The Night My Ex-Boss Came Back Just to Use Me

My name is Carla. I’m thirty-nine, divorced for five years, and I’ve always been a woman who accepted her desire without apologizing to anyone. What I’m about to tell you happened just a few weeks ago, and I still can’t decide whether I regret it or whether I’d do it exactly the same way again.

During 2022 I had an office lover. Damián, I’ll call him that because his real name doesn’t matter, was fourteen years older than me. He was the director of his department, divorced, and had a deep voice that sounded as if he knew exactly what you were thinking before you finished the sentence. Physically he wasn’t the most spectacular man in the office: broad chest, big hands, and a stare that never blinked. But that confidence of his, that way he asked for things as if no answer other than “yes” were acceptable, made me stupid.

We fucked in his office on Friday afternoons, when the rest of the team had already left. He locked the door, pulled down the Venetian blind, and looked me up and down from his desk as if I were already naked. I learned quickly what was expected of me: go to him, kneel on the carpet between his legs, unzip him with my teeth, and pull his cock out without him having to say a word. It was a thick cock, head-heavy, one of those that stretches your mouth until your jaw hurts. The first time I sucked him off I burst into tears, and he pulled it out of my mouth by the hair, wiped the drool from my chin with his thumb, and told me, “Breathe through your nose, slut, you’re going to learn this.” And I did learn. I learned to lick his balls while giving him a handjob with both hands, learned to swallow his load without coughing, learned to keep him in my throat and look up at him with tearful eyes because that made him get hard as an animal.

After I’d sucked him off, he’d shove me up onto the desk, rip off my panties if I dared wear any—by the third Friday he’d forbidden me from wearing underwear on Fridays—and fuck me with the papers from his department stabbed into my back. He’d spread my legs, propping my heels on his shoulders, and slam into me all the way to the hilt, with that dry, hard way he had of driving his hips that made me scream into my own forearm so the cleaning staff wouldn’t hear. He fucked me while staring at my face, never taking his eyes off me, and when he felt I was about to come he’d pull out completely and leave me panting, open and empty, until I whispered pleas for him to put it back in. Only then would he slide in again, slower, smiling.

Sometimes in the car, in the underground parking garage. He’d make me climb into the passenger seat, tilt the backrest, take off my skirt, and kneel on top of him with my legs spread against the steering wheel and the roof. He’d grip my hips with those huge hands and lift me up and down to his rhythm, not letting me move, whispering filthy things in my ear: “Like that, ride me, move that ass, faster, more.” The windows fogged up in two minutes, and I’d come all over him, biting the collar of his suit so I wouldn’t moan, feeling his cock throb inside me and then him coming after, long and thick, leaving semen dripping down the inside of my thighs when I got out of the car to pull myself together in the rearview mirror.

Once at my apartment, just once, and he made me promise I wouldn’t invite him again. “I don’t mix settings,” he said. “You’re my office slut.” He said it with that calm of his, and I laughed and told him he was a pig. And we fucked again. That night he kept me in bed for four hours. He tied my wrists to the headboard with his own tie, spread my legs, and ate my pussy until I came three times in a row, mercilessly, sucking my clit when I couldn’t take any more and sinking two fingers in to the knuckle while I begged him to stop. Then he flipped me over, put me on all fours, and fucked me from behind holding my hair, fucking my cunt first and coating his fingers with my wetness to get my ass ready. He opened me slowly, with a surgeon’s patience, until I could swallow that thick cock whole in my ass and he could spank my buttock every time I dared close my eyes. I came like a bitch with his cock in my ass and his fingers in my pussy. He came inside me and made me lie face down, legs open, while his cum leaked out and he watched it with that unblinking stare of his.

What we had was pure domination. He gave the instructions, I carried them out. He tied my wrists with his tie, forced me to kneel before touching him, called me things that in any other context would have offended me and that in his mouth melted me: slut, pig, good whore, my toy. He had a thick cock, not very long, and he knew exactly what to do with it. He knew how to wait. He knew how to look at me as if I were dessert and he’d already had a good dinner.

At the end of that year he was transferred to Zurich. Big promotion, step up in rank, office with a view of the lake. He told me two weeks before leaving, in his office, while fastening his belt.

“It’s been good, Carla. Take care.”

Not a kiss, not a promise, not a “I’ll call you.” Just that, and he left.

I sank deeper than I was willing to admit. I wrote to him several times in those first months. He replied briefly, coldly, two sentences at most. Then he stopped replying. I considered flying to Switzerland to see him and in the end I didn’t; I was terrified of showing up at the door of a man who had already decided to forget me.

I licked my wounds as best I could. I downloaded Tinder, gained two kilos, lost them again, met several men who weren’t bad and a few who weren’t even worth remembering. One-night stands, almost always. None of them talked to me like Damián. None of them fucked me like Damián. The ones with big cocks didn’t know how to use them; the ones who knew how to use them came in five minutes; and none of them dared order me around the way I liked being ordered around. I ended up masturbating when they fell asleep, face down against the pillow, imagining Damián behind me.

