We used to carpool. I miss those days. My wife, Olivia, had been forced to commute to a different Sales Office in Santa Fe for the last five months, and had gotten home late again.
Since graduation from Stanford – her in Business and I in I.T. – and our marriage and move to Albuquerque, we had both been working for a large I.T. company based in New Mexico. We had both been moving up in the company for the last fifteen years and had, until recently, been able to work in the same campus. We carpooled, had lunch together, spent as much time together as we could; we're in love.
Five months ago, that changed, and I'm pretty sure I know why. I remember the first time I met him; Ricardo. Olivia and I were at a company Holiday Party. Not black-tie, but one of the top hotels in town, evening wear, dancing, a nice buffet, and a D.J., like big companies seem to have to do every year.
Ricardo was working the room. Once you've met one of these short, machismo-soaked guys, you've met them all; all women want him, he's sexier than any other man, and it's just a matter of time until he'll be fucking your significant other. It's not about attraction for him, it's about conquest. His deep-seeded insecurities about being 5'5" and a glad-handing ladder-climber must be assuaged by meaningless sexual conquests and petty office politics.
Olivia and I were dancing, and Ricardo was circling the dancefloor like a shark circling a school of fish, sizing up the women and deciding who he would get into his room that night. Olivia had been a diver in college, and has kept her 5'10" frame long and lean with yoga ever since. Her chestnut hair was down to her shoulders at the time, the curls in front accenting her 34C breasts in the form-fitting dress she was wearing. Her pale, blue eyes pop under that dark hair, and she's athletic and model-pretty. I'm a lucky guy.
I saw over her shoulder as he locked in on her lean legs and her heart-shaped ass. We turned, and he must have enjoyed the rest because he had stopped. When I was again facing him, he was now evaluating me. Olivia is hot enough that I've been the recipient of this gaze a thousand times. The end result is almost always, "She could trade up." These pricks always discount our friendship, love, mutual respect, common interests, and shared history when they size me up. I'm not classically handsome or in possession of rugged good looks. I'm fit – I was a swimmer at Stanford, that's how we met – but I'm not ripped or even really muscular. I'm a tech nerd with a grower, not a shower. Easy prey, they think.
The song ended and we moved toward our table. Ricardo maneuvered himself to "casually" run into one of his colleagues. She's tall, and I'm taller at 6'2", and it was almost comical watching this runt standing in our shadow, trying to make small talk.
"It's Olivia, right," he asked extending his hand. "Ricardo Camarón, Regional Sales up in Santa Fe." Olivia shook his hand politely.
"Yes, Olivia," she replied. "This is my husband, Greg." He was still shaking her hand and barely acknowledged I was there. Olivia pulled her hand away. What a creep.
"Hi, Rick," I said, making a point of shortening his name. I knew these guys hated that shit. "Greg, I.T." He brusquely shook my hand and refocused on Olivia, but I wasn't done. "Doesn't Camarón mean shrimp?" Olivia smiled and hid a burst of laughter behind a cough. Ricardo glared at me, but started talking shop with my wife. I knew this guy was going to hit on her, but had no chance; no guy ever did. I excused myself to get drinks to give her the chance to politely shoot him down.
Ricardo was the Regional Sales Manager, so he was technically her boss' boss. She was a talented salesperson and knew office politics. She would handle it deftly. It turned out later that I had been the one to cross a line.
Olivia found me a few minutes later, rolling her eyes as she approached me. We shared a laugh at his ham-handed approach, had a few more drinks and dances, and retired to our room. As we usually did in fancy hotels, we had sex before going to sleep. Now, I understate it because sex with Olivia is great, but not exactly the stuff of men's fantasies. Don't get me wrong; Olivia is gorgeous and passionate and responsive and even a little aggressive once in a while, but she was raised in a pretty conservative family.
We fool around, make love, have sex, even fuck once in a blue moon, but it took a year of missionary before I could get her doggy-style. She wouldn't even put her hands on my cock for two years. Despite how much she enjoys when I go down on that fine, little pussy, she won't return the favor. No dirty talk. No spice. I wouldn't trade her for any other woman I've ever met, but she could be a little more adventurous in the bedroom.
After the holidays had passed, Olivia was reassigned to the Santa Fe office, working directly with Ricardo. Technically, it was a promotion without a pay raise, so she didn't exactly want to turn it down, but it would make her days longer, and we would both lose our regular lunch dates; And no more carpooling. She took to audiobooks to keep her company during the drive time.
It only took a few weeks before Olivia was calling to tell me about complaints she was receiving about her performance, or coming home in tears because she thought she might not be good enough for the increased responsibilities. She and I both graduated with honors from Stanford. I knew that her brains and talent were more than enough to handle anything she was assigned to do up there. So I supported her, consoled her, and did my best to help her navigate the new waters she was in. But I knew what was coming.
Another few weeks of the same bullshit from Ricardo went by before she told me one day he had made another pass at her. I swear to God, I wanted to kick that little fucker right in the taint. Olivia now suspected what I knew; that her transfer had been a pretense to see her more without me around. He thought if his mere presence wasn't enough to seduce her, that the old "we can keep your bad performance off the books" sexual harassment would do the trick.
