When His Wife Called Me a Bitch, I Proved Her Right

I’m thirty-six years old and I’ve spent more than a decade working in what they call the corporate world. I don’t complain: it has its advantages. One of them is that you learn to read people very quickly, to know who wants something from you before they even open their mouth. Another is that, if you have discipline, your body responds. The gym has been my second office since I was twenty-four. My legs are long and firm, my hips are broad, and I have the kind of ass that makes people lose the thread of a conversation when I walk behind their desk. I know it. It doesn’t bother me. It’s simply part of who I am.

Rodrigo had been my direct boss for almost a year. Area supervisor, married, with that particular energy men have when they have a stable life but are always looking sideways without daring to do anything about it. He was polite, punctual, professional within reason. And he was also the type to take any excuse to pass close to my desk, to toss out some half-quiet comment that could be interpreted two different ways depending on who heard it.

I ignored him. Not for lack of interest, but as a matter of principle. I have my rules.

His wife started showing up at the office a few weeks after I arrived. The first time she brought lunch. The second, some documents she could have emailed. By the third, it was clear she was coming to keep an eye on me, not on him. She watched me with that specific look: the exact mix of contempt and insecurity people have when they know exactly what they fear but can’t name it without looking bad.

I never gave her a reason. I always behaved with absolute propriety. I dressed in office clothes that, yes, fit me snugly because all my clothes do. That wasn’t my problem.

***

Everything changed on a Tuesday at the end of October.

Rodrigo had stepped away from his desk for a moment and left his phone unlocked next to the keyboard. There was a notification from his wife with the beginning of the message visible. I saw my name. And then I did what I shouldn’t have done but did anyway: I took it and read it.

The conversation had more than forty messages. She’d been bombarding him since nine in the morning: jealousy in the form of questions that already contained the answer. And at the center of it all, me. Not by my name, but by the names she’d given me: bitch, whore, homewrecker, easy slut. With invented details about things I supposedly did around the office to provoke him.

What stopped me wasn’t that. Insecure people say things like that; I understand it.

What stopped me was Rodrigo’s reply.

He didn’t contradict her. He didn’t tell her she was exaggerating, that I was just another coworker. He played along with lines like “I know what she’s like” and “don’t worry, I know how to handle myself.” Which meant he’d been building that image of me in his wife’s mind for months and, at some point, he either believed it too or at least didn’t care enough to deny it.

I left the phone exactly where it had been.

Rodrigo came back two minutes later. He smiled at me as always.

I smiled back. But something inside me had changed with the precision of a click.

***

I spent the rest of the afternoon doing my job with a calm that was really something else. I wasn’t furious in that messy way that makes you make mistakes. I was cold, focused, and I had made a very specific decision.

If I already had the name, I was going to earn the title.

It was a matter of principle more than desire, though desire was there too. I’d spent almost a year being professional, discreet, respecting boundaries that weren’t even mine, and I still ended up being the villain in somebody else’s story. Fine. If I was going to wear that label, at least I’d choose how to earn it.

I’d also been in a complete drought for two weeks and was at that accumulation point where your pussy gets impatient and you catch yourself squeezing your thighs under the desk without noticing. Frustration and need blended that afternoon into something I had no reason to refuse.

At 6:45, the last coworker picked up his jacket and waved goodbye from the door. I waited five minutes. Rodrigo was still in front of his screen with a slight furrow in his brow, reviewing something with the concentration of someone who doesn’t know his afternoon is about to take a turn.

I stood up, took my empty mug as a pretext, and walked around behind his desk at an unhurried pace. I leaned in from behind, with my mouth very close to his ear, and spoke in a low voice but not a whisper:

—If your wife thinks I’m a bitch, tonight I’m going to give her every reason to be right. And I’m going to leave your cock so emptied out that tomorrow you won’t even be able to look her in the eye.

The silence that followed lasted about four seconds.

Rodrigo didn’t turn his head. His hands stopped moving over the keyboard. I heard him let out his breath slowly, very slowly.

—You saw the messages —he said. It wasn’t a question.

—I saw them —I confirmed, without moving.

—Is everyone gone already?

—I took care of that before the last one left.

He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then he turned his chair and looked at me in that way men look when they finally let go of control: without a filter, without the polite layer they keep up for hours. His eyes went straight to my neckline, then to my mouth, then back to my neckline. I put a hand on his shoulder, and before he could say anything, I lowered myself to my knees in front of him without haste, without theater, parting his legs with mine so I could settle between them.

He exhaled again, longer this time.

—Why now? —he asked, his voice a little rough.

—Because tonight I deserve it —I answered, and started undoing his belt.

***

I did it slowly. With that calm years of experience give you and men mistake for confidence, even though it’s really something more complicated. I pulled down his fly with both hands, dragged his pants halfway down his thighs, and grabbed his cock over the boxer briefs, feeling it hard and hot against my palm. He was already wet at the top, with that dark stain that gives away a month or months of thinking about this without being able to touch himself in front of anyone.

