The Employee Day Dinner Ended Somewhere Else

I’ve worked for eleven years in an office downtown where most of my colleagues are around forty-five. I’m one of the youngest, and that gave me the advantage, according to them, of not being as seasoned in the political maneuvers that simmer in hallways and cafeterias. Almost all of them are married; a few drag around a recent divorce and the melancholy of Mondays.

Within that fauna there was a woman who had already become an internal legend. I’m going to call her Mireya, because she still works there and I’d rather not play with her real name. She held the position of accounting coordinator for my area, and rumors claimed she’d landed the job after some awkward history with one of the executives. The truth was that the boss treated her with a familiarity that bordered on blatant.

You couldn’t say Mireya was ugly. She had a body shaped by motherhood —three children, the gossips said, by three different surnames— with big, heavy breasts you could make out under any blouse, a round, wide ass that moved on its own when she walked, and thick thighs that pressed her skirts until they creaked. She carried the air of a woman who knows what she’s worth in a room full of men. I was nobody to judge her; I just watched.

On Employee Day, the company treated us to a meal at a restaurant in Chapinero. There must have been about twenty-five middle managers, each with an official partner or, in some cases, more recent company. I brought my wife, Camila. By then I’d already been promoted to assistant department head, and formality required it.

Mireya showed up accompanied by a guy who looked like he’d come from an agency. He must have been about thirty, tight suit, measured smile. Later we’d find out the boss had paid him to escort her. The boss came alone, as usual. The head accountant came with a tiny girl, sweet-faced and not very built, but with a gaze that never settled on anything.

Dinner passed without incident. There were exchanged glances that could be interpreted a thousand ways, there were too-long toasts, and there were bursts of laughter that betrayed the amount of alcohol consumed. Little by little the married couples started saying their goodbyes, along with those who’d brought casual dates and wanted to hurry the rest of the afternoon somewhere else.

In the end, seven of us were left in the restaurant: the boss, Mireya with her escort, the accountant with his girl, and the two of us. When we were almost ready to leave, the boss suggested continuing the evening at his apartment, a few blocks away.

—I’ve got good liquor and I’ve got music —he said, as if those two arguments were enough.

Camila squeezed my arm and whispered that she preferred going home. I understood her. Mireya was wearing such a short skirt that when she bent over, the beginning of her ass showed and you could see the crease where her cheek met her thigh. But I explained to Camila, in a low voice while we waited for the bill, that promotions and projects got cooked up at these little parties.

—One hour, no more —I promised her.

***

The boss’s apartment was behind a small park that seemed bigger at night. It was a spacious place, with dark leather furniture and a bar cabinet in the back full of bottles of brands I could never afford. There were aged rums, premium mezcals, a couple of dusty cognacs, and liqueurs in bottles that looked like they came from an old pharmacy.

We split up by couples. Mireya sat pressed against the boss on the main sofa and sent her escort to play bartender. The accountant settled in with his girl near the window facing the avenue. Camila and I chose the sofa closest to the door, as if we wanted to keep an escape route.

Background music started playing, first something melodic, then something more rhythmic. The first drinks were light; the conversation, predictable. Office anecdotes, supplier gossip, vacation plans nobody would actually take.

With each glass, the polish started to come off. The boss was stroking Mireya’s thigh, first like someone resting a hand absentmindedly, then with a determination she accepted without even trying to hide it. I managed to see how the boss’s fingers moved up under her skirt, how they sank into the flesh of the inside of her thigh, and how Mireya opened her knees a little more to let him work. The accountant’s girl let out laughs too loud for the jokes being told. At some point, Mireya’s escort stood up, said goodbye with a curt gesture, and left. The boss then confessed to us, laughing, that he’d hired him to keep up appearances.

