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

We arrived at the hotel after nine. The valet parker was a boy no more than twenty-two, with the burgundy vest of the uniform worn half fastened and a face of annoyance that vanished the moment I opened the passenger door.

I got out first, circling the car with that servile hurry I hate in myself, trying to get there before Carolina had to wait. The boy came up on my side, took the keys to my Corolla with an indifferent gesture, and ignored me completely to fix his gaze on the door I was about to open.

I opened the door.

Carolina’s exit was not a movement; it was a ceremony. First came the golden shoes, those platforms gleaming under the white light at the entrance. Then the legs, white, long, shining with cream. As she turned to step down, the red dress rode up on her without a shred of shame, exposing her thighs almost to the root of her cunt. One second more and the valet would have seen the thong wedged between her lips.

I saw the valet swallow hard, a dry movement in his Adam’s apple. His eyes shot straight to the shadow between my wife’s legs, looking for the line of lace, imagining the wetness. In another time I would have said something to him, would have cut him down with a glare.

But I remembered the words she had thrown at me in the car: “You like it when they look at me, when they get hard thinking about fucking me.” And damn it, she was right. I felt a cramp in my stomach and a tug on my cock when I saw the boy stripping her with his eyes, imagining what I knew was under the fabric: the black lace thong wedged in the crack of her ass, barely covering the shaved cunt she had gotten wet this very afternoon in the shower.

Carolina, aware of the audience, took one second longer than necessary to brace herself on the doorframe and straighten up. 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. When 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 drifted for an instant longer than necessary over her tits, adjusting the neckline, as if to make sure the nipples were pointing straight ahead.

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

“Thank you, darling,” she said, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was scanning the ballroom entrance, calculating who was coming in and who was going out, calculating how many she was going to make hard tonight.

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

“Remember,” she whispered with barely a movement of her lips, keeping a saleswoman’s smile in place. “Head up. Don’t look at the floor. And if anyone looks at my tits or my ass, let them. Let them get hard looking at me. Let them go home and jerk off thinking about me.”

We walked toward the entrance. The sound of her heels on the marble lobby floor was authoritative. Clack, clack, clack. I tried to match her pace, but the difference in height and her determined rhythm forced me into an unnatural stride. I felt stiff, a jointed puppet dragged along by a superior force, with my cock already half swollen and pressing against my trousers.

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

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

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

The girl ran her finger down the list.

“Beltrán and guest. Table 17.”

“Table 17?” I asked, feeling the heat rise in my neck. I knew where that table was. At the back, near the kitchen and the bathrooms, territory for the new accountants.

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

We crossed the threshold into the main hall.

“All the way over there?” she hissed, without losing her smile. “Did they really shove us into the corner of oblivion?”

I felt my face burn. I looked for a quick excuse, anything to cover my irrelevance in the company.

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

“Please, Andrés,” she cut me off without looking at me, eyes forward and smile frozen for the public. “You’re Aguirre’s errand boy. You bring him coffee, you take his yelling, you 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 rides up my cunt, come out without a bra with my tits on display, just to sit by the waiters’ traffic and the noise of dishes.”

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

The ballroom wanted to impress. High ceilings, crystal chandeliers imitating something pricier than they were, round tables dressed in black linen with silver centerpieces. There were at least a hundred people. The murmur of conversation was a constant hum, mixed with the clink of cutlery and generic jazz that sounded like background music.

We took three steps inside and the atmosphere changed.

There wasn’t total silence, that would be movie stuff, but the volume dropped all at once at the tables near the entrance. It was an expanding wave. I saw heads turn. I saw glasses pause halfway to mouths. I felt the heavy, tangible gazes, like чужие hands — other people’s hands — rubbing my wife over her clothes.

Carolina shone. The red dress was a scandal in the middle of a sea of gray suits, blue suits, and “proper” black dresses. Under the warm lighting of the hall, her white skin seemed to radiate its own light. Her tits, magnificent and exposed, defied gravity and corporate decorum, bouncing softly with every step, two firm melons threatening to spill out of the neckline with each stride. She walked with a hypnotic sway, slowly, letting every step send a jolt through her hips, aware that the black lace between her ass cheeks was tightening and slipping deeper with each movement, rubbing the thread against her clit.

We passed the Systems table. There was Quiroga, a glasses-wearing, overweight guy who always asks to borrow my stapler and never returns it. He was with two other engineers, quiet types who rarely lift their eyes from their monitors.

When he saw us, Quiroga froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. His eyes opened wide behind thick lenses. He nudged his companion with an elbow, nodding toward us.

“No way,” he whispered, loud enough for me to hear. “That’s Beltrán’s wife? Look at the tits on her, motherfucker.”

