My Employee Fantasized About Me, and I Taught Him to Obey

I walked behind his desk because the printer in the back had run out of toner again and no one in this company is capable of changing a cartridge without asking permission. It was a coincidence. One of those coincidences that you keep replaying in your head a thousand times afterward, searching for a different meaning.

Mateo’s screen was open to a word processor. Not the spreadsheet he should have been working on, not the client email that had been waiting three days for a reply. A text document, full of paragraphs, with one word that stopped me dead in my tracks.

Military green.

I read two lines before I understood what was in front of me. They were my pants. The cotton ones I had put on that morning without thinking too much, the ones that fit a little too snugly when I sit down. He described them with a precision that made the back of my neck prickle: the fabric stretching over my cunt, the seam outlining my lips, what could be made out beneath them in the light, the tiny triangle of thong that, according to what he was writing, made his cock hard every time I walked past him.

I didn’t need to read the signature. There wasn’t one. But I knew that woman was me with the same certainty with which I recognize my own handwriting.

He’s talking about me. Right now, three meters away, with the most serious face in the world, with a hard cock under his desk thinking about my cunt.

I kept walking as if nothing had happened. I changed the damn toner with trembling hands, feeling cold sweat run down my back and a different heat, lower down, between my legs, that had nothing to do with the cold. My thong was getting wet. I could feel it with every step, that warm dampness soaking through the fabric, and I imagined what he would think if he knew his words had gotten me like this in thirty seconds. I went back to my office. I closed the glass door. And I sat there for a very long time staring at the ceiling, squeezing my thighs together, wondering how someone dares to do that during working hours.

The worst part wasn’t the audacity. The worst part was that I wanted to keep reading. And that I was already imagining slipping my hand inside my pants that very night thinking about him.

***

At noon the floor emptied out. The salespeople left together for lunch, the two women in administration went to their usual spot, and Mateo went downstairs to the street with his headphones on without looking back. I was left alone among the dead lights and the servers’ hum.

I should have eaten. Instead, I left my office and sat in his chair.

The screen was still on. In this company nobody logs out, no matter how many times I remind them in every meeting, and for the first time I thanked them all for it. I opened recent documents and there it was, first on the list, with a file name that was almost a provocation: “military green.”

I opened it.

There was more than I had managed to read at a glance. Much more. It described how he would yank those pants down to my knees, how he would rip my thong off with his teeth, how he would kneel behind me and pull my ass cheeks apart with both hands so he could bury his tongue in my cunt from behind. He detailed how he would lick my lips one by one, how he would slide two fingers inside me to the hilt while biting my ass cheeks, how he would drive his cock into me in one sudden thrust as soon as he heard me moan the first time. The exact order. The exact position. What I would scream when I came.

It was raw and detailed and, at times, surprisingly well written, as if he had spent weeks polishing every line instead of working. Now and then a filthy word slipped out that you could almost hear being said in a low voice: slut, mine, wet, swallow it. Adjectives an employee should never use to talk about his boss.

I realized my legs were crossed tightly and had been that way for a good while. That my cunt had tightened just from reading it. That if I put my hand inside my pants right now, in his chair, I would pull it out soaked. I shifted in the seat. Bastard. That was what I was thinking as I read it, and at the same time it was a lie, because no man had ever devoted so much attention to me without touching me, and none had ever made me squeeze my thighs like this over a Word document.

I could have fired him. I had proof, I had the file, I had the company letterhead in my name. One call to HR and Mateo would be out on the street that same afternoon with a letter and a cardboard box of his things.

But I didn’t want him to leave. I wanted something else, and as the idea took shape I could feel a smile forming on my face that had nothing innocent about it. I wanted him writing like this for me every night. I wanted him watching me cross the office with a hard cock, unable to do a thing. I wanted him to learn that his mouth, his hands, and his cock belonged to me from that noon on, and that he would only fuck me when I decided.

I deleted the last line of his document. I put the cursor at the end, where he had left the sentence hanging, and I started typing.

***

“Yes, I am wearing a thong. And yes, I’m wet right now reading you. I could drive you crazy, far more than your poor imagination can come up with. I could spread my legs on top of this desk and make you swallow everything that’s dripping from your mouth. But there’s one detail you’re missing, and it’s important: I’m the one in charge here.

I understand that your cock gets hard watching me cross the office. I understand it perfectly. It shows, by the way. Learn to cross your legs under your desk, or jerk off in the bathroom before I get here, like any man with shame. What I don’t understand is why you waste work hours writing about my cunt on a company computer, with a client waiting for your email since Monday. That, darling, is a discipline problem. And discipline problems are mine to solve.

