The Investor’s Suite My Husband Chose for Me

Rodrigo’s message arrived at noon, with the same calm he used when handing down sentences. It wasn’t an order or a punishment this time. It was an invitation to dinner.

Lesson four: the transaction. Your husband will receive a call from me today. I’ll introduce him to Mr. Hiroshi Nakamura, a Japanese tycoon with unlimited funds and a weakness for elegant women. You’ll wear what I choose. You’ll act out what I write. Diego will unknowingly direct his own humiliation. The package arrives tomorrow. Prepare yourself.

The next day I found the wrapping in the foyer. On a bed of black silk lay the “uniform.” I unfolded it in the bedroom with steady hands. I had crossed so many thresholds with Rodrigo Salazar that this one no longer made my hands tremble, even though it was going to happen before my husband’s eyes.

I undressed in front of the mirror and began the ritual. First, the black lace bra that held my breasts like a calculated caress, leaving my dark nipples partly visible. Then the thong, a minimal strip that disappeared between my buttocks and promised more than it covered. From the drawer I took the seamed stockings, black and gleaming, reinforced at the heel and toe. I pulled them on slowly, feeling the cold nylon climb my legs, until I fastened them to the garter belt, the vertical seam drawn like an axis of seduction.

Over them went the black tweed skirt, so tight it allowed only short steps. The semitransparent white silk blouse, with its buttons undone far enough to hint at the lace. Red-soled stilettos completed the uniform. I looked at myself one more time: a businesswoman whose only business was surrendering herself.

Diego arrived from the office, euphoric. Rodrigo had called him that morning.

—Camila, this Japanese man is the opportunity of our lives —he told me, running his eyes over me—. Rodrigo trusts us to know how to receive him. You look… perfect.

I saw the ambitious gleam flare across his face and knew he was already inside the trap.

***

Dinner was held in a private room at the most expensive restaurant in the city. Rodrigo, immaculate in his gray suit, made the introductions. Hiroshi Nakamura was a fifty-year-old man, slender, wearing fine-rimmed glasses and a smile that never reached his eyes. His gaze, however, was ravenous. It fixed on me from the first second and never let go.

They talked about Asian markets and projections. I poured the wine while he followed every movement of my hands, lost himself in my cleavage whenever I leaned forward, and devoured the line of my stockings when I crossed my legs. Diego tried to maintain his composure, but the wine and ambition gradually clouded his judgment. Every veiled compliment Nakamura paid to Rodrigo’s “exquisite taste” in surrounding himself with “beautiful assets” excited him more than he wanted to admit.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom. When I returned, the atmosphere had changed. Diego’s glass was trembling. Rodrigo drank calmly, like someone watching a game he had already won. Nakamura fixed his gaze on me again, this time with tacit permission.

—Diego, darling —I brushed his hand beneath the table—. It’s late. Maybe we should…

—Nakamura is inviting us to his suite —he interrupted me, his voice hoarse—. A better-stocked bar, a more comfortable room. Let’s go.

I looked him in the eyes. I had no reproach I could make. He had already decided for both of us.

***

The hotel suite was an exhibition of minimalist luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows, designer furniture, and a bar stocked with imported liquor. Nakamura asked permission with a tilt of his head and disappeared for a moment. He returned wearing an exquisite indigo silk pajama set, fitted to his body. He sat on the two-seater sofa and indicated the space beside him.

—You’ll be more comfortable here, Mrs. Márquez.

Diego and Rodrigo sat opposite us in individual armchairs, separated from us by a low glass table. The arrangement was a staged sentence: the spectators at one end, the merchandise at the other.

Nakamura brought me a glass of sparkling wine. Rodrigo poured himself a generous brandy and served Diego an even stronger cognac. They toasted to their “fruitful collaboration.” I drank slowly, feeling the Japanese man’s hand settle on my knee without asking permission.

Diego swallowed hard as he watched that hand begin to climb my thigh, pushing up the hem of my skirt. The tweed yielded inch by inch until the top of my stocking appeared, the straight seam, the garter band against my skin. Nakamura stopped his fingers right there, toying with the elastic.

—An exquisite design —he murmured, as though appraising a sculpture.

—Diego —Rodrigo said, cutting through the air—. Our friend Nakamura is making a fairly clear offer. And you seem willing to hear it.

Diego looked at me. I faced him without saying a word. The silent question hung between us: are you sure? He lowered his eyes, looked at the obscene contrast between my skin and the stranger’s hand upon it, and nodded. A small, cowardly, definitive movement.

***

Nakamura smiled in triumph. He knelt between my legs and caught the edge of my right stocking between his teeth. He began dragging it downward with his mouth, scratching my skin with his hot breath. The nylon slid over my thigh, knee, and calf with an obscene whisper that filled the suite. He repeated the ritual with the left, this time brushing the inside of my thigh with his nose. A shudder ran through my entire body, and I felt my thong suddenly soaked.

He made me stand. My heels wobbled for a moment. That was when Rodrigo rose from his armchair. Without a word, he removed his shirt, trousers, and belt, and stood in the middle of the room wearing only black silk briefs. His mature, toned body was another declaration of power. Diego stared at him open-mouthed.

—Art is observed without barriers, Diego —Rodrigo said, then returned to the bar to pour himself another brandy, arms crossed.