“Impossible,” the other one replied, not even trying to hide it, sweeping his gaze over Carolina’s legs until it got lost in the dress’s shadow. “If the skinny guy couldn’t lift a leaf off the floor, how’s he going to lift her? With what cock?”

I felt a mix of rage and triumph. Yes, I’m skinny. But the skinny guy is the one who’s going to put his cock in her tonight. Or at least that’s what I wanted to believe. I straightened a little more, stuck out my chest, tried to project a proprietorship I didn’t entirely feel.

Carolina heard them too. She wasn’t offended. On the contrary, she let out a soft laugh and ran a hand through her hair, tossing it back. The gesture lifted her tits and pushed them toward the engineers’ table, making her nipples press against the fabric until the full circles of her areolas showed through.

“Looks like I have admirers,” she whispered to me, amused. “Look how they’re drooling. That fat one’s jerking off under the table, for sure.”

“Keep walking, Carolina,” I said in a broken voice. “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 reached for the back of an empty chair for support. She bent forward to “adjust” the strap.

The movement was lethal.

As she bent, the neckline opened like an invitation. From my angle, and from the angle of half the office, her tits hung in the void, held up only by the taut fabric. I could see the beginning of the pink areolas, the milky white of her skin, the depth of the cleft where I liked to let my cum gather on the nights I fucked her between the tits. And from behind, the skirt rode up, outlining every curve of her ass and marking the exact line of the lace that split it in two.

A thick silence fell around us. I saw a comptroller manager set his glass on the table to get a better look, mouth open like an idiot. I saw the executive secretaries murmuring among themselves with scandalized, envious faces, criticizing what deep down they wished they had, what their husbands never gave them. A logistics guy openly adjusted his cock over his trousers, not caring that his wife was a meter away.

“There,” Carolina said, straightening up slowly, knowing every second counted. She looked at me and gave me a wink. A dirty wink. See? it seemed to say. They all want to fuck 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 tightening around an erection I could no longer hide. The idea that those men, my superiors, my coworkers, were visualizing my wife on all fours, cunt open and ass lifted, sucking another man’s cock, gave me a painful, humiliating hard-on. I felt a drop of pre-cum mark the fabric of my underwear.

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

“Relax, little Andrés. Enjoy the walk. Look how hard they all are for me. Later, at home, when none of them can touch me, I’m going to suck your cock thinking about them.”

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

We resumed walking. Now the looks were more blatant. It was no longer curiosity: it was hunger. Cock hunger.

“But 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 on the edge of the dance floor. Sandoval was standing, whisky glass in hand. The man is tall, with broad shoulders that made the suit fabric tense perfectly. He has that square jaw and the three-day beard designed to sell aftershaves. He’s a handsome man, I have to admit, with noticeable muscle even under the unbuttoned white shirt, black hair peeking from the opening. He takes care of himself; he looks strong, solid, everything I’m not. The type of man who has a thick cock, I thought, and hated myself for thinking it.

Beside him was the one everyone calls “the Blond,” a guy with honey-colored eyes and a perfect smile, with a college athlete’s body. He was laughing at something until he followed his boss’s gaze and went mute, mouth slightly open.

“It’s like I’m looking at an angel…”

Sandoval didn’t look at me. His eyes fixed on Carolina’s neckline with the subtlety of a head-on collision. He took her in whole, pausing at the waist, dropping to the legs, then climbing back up to anchor on the tits. He made no attempt to hide it. No attempt to be polite. He looked at her the way you look at a cut of meat in the display case, calculating where to bite first.

“Good evening, Beltrán,” Sandoval said, raising his voice just enough to alert the nearby tables. He took a step toward us, invading the aisle with his physical presence. “I didn’t know you were bringing… company. And what company. So that’s where you hid her, you bastard.”

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

“Good evening, Sandoval,” I replied. My voice came out firmer than expected, fed by the memory of the conversation in the car, trying to sound like I owned the circus instead of 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 in a little, getting too close, imposing his height over mine, letting his eyes travel shamelessly over the cleavage of 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 on the dot. I’d run too if I had this waiting for me at home… these two grand reasons to get home early.”

Sandoval made a vague gesture with his hand, indicating the air in front of my wife’s chest, as if trying to encompass the volume of her tits without touching them. Not yet. I saw his fingers move, imagining the weight, the feel.

“I don’t know how he manages to concentrate at the office,” the Blond added, laughing with that nervous laugh that betrays pure envy. “I couldn’t even answer the phone. I’d have a hard-on all day.”

Carolina didn’t back away. On the contrary, she rolled her shoulders back, tightening the red fabric over her nipples even more, giving them a better view of those “reasons” that interested them so much. Her nipples were so hard they looked like they were going to tear the fabric.

