The Father of My Boss Treated Me Like His Submissive

It had been a long time since I’d sat down to tell something true, one of those things you keep locked in a drawer and only open when no one is watching. My name is Mariela. I’ve been married to Darío for twenty years, we have a daughter who is almost a woman now, and I crossed the threshold of forty without any drama. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a resigned lady: I see a mature woman, with more curves than I had at thirty and a way of dressing that still turns heads in the street.

I work at Gabriel’s construction company, an old high school buddy who gave me a job when I needed it most. Ugly, arrogant, and generous in his own way, Gabriel supports me with “overtime” that never appears on any payroll sheet, and we both know perfectly well what those hours are about. I learned not to ask questions. Some pleasures are paid for dearly and others are paid for in silence.

That autumn morning wasn’t very cold. Darío took our daughter to school and I took my time getting ready to go to the office. Skin-colored lace set, a tiny thong in the same shade, and shiny lycra pantyhose that smoothed my legs like a second skin. Over that, a fitted pearl-gray dress reaching halfway down my thigh, black stiletto sandals, and my usual perfume. I like walking into a place and leaving a trail behind me.

—Gabriel isn’t coming in today —my coworker warned me as soon as I walked through the door—. He’s checking on the school site. We’re with the father.

I had known Gabriel’s father since my teens, but the man I remembered no longer existed. Don Augusto was now an old man of about seventy, bald, dark-skinned, with a thick mustache and brown eyes that knew exactly where to look.

***

Midmorning I went into his office to offer him something. He only asked for water. I brought him the pitcher and a glass, and when I turned to leave I felt his firm hand close over one of my buttocks, unabashed, like someone taking something he already considered his own.

—Don Augusto —I scolded, turning around—. I’m a married woman.

—I know —he said without flinching—. I also know my son takes you as his now and then. And if you like him, you should try his father. I’m older, but I also have more patience to teach.

I walked out of the office with my face burning and texted Gabriel, furious, that he had put me in an awkward position in front of his father. He took a while to answer, and when he did it felt like a soft slap:

“Baby, don’t get upset. Let the old man play a little. You’ll get something extra just for smiling at him.”

Shameless. He knew exactly how to handle me, with a precision that made me mad, because he knew the exact trigger that turned me obedient. I put the phone away and took a deep breath. He’s only an old man, I told myself. What could happen?

***

I spent the morning sorting invoices, trying to focus on the numbers, but the old man’s line kept coming back to me over and over. “I’m older, but I also have more patience.” I caught myself crossing and uncrossing my legs under the desk, uneasy with my own curiosity. It wasn’t attraction, I kept repeating to myself. It was something else, something dirtier, the question of what it would feel like to obey a man I didn’t even like.

The time flew by. My coworker invited me to lunch out, but I had arranged to leave early and said no. When she left, the office was empty and silent, with that electric hum from the fluorescent lights that suddenly turned deafening. Then I went back to the office to ask Don Augusto if he needed anything before I left.

—Come closer —he asked in a low, almost tired voice—. Chat with me a while. My wife died two years ago and I don’t have anyone to talk to anymore. Not with someone as beautiful as you.

I felt sorry for him. And I remembered Gabriel’s message. I sat down in front of him, crossed my legs encased in the shiny pantyhose, and let the feel of the lycra do its work. Don Augusto didn’t waste any time. He looked me in the eyes and, with the calm of someone who has nothing to lose, asked me to touch him, saying no one had touched him in years.

—How can you ask me that? —I protested, getting up to leave.

But I didn’t leave with enough determination. He insisted, without begging, gently ordering me, repeating that I was beautiful, that I shouldn’t be mean, that I should give him a little. And I told myself that in the end it was only touching a poor old man, an act of charity with no consequences. I moved closer to his armchair.

—I’m only going to touch you —I warned him—. Nothing more. And you don’t tell anyone.

—Touch me and then you decide what else to do —he answered, staring straight at me.

He lowered the zipper of his pants and settled himself in the chair. I slipped my hand in timidly and what I found left me speechless: it wasn’t the flabby flesh I expected, but a hard, hot cock, throbbing against my palm. I stroked him through his underwear, unable to believe it, and when I smiled at him, I knew I had already lost.

