The Afternoon I Decided to Prove His Wife Right

There are things a woman puts up with out of politeness, for work, or simply because they don’t bother her. Men’s looks stopped annoying me long ago. By thirty-five I had learned that having the body I have —firm legs from fifteen years of Pilates, wide hips, a waist honed by discipline, big tits no blouse can fully hide— means being watched. You get used to it, or you learn to enjoy it. Mine was always the second option.

What I never learned to tolerate was being called a whore in writing, as if it were a diagnosis.

But let me start at the beginning.

I joined a little over a year ago as an executive assistant at an insurance consulting firm. They assigned me to Damián’s office, one of the deputy directors, a forty-two-year-old man, married, with two children and a wife who showed up unannounced at the office at least twice a week. Elisa, her name was. Thin, blonde, elegant, with that tense smile of someone who is not at ease. I greeted her respectfully. I offered her coffee. I asked about the children. I never gave her a reason.

And yet, from the very first day, she treated me like a dangerous animal behind bars.

I understand jealousy. I look in the mirror and I understand it. Damián didn’t bother hiding it: the comments, the crude jokes, the “looking good today” every time I passed his desk. At first I answered with a tight smile and kept working. In time I learned to ignore him completely, because indifference was more humiliating for him than any reply. Elisa noticed too. She noticed everything.

But I wasn’t going to mess with a married man. Not out of morality —my morality in that area is flexible— but out of pride. I had never needed to steal anyone’s husband. If I wanted to get fucked, I kept my own schedule, with names, phone numbers, and times.

Everything changed on a Thursday at five in the afternoon.

Damián had left for an off-site meeting and left his laptop open for me to answer a few emails. “Anything that comes in, answer it yourself, you know how I talk,” he told me. A gesture of trust that included, through negligence, access to his messaging account. On the screen, his conversation with Elisa was still open. I was going to minimize it, but my name appeared in a recent message and I couldn’t help myself.

I read the whole thing. I shouldn’t have, but I read the whole thing.

“How was that bitch dressed today.”

“Cheap little whore, I don’t understand why you don’t fire her.”

“She probably already came on to you, those sluts are all the same.”

“The next time I go, I want to see you away from her, do you hear me.”

And Damián’s reply, two empty words —“calm down, love”— followed by an emoji, like he was talking to a dog to get it to stop barking.

I closed the tab. I sat down. I breathed.

It wasn’t the insult that hurt me —insults slide right off me—. It was the certainty that I had been impeccable for an entire year. That I had kept my distance, my professionalism, my clothes discreet within what my body allows. That I had given up an easy flirtation with a man who would have given me a raise just for letting a blouse fall. And still, to her, I was a whore. To her I was “that bitch.”

Fine, I thought.

Very fine.

If I was going to be a bitch anyway, I might as well be one for a reason.

***

I waited. I did everything that Friday with surgical calm. I took care of Damián as always, smiled at him as always, let him look at me as always. I paid attention to what time the women on the floor left, what time maintenance was gone, how long the last assistant took to lock up the kitchen. I figured that after 7:30 there wouldn’t be anyone left on the floor.

At 7:45, the hallways were empty.

Damián was still at his desk, typing unhurriedly, tie loosened and jacket on the back of the chair. I approached from behind, silently. I rested both hands on his shoulders. He tensed at first, thinking it was a joke, until I lowered my mouth to the level of his ear.

“Your wife thinks I’m a bitch,” I said, very slowly. “So tonight you’re going to fuck a real bitch.”

He didn’t answer. He stayed still in front of the screen, as if the wrong movement would break something. My fingers were already moving down, slipping over his belt, pressing through the outside of his pants on what I found hard from the very first touch. He was rock hard, swollen against the fabric, making a bulge like a teenager’s. I squeezed his cock over the pants with my whole hand and bit his earlobe.

“Are you… are you sure about this?” he managed to say.

“I’m not sure,” I told him. “I’ve decided. That’s different.”

I went around the chair and knelt between his legs. I undid the buckle, lowered the zipper, pulled down his underwear too, and took his cock out with a slowness I felt all the way to my teeth. It was thick, veined, the head purplish with a heavy drop peeking from the tip. I looked at it closely, ran my tongue from the base to the top, very slowly, collecting that drop with the tip of my tongue. I looked at him from below. He looked back at me with a mix of guilt and astonishment, as if he still couldn’t quite believe the sin was going to happen to him.

“Look at me properly,” I said. “This is what your wife imagines every night.”