“There are many reasons to get home early, Sandoval,” she replied, with a velvet voice that promised trouble. “Some are obvious… and others you have to know how to look for. With your tongue.”

Sandoval burst out laughing and stepped closer, completely breaking my personal space to stand in front of her. I saw the bulge move in his trousers.

“I like looking,” he said, lowering his voice. “With my tongue, with my fingers, with whatever it takes. In Sales we’re specialists at finding opportunities where other people see nothing. And believe me, Carolina, here I see some opportunities… huge ones. The kind that stick in your mind.”

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

“The kind you handle with both hands,” Sandoval answered, locking his eyes on her waist and slowly lifting them 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.

“Take it easy, Sandoval,” the Blond said, never taking his eyes off my wife’s hips, undoubtedly imagining how her ass would look lifted on a bed. “You’re going to make Beltrán go red. Look, he looks like he’s about to drop something. 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 withdrew. A slow, almost obscene touch, dragging her nails along the line of his life as if she were stroking his glans.

“It’s a matter of priorities, Sandoval,” she said in a nearly confidential voice, while tucking a lock of hair back into place. “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 to the movement of her hands, to where the fabric tightened over her pelvis, right where I knew the black lace cut into her skin, just above the shaved cunt.

“And believe me, I’m much stricter than any boss. It doesn’t suit Andrés to come home tired with me. There are things you can’t do halfway. A man has to keep me very awake down below, 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 implied promise. His eyes shone. He liked it. He liked that she had control. He got even harder; it showed in the tight bulge in his trousers.

“Well now…” 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, completely ignoring me. “I like strict women. The kind who know how to give orders and know how to ride a good show. The ones 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 handbag like a useless accessory, watching my coworker imagine what I had, measuring the width of her hips, calculating the weight of her tits, imagining how my wife’s cunt would open around his cock.

The shame burned me, but the excitement kept me nailed 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 Sandoval is going to be thinking about you while he jerks off in the shower imagining your hands on his tits.

Before I could answer, a shadow fell over us.

“What’s going on here, blocking the passage?”

It was Licenciado Aguirre. The owner.

Aguirre, fifty years old, but one of those men who look forty. Tall, lean but wiry, with silver hair combed back and the air of a classic movie actor. He is undeniably attractive, with a natural elegance that intimidates. 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 allergies. 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 to Carolina. And stayed there.

I saw the change in his pupils. It was instant. Aguirre collects beautiful things, and at that moment he decided to inspect this new acquisition. His eyes traveled over the red dress, pausing at the lack of straps, imagining the weight the fabric was supporting, calculating the value of the piece, calculating what it would be worth putting those tits in his mouth.

“Mr. Aguirre,” I said, inclining my head slightly, submissive by habit. “Good evening. Allow me to introduce my wife, Carolina.”

Aguirre ignored my greeting. He took a step forward with crushing confidence, also ignoring Sandoval, and planted himself in front of her. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with my wife’s perfume.

“Carolina…” he repeated, savoring the name the way you savor a nipple before nibbling it. “What an appropriate name. You light up the place, definitely.”

“Very kind of you, Mr. Aguirre,” she replied, shifting her posture. She threw her shoulders back, projecting her tits forward in an aggressive, almost obscene way, as if offering them up on a platter. She smiled with that mix of flirtation and feigned respect she used with difficult clients. “Andrés has told me a lot about you. About your leadership.”

“Oh, really?” Aguirre smiled. He had a perfect smile, hard-lined, magnetic. “Beltrán is a good asset. Loyal.”

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

“Where were you headed?”

“To our table, sir. Seventeen.”

Aguirre shook his head, clicking his tongue.

“Seventeen? Nonsense. I’m not seating a woman that beautiful next to the kitchen.” He turned to 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 a shrill voice.

“I said make room,” he cut her off, not looking at her. He drove his gray eyes back into Carolina, this time openly lowering them to her tits and lifting them again. “I insist. I want to hear what a woman this 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’ll 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 whole office fixed on my back, and on hers. Specifically, on how the red dress tightened over her ass with every step, outlining the curve of her butt and suggesting the slit. I couldn’t stop thinking about the lace cutting her in half in there, wet with the moisture that was surely coming out of her cunt with so many men looking at her, and that now Aguirre and Sandoval would be thinking about that too, imagining the taste of that wetness.

“Stop walking so stiffly, Andrés, please,” she whispered over the noise. “You can see your hard cock. Though… maybe that’s better. Let everyone see your wife gets you hot 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 parts manager to another table to bring two more chairs over. Carolina was seated between Aguirre and Sandoval. I ended up in a corner, next to the Blond. I’d been relegated, but with a panoramic view. A view of everything.

