The Day I Was Left Alone in My Boss’s Office

After several months helping Don Ernesto with his business, I decided it was time to look for something more serious, something in an office, with set hours and real projects. I sent my résumé to half a dozen studios and didn’t get a single reply. The weeks went by and I started to resign myself to the fact that no one was going to call.

Then, one random afternoon, my phone rang. It was a guy named Rodrigo, an architect who said he’d gotten my number from a mutual acquaintance. He had work for me, or so he claimed, and asked me to meet him the next day. I had nothing to lose, so I showed up on time and in my best spirits.

Honestly, my first impression of the place was anything but professional. I was expecting an office with floor-to-ceiling windows and plans hanging on the walls; what I found was an old house right in the city center, with peeling paint and a doorbell that barely worked. This can’t be an architecture studio. But I was already there, so I knocked on the door.

A disheveled guy opened the door, in shorts and a wrinkled T-shirt, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed. He looked like anything but the owner of a business. He introduced himself as Rodrigo, shook my hand with a half-asleep smile, and invited me into what he called his office.

He explained that he’d graduated a couple of years earlier, that he was just starting out on his own as a freelancer, and that he rented the house to use it as both a home and a studio. While he talked, all I could think about was how to make a dignified exit. But when he started telling me about the projects he had on his hands, something changed. They were real jobs, ambitious ones, exactly the kind of experience I needed.

He asked me the usual questions, or what he considered a job interview, and after half an hour we reached an agreement.

—Welcome aboard, you’re hired. You start on Monday —he said, as if he were doing me some huge favor.

It was Thursday afternoon. Before I left, I asked him about the dress code, half joking, because he’d greeted me in practically pajamas. He laughed and told me I could come dressed however I wanted, unless he warned me ahead of time about a meeting with a client.

***

The following weeks were better than I’d imagined. I liked the work, I learned fast, and above all, my relationship with Rodrigo kept getting closer and closer. We talked about everything: life, music, food, the sort of nonsense people come up with when they spend eight hours a day with someone in a quiet house.

And I’m not going to lie: I started feeling attracted to him. He wasn’t the most handsome man in the world, and he didn’t have a model’s body, but there was something about his easygoing way of being, about how he focused in front of the screen, that undid me. I found myself thinking about him outside work hours, making excuses to get closer to his desk.

I noticed details I’d have missed before. The way he rolled up his sleeves when he started drawing, the way he bit the pencil while he thought, the line of his neck when he stretched his back after hours in front of the plans. I’d get home and still have him on my mind, and more than one night I closed my eyes imagining scenes I would never have dared to tell him about.

So I started playing. I brushed against him when I handed him a plan, twined a lock of hair around my finger when he spoke to me, let double-entendre comments slip out to see if he’d react. I wanted the tension to grow, I wanted to see him hesitate, to throw him off even for a second. He smiled, sometimes he blushed just a little, but he never made a move. And that restraint made me want him even more.

***

One Tuesday he left me alone in the office all afternoon. He had an important meeting with a client on the other side of town and asked me to finish some details for a delivery the next day. I locked the door behind him and got to work, but the hours dragged on forever. When I was done with my part, there was still quite a while before I could leave.

Boredom is dangerous. I started wandering around the house, poking my nose in places with no bad intentions, opening drawers, looking through shelves. I didn’t find anything earth-shattering, just a couple of condoms forgotten at the bottom of a drawer in his bedroom that made me smile. So the reserved man has a few surprises.

Resigned to dying of boredom, I came up with a much worse idea. I went back to his desk, sat in his chair, and opened his computer. The screen had no password, which was already an invitation. I opened the browser and checked the history, expecting to uncover something juicy. Nothing. Clean as an operating room.

Either he’s a saint, or he doesn’t look at anything at all. I found it unbelievable; even I, who consider myself discreet, check my own stuff from time to time. But curiosity had already won, and I wasn’t about to give up that easily.

I moved on to the folders. Most of them were work-related: estimates, invoices, renders, scanned contracts. Boring as hell. I opened one after another with little hope, like someone leafing through an old newspaper just to pass the time. Until, almost at the end of an endless list, I found one with a name that didn’t fit the rest: “me old photos.”

I stared at that name for a good while, cursor hovering over it, debating whether to close everything and move on. I knew I was crossing a line, that this wasn’t my business, that if he found out it wouldn’t just end the flirting but the job altogether. But curiosity weighed more than common sense, as always when it came to him.

My heart jumped. At worst I’ll see pictures of him; after all, he never posts anything on his social media. I clicked, convinced there’d be nothing compromising. What a surprise I was in for.

