The Mature Boss Who Called the Janitor at Night

Sandra was thirty-eight years old, held a position as administrative coordinator at an industrial distribution company, and had the habit of arriving at work before everyone else. Dark brown hair to her shoulders, a narrow waist, and hips that the tight Wednesday slacks did nothing to hide. Her employees respected her. Some were a little afraid of her. None of them would have blamed them.

That morning she arrived in a navy dress with a tight knot in her mood. Diego, her husband of forty-two, had left early without breakfast and without saying where he was going. A freelance architect with few projects and a lot of silence. He had been like that for months: present in the apartment but absent in everything else. In bed especially. It had been almost four months since he had touched her. Four months in which Sandra had gotten used to slipping two fingers under the sheets in the middle of the night, biting the pillow so as not to wake him, and finishing alone with her breathing ragged and a warm wetness between her thighs that no one was ever going to taste.

She greeted the secretaries with a “good morning” that left no room for conversation and shut herself in her glass office with the first coffee of the day and the pending reports.

Don Augusto was already in the main corridor when she arrived. Fifty-seven years old, gray uniform, the discreet belly of a man who eats what he has and never complains. He had been with the company for more than twelve years. He arrived on time, did his work in silence, and never made excuses. He had also spent two years looking at Sandra’s ass in the way men look when they know they won’t say anything: out of the corner of their eye, quickly, storing every detail away in some place with no name.

He was fascinated by everything about her: the firm tone she used to give orders, the way she crossed her arms and pressed her breasts against the fabric of her dress, the precise sway of her hips when she walked down the corridor. Many nights he got home, lay down beside his wife —who always slept facing away— and jerked off in the bathroom thinking about Sandra. About her voice. About the way she looked at him when she told him to do something, directly, without hesitation. He came in the sink imagining that lipstick-painted mouth saying his name, then washed his hand and lay down with his cock still sensitive and his head full of her.

At eleven in the morning, Sandra came out of her office with a folder and a face like thunder. The central corridor had fresh muddy footprints, probably from the delivery man who had come in without wiping his shoes. She saw Don Augusto at the far end pushing the cleaning cart.

She called him in a loud, clear voice, loud enough for everyone in the open area to hear:

—Don Augusto. Here. Right now.

He approached quickly, leaving the cart to one side. The accounting secretary stopped typing. The messenger waiting by the photocopier looked away.

—Can you explain this to me? —Sandra pointed at the floor, her finger almost touching the stain—. I told you yesterday that the main corridor had to be spotless. Does this look spotless to you?

—I’ll clean it right now, ma’am Sandra.

—I already heard that yesterday. —Her voice rose a notch—. If you can’t maintain the standard I demand, I’ll have to speak to the manager to find someone who can. Are we clear?

—Yes, ma’am. Sorry.

Sandra turned and walked away. Don Augusto bent down and started scrubbing with his head lowered, saying nothing. Inside, something burned. It wasn’t anger. It had never exactly been anger. He had gone hard just hearing her talk to him like that, and he had to stay crouched there scrubbing for ten minutes until his erection went down enough that he could stand up without it showing through his pants.

***

At a quarter past seven in the evening, the company was empty.

Sandra was still in her office finishing the monthly report. The lights in the common area were dimmed to a minimum and from the corridor came the distant hum of the vacuum cleaner. She shut off the computer screen, stretched her back, and stood still for a moment.

She had been harsh that morning. More than necessary. Don Augusto always did his job, never complained, never defended himself even when it wasn’t his fault. And she had humiliated him in front of four people because she needed to unload something that had nothing to do with him.

She picked up the desk phone and dialed maintenance.

—Don Augusto? Could you come to my office for a moment, please?

He arrived two minutes later. Gray uniform, clean hands, eyes lowered. He stopped in front of the desk with his hands together.

—Good evening, ma’am Sandra.

—Please sit down.

He blinked, as if the chair were an object he wasn’t meant to use.

—I went too far this morning —she said—. You do your job well and I spoke to you in a way that wasn’t right. I wanted to apologize.

Don Augusto lifted his gaze for a second and dropped it again immediately.

—Don’t worry, ma’am. You’re under a lot of pressure.

—That’s no excuse.

Silence. The dim office, the blinds half-open with the dark corridor beyond.

—Is there anything I can do for you? To make up for it.

Don Augusto looked at her longer than usual. His calloused hands rested on his knees. When he spoke, he did so slowly, like someone pulling something out that had been stored too long in an uncomfortable place.

—My wife hasn’t touched me in years. She tells me I’m fat, that I look old. My kids don’t need me for anything anymore. I get home and I’m the one who pays the bills and doesn’t get spoken to. Here at least... —he paused for a long time— here at least you look at me when you talk to me. Even if it’s just to scold me.

Sandra said nothing.

—I’m sorry —he went on—. That wasn’t what you wanted to hear. I’ll leave.

—Don’t get up yet.

At that moment her phone vibrated on the desk. It was a message from Diego: “I’m going out with the guys from the studio tonight. Don’t wait up for me. Kisses.” No call. No asking how her day had gone.

Sandra set it facedown on the desk.

—Close the blinds —she said.

