The Outlook Folder and the Blue Dress

By the summer of 2003, I was living a double life.

At home, I was the perfect partner. Living with Beatriz was easy; the sex was great, we had fun, and I was behaving like a proper family man. For six months, the old instinct was dormant. But the instinct never sleeps forever. It just waits for the right email.

It started at work. Catarina worked in a different building, a satellite office out of the city. We had collaborated on projects via phone, but I had never seen her until she came to our HQ for a meeting.

She was twenty-five, with a pretty face, gloomy eyes, and a shy, discreet way of dressing. She looked like the kind of girl who went to church on Sundays. We grabbed a coffee. I played the "Shy Guy" card, confessing that I got nervous around women. She smiled, a glint in her eye. "I'm not shy at all."

Back at my desk, she spotted a folder on my screen: Hot Fun.

It was where I stashed the hardcore viral videos and photos everyone shared in the early 2000s. "Hot Fun? That's cool," she said, leaning in. "I have a folder like that too. We should exchange some mails."

The game was on.

A few days later, after a weekend in the south with Beatriz, I emailed Catarina complaining about mosquitoes biting me all over. Catarina: I had a strange dream. I was kidnapped by two men who took me to the mountains. Me: Poor you! If I kidnapped you, I wouldn't take you to the mountains. Catarina: Really? Where would you take me? Me: To my place. But my girlfriend wouldn't approve. Catarina: What a pity. With her, it would be fun!

I paused. With her? Was she joking? Me: Do you like women? Catarina: I LIKE EVERYTHING!!!

That caps-lock sentence was the green light. We arranged to meet halfway between our offices. I led her to a secluded spot by the river. I parked my motorbike, she parked her car. I opened her passenger door, sat down, and skipped the polite kiss on the cheek. I went straight for the mouth.

She kissed back with a fury that matched her emails. My hands roamed over her conservative clothes and found the secret she was hiding: underneath the boring blouse were massive, perfect tits. We made out like teenagers until the clock—and her boyfriend—forced us to stop.

The next day, we escalated. We met for lunch, but food wasn't on the menu. I found a cheap hotel nearby. Once the door closed, the "shy colleague" vanished.

Catarina was a beast.

She had curves in all the right places—firm ass, big boobs, and a pussy that was perfectly shaved (a rarity in those days). When she came, her body seized up, and her feet cramped. I had to pause to stretch her toes out before diving back in. She rode me with abandon.

When I asked what she wanted next, she repeated her mantra: "I LIKE EVERYTHING!" "Can I fuck your ass?" "NOT YET!"

"Not yet" isn't "No." I was patient. I worked her up, put her in doggy style, and gently pushed at the back door. She accepted it. I fucked her ass right there on our first time. It was, without a doubt, the best lunch break of my life.

The problem with affairs is logistics. Hotels were expensive. I called my old friend Rui (the "Bald Guy"). He was living with his parents, but he had an empty apartment he barely used. He lent me the keys.

Our second encounter at Rui's place hit a snag. Catarina arrived with bad news: her boyfriend had hurt her the night before. A neighbor had spooked them while they were having sex, he jerked, and now she was sore.

"Plan B," I decided.

I couldn't fuck her pussy, so I fucked her tits. I slid my cock between those massive breasts, watching her face as she tried to suck the tip while I thrust. I came in her mouth, and despite the soreness, she left smiling.

Then came the "Unemployment Era."

Catarina’s contract ended, which meant she was home alone during the day. Her boyfriend never came home for lunch. I did. One Monday, she greeted me wearing nothing but a blue dress. No bra. No panties.

I didn't even make it to the bedroom. I lifted the dress in the kitchen, grabbing her tits, then dragged her to the living room. That day she had five orgasms. The highlight was sitting on the couch—her legs up, me fucking her ass, watching those tits bounce.

She was such a phenomenon that I couldn't keep her a secret. I told my cousin about the "Nymphomaniac." He didn't believe me. So, I arranged a show. I set up a webcam chat with her while my cousin hid out of frame. I charmed her into stripping. My cousin watched, jaw on the floor, as the "shy girl" from the office put on a show just for us.

It was a golden era of lust, fueled by secrecy. But even nymphomaniacs have a conscience. A few weeks later, she decided our "Happy Mondays" were impacting her relationship too much. She cut it off.

I went back to Beatriz, flipping the mental switch. That was my superpower: I could be a deviant at lunch and a loving boyfriend at dinner, and never mix the two.