—Look at how hard it is —I told him, looking up at him from below—. And I haven’t even touched it for real yet.

I pulled down his boxer briefs and yanked it out. It came out hard, thick, the vein standing out underneath and the head swollen and shiny. I held it in my hand for a moment, gripping the base, sliding the foreskin up and down slowly so he could feel every inch. I ran my thumb over the tip and spread the precome over the whole head, never taking my eyes off his so I could see the exact second he stopped pretending he had control of the situation.

It didn’t take long.

Rodrigo put one hand on the edge of the desk and took a few seconds to decide where to place the other. He let it fall onto my hair with great tenderness, as if he feared any sudden move would ruin everything. I didn’t tell him there was no need to be so careful. I let him think there was. For now.

I took him into my mouth without warning. I licked all the way along the underside first, from his balls to the tip, tracing the path with saliva, then took him all at once, until I felt the head pressing against my throat. He let out a short moan, like he hadn’t expected it. I stayed there for a few seconds, my nose against his stomach, swallowing around his cock so he could feel it tight, then I started pulling back very slowly, sucking hard all the way until only the head was left inside me.

—Fuck —he muttered.

—Not yet —I answered, without taking him all the way out of my mouth.

And I worked at the pace I like: gradual, methodical, without pretending urgency. I’m good at this. I’m not saying that out of vanity but because it’s a fact Rodrigo confirmed that night quite clearly. I sucked the tip with my lips tight, circled the head with my tongue, then took him all the way in again in one go, choking myself a little on purpose so he could hear the sounds. Saliva started dripping from my chin and onto his balls, soaking his whole groin. I grabbed his balls with one hand, rolled them with my fingers, kneaded them while I kept sucking his cock to the base.

I let go with one hand and slid the other under my skirt. I was already drenched through the thong. I didn’t need much: two fingers outside the fabric, pressing my clit in circles, while I swallowed Rodrigo’s cock like it was the only thing I’d eaten in two weeks. That was true in a way too.

At some point he closed his eyes. At another, he made a sound that wasn’t exactly a word but didn’t need to be. His hand in my hair stopped being so polite. He started gripping me by the roots, setting the rhythm, pushing me down onto his cock every time I came up, and he wasn’t looking at me with guilt anymore. He was looking at me the way you look at something you’re about to use.

When I felt he was getting close, when I felt him get even harder between my lips and his thighs tensed, I pulled away sharply. I let his cock go and left it pointing at the ceiling, glistening with spit, throbbing.

—Stop —I said.

It took him a second to process it.

—What?

—Stop. I don’t want you to finish like that yet. You’re not wasting that load in my mouth.

I stood up, took his hand, and led him to the meeting table at the back of the room. It was big, solid, with that stability office furniture has when it’s built to last decades. I yanked my skirt up to my waist, pulled down my thong, and left it hanging from one ankle. I didn’t bother taking it off all the way. I braced myself on the table with my back to him, leaned forward with my elbows on the surface, and gave him my ass bare and my legs slightly apart.

—You always looked at me —I said, without turning around.

I heard his steps coming closer.

—Yeah —he admitted.

—How long have you been looking at me?

—Since the first week.

—How many times have you jerked off thinking about this ass?

He went quiet. I heard him swallow.

—A lot.

—Then enjoy yourself. It’s yours now.

He didn’t say anything else. I felt his hands settle on my ass and separate my cheeks slowly, with that slowness that would have been irritating in another context. That night it wasn’t. He opened me up, stared at what he’d been imagining for months, and let out a low moan, as if he couldn’t believe it.

—You’re soaked —he said.

—I know.

***

What followed was long and deliberate. Rodrigo was one of those men who, once they finally let go, are in no hurry. He knelt behind me without being asked and pressed his mouth to my pussy from behind, his tongue flat, licking me from bottom to top with delayed hunger. He’d spent months imagining exactly that taste and now he had it. You could tell.

He parted my lips with his thumbs and ran his tongue over everything, from my clit to my hole, and kept going upward. When his tongue touched my ass, I moaned out loud against the table. He didn’t stop. He alternated between both holes without me having to ask twice: he sucked my clit until my legs started trembling, and when he felt I was about to come, he went up and slid his tongue into my ass, lips pressing hard, then went back down again. He kept me on the edge constantly without letting me cross it.

—Put it in already —I told him through clenched teeth, my elbows sliding on the table.

—Not yet.

He slid two fingers into my pussy while he kept eating my ass. He curled them upward, found the spot, and started massaging it firmly, with that come-hither motion not everyone knows how to do. Rodrigo knew it very well. I have a low threshold when I’m really turned on, and that night I’d been turned on for hours, so it didn’t take long. The first time I came, I clutched the edge of the table with my fingers, squeezing his fingers inside me in spasms I couldn’t control, and let the air out against the surface without trying too hard to stay quiet. The sound of my moan echoed off the empty office walls.