So we’re going to do this my way. You’re going to write, yes, but not here. At home, at night, with your cock in your hand if necessary, on your own time. And you’re going to send it to me. If you do it well, if you describe me with the same sick precision you used for my pants — how you would suck my tits, how you would pry my cunt open with your fingers, how many times you’d make me come in your mouth before you fucked me — I’m going to read it. Maybe I’ll even touch myself reading it, slowly, with two fingers sunk deep inside me, imagining that mouth of yours that keeps smiling at me while it sucks me. I may come thinking about you. But you’ll never know that.

You’re only going to obey. You’re going to wait. You’re going to jerk off thinking about me and you’re going to crave my reply the way you crave something you know doesn’t depend on you. You’re not going to fuck anyone else while this lasts, understood? That cock is mine from today on, even if I haven’t touched it yet. And every time you waste another minute of work on this, every time I walk behind your chair and see something on that screen that shouldn’t be there, you’ll go a whole week without your reward. No coming thinking about me. Nothing.

Signed: your boss.”

I saved the document. I shut off the screen. I went back to my office with my pulse hammering in places where a boss should not have a pulse, with my thong so wet I could feel it stuck to my cunt with every step, and I ate my cold salad while reading reports I didn’t understand a single word of.

***

Mateo came back at two. I watched him sit down, turn on his monitor, and go very still. From my office, through the glass, I saw his shoulders tense, saw him read and reread, saw him turn his head toward my door a couple of times without daring to look fully. I also saw him subtly adjust himself in the chair, saw him bring a hand to his lap a second before jerking it away as if burned. He had gotten hard reading me. Good.

I didn’t move. I let him stew in his own uncertainty all afternoon, with that cock squeezed inside his pants and no permission to do anything about it. It was part punishment and part reward, and by then I was already enjoying not telling one from the other.

At six, when the others were packing up, I called him on the intercom.

“Mateo, come here a moment.”

He came in, closing the glass door carefully, as if it might break. He stood in front of my desk with his hands folded in front of him — covering himself, probably — jaw clenched. A man who knew exactly what he had done and had the faintest idea what was going to happen to him.

“The client email,” I said without looking up from the screen. “Did it go out?”

“Yes. This afternoon. Sorry for the delay.”

“Good.” I let him wait one second longer than necessary. Then I looked at him. “Anything else you want to tell me?”

He swallowed. I saw the exact movement of his throat.

“No. Nothing.”

“Perfect.” I went back to my papers. “Have a good night. And log out when you leave. Last time I’m saying it.”

He left. He didn’t say another word. But that night, at 11:15, my personal phone vibrated with a message from a number I didn’t have saved. How he got my private number is something I still don’t know and, at that moment, mattered less than nothing.

It was a text. Long. He had done it well.

***

I read the whole thing twice, lying on my bed with the light off. He described me with a care that bordered on devotion: not just what he wanted to do to me, but the way I moved around the office, how I rested my hip on the edge of desks when I talked, the way I bit my pen when I concentrated. Then came the other part. How he would tear my blouse off button by button with his teeth until my tits were bare on top of my own desk. How he would suck my nipples slowly, one after the other, until they were hard and purple. How he would lift my skirt to my waist, move my thong aside with one finger, and lick my cunt with the tip of his tongue tracing circles around my clit until I begged him to shove it all the way in. How many fingers he would put in me, in what order, and at what exact moment he would pull out his cock and ram it into me to the hilt, holding me by the hair, with the other arm pinning my waist to the table. He promised to make me come three times before he came on my tits.

He had been watching me for months. And instead of feeling invaded, I felt, for the first time in a long while, completely seen. And fucked in advance, even if only with words.

I did exactly what I had promised him and he would never know. I yanked off my pajama bottoms and underwear, opened my legs on top of the duvet, and slid my hand between my thighs, slowly, unhurried, rereading his sentences with my other hand holding the phone above my face. I found myself soaked, more than I had been in months. I ran my middle finger over my lips, up and down, feeling everything swell, feeling my clit harden until it throbbed. I pushed two fingers inside and squeezed the walls of my cunt around them, imagining they were his, imagining how he would move them, how he would curl them upward while whispering “slut” in my ear like in his document.

With my other hand I pulled my shirt up and pinched my nipples, first one, then the other, hard. I thought about his serious mouth, his tense shoulders in front of my door, how easy it would be to have him on his knees with a single word. I thought about forcing his mouth open and sitting on his face until I came all over his chin. I started moving my fingers faster, in and out, searching for that spot he had described with suspicious precision, as if he had already done it to me a thousand times in his head. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t cry out. My cunt clenched suddenly around my fingers, in waves, soaking my hand to the wrist, and I came whispering his name against the pillow like an idiot.

