Business trip turned dirty: How I ate a married man’s ass in the hotel bar

The conference room was finally empty, the last PowerPoint slide long forgotten. Just me, him, and the hum of the AC.

Carlos.

Forty-something, wedding ring still shiny, the kind of guy who loosens his tie like it’s a fucking relief. We’d been flirting all week—accidental touches, lingering stares over shitty hotel coffee. But now? No more pretending.

“So,” he cleared his throat, stacking papers like he gave a fuck. “Tomorrow’s wrap-up at nine.”

I licked my lips. “Mmm. Or… we could wrap up something else tonight.”

His head snapped up. “Jesus, Minerva—”

I dropped to my knees before he could finish.

His belt clinked open, his cock already straining against his slacks. Fuck yes. I yanked them down, his dick springing free—thick, veiny, perfect.

“Uuufff que rico coño,” I groaned, spitting on it. “You really missed your wife, huh?”

Carlos choked out a laugh. “Fuck, you’re insane—”

I swallowed him whole.

Gagging, slobbering, owning him. His hips bucked, his fingers tangling in my hair. “Dios mío—sí, así—”

I pulled off with a pop. “Turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn. Around.”

He hesitated—married man guilt flashing—but then he obeyed, bracing on the conference table.

I yanked his hips back. His ass was tight, smooth, begging for my tongue.

“No fucking way,” he gasped.

I licked a slow stripe up his crack.

“AHH—!” Carlos jolted, his cock dripping onto the carpet. “You—you don’t have to—”

“Shut up.” I spread his cheeks, diving in. Licking, sucking, fucking him with my tongue. His moans were filthy, his legs shaking. “Sí, papi, así te gusta?”

He was babbling—half-Spanish, half-panting—when I shoved two fingers in his ass while sucking his balls.

“I’m gonna—FUCK—”

I stood, spinning him around. “Not yet.”

Bent him over the table, rammed him inside me. No condom, no mercy. His “OH GOD” echoed off the walls as I rode him backwards, his hands clawing my hips.

“You like cheating, Carlos?” I purred, slamming down. “Like fucking a puta on a business trip?”

His answer? A growl, his grip bruising. Perfect.

We came together—him pumping deep, me screaming—his load painting my walls.

He collapsed, sweat-slick, ruined.

I wiped my thighs with his tie. “Nine AM tomorrow, sí?”

His laugh was shaky. “…Fuck you.”

I winked. “You already did.”