I took him all the way into my mouth. Not gently. Not tenderly. All the way down, until my throat gave me that dry gag of the first times and my eyes watered on their own. I pulled back, breathed, spat on his cock, and gripped it with my hand, stroking him slowly while I licked his balls one by one, sucking them with my mouth open, letting saliva collect on my chin. I took him in again. All the way down again. And again. Setting an obscene rhythm, pulling him out and taking him back in until my snot mixed with my saliva and dripped down his cock in shining strands. Damián clutched the edge of the desk and closed his eyes.

“Look at me while I suck you,” I ordered, pulling off for a second. “Don’t close your eyes. Look at me.”

He opened his eyes. I held them the whole time, with his cock filling my mouth, my cheek distorted by the thickness pushing from inside. I ran my tongue over the crown, over the frenulum, hollowed my cheeks and heard him let out a hoarse groan. His hands were clamped so hard to the desk that his knuckles had gone white.

“Don’t you dare come,” I warned, lifting my mouth just a few centimeters, a thread of saliva hanging from my lip to the tip of his cock. “Not yet.”

I stood up. I unbuttoned my blouse at my own pace, button by button, and let it fall to the carpet. The skirt followed, then the stockings, and the bra came free with a shoulder movement that took me two seconds. I was left in my panties, black, already soaked in front, and I lowered them while looking at him, very slowly, until I let them fall over his shoe. The last thing left on me was the sound of traffic outside. He was still sitting there, with his pants around his ankles, his cock standing against his belly, looking at me as if I were a movie he hadn’t paid to see.

“Stand up,” I ordered.

He obeyed.

I bent over his desk, over the letterhead folders and the reports I had printed myself that morning. I pressed my tits against the cold wood, arched my back, and pushed my ass back, high, legs apart. I turned my head toward him over my shoulder.

“Before you put it in, I want you to eat all of me. The cunt and the ass. Slowly.”

Damián knelt behind me and did exactly as he was told without a word. His tongue was more attentive than I’d expected. He spread my ass cheeks with both hands, with his thumbs, and buried his face between my legs as if he’d been suffocating for months to do it. His tongue came flat against my cunt, moved slowly over me, searching for the center, sucking my lips, wrapping my clit in a soft suction that made me clench my fists on the desk. Then he moved up. I felt him lick my ass, without fear, without disgust, with the tip of his tongue pushing at the ring, circling around it, wetting me completely. Then back to my cunt. He slid two fingers into me, curling them upward, while his tongue kept working my ass, and I had to bite my forearm not to scream. It wasn’t the moment to make noise.

“Deeper,” I said through clenched teeth. “Put your whole tongue in me. Eat me like you’ve never eaten a cunt in your life.”

He moved his fingers faster, pulling them out shining and pushing them back in, and his tongue skidded everywhere, between my clit and my ass, and I started dripping onto the desk, onto his fingers, onto his chin. I could feel the juice running down the inside of my thigh. He gave the inside of my thigh a soft bite, sucked and left a mark, then went back up again.

When I felt I couldn’t take it anymore, I spoke without looking at him.

“Now. Put it in. Slowly the first time.”

He went in hard. Of course he went in hard. Men say yes to anything until the moment comes. I felt the whole thrust, his cock opening me with one push, and I had to bite my forearm not to scream. Not from pain. From pride. Because a woman who decides to be a bitch doesn’t give a man the satisfaction of hearing her moan on the first thrust.

“Like that,” I said, once I got my breath back. “Like that, very good. Keep going.”

His hands closed over my hips, fingers digging into the flesh. The second thrust was slower, more measured, more mine. I could feel him going all the way in, the head bumping inside me, the way he pulled back almost completely, leaving me empty for a second before filling me again. I started moving too, seeking him, setting the rhythm with my back arched, pushing my ass against his pelvis, listening to the wet, dirty sound of skin crashing against skin.

“Harder,” I asked. “Fuck me the way you’d like to fuck me when she’s not around.”

He started pounding into me with real force, with those dry thrusts that make the flesh slap. He grabbed my hair with one hand and pulled my head back, never letting go of my hip with the other. My tits bounced against the desk with every shove. His cock went in and out with a wet sound that was getting me hotter than any caress.

“Is this how you imagined it?” I asked between broken breaths.

“Better,” he panted. “A thousand times better.”

“Tell me what your wife says about me.”

He hesitated, without stopping his thrusts.

“Don’t stop now,” I insisted, pushing my ass back even farther. “Tell me.”

“She says you’re a whore.”

“Say it again.”

“She says you’re a whore.”

“Then fuck me like you fuck a whore. With both hands.”