We were down to six. Camila drank slowly, but by nine-thirty she was suggesting topics, laughing with bright eyes, biting her lip between sentences. I noticed —and she noticed too— how Mireya would spread her legs just a little when she laughed, revealing the edge of peach-colored panties clinging to her cunt, the fabric outlining her lips. When she got up to dance in the middle of the room, she did it with calculated laziness, as if she knew exactly which hip to move and in what direction; her ass bounced with each step and her tits shook loose inside her blouse.

The accountant’s girl wasn’t far behind. She wore a pantsuit with blazer, but her little face and long neck were enough to make any movement look like an invitation. Camila was dressed more conservatively: knee-length skirt, vest, high-heeled shoes, and light stockings that gleamed under the lamps’ warm light.

At one point, while the others were laughing at something on the far side of the room, Camila leaned into my ear.

—Look at you, staring at Mireya like I’m not even here. Your dick’s hard for that slut, isn’t it?

—You’re imagining things —I lied.

—If you can strip her with your eyes, I can open my legs and see what happens too. Feel how wet my panties are, touch me.

She said it without anger, with a crooked smile I didn’t know her to have. I looked at her and understood that alcohol and the atmosphere had pushed her somewhere new. She crossed her legs slowly, took my hand, and placed it on her thigh. I lifted her skirt just a couple of centimeters and, when I reached the edge of the stocking, I kept going until my fingertips found the warm, soaked fabric of her panties. She was really wet, so much that the dampness stained my fingers. I rubbed over it slowly, tracing the slit beneath the cotton, and she let out a contained sigh. When I looked up, I saw the accountant and the boss no longer watching their partners.

***

It was Mireya who suggested the game, as usually happens in movies. She brought out an empty tequila bottle, we pulled the chairs into the center of the room, and started spinning it. The first dares were innocent: long kisses between couples, a shot of a liquor nobody had tasted, an improvised slow dance. Then came the clothes. First the shoes, then earrings, rings, watches. Every turn of the bottle stole a little fabric and a little shame.

Mireya had to dance on the coffee table. And dance she did. Even with a body that had been worked over by the years, she moved as if a snake were dragging inside her. She opened her blouse one button, then two, then three, until her tits popped out over the bra, two dark globes with the nipples marked through the lace. I watched Camila out of the corner of my eye: she was watching too, with that mix of envy and curiosity women reserve for those who dare more.

Then it was my turn to impose a punishment. Mireya had to choose the victim and choose the dare. She chose the accountant’s girl.

—Cover your eyes —she ordered. —You’re going to touch Camila’s legs and guess the stocking brand.

Camila blushed and for a second I thought about stepping in, but she got to her feet on her own, with an odd calm, and stood waiting in front of the girl. The accountant’s girl, seated on a stool, leaned forward with a nervous smile and brushed Camila’s calf. She named a brand. Camila shook her head. She touched the other calf. Wrong again.

Then Mireya stood up.

—I’ll help you, babe. Like this, look.

She slid her hands up Camila’s knees slowly, and kept going up her thighs, with fingers spread and firm, until the skirt bunched at her hips. I saw my wife’s white panties, snug, with a dark wet stain in the center I couldn’t ignore. Mireya didn’t bother pretending to touch the stockings: she ran her fingers over the soaked fabric, twice, three times, pressing Camila’s pussy with her palm. The caress lasted longer than it should have. Much longer. Camila closed her eyes for an instant and opened them, fixing them on mine, her mouth slightly open, breathing through her nose. I didn’t know whether to grant permission or protest. I felt my cock tighten inside my pants until it hurt.

Mireya slipped a finger under the elastic and pulled it out shining. She brought it to her mouth without taking her eyes off mine.

—Your wife is delicious —she said. —You share her?

Camila didn’t answer. Neither did I. She sat down herself, cheeks burning and legs badly closed, and downed another drink in one gulp.