His hands began to roam over my buttocks, first over the fabric of my dress, then underneath, over the pantyhose, while I freed him from his pants and held him fully in my hand. He was big, thick, with a strong masculine smell that in other circumstances would have repelled me and that morning, for some reason I couldn’t explain, turned me on.

I knelt in front of him and took him into my mouth. I licked him slowly, teasing him with my tongue, feeling the weight of his arousal against my palate.

—See, Mariela, I told you you’d like it —he murmured—. Look at you, you do it so well.

He was right. The afternoons practicing with his son had made me an expert, and it showed. While I sucked him, I felt my own wetness push through the thong and soak the pantyhose. A crazy desire rose from my belly: I wanted that cock inside me, now, no more waiting.

—We don’t have much time —I told him, pulling back only slightly—. But I don’t want to be left wanting.

***

I got to my feet, hiked up the skirt of the tight dress, and pulled my pantyhose down to mid-thigh. With my back to him, I offered him my body, my pale buttocks contrasting with his brown hands that were already kneading them with authority.

—Slowly, Don Augusto, it’s very big —I whispered.

—Relax, Mariela. This one’s yours. Take it however you want.

I lowered myself little by little, braced with my hands on his knees, feeling his cock make its way inside me. I closed my eyes and bit my lip. I was thinking about how surrendered I was, about how good it felt to have that flesh filling me completely. He didn’t move until my thighs touched his. Only then, with his hands on my hips, did he begin to match my ride, setting the rhythm himself, choosing the depth himself.

I liked that. I liked not deciding anything, being only a willing body that obeyed. I heard him breathing harshly and asked if he was okay.

—Better than ever —he laughed, hugging me around the waist—. Thanks to the blue pill.

At one point he stopped me, stood up, and shoved me firmly against the desk. I understood the order without him having to say it. I leaned onto my forearms, lifted my ass, and spread my legs as far as my bunched-up clothes would allow.

—What a divine submissive you are —he told me in my ear as he sank into me again.

He went in and out with cruel patience, holding one buttock, opening me as he pleased. And then, with his mouth against the nape of my neck, he asked for what I didn’t dare offer out loud:

—Now I want your little ass.

I said nothing. But I pushed my hips back, offering him everything, letting him understand that at that moment my body was his. I felt a finger testing my tighter entrance and relaxed. He took his wet cock and pressed it there, lubing me with my own wetness, pushing again and again until my sphincter yielded to the thick head.

He stayed still. He stroked my silky legs, waiting for me to get used to him, reading my body with an experience his son would never have.

—I love it, Don Augusto —I gasped—. I love it.

I started to push back myself, searching for him, and he understood that I was ready now. He took my hips and drove in firmly, without pause, until he was buried all the way inside. One of his hands went down to my sex and slipped two fingers into me while he pumped from behind, and I lost track of everything that wasn’t that double pleasure splitting me in two.

—Fill me —I begged him—. Please, don’t stop.

I felt him tense, grab me with both hands, and drive deep to the hilt. His cock throbbed inside me and a liquid heat flooded me just as my own orgasm exploded in waves that made my legs tremble and my whole body clench around him.

***

He pulled out abruptly, a little roughly, and collapsed into the armchair, sweaty and red-faced, but smiling like a boy. I turned around, took a few steps, and adjusted my clothes as best I could, still trembling. I pulled my thong back up, stretched my pantyhose, smoothed my dress.

We didn’t say anything. We just looked at each other, and I dropped my gaze in a gesture that said everything. I went to the bathroom to pull myself together and then home, to rest after that workday.

Under the shower I wondered why I had given in so fast, why I had obeyed almost without fighting. I let the hot water run down my back and replayed every moment: the pitcher of water, the slap on the ass, Gabriel’s message, my own hand going where it shouldn’t. At no point had I felt forced. That was the part I found hard to face directly.

The only honest answer I found was the kink: the certainty that an old man couldn’t really have me, and the surprise of discovering that that firm hand and calm voice awakened a submissive woman I thought had been asleep for years. There are desires one buries in order to live peacefully, and sometimes all it takes is one autumn morning and a shameless old man to dig them back up. I was wrong about him. And deep down, I’m glad I was wrong.