Don Augusto didn’t move right away.

—Ma’am Sandra?

—The blinds. Please.

He stood slowly and closed the slats one by one until the office was completely shut off. The only light was the desk lamp. Now they were alone and the silence had a different texture.

Sandra stood too. The navy dress clung to her curves with the movement. She came closer to him until she was less than a meter away.

—You want me —she said softly. It wasn’t a question.

Don Augusto didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He had been hard for ten minutes and she could see the bulge under the gray fabric of his uniform pants.

She took his calloused hands and placed them on her waist. Then she lowered them slowly until he was gripping her ass with both hands over the dress.

—How many times have you imagined this? —she asked, very close to his mouth.

—Every time, ma’am. Every night.

—Show me.

***

Don Augusto didn’t kiss her on the lips first. He kissed her neck, just below the ear, and Sandra felt the scratch of two days’ stubble against her skin. He moved his mouth down her collarbone, down the neckline of the dress, while his hands squeezed her buttocks with a restrained force that had been building for two years.

—Slowly —she murmured.

—As you say.

He found the zipper at the back of her dress and lowered it centimeter by centimeter. His thick fingers trembled a little. When the fabric gave way and the dress fell to the floor in a blue puddle at their feet, Sandra was left in front of him in black lace bra and matching panties. Don Augusto swallowed audibly.

—My God —he said, his voice rough.

He unclasped her bra with more clumsiness than he would have liked. When Sandra’s breasts were exposed, white and full, her nipples already hard and dark from the air-conditioning, he let out a low groan and bent down to suck them without asking permission.

Sandra clutched his shoulders. Don Augusto’s hot tongue circled her nipple, nibbled it carefully, sucked it until she arched her back. He moved from one breast to the other without haste, leaving the skin glossy with saliva, and with his hands he squeezed both at once, sinking his fingers into her flesh.

—You’re beautiful —he murmured against her skin—. Such beautiful tits. Forgive me, ma’am, but I’ve been thinking about this for two years.

—Shut up and keep going.

Sandra grabbed his head and pressed it to her chest. She felt the wetness gathering between her legs, soaking the black panties she still had on. She also felt the hard bulge of his uniform pants pressing against her thigh, and she lowered one hand to squeeze it through the fabric.

Don Augusto groaned with his mouth still full of breast.

She gently pushed him back until he understood. He got down on his knees in front of her on the carpet, in his gray janitor’s uniform, while Sandra leaned against the edge of the desk in her heels and panties. With clumsy fingers thick with desire he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pulled her black panties down to her ankles. She stepped out of them and kicked them aside.

Don Augusto froze for a second, looking at her shaved, shining pussy, its lips already swollen and parted. He looked up from below with a face of almost painful gratitude.

—Spread your legs, ma’am Sandra. Please.

She obeyed. She put one heel on the chair armrest and showed him everything. Don Augusto moved closer and gave her a first long, flat lick from bottom to top, collecting all the wetness that had been dripping from her since he closed the blinds.

—Ah —she let out, and grabbed the edge of the desk.

He ate her without hurry. His tongue ran up and down her lips, slid between them, found her opening and penetrated it a couple of times before climbing to her clit. When he got there he stayed. He began to lick in slow circles, then with the tip, then sucking it whole with his lips closed around it.

Sandra tangled her fingers in his graying hair and pressed his face against her pussy.

—There. There, don’t move from there.

Don Augusto obeyed like he had been obeying her in the corridor for twelve years. He ate her pussy with the same patient discipline with which he scrubbed floors. He slid two thick, calloused fingers into her without stopping sucking her clit, curling them upward to find the spot inside. When he found it, Sandra let out a moan that escaped her throat before she could control it.

—God, Augusto. Like that. Right there.

The name without “Don” made him close his eyes. He sped up his fingers, increased the pressure of his tongue, and kept going without stopping even though he could feel Sandra tugging his hair hard enough to hurt. She stopped breathing for a full second and then came with a shudder that rose from her thighs to her chest, crushing his face between her thighs, riding his mouth without control while the contractions moved through her pussy around his fingers.

—Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck... —she panted, not recognizing her own voice.

Don Augusto didn’t let go until she herself pushed his head away. He stood slowly, his mouth and chin shining with her, and looked at her with a mixture of reverence and hunger Sandra didn’t remember ever seeing in Diego either.

—Now you —she said, her voice still ragged.

She unfastened his belt, pulled down the zipper, and tugged his trousers to his ankles along with his white cotton briefs. Don Augusto’s cock sprang out, bigger than she had imagined in the few times she’d found herself wondering without wanting to: thick, dark, with the tip already wet from the fluid that had been leaking the whole time.

Sandra smiled slowly.

—Well, now, Don Augusto. I hadn’t planned on that.

—Forgive me, ma’am.

—Don’t apologize for that.

She knelt in front of him on the carpet. She grabbed his cock with her right hand —she had to fit her whole hand around it to close her fingers— and jerked him slowly a couple of times. Then she leaned in and ran her tongue over the tip, collecting the precum and tasting him.

Don Augusto let out a grunt and braced one hand against the desk so he wouldn’t lose his balance.

She