I stayed there for a while with my hand still between my legs, breathing, feeling everything pulse. I brought my fingers to my mouth and licked them one by one, imagining it was his tongue cleaning me. I thought about writing to him. I thought about telling him exactly how I had come thinking about him. I didn’t do it.

I didn’t answer him that night. Or the next. I made him wait three days.

On the fourth, when I could already see him wearing himself out in his chair, when he had already started losing the smile he used to greet me with every morning, I sent him a single line from my phone, with no greeting and no signature.

“Good. But it still isn’t enough. I want more detail. Tomorrow, at two, I want you to be the last one left at lunch.”

***

The next day the floor emptied out just like always. Mateo didn’t go down. He stayed at his desk, pretending to sort folders, waiting for an order that still wouldn’t quite come.

I let him wait twenty minutes. Then I opened my office door and leaned against the frame.

“Come.”

He came in. I closed the door behind him and lowered the glass blind, that small gesture that changes everything in an office. When I turned around, I found him standing still in the center of the room, waiting, with that same tension in his shoulders I had already learned to read like a book. And with a very obvious bulge beneath the zipper. He got hard the moment he heard the blind come down. Good.

“You’ve been writing about me for weeks,” I said, walking toward him slowly. “Pages and pages. About my cunt, about my ass, about what you’d do with that mouth. I want to know whether all of it is just words or whether you really intend to do what you say.”

“Whatever you want.” His voice came out rough. “Anything.”

“‘Anything’ is a lot.” I sat on the edge of my desk and crossed my legs right in front of him, slowly, letting my skirt ride up a finger’s width above my knee, knowing exactly what I was doing. “Let’s start with something simple. On your knees.”

He did it without hesitation. He dropped to the office floor, onto the gray industrial carpet, eyes fixed on me and breathing unevenly. Watching him there, obedient, with his pants straining against his hard cock, was better than anything he had been able to write.

I uncrossed my legs. Very slowly. Spread them a handspan, then another, until I let him see, from his height, the triangle of my thong between my thighs. I saw his mouth go slack. Saw his throat move as he swallowed. Saw his whole body tense as if he might crawl toward me and didn’t dare.

“Look at me carefully,” I said in a very low voice. “This is what you’ve been writing about for months. Look at me. Don’t touch it. Not me, not you. Hands on your thighs.”

His eyes dropped between my legs. I saw his pupils dilate, his jaw clench until a muscle jumped in his cheek. His cock moved inside his pants. I saw it throb through the fabric, and I bit the inside of my cheek not to laugh.

“Is it wet?” he whispered, with a voice that was no longer his own.

“Soaked. And you’re not tasting it today.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my open knees, giving him a view of my cleavage. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to keep working. You’re going to meet your deadlines, answer your clients, and no one in this company will notice a thing. And when I decide to, only when I decide to, you’re going to have exactly what you’ve been imagining for months. You’re going to eat my cunt where I say and when I say. You’re going to swallow every last drop that lands in your mouth. And you’re only going to fuck me if I give you permission. Not a minute before. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

He swallowed again. He was learning fast.

“Yes, boss.”

I ran one finger along his jaw, feeling him tremble under the touch, and barely brushed his lower lip with my fingertip. He opened his mouth on instinct. I closed it for him by pushing his chin up with one finger.

“Not yet.” I allowed myself a long smile before stepping back and crossing my legs again. “Good boy. Now stand up, go to the bathroom and fix that.” I tipped my chin at the bulge. “Without touching yourself, come back to your desk and finish the quarterly report. I want it on my desk at five.”

He stood up unsteadily, adjusted his clothes as best he could, and left without a word, leaving the door half open. I watched him cross the floor toward the bathroom with his head down. I watched him come out five minutes later, sit down, take a deep breath, and start typing with a level of concentration I hadn’t seen in months.

I raised the glass blind. I went back to my chair, pressed my thighs together hard, aware that I wasn’t exactly at my best either, opened my email, and answered three pending messages with a cool head and absolute calm. Because that’s the part nobody understands about real power: it isn’t in shouting or punishing. It’s in knowing how to wait, in rationing desire in exact doses, in having a man willing to kneel and open his mouth for a single word from you and choosing, slowly, when you’re going to give him the chance to fuck.

The report landed on my desk at ten to five. Impeccable.

I left him a note on top, handwritten, with a single line.

“Tonight. Send me something worth reading. And come thinking about me before you go to sleep. I want to know tomorrow.”