***

By the time the bottle had spun enough, almost nobody had any clothes left. The boss was down to his briefs and a lonely sock, with a thick bulge outlined in the fabric. Mireya was in peach-colored lingerie, tits nearly spilling out of the bra and her panties tucked between the lips of her cunt, showing two dark triangles of flesh on either side. The accountant’s girl was in bra and panties, nipples sharp and pushing at the cups. Camila too, with her stockings still on and the waistband biting into her hips. I was in boxers, my already half-hard cock outlined to one side. The accountant kept himself covered with an undershirt and his briefs.

Mireya turned off the main lights and the boss lit scented candles she herself had brought in her purse. The music turned down and got softer. The conversations turned openly sexual: anecdotes, desires, comparisons. Mireya talked more than anyone; she ran a hand, with no attempt at subtlety, through the boss’s crotch, squeezed his cock over the fabric, and bit his earlobe, but he still wasn’t reacting the way he should. At one point he got up, went to the bathroom, and came back a while later with a new smile and a new hardness under the fabric.

—Alright, girls —said Mireya, once we were all too far in to back out—. Let’s make a bet. Whoever can suck her man the longest wins. Whoever makes him come in her mouth first loses.

She said it and, without waiting for an answer, yanked the boss’s briefs down. Out sprang a thick brown cock, veins swollen, head shining, and Mireya bent and took it into her mouth to the hilt without gagging, as if she knew it by heart. She started sucking it slowly, one hand at the base, pulling it all the way out and swallowing it again, leaving threads of saliva hanging from her chin. The boss threw his head back and put a hand on the back of her neck, setting the rhythm.

Camila stayed with her mouth open, watching, not reacting. The accountant’s girl let out a nervous laugh, looked at the accountant, looked at me, looked at Camila, and in the end she obeyed Mireya: she knelt in front of her partner, pulled his cock out over the elastic, and took it into her mouth. She sucked with her eyes closed, lips tight around the tip and going down little by little, cheeks hollowed by the suction.

Camila took a few seconds. Then she turned to me, without smiling, and came toward me on her knees across the carpet. It wasn’t exactly sensual. It was determined. She pulled down my boxers with both hands and grabbed my cock firmly, as if settling a debt. She licked it first from bottom to top, following the thick vein underneath, and then took it in all at once in one motion. I felt it hit the back of her throat, I felt her swallow, I felt her moan with my dick filling her mouth. She’d never sucked me like that at home. Never. She started bobbing her head up and down with a furious rhythm, grabbing my balls with one hand and digging the nails of the other into my thigh.

The three men stared at each other over the heads of our women and none of us said a thing. All you could hear were the wet sounds of the three mouths at work, the slosh of saliva, the occasional muffled moan, the creak of the leather sofa. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the accountant’s girl letting her face be fucked, saw Mireya open her bra and pull out her tits so the boss could grab them while she kept swallowing him, saw Camila looking up at me with glassy eyes and my cock filling her mouth.

After five minutes, Mireya stood up. She took off the two remaining pieces of clothing, ending up completely naked, with a shaved pubis and swollen, parted cunt lips, and climbed onto the boss facing us. She grabbed his cock with her hand, lined it up against her entrance, and sank down slowly, letting it eat its way into her centimeter by centimeter. When he was all the way inside her, she let out a hoarse grunt and started moving, first forward and back, then up and down, eyes closed and tits bouncing heavily in front of our faces. The moans she let out sounded more like performance than surrender, but they served their purpose: you could see the boss’s cock going in and out of her, shining with juice, all the way to the base.

—That’s it, daddy, fuck me good, in front of everyone —she panted. —Let them see me take it all the way in, let them see my cunt dripping.

The accountant’s girl let go of her man’s cock for a moment, her mouth a wreck of saliva, and stood up. She pulled down her panties and sat astride the accountant on the sofa, with her back to us, and started riding him at a nervous pace, bracing herself on the armrests. You could see her skinny little ass going up and down, the slit open, her anus puckering each time she sat all the way down.

I could not believe what my eyes were seeing. I had my wife’s cock in my mouth while two meters away from me a woman I saw every day at the office was getting fucked astride in front of us, and a girl I didn’t even know was riding her man as if she were alone in the room.

