Office

I hated her the moment she walked in: tall, quiet, unbearable. What I didn’t expect was to spend the night fantasizing about her—or what would happen after, in the empty office.

For months I’d imagined that scene in her office, but I never thought it would be her who made the first move, with the lock clicked shut and her perfume filling everything.

We’d hated each other at the office for years, but that night, with my fourth margarita in hand, her thumb brushed my bare thigh and everything changed.

When I offered her the job, she smiled and told me it was her turn to ask questions. The first was whether I’d take her to bed after dinner.

Every time she passed by my desk, I lost track of what I was doing. I never imagined one single slip would expose everything I felt for her.

She had trained for five years and never competed. On that last afternoon, when her coach straddled her, she knew it wasn’t nerves making her shake.

The secretary unbuttoned my blouse before I went into the office. I knew right away that this meeting with the director would be unlike any other.

Four office coworkers, new heels, and a boss with a plan. What happened when the last drink was empty was something no one dared say out loud.

She’d gone months without her husband touching her. That night, at the nightclub, I saw a small red ribbon hanging from her blouse and knew exactly what it meant.

I finished getting dressed on the edge of that bed and understood there was no turning back: the dutiful wife was dead, and I wanted more, much more.

Her husband came home tired and fell asleep in front of the TV. Her boss, on the other hand, looked at her as if he knew exactly what she imagined in the shower.

When Diego left me the car and went home with the child, I never imagined I’d end the night against a bathroom wall with another man’s mouth on my neck.

I went down to the pool thinking I was only looking for the gym and some sun. I had no idea they’d already decided what they’d do with me once the husbands closed their eyes.

She perched on the edge of the desk, opened her jacket, and said in a hoarse voice: “Now you can clear up your doubts.” And I knew that afternoon wasn’t ending in the office.

At three in the morning I sent the client my personal number. When her name appeared on my phone, I knew I’d crossed a point of no return.

Marisol sat on the armchair in her robe. She had just filmed her revenge with the man her husband despised most, and there was no turning back.

After that Sunday at the beach, none of my coworkers could look at me the same way. And my wife knew it: she was the one pulling every string.

I took off my ring before getting into the water. I didn’t want any souvenir photo to give me away, or for him to get ideas that weren’t his to have.

“Welcome to my beach,” his voice said behind me. I was completely naked on the towel, and he was the last person I expected to see there.

She told me, “Don’t trust my husband,” and I laughed. Three months later, my wife walked into my office unable to meet my eyes.