—Good? —he asked, pulling his fingers out and licking them clean.

—Good —I confirmed, my voice shaking—. Now yes. Put it in.

He stood up behind me. I felt the head of his cock press against my entrance, rubbing outside, soaking itself in what was dripping out of me. He ran it over my clit, up, down, then pressed it there again without entering me.

—Ask me again —he said.

—Rodrigo, put it in already, don’t do this to me.

—Again.

—Put it in, please, fuck me already.

He entered me slowly, pushing in centimeter by centimeter, with the kind of care that only makes sense the first time with someone. He opened me all the way with patience, and when he reached the bottom and I felt his hips against my ass, we both let out our breath at the same time. He stayed there for a few seconds, still, letting me get used to the size, his hands resting on my hips.

We found the rhythm together in the first few minutes. Rodrigo started moving back and forth with long thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in to the hilt. At some point Rodrigo had said his wife had never given him this, and it showed: there was in every movement that specific energy of someone who has finally gotten where he wanted to be. No rush, no hurry. Just presence. And cock. Lots of cock, in and out with a steady rhythm, making a wet sound every time his hips slammed into my ass.

—More —I said.

And then he stopped being cautious.

He grabbed my hips with both hands and started fucking me properly, with hard thrusts that shoved my stomach against the edge of the table. There was no ceremony anymore. There was no polite boss tossing out half-quiet comments. There was a man who had spent a year thinking about this and who finally had it. He pulled my hair, arched my back by tugging at my waist, and kept driving into me to the hilt with a rhythm that made moans slip out of me on every stroke.

—Like that, like that, don’t stop —I told him with my face pressed against the table.

He ran one hand over my back, up my neck, and pressed my head firmly against the surface, not brutally, marking where I was going to stay. He slid the other hand underneath me and found my clit with two fingers. He started rubbing it while he kept fucking me from behind, synchronizing the movement of his fingers with the movement of his hips.

—Is that what your wife said you were? —he panted in my ear, leaning over me without stopping his thrusts.

—Yeah.

—Say it.

—I’m a bitch —I blurted, breath coming in ragged bursts—. I’m the slut fucking you in the office tonight.

—Again.

—I’m your slut, Rodrigo. Tear my pussy apart.

I hit the edge for the second time with much less warning than the first. Everything clenched, I squeezed his cock with my pussy in waves, and I screamed against the table without being able to hold it in. The body does what it does when it’s being handled right. He kept fucking me at the same pace while I came apart, without stopping, stretching it out as long as he could, until my legs turned to jelly and I had to hold myself up with my arms so I wouldn’t slide.

—I’m going to come —he said, his voice tight.

—Inside.

—What?

—Inside. Empty yourself inside me. Let it show on your face tomorrow when you look at her.

That was what did it. He drove his cock in to the hilt and stayed there, both hands clamped on me, and started coming in long spasms I could feel perfectly inside. Every pulse was hot, deep, endless. He stayed like that, pressed against the table with his forehead against my back, while his cock kept throbbing inside me, and then remained still for a while, catching his breath.

When he finally pulled out, I felt the cum run down the inside of my thighs. I didn’t even bother wiping it off quickly. I ran a finger through it, brought it to my mouth, and turned to look at him while I sucked it clean.

I straightened slowly, fixed my clothes, left the thong under the table —if the cleaning lady found it, or he did, that wasn’t my problem— and went to get the bag I’d left on a chair.

—That’s it? —he said from where he was, his pants still around his thighs and his cock hanging wet.

—For tonight.

—And tomorrow?

I glanced at him over my shoulder as I picked up my jacket.

—Tomorrow you’ve got dinner at home —I replied—. And I have to get up early.

I left through the side door before he could say anything else. In the hallway, the air was cold and the fluorescent light was brutal after the dimness of the room. I walked toward the elevators at a normal pace, as if I’d just finished another shift, feeling with every step how the cum was still sliding down inside my thighs.

***

What happened after that is not part of this account.

Rodrigo stayed the same: polite, punctual, with his half-quiet comments. His wife kept showing up at the office from time to time, though less often than before and with a different expression, more resolved and more resigned at the same time. I kept doing my job with the same efficiency as always, arriving on time and leaving when I was supposed to.

He never again left his phone unlocked on his desk.

And I never again felt the need to look at him.

Some things only need to happen once in order to be over. It wasn’t a love story or months of built-up desire or anything especially poetic. It was what it was: a decision made with enough information, carried out calmly, with no consequences that kept me up at night.

Rodrigo’s wife was right about one thing. I am exactly what she feared I was.

The difference is that that night, I chose it.