Camila lifted her head, a string of saliva hanging from her lip to the tip of my cock, stared at me hard, and held that look for a moment. I saw her swallow, saw her breathe in deeply, saw the background noise bring her back. Then she got to her feet, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, picked up her skirt and vest from the floor, and dressed herself without hurry but without stopping.

—Let’s go —she said, and it wasn’t a question.

I gathered my clothes, put them on badly in the hallway with my cock still hard and pushing at my pants, and we said our quick goodbyes. The accountant and the girl were still entwined on the sofa, her bouncing on him without turning to look at us. The boss had Mireya bent over the backrest, fucking her from behind, and neither of them heard the door close.

***

In the taxi ride home we didn’t speak. Camila looked out the window, her head resting on the glass, and I didn’t dare break the silence. I could still feel the heat of her mouth on my cock, and she, I imagined, could still feel the trembling of having been a step away from letting Mireya touch her in front of me.

When we got home, she went into the bathroom without saying a word. I sat on the bed and tried to process what had just happened. I didn’t know if I was turned on, scared, ashamed, or all three at once. My cock still wouldn’t go down.

Camila came out of the bathroom with wet hair, wrapped in a towel. She stopped in the doorway and looked at me for a long moment, assessing me. Then she let the towel fall to the floor. She was naked, her skin reddened by the hot water, nipples erect, her pubis still shining from the juice before or from the water, I couldn’t tell.

—Come here —she told me, in a voice that wasn’t her everyday voice—. Finish what you started in that house. But here. With me. And you look at me.

I got up as best I could. She lay on her back on the bed, opened her legs, and spread her cunt with two fingers, showing it to me pink and wet. I lunged onto her. I shoved my cock in with one thrust, all the way to the hilt, and she arched her back and let out a scream I’d never heard from her before. I started fucking her hard, gripping her hips, looking her in the eyes as she’d asked. She dug her heels into my back and kept repeating in my ear, her voice breaking, to fuck her harder, not to stop, to put it all the way in.

—Just like you wanted to fuck that slut —she panted. —Put it in like that. Break me.

I turned her over, put her on all fours, grabbed one ass cheek in each hand, and shoved it in from behind again, watching her ass slam against my belly. I ran a thumb slick with saliva over her asshole and she shuddered all over, pushing her ass back to take me deeper. I fucked her like that until I felt I couldn’t hold on anymore. I pulled out, turned her over again, and came over her belly and tits in long, thick spurts that hung between her breasts. She ran two fingers through my cum, brought them to her mouth, and sucked them without taking her eyes off me.

We lay there on the bed, sweaty, breathing hard. I turned off the light. Fifteen minutes later, without turning over, she said:

—Don’t take me to that kind of gathering again.

—No —I answered. —I won’t take you again.

That was the whole conversation. The next day, at the office, Mireya passed by my desk with a coffee and smiled at me as if nothing had happened, even though when she bent down to set the cup down she made sure to show me her entire cleavage and the mark of her peach-colored bra. The boss walked into the ten o’clock meeting with puffy eyes and his usual jokes. Nobody ever mentioned what had happened again, neither that week nor ever.

I learned something that night, and that’s why I’m telling it. The threads that hold trust together between colleagues, between couples, between strangers in a room lit by candles, are thinner than one thinks. All it takes is one bottle, a badly measured pour of liquor, and a couple of crossed looks for them to snap. Sometimes they get mended. Sometimes they don’t. I was lucky: Camila has a cool head even when her body wants something else, and that same night, in our bed, she showed me that she was the cool one and I was the hot one.

But now, when I’m invited to one of those gatherings that promise to continue somewhere else, I make up some excuse and go home with my wife, to eat reheated pizza on the couch, and to fuck her afterward the way she taught me that night. It’s less spectacular. But it’s also less dangerous.