From my chair I could see Carolina’s profile. She looked monumental sitting there, surrounded by handsome, powerful men. The dress had ridden up dangerously as she crossed her legs, and her white thighs gleamed under the black tablecloth. Sandoval slipped a hand under the table, resting it on the edge of his own chair, but with his knuckles brushing against my wife’s bare thigh. She didn’t pull away. On the contrary, she uncrossed and crossed her legs again to the other side, allowing the contact to last half a second longer than would be casual.

Aguirre leaned toward her to pour her wine, invading her personal space with practiced gallantry. As he did, he let his forearm brush Carolina’s left breast. She didn’t move, didn’t pull back, didn’t say anything. She accepted the brush of skin as a proper caress.

“Tell me, Carolina, what do you do? Because with that presence you should be in front of cameras, not hidden away in Beltrán’s house.”

She laughed, throwing her head back, exposing that long white neck of hers, the neck I liked to bite when I took her from behind. Aguirre watched that curve of skin with obvious hunger, calculating where he’d place his lips.

“I’m an event decorator, Mr. Aguirre. I turn boring spaces into magical places.” She took the wine glass and held it near her full lips, those lips that knew how to work wonders with a cock. “I like creating environments where people can… let go.”

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

“Interesting…” Aguirre murmured, staring fixedly as her lips touched the glass, undoubtedly imagining them 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 want,” she replied. “I can provide warmth wherever it’s needed.”

Carolina crossed her legs under the table. Though the black tablecloth concealed the action, the movement of her hips rippled through her torso, tightening the fabric of the dress over her tits in a way that cut the boss’s breath. Her nipples stood out hard, two thick tips pointing straight at his face.

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

He lowered his gaze for an instant, appreciating the change in angle, eating up her neckline with his eyes before reconnecting with hers. The invitation had been explicit. Locked door. During office hours. No witnesses.

“It would be a pleasure,” Carolina added, not taking her eyes off him. Not once did she look at me. Not once did she wonder whether her husband approved of that locked-office date.

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

“Cheers, then,” he said, raising his glass without breaking eye contact, with an obvious erection even through his expensive trousers.

“Cheers,” everyone said.

I raised my whisky, which a waiter had just set down. My hand was shaking. I took a long drink, feeling the burn go down my throat, trying to scorch away the mixture of jealousy, fear, and that damned excitement pounding in my temples and my cock. My balls felt heavy, loaded, as if my whole body were asking me to cum right there, under the table, watching my wife put herself on offer.

It was happening. Just what I had desired and what I had feared. I was no longer Andrés, the invisible employee. I was the owner of the night’s most coveted object, the man who had put the cream on those tits everyone was now staring at, the man who came inside that cunt every night. And the wolves were already circling the table with the shepherd’s permission, sniffing the wetness, measuring each other to see who would put it in first.

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

“What did he say to you?” I asked Carolina when Aguirre turned to his wife for a moment.

“Nothing,” she whispered with a wicked smile, glancing at me sideways. “Just that he’d like to see me without this dress. That he’s imagining what color my nipples are. Things a gentleman shouldn’t say to a coworker’s wife.”

“And what did you answer?”

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

I looked down. Sure enough, her nipples showed through the red dress with a sharpness that left no doubt. Hard, swollen, blood-loaded. They’d gotten that way because of Sandoval. Because of Aguirre. Because of all those men stripping her with their eyes. Not because of me.

And even so, I felt my cock tug again, thick inside my trousers, leaking another drop of fluid.

I looked around. My coworkers at the other tables were watching me with a new expression. There was no mockery now. There was envy. A thick, dark, hungry envy. How the fuck did this idiot do it? their eyes said. But I also saw hidden laughter, whispered comments. Look how she’s offering herself to the boss. Look how her tits bounce every time she breathes. Poor cuck, he doesn’t realize they’re all going to fuck her right in front of him.

“This night is going to be incredible,” Sandoval said, staring at my wife’s tits without any sort of decorum, almost licking his lips. “Right, boss?”

“Without a doubt, my dear Sandoval. Without a doubt,” Aguirre replied, looking at Carolina with lust, with that look that says I’m going to make her mine before the month is over.

I settled myself in the chair, trying to seem relaxed, trying to be the man Carolina had demanded I be, while I watched Aguirre’s hand resting on the tablecloth, dangerously close to my wife’s hand, drumming his fingers impatiently. Long, elegant fingers, fingers that would soon be inside my wife. I knew it. She knew it. Aguirre knew it. It was only a matter of logistics.

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

The dinner had only just begun.