned toward Sandoval and the Blond. “Make room at the main table. Beltrán and his wife are dining with us.”

“But Mauricio, the chairs are counted and…” Aguirre’s wife began in her shrill voice.

“I said make room,” he cut her off without looking at her. He fixed his gray eyes on Carolina again, this time lowering them openly to her tits and then raising them again. “I insist. I want her to tell us what a woman so spectacular is doing married to… well, to Beltrán.”

The humiliation came wrapped in praise. “To Beltrán.” As if I were a miscalculation in Carolina’s equation. As if my cock were too small for that woman and he knew it at a glance.

“It will be an honor,” she said, accepting for both of us.

She took my arm and dragged me toward the center of power. We walked behind Aguirre. I felt the eyes of the entire office fixed on my back, and on hers. Specifically, on the way the red dress tightened over her buttocks with every step, outlining her ass and hinting at the crack. I couldn’t stop thinking about the lace splitting her in half beneath the dress, wet with the moisture undoubtedly coming from her pussy with so many men looking at her, and about how Aguirre and Sandoval would now be thinking about it too, imagining the taste of that wetness.

“Stop walking so stiffly, Andrés, please,” she whispered amid the noise. “Your cock is showing. Although… maybe it’s better that way. Let everyone see that your wife turns you on too.”

How could I tell her I was nervous? We were sitting at the main table. And we had already enraged Aguirre’s wife.

We reached Table 1. Sandoval and the Blond moved quickly, pushing a spare-parts manager to another table to bring over two more chairs. Carolina was seated between Aguirre and Sandoval. I was placed in a corner beside the Blond. I had been relegated, but I had a panoramic view. A view of everything.

From my chair I could see Carolina in profile. She looked monumental sitting there, surrounded by handsome, powerful men. Her dress had ridden up dangerously when she crossed her legs, and her white thighs gleamed beneath the black tablecloth. Sandoval’s hand moved beneath the table, resting on the edge of his own chair, but his knuckles brushed my wife’s bare thigh. She didn’t move away. On the contrary, she uncrossed and crossed her legs toward the other side, allowing the contact to last half a second longer than chance would permit.

Aguirre leaned toward her to serve her wine, invading her space with practiced gallantry. As he did, he let his forearm brush Carolina’s left tit. She didn’t move, pull away, or say anything. She accepted the contact like a caress she was owed.

“Tell me, Carolina, what do you do? Because with a presence like yours, you ought to be in front of the cameras, not hidden away in Beltrán’s house.”

She laughed, throwing her head back and exposing her long white neck, that neck I liked biting when I fucked her from behind. Aguirre looked at that curve of skin with evident hunger, calculating where he would put his lips.

“I’m an event decorator, sir. I transform boring spaces into magical places.” She took the wineglass and held it close to her full lips, those lips that knew how to work wonders on a cock. “I like creating settings where people can… let themselves go.”

She ran her tongue over her lower lip before drinking. A slow, calculated gesture. I saw Aguirre swallow dryly.

“Interesting…” Aguirre murmured, staring fixedly at the way her lips touched the glass, no doubt imagining them wrapped around his glans. “Very interesting. Perhaps we’ll need your services soon. The office is very… gray. It lacks life. It lacks warmth.”

“Whenever you like,” she replied. “I bring warmth wherever it’s needed.”

Carolina crossed her legs beneath the table. Although the black tablecloth hid the action, the movement of her hips reverberated through her torso, tightening the fabric of her dress over her tits in a way that took the boss’s breath away. Her nipples stood out hard, two thick points aimed directly at his face.

“I’d love for a woman with your class to visit my office one of these days. So you can see how we might improve it. Alone, at leisure, without interruptions. I have a door that locks.”

He lowered his gaze for a moment, appreciating the change in angle, devouring the cleavage with his eyes, before meeting hers again. The invitation had been explicit. A locked door. During office hours. Without witnesses.

“It will be a pleasure,” Carolina added, without taking her eyes off him. Not once did she look at me. Not once did she wonder whether her husband approved of that appointment in a locked office.

She leaned slightly forward, invading the boss’s personal space, creating a sudden intimacy that excluded the rest of the table. As she leaned in, her tits nearly spilled out of the dress; Aguirre could see the beginning of her areolas, the shadow where the darker flesh of the nipple began. He didn’t pull away; on the contrary, his smile widened and he breathed deeply, drawing in her scent.

“To health, then,” he said, raising his glass without taking his eyes off her, with an obvious erection even through his expensive trousers.

“To health,” everyone replied.

I raised my glass of whiskey, which a waiter had just set down. My hand was trembling. I took a long drink, feeling the burn descend my throat, trying to burn away the mixture of jealousy, fear, and that damned arousal throbbing in my temples and my cock. My balls felt heavy, loaded, as if my whole body were begging me to come right there beneath the table while watching my wife offer herself.

It was happening. Exactly what I had wanted and what I had feared. I was no longer Andrés, the invisible employee. I was the owner of the most coveted object of the night, the man who had rubbed lotion into those tits everyone was now watching, the man who came inside that pussy every night. And the wolves were already circling the table with the shepherd’s permission, sniffing the wetness, sizing one another up to see who would stick it in her first.

Sandoval, on Carolina’s other side, leaned over to say something in her ear. His lips brushed her earlobe as he spoke; I saw a shiver run down my wife’s neck, saw her nipples stiffen even more beneath the fabric. She smiled and touched his muscular forearm. A light, casual touch, but she left her fingers there longer than necessary, squeezing his biceps through his shirt, measuring his strength. Sandoval puffed out his chest.

“What did he say to you?” I asked Carolina when Aguirre turned briefly toward his wife.

“Nothing,” she whispered with a wicked smile, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. “That he’d like to see me without this dress. That he imagines what color my nipples are. Things a gentleman shouldn’t say to a colleague’s wife.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That they’re pink. And that they’re very hard right now. Look at them, Andrés. Look closely.”

I lowered my gaze. Indeed, her nipples showed through the red dress with a clarity that left no room for doubt. Hard, swollen, filled with blood. They had hardened because of Sandoval. Because of Aguirre. Because of all those men undressing her with their eyes. Not because of me.

And still, I felt my cock give another tug, thick inside my trousers, leaking another drop of fluid.

I looked around. My colleagues at the other tables watched me with a new expression. There was no mockery anymore. There was envy. A dense, dark, hungry envy. How the fuck did this idiot manage that? their eyes seemed to say. But I also saw muffled laughter and whispers. Look at her offering herself to the boss. Look at her tits bouncing every time she breathes. Poor cuckold, he doesn’t realize they’re going to fuck her right in front of him.

“Tonight is going to be incredible,” Sandoval said, staring at my wife’s tits without the slightest decorum, almost licking his lips. “Right, boss?”

“Without a doubt, my dear Sandoval. Without a doubt,” Aguirre replied, looking at Carolina lasciviously, with that look that said, I’ll make her mine before the month is over.

I shifted in my chair, trying to look relaxed, trying to be the man Carolina had demanded I be, while watching Aguirre’s hand resting on the tablecloth dangerously close to my wife’s hand, his fingers tapping impatiently. Long, elegant fingers—fingers that would soon be inside my wife. I knew it. She knew it. Aguirre knew it. Only the logistics remained.

Beneath the table, I felt Carolina uncross her legs again. A small but deliberate movement. A movement that opened her pussy toward the right man. And it wasn’t me.

The dinner had only just begun.