Nakamura undid the buttons of my blouse one by one, with calculated slowness, until the silk fell to the floor. Then he pulled my skirt down over my hips. I stood there in my bra, thong, and heels while three pairs of eyes devoured me. The Japanese man unclasped my bra from behind and slid it down my arms. My nipples hardened immediately in the air conditioning. He knelt for the last time, hooked his thumbs into the elastic of my thong, and lowered it very slowly over my thighs, knees, and ankles. I lifted one foot, then the other. I was completely naked except for my stilettos.

—Exquisite —he told Rodrigo, ignoring me—. Your taste, as always, impeccable.

Rodrigo nodded and fixed his eyes on Diego.

—And you? Do you approve the investment?

Diego opened his mouth. No sound came out. He only nodded. Again.

***

Nakamura untied the cord of his silk pajamas and let the trousers fall. He was naked from the waist down, his thick, hard cock pointing straight at me. He came close until the tip brushed my thigh. He looked at Diego with a businessman’s smile.

—Let’s talk terms, my friend. How much investment do you want? Just an initial prospecting? Half the capital? Or a hundred percent?

Diego understood the wordplay with a clarity that made him struggle to swallow. It wasn’t greed that answered; it was something older, darker, that voyeuristic streak I had seen in him only once in my life.

—Just a prospecting —he said hoarsely—. Then we’ll decide.

Nakamura laughed. He sat in the individual armchair and leaned back, his cock standing vertically toward the ceiling. He gestured to me.

—Mrs. Márquez. The prospecting, please.

I walked the few steps, my heels clicking against the wood. I positioned myself with my back to him, facing Diego and Rodrigo, and lowered my hips very slowly. I didn’t sit all the way down. I let the tip of his cock seek my entrance. He didn’t help me with his hands. With the slightest control of his pelvis, he brushed my already-swollen lips, moved over my soaked vulva, tested my inner lips, and toyed with the edge of my pussy like a man asking permission.

—Just prospecting —Diego murmured, gripping the arms of his chair.

Nakamura pushed the tip in barely an inch. The head of his cock forced its way a centimeter inside me. It tore a guttural moan from me that crossed the suite and lodged in my husband’s chest. I closed my eyes, then opened them again so I wouldn’t miss it. Diego was breathing unevenly, mouth open, and beneath the table he was feeling himself through his fly.

—More… —I whispered, my hips already moving of their own accord, seeking friction—. I can’t do this, fuck. Put it all the way in.

That was the signal. Nakamura growled, dug his fingers into my hips, and pushed me down as he raised his pelvis. His cock plunged all the way in. I screamed. I felt him fill me completely, felt the knot of humiliation and desire break at that exact moment. I began riding him desperately, rising and falling with my heels digging into the carpet, my breasts bouncing, my mouth open, my eyes fixed on my husband.

—Fuck me —I begged Nakamura without taking my eyes off Diego—. Fuck me all the way, in front of him.

The Japanese man obeyed. His thrusts grew harder, more rhythmic, raising his hips each time I lowered myself. The sound of our bodies colliding filled the suite. I braced my hands on his knees to hold myself up, arched my back, and let my hair fall behind me. Each impact tore a hoarser moan from me. I felt his thick cock spreading me open inside, touching places Diego hadn’t reached in years.

Rodrigo, leaning against the bar, watched me without blinking. He held his glass in his right hand. With his left, concealed against his chest, he was moving something. Only then did I notice the tiny red dot of a camera. He was recording everything. Every thrust, every moan, every drop of sweat. Diego’s face, mine, the investor’s. He was documenting the lesson.

Diego sprang to his feet. He opened his trousers with clumsy fingers and pulled out his half-hard cock. He came forward until he was standing in front of me, his eyes glazed. He didn’t touch me. He stopped inches from my face while I continued riding Nakamura, and began masturbating with his right hand, squeezing the base with his left. It didn’t take long. Four strokes were enough to make him moan with a broken throat and come in spurts over my breasts, my belly, and the sweat already covering my entire body. His hot semen ran between my breasts and dripped down to my pubis, where it collided with the Japanese man’s cock still buried inside me.

Nakamura chuckled, aroused by the husband’s contribution. He grabbed my waist, lifted me, and forced me to kneel on the carpet, my elbows braced against the armchair. He penetrated me from behind without giving me a moment to recover. He dug his fingers into my hips, pulled my hair, and thrust all the way in with strokes that made me scream at every impact. I felt his testicles striking against me, his hard hand on my buttocks, his cock hammering inside me. The orgasm caught me like that, on my knees, filthy with my husband’s come and a stranger’s cock buried to the hilt. I screamed with my face against the leather of the armchair, convulsing all over, squeezing around him until he too let go with a growl and filled me inside with a viscous warmth I felt rising through my belly.

***

I collapsed onto the carpet, panting, with the semen of two men marking my body. Nakamura sank back against the cushions, satisfied. Diego stood three feet away, his cock still in his hand, soft now, staring at me with a mixture of astonishment, shame, and a twisted lust he didn’t dare name.

Rodrigo lowered the camera. The red light went out. He approached Diego, placed a hand on his shoulder, and looked at him the way one looks at a business partner.

—Congratulations. The investment is closed.

Diego nodded without fully understanding what he had just signed. I understood. I picked up my thong from the table, wrapped it around my hand, and remained seated on the carpet for another moment, feeling the viscous warmth slide between my thighs, Rodrigo’s gaze from the bar, and the certainty that night was not an ending. It was the beginning of a much darker chapter in the education Rodrigo Salazar had decided to give me, now with the evidence stored in his pocket.