He dug his fingers into my hips and sped up. The thrusts started echoing through the whole office, dry, brutal, the desk sliding an inch every three pushes. He bent over me, bit my shoulder, licked the nape of my neck, put two fingers in my mouth, and I sucked them like they were another cock.

“And what do you think?” I asked with his fingers still in my mouth.

Damián leaned in until his chest pressed to my back, never stopping, never pulling out. He spoke into my ear, with the lowest, most honest voice I had heard from him in the entire year I’d worked with him.

“I think she’s the luckiest woman in the world and doesn’t realize it.”

I closed my eyes.

That line, more than the thrusting, was what made me lose the first orgasm.

I shuddered forward all over, legs trembling, cunt clenching around him in spasms I felt one by one, soaking the quarterly report with a gush of warm juice, and he had to hold me by the hips so I wouldn’t collapse onto the marble. I screamed into my own forearm, long, mouth open. Damián wanted to pull out at that moment. I stopped him.

“No. You haven’t come yet.”

“Just a second,” he begged. “Let me… one second or I’ll come.”

We waited. I could feel him holding himself together inside me, his cock pulsing hotly, trying to come back from wherever he had gone. I laid my forehead on my own arms and waited with him, feeling him throb, squeezing him myself with my cunt muscles to torture him a little.

“Do you want to keep going?” he asked once he could breathe again.

“I want you to turn me over,” I said.

He lifted me by the waist. He sat me down on the desk facing up, legs open around his hips. The folders fell to the floor, a glass rolled away. I propped myself on my elbows, tits out, nipples so hard they hurt. He bent down and sucked one, biting it, tugging with his teeth until I let out a whimper, then the other. I grabbed his cock with my hand, guided it myself to my cunt, and started taking it in on my own, looking him in the eyes, watching centimeter by centimeter as he disappeared inside me.

He went all the way in again and this time it was different. This time he looked me in the eyes, and I looked at him. It wasn’t revenge anymore. It was something else. Something I had no intention of naming.

“Harder,” I said.

He obeyed. He grabbed me behind the knees, spread my legs wider, and started taking me head-on, with thrusts that lifted me off the desk.

“More.”

He obeyed again. Now he was wrecking me. Papers were falling, my tits bounced with every shove, I clung to the edge of the table so I wouldn’t fly off it. I could feel another orgasm gathering, denser, slower, pushing from deep inside.

“Suck my tits while you fuck me,” I ordered between gasps.

He bent down without stopping and caught a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard while he kept fucking me standing up. His tongue slid from one tit to the other, biting them, leaving them red. I brought one hand between our bodies, found my clit with two fingers, and started rubbing myself while he pounded into me. It lasted thirty seconds. I came again, longer, biting my lip until it bled, feeling the second orgasm climb my back like an electric shock.

“Pull out,” I panted, pressing his face against my tits. “Pull out and come on me. Now.”

He pulled out in time. He grabbed his cock with his right hand, shook it three, four times, the tip pointing at my belly, and finished over my stomach in thick, hot jets that splattered all the way up to my tits, because I gave him no other option; I wasn’t going to make the stupid mistake of letting him finish inside me, not even in the middle of a carefully planned revenge. I stayed looking at him while he emptied himself, watching his cock pulse in his hand, watching the last drop hang from the tip. I ran one finger over my belly, collected a little semen, brought it to my mouth, and sucked it off without taking my eyes off him.

He looked at me with that expression men have after they’ve just been ruined, all of them, without exception, from the first to the last. I sat up, took a tissue from the drawer, and cleaned myself with the same ease as someone putting away a file.

“Tomorrow you behave as if none of this ever happened,” I said while I dressed. “And Monday too. And every day after that.”

“But…”

“No buts.”

He sat in the chair, naked, exhausted, his cock still shiny and half-soft, staring at me as if he were watching his own funeral. I finished buttoning my blouse in front of the hallway mirror. I fixed my hair. I breathed.

“And one more thing,” I added from the doorway.

“Tell me.”

“You’re obviously not going to say a word to your wife. But if you ever answer her with ‘calm down, love’ after a message like yesterday’s, I swear it’ll go worse for you than tonight.”

I switched off the office light.

***

The following Monday, Elisa came to the office. She greeted me with her usual coldness. I offered her coffee. She accepted. My hand didn’t shake when I poured it.

Damián signed my raise two weeks later. I never asked for anything. He never said anything. Neither did I.

I once read that revenge is a dish best served cold. I prefer to serve it warm, just at the temperature of a living body, and make sure the other person eats it all with no right of reply.

After all, if a woman is a bitch, at least let her be a bitch who chooses who she barks at.