Ricardo was slick. He hadn't been so overt that she could really file a complaint, especially since she had already received some low-level paperwork about her performance; it would look like she was trying to retaliate. But, being an I.T. guy myself, I knew we could find a tech solution. I suggested several things, and we ended up getting her a little spy-cam built into a pendant. She just might catch that sawed-off prick saying the wrong thing.
Her job didn't get any better over the next month, but as far as I knew, it wasn't getting any worse. She still got unwarranted complaints about stupid little things, and had become so frustrated with the commute and Ricardo's crap that she had been scouring the internet for another comparable job. I was afraid she was somehow achieving a status-quo with the Dick-less Wonder, and I missed my best friend. Now, though, at least here she was, a little later than normal, but home for the weekend and in a decent mood.
"I'm gonna jump in the shower," she told me as she was kicking off her heels and letting her hair down. "I wanna go out tonight." She unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it in the hamper. God, she was still hot.
"You need any help in the shower," I asked her. She smiled over her shoulder as she slipped her skirt down over that tight ass and her long legs, revealing that gap between her thighs she worked so hard to keep. Her everyday panties clung to every curve.
"Not this time," she demurred. "It's just a quick rinse." She undid her modest bra and those perfect tits bounced out. "Go get dressed and pour me a glass of wine." I was waiting to see her completely naked before I left, but she was shooing me out. "And dress up. I want fancy food."
She pushed me out of the bedroom and closed the door. I went into the den and opened a Cabernet, poured it into a decanter to let it breathe, and set out two glasses. I came back to the bedroom and heard the muffled sound of water in the shower. I opened the door and saw she had closed the bathroom door. So much for a peek before dinner. I went into the walk-in closet and picked out a nice pair of slacks, a dress shirt, sport coat, belt and dress shoes. I had the feeling she didn't want me to see her get ready, so I took my outfit and went to change in the den.
Thinking about my hot wife in the shower as I undressed was already interfering with the process. Imagining the warm water running over her tits, down over her tight tummy with the belly-ring she had gotten for me a couple years ago, into her pubes and down her long legs, her hands rubbing little soap bubbles all over smooth tan skin. But, like I said before, I have a grower, not a shower. When I'm limp, I shrivel up quite a bit. I don't know if it was all those years in the pool wearing a Speedo, or what, but it's not very impressive compared to all the other junk I've seen.
Right now, however, I had a full-on erection thinking about her and I had to work to get my 8" bone out of my jeans to change clothes. Just to see if I still could, I hung my jeans off of my cock; Still barely any deflection. Cold-rolled steel; a cat couldn't scratch it. I slipped off my work polo and threw it over the back of the sofa with my jeans and poured the wine. After a glass and some random thoughts about work, I was able to get dressed.
I found a chair that faced the bedroom door and sat, wondering which of her nice dresses she would choose. Olivia was attractive, and always looked good when we went out, but it was never anything like club-wear or the like. She didn't need to draw any more attention than she normally got from people. She was classy and reserved out in public.
The door finally cracked open and she peeked out.
"You ready," she asked. I could see she had done her hair and makeup, but nothing else. "Ooh, you look nice." She stepped back from the door and said, "I hope you like this." She opened the door and I almost had a heart attack.
Olivia was wearing the proverbial little black dress. It was made of some sort of shimmering, stretch fabric, cut way up high on her thighs, and it caught the light as she slowly turned around. It was backless and plunged down far enough for me to see the little dimples on her lower back. It had a slit up the back of the lower hem that promised all kinds of salacious views under the wrong circumstances. Her black pumps were higher than I'd ever seen on her. She was tall enough to never need more than flats, but they had to be at least four inches, and they did marvelous things to her calves and her ass.
It took me a second to realize she was wearing stockings. They were very sheer, with a tiny lace and sequin design up the outside of her legs. She never wore stockings, and I was pretty sure she didn't even own a pair of nylons. She finished her slow turn and I could see the lack of bra was not having any effect on how good her tits looked in that thing. Dressmakers are wizards. The neckline had a medium plunge to it, going down a few inches below her bust line, showing off all of her glorious cleavage. I could make out her belly-ring under the clingy fabric.
Her hair was teased and tousled into a mane around her face. She had done a marvelous job on her eye makeup, worthy of a porn star. She had finished the effect with dark, almost black lip gloss. I was stunned, to say the least. She looked at me with a hopeful smile.
"Do you like it," she asked, almost desperate for my approval. "It's not too much is it?"
"My God, Liv," I gasped. "I've never seen anything so...hot!" She clapped her hands together like a little girl, and made a happy little noise.
"I was afraid you wouldn't approve," she said, coming over to me as I rose out of my chair. She gave me a tight hug and came away, her eyes glistening with happiness. "Look. I'm as tall as you, now." She kissed me on the cheek and squeezed me again, clearly relieved at my reaction. I returned her embrace and rocked her side to side.