From the very first image, a shiver ran through my entire body. The skin on my arms prickled and I felt heat rising up my neck. They weren’t vacation photos or family pictures. It was him, completely naked, in front of the bathroom mirror, which I recognized as the one in the house.

He didn’t have a Greek god body, I already said that, but something about that image took my breath away. Maybe it was that I’d spent weeks wanting him in silence, maybe it was just the impact of seeing him like that, stripped of the shield of the wrinkled T-shirt and the glasses. Whatever it was, I found myself biting my lip, unable to look away from the screen.

I moved to the next photo. And the next. Each one made me hotter than the last. I could feel myself getting wet, a warm pressure between my legs that I couldn’t ignore. I looked at the closed door, the clock, the empty house. I was alone. Completely alone.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I put the images on slideshow, one after the other, and leaned back in his chair. I slipped one hand under my blouse and found my nipple already hard, so tight I could feel it pressing against the fabric of my bra. I pinched it slowly, imagining it was his fingers, his mouth, his teeth.

The other hand went down on its own. I undid my pants just enough to slip my fingers inside and drove them in while the screen kept changing. My thighs opened without me even thinking about it, and the cold air in the room brushed my burning skin. I put two fingers in, first carefully, then deeper, searching for the exact point where the body starts to give in. I was wet, soaked with desire, and the damp sound of my movements only excited me more.

On the screen, Rodrigo was standing in profile, with his half-erect cock pointing downward. In another photo he was gripping it with his hand, his fingers wrapping all the way around it, and in another he was facing front, with heavy balls and the dark, shiny head peeking out between his fingers. I licked my lips. I imagined myself on my knees, taking him all the way down, feeling him fill my mouth with that salty, hot taste I’d only ever fantasized about. My fingers soon replaced what I was missing; they came in and out harder, sinking into my wet cunt while I rubbed my clit with my thumb, fast, dirty, desperate.

Then, in the middle of the sequence, a video started playing. Him, alone, masturbating in front of the same camera. Seeing him in motion, hearing his ragged breathing through the tiny speakers, was too much. He had his cock in his hand, hard as hell, tensing his abdomen every time he slid his palm from the base to the head. He moistened his foreskin with spit and stroked himself faster and faster, more and more frantically. I opened my legs wider, shoved my fingers deeper, and started rocking my hips against the chair, matching his rhythm, as if we were doing exactly the same thing at the same time.

The image drove me insane. I saw him throw his head back, clench his teeth, and then start rubbing even faster, with his slippery hand, the red tip shining from the friction. I answered with a long, dirty moan, barely held back, and fucked myself with my fingers again and again, feeling the walls of my cunt tighten around my hand. Pleasure rose in short waves, each one more intense than the last. I pulled one finger out, brought it to my mouth, and sucked it, tasting my own slick while I kept watching him.

He came with a sudden spasm, thrusting his hips forward and spilling his load over his abdomen and his hand. I stayed frozen in the chair, trembling, and at the same time I sank deeper into myself, rubbing furiously until the orgasm split me in two. I arched my back, bit my wrist to keep from screaming, and felt my cunt throbbing, soaked, while my whole body shuddered in little jerks that left me unable to think of anything else. The screen was still there, showing him still panting, and all I could think was that I wanted that load on my skin, on my tits, on my face, on my tongue if necessary.

***

And just at that moment, while my thighs were still trembling, my cell phone rang on the desk. The shock of seeing his name light up the screen cut off my pleasure in an instant. For a second I thought he’d caught me, that somehow he knew exactly what I’d just been doing in his chair, with his photos.

I took a deep breath, straightened my clothes with shaking hands, and answered.

—Hi, Rodrigo —I said, and my voice came out weaker than I would have liked.

—Are you okay? You sound weird —he replied, with a tone that was half curious, half worried.

—Yes, yes, I’m fine —I lied—. I got startled by the ring tone, that’s all.

—Well, I’m just calling to let you know the meeting ran long and I’m not coming back today. Lock up when you’re done and I’ll see you on Monday —he said, oblivious to everything.

—Sure, don’t worry. See you Monday.

I hung up and sat there for a while staring at the dark screen, my body still vibrating and my breath coming in ragged bursts. I closed the folder, shut down the computer, and erased any trace of my visit. But something had changed inside me, something I wasn’t going to be able to ignore anymore.

As I gathered my things and turned off the lights in the house, I realized that the silent fantasy I’d been carrying around for weeks had turned into certainty. It wasn’t enough anymore to imagine him; his photos and my fingers weren’t enough anymore.

On Monday I was going back to that office. And one way or another, I was going to make sure Rodrigo stopped holding back once and for all.