The Night I Invited My Boss to Finish the Report

My name is Renata, and I’ve worked as an executive assistant for almost four years. There’s something I learned early in that office: the clothes you choose in the morning are not innocent. That afternoon I had dressed knowing exactly what I was doing. A black lace set under my dress, thigh-high stockings held up with garters, heels that forced me to walk slowly. Red lips, my hair loose over my shoulders. I like feeling that way, watched even when no one is looking. And that day, someone was watching.

My boss’s name is Damián. He’s a meticulous man, the kind who checks every number twice before signing. He’s a few years older than me, with just a touch of silver at the temples and a way of looking over his glasses that made me nervous without him ever knowing it. We’d been chasing a report that never seemed to end for weeks, and that night the office was closing before we could finish it. Staying there wasn’t an option; the guards made their rounds and turned off the lights.

I had imagined him more times than I’d ever admit out loud. In long meetings, while he talked budgets, I’d catch myself staring at his hands and thinking about other things. It was a private game, a fantasy that lived only in my head during the dead hours of the workday. I never thought I’d have the chance to push it one step further. Until that afternoon.

—If you want, we can finish it at my place —I told him, gathering my things—. I live ten minutes away and I’ve got decent coffee.

He thought about it longer than a coffee deserved. Then he nodded, like someone accepting a truce.

***

My apartment is small but tidy. I offered him the couch, cleared off the coffee table, and opened our two laptops side by side. I poured him tea instead of the coffee I’d promised; I thought it might help him loosen his shoulders. We worked in silence for a while, just the sound of the keys and not much else. But I kept watching him out of the corner of my eye.

Damián had his jaw clenched, his brow tense, his right hand balled on his thigh. It wasn’t the report. Or not just the report. I knew, from the comments he let slip now and then, that things with his wife weren’t going well. That kind of tension doesn’t disappear with numbers.

I rested my hand on his shoulder. I felt him go rigid beneath my fingers.

—You’re so stiff —I said, and laughed at my own choice of words—. Your shoulders, I mean. Take a break.

—Lately not even a break relaxes me —he replied, staring at the screen without seeing it.

I let a second pass. Two. My heart was racing, but my voice came out calm.

—Then let’s do something else.

He turned to look at me, confused. And before he could ask what I meant, I stood up in front of him. I slowly slid the straps of my dress down, let the fabric slip to my waist, then to the floor. I stood there in black lace and stockings, letting him look.

—You don’t have to say anything —I murmured—. Just stop thinking for a while.

***

I saw his breathing quicken. His gaze traveled down my body and back to my eyes, searching for a confirmation I had already given him. I moved closer, sat astride him on the couch, and wrapped my arms around his neck.

—Are you sure about this, Renata? —he asked, even though his hands were already holding my hips.

—More sure than you, apparently.

I kissed him. It was a slow kiss at first, almost a question, until he answered with an urgency he’d been holding back for weeks. He pulled me against his body, one hand sliding up my back, the other burying itself in my hair. I felt his erection through his trousers and moved slowly against it, drawing a deep sound from him that vibrated against my lips.

I unbuttoned his shirt one button at a time. He had a firm chest, the kind of man who goes to the gym to burn off whatever life leaves inside him. I kissed his neck, his collarbone, while he unclasped my bra with a dexterity that surprised me. The garment fell between us and his hands found my breasts, first gently, then with hunger.

—Come on —I told him, taking his hand.

I led him to the bedroom. On the way he finished taking off his shirt and I kicked off my heels; I decided to keep the stockings and garters on, because I knew how men liked them and because I liked them too.

***

I gently pushed him to sit on the edge of the bed and knelt between his legs. I pulled down his pants and boxers in one tug. I ran my tongue along his cock, slowly, looking him in the eyes. He let out a long sigh, pure relief, as if something stuck deep inside him was finally starting to loosen.

I took my time. I licked him, kissed him, took him into my mouth and let his hand rest on the back of my neck, setting a rhythm he could barely control himself. I could hear his broken breathing, hear him say my name under his breath, and that turned me on more than any caress. I loved seeing him like that: the impeccable man from the office, falling apart on the edge of my bed from something I was giving him.

This is one of my fantasies too, I thought. It has been for months.

When I felt him getting too close, I stopped. I straightened up and he pulled me toward the bed, laid me on my back, and took his turn. He kissed my neck, then went down over my breasts without hurry, biting the skin of my stomach softly. When he got between my legs and moved the lace aside, I was already so wet that the first brush of his tongue made my back arch.

—Like that —I told him, grabbing his hair—. Just like that.

He did it with a focus I didn’t know he had, the same focus he brought to his reports but now aimed at reading every tremor of my body. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I pulled him up to me.

***

—I don’t have anything —he murmured against my neck, and I understood what he meant.

—Neither do I —I admitted. I looked into his eyes for a moment, that pause when a woman decides—. It’s okay. This time I want to feel you with nothing in between.

He was surprised, but he didn’t pull away. I slipped my panties down my legs and climbed on top of him again, this time with no barriers. I took his cock and guided it, lowering myself slowly, centimeter by centimeter, until I felt all of him inside me. He closed his eyes and threw his head back. One of his hands found my hip, the other my breast.

I began to move calmly, up and down, listening to my own moans fill the room. It was a different feeling from anything I had ever imagined in the office while watching him sign papers: the heat, the closeness, his breathing mixing with mine.

—Slower —he begged, his voice hoarse—, or this is going to end before it starts.

I obeyed, slowing down without losing depth. I rested my hands on his chest and felt his heart pounding, fast, out of control. We had both been carrying tension for too long, and now it all came out together in every slow, firm movement.

***

At some point he took me by the waist and, without leaving me, turned us on the bed until I was on my back. He settled between my legs, lifted them and braced them against his chest, then started moving with a new force. I clutched the sheets, moaning without holding back, while he set a pace that left me breathless.

—Don’t stop —I managed to say between gasps.

He looked at me with an intensity that raised goosebumps on my skin. He lowered his head and kissed my neck, whispering things in my ear that made me squeeze my legs tighter around him. The pleasure gathered somewhere in my belly, tightening like a rope, until it snapped all at once. I cried out against his shoulder, my nails digging into his back, my whole body shaking beneath his.

He held out a little longer, just enough to see me come apart, before his own breathing turned erratic.

—I’m about to finish —he said, panting—. Where…?

—Wherever you want —I answered, hugging him.

Those two words finished untying him. His thrusts turned wild, hungry, and at the end he pulled out of me just in time to spill over my stomach and breasts, with a deep groan that seemed to empty him of all the weight he had brought into my house.

***

We stayed like that for a while, both of us breathless, staring at the ceiling. I brushed a lock of hair off his forehead and he laughed softly, almost disbelieving.

—It’s been a long time since I felt this… light —he said.

—I told you. The report could wait.

I went to the bathroom, came back with a damp towel, and cleaned him up slowly. Then I lay down beside him, my head on his chest, listening as his heartbeat gradually returned to normal.

—And now what? —he asked, looking at the ceiling.

—Now nothing —I said—. Tomorrow we finish the report. And if you ever get this tense again, you know I’ve got tea.

This time he laughed for real, an open laugh that took ten years off him.

—I like the way you think.

—I know.

That night he slept in my bed, and in the morning the man who went back to the office seemed like someone else: looser, lighter, less tied to his own ropes. No one noticed, of course. Only me, who knew exactly where that new calm came from.

Since then, when work piles up and I see him clench his jaw at the screen, I offer him tea. He understands. And sometimes, when there isn’t time to come to my place, we find a corner closer by. But that’s another story.