***

He came back in the autumn of 2025. Not as a coworker this time: as managing director of the subsidiary. The boss of my bosses. His name appeared in an executive committee welcome email, and I spilled my coffee all over my desk.

For the first few days I saw him passing through the corridors in his navy suit, his important-man smile, his meetings with the German and Swiss delegates. He didn’t look at me once. I had ceased to exist for him, that much was clear. I would have preferred him to hate me, to look at me with contempt, anything; but indifference split me in two.

I held out for a month. One night, after three glasses of wine and every bad decision made at half past eleven, I wrote to him.

“Hi Damián. I know I’m a nobody to you now. Maybe I always was. But if you ever feel like having a private conversation, outside work, I’ll be here.”

I sat there trembling, staring at my phone. Three gray “typing” lines, then nothing. I locked the screen and shoved it under the sofa cushion as if that could undo what I’d done.

Six days passed without a reply. I convinced myself it was over, that I’d ruined everything and that, if I was lucky, he’d let it go and not fire me. And then, on a Thursday in the middle of the afternoon, the message arrived.

“Hi Carla. I hope you’re well. I’ll call you tonight.”

I left the office floating. I ate something I can’t even remember, sat on the sofa with my phone in hand, and waited. I waited until the clock read twelve ten and I was just about ready to give up. Then it rang.

“Hello, slut,” he said, without greeting me.

I laughed and almost burst into tears at the same time.

“Hi, Damián. Thanks for the slut. And for two years of silence. Are you going to tell me how you are?”

There was a long silence. I could hear his breathing. He was making me nervous again like a teenager.

“I’m fine,” he said at last. “Switzerland was everything I expected. But I missed some things here.”

“Some things. Not me, I suppose.”

“Exactly.”

Another silence. I bit my lip until it hurt. Part of me wanted to hang up and erase his number. The other part already had my panties soaked just from hearing him breathe.

We talked for twenty more minutes, if talking is what you call it when one person replies in monosyllables and the other fills in the gaps. I told him silly things about the office, about my mother, about a trip I’d taken to Lisbon. He commented just enough. But before hanging up, without changing his tone, he dropped the line that would haunt me for the next few hours.

“Do you live alone in the apartment on Aribau Street?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Tomorrow at seven thirty in the morning I’ll be downstairs, at your building entrance. You’re going to leave your apartment door ajar. You’re going to strip completely naked; I don’t want even a sock on you. You’re going to sit in a chair in the living room, facing the window, with your legs open and your hands on the armrests. Don’t touch yourself. I’m going to come in, sit opposite you, and look at you for as long as I feel like. You’re not going to speak. You’re not going to move. You’re just going to let yourself be looked at.”

I went breathless.

“Are you fucking with me?”

“No.”

“Damián, that’s… weird. It’s humiliating.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not going to be an object in my own living room so you can come and remind me what I’m worth.”

“Then don’t open the door. Good night, Carla.”

And he hung up.

***

I didn’t sleep. I lay awake turning it over until four thirty in the morning, and in the end I started crying out of pure rage. Because I was going to do it. I knew it at two. By three I was already imagining the scene: which chair I’d put in front of the window, whether to raise the blind or not, whether to close the bathroom door that can be seen from the living room. At four I realized I was touching myself under my pajamas, my cunt swollen and my fingers slick with my own wetness, imagining him coming in. I forced my hand away. He had said not to touch myself. Not to touch myself from then on, if anything, so I’d be even more wound up in the morning.

At six the alarm went off and I still hadn’t slept a minute. I showered slowly. I shaved my whole cunt carefully, leaving only a thin strip on the pubis because he liked it that way, moisturized my skin, put on the perfume he used to give me at Christmas when we were still whatever we were. I dried my hair and let it down. I didn’t wear makeup; it felt absurd, given the circumstances.

By seven twenty I was naked. I sat for a moment on the edge of the bed and looked at my hands. They were shaking. I looked at my nipples too, hard as stones for the past half hour, and my stomach, and my shaved, wet cunt, and thought, “This body is going to be in front of him in ten minutes and he’s not going to be able to touch it.”

At seven twenty-five I dragged the dining chair into the living room and placed it in front of the window, just as he’d said. I raised the blind halfway. The slanted morning light cut my body in the glass. You couldn’t see anything from outside; I live on the fourth floor, with the inner courtyard in front. But the feeling of being exposed to the street made my skin crawl.

At seven twenty-eight I left the apartment door ajar with the security latch set on the first notch. I went back to the living room. I sat down. I rested my hands on the armrests. I spread my legs.

And I waited.

At seven thirty-two I heard the door. Footsteps in the hallway. I didn’t turn around. He had forbidden me to move. My heart was beating so hard I was sure he could hear it too. I could feel my cunt contracting on its own, a drop sliding down my slit to my ass and from there onto the chair’s wood.

Damián came into the living room. I caught him out of the corner of my eye: the same navy suit as on his first day back, the jacket draped over his arm, the tie loose. He smelled of his usual cologne, that mix of leather and lemon that had chased me through my dreams for two years.

He took a chair from the dining area, dragged it without hurry, and placed it about a meter and a half from mine, at an angle. He sat down. Crossed his legs. Rested his elbows on the armrests and brought the tips of his fingers together at his chin.

And he looked at me.

He said nothing for a long time. I don’t know how long. Five minutes, ten, fifteen. I could feel the cold air between my thighs, the weight of my breasts, the sweat beginning to bead between my shoulder blades. I could feel his eyes moving over me slowly: face, neck, shoulders, nipples that had hardened without asking me, stomach, open wet cunt, thighs, bare feet on the parquet floor.

“Wider,” he said suddenly.

I parted my legs another inch.

“More.”

I opened them until the inside of my thighs hurt. I could feel my cunt lips opening on their own, peeling away from the inside of my legs with the faintest wet sound, my clit standing out swollen and shiny in the window light.

“Like that.”

He went quiet again. I could feel myself widening without anyone touching me. I could feel every pulse between my legs. I was so wet I could feel the thread of slick running down my slit and dripping onto the wood. And at the same time, a thick shame climbed up my neck and burned in my cheeks. It was the strangest combination of arousal and humiliation I’d ever felt in my life.

“Show me your tits,” he said. “Push them out more. Arch your back.”

I arched my back, resting my neck against the chair, lifting my tits to the level of his gaze. My nipples grew even harder, as if they knew he was appraising them. I saw his throat move when he swallowed. I saw the bulge in his trousers, the one slowly growing beneath the suit fabric, and I bit my tongue not to moan just from that.

“Now show me your cunt. Open it with your fingers, but don’t touch your clit. Don’t touch it, Carla. If you touch your clit, I’ll get up and leave.”

I lowered a trembling hand to my pubis. I spread my lips with my index and middle finger in an inverted V, exposed right to the depths, feeling more naked with my hand there than without it. My clit was throbbing, swollen, begging me to brush it even if only once. I didn’t touch it. I held out.

“I remember every inch,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You haven’t changed. You’re still the most obedient slut I’ve ever had.”

“Damián…”

“Shut up.”

I closed my mouth.

He kept looking at me like that for a while, with my cunt spread open between my own fingers and my tits offered up. He took his phone out of his pocket, looked at something, put it away. He didn’t take a photo, he didn’t record me. He just looked. Like someone studying a painting in a museum he no longer owns. I know his underwear was soaked, because I saw the dark patch over the bulge in his trousers; I know he was struggling to breathe through his nose; I know he was restraining the urge to pull out his cock right there out of sheer stubbornness, to prove to me and to himself that he could have me in front of him like that and not touch me.

When we’d been at it for about half an hour, he stood up. Picked up his jacket. Came over to me, leaned down, and kissed my forehead. A dry, brief, almost fatherly kiss. His hand brushed my hair and lingered a second too long at my nape. He ran his thumb across my lower lip, slipped it into my mouth for a moment, drew it out wet with my own saliva, and put it into his, sucking it slowly in front of me.

“Thank you, Carla.”

“That’s it?” I said, hating the tremor in my voice.

“That’s it.”

“Are you ever going to fuck me?”

He smiled for the first time. A small smile, almost sad.

“I’d love to. I’d love to spread you open on this chair right now, eat your cunt until you were begging me, and slide into you all the way while I bite your neck, like on Fridays in the office. But I’m resigning this week. I’m going back to Zurich, this time to stay. I have an offer I can’t refuse.”

I stared at him. I didn’t know whether I wanted to hit him or cry.

“You’re an asshole.”

“I know.” He turned and headed for the hallway. Before leaving the living room, he turned back. “Close your legs when I’m gone. Get dressed. Go to work. And forget me for real this time. I don’t deserve you.”

And he left. I heard the door close, the soft click of the latch settling, his footsteps in the landing, the elevator.

I stayed seated for another ten minutes, exactly the same. Naked, open, staring at the ceiling. Not moving. As if moving would mean accepting too soon that it was over. Then I lowered my hand, this time for real, took it to my soaked cunt and touched my clit with my middle finger and index finger, in circles, furious. I came in less than two minutes, biting my other fist so I wouldn’t scream, my thighs shaking and the dining chair creaking beneath me. I came thinking of him. Of his cock that hadn’t touched me. Of his mouth sucking his thumb wet with my saliva. I came crying, tears running from my temples into my hair.

Afterward I got up, closed the blind, stepped into the shower, and let the water run for a long time.

I was late to the office. No one said a thing. Damián wasn’t there; he’d stayed in his office with the lawyers, drafting his resignation letter. I never saw him again. Two Fridays later, a coworker told me in the cafeteria that he was already in Switzerland.

Sometimes, at night, I sit in that same chair in the living room, in my pajamas, with a glass of wine, and I wonder what the fuck happened to me that morning. How it’s possible for a man to leave me, without touching me, more empty and more used than any lover who’s ever fucked me.

The most honest answer I can come up with is this: because I obeyed him knowing it would hurt. Because I chose to open myself in front of him knowing he was going to leave. And because, deep down, I still hope that one day a plane will land from Zurich, he’ll come up to my apartment without warning, and ask me for some other absurd, degrading thing.

Fuck you, Damián. And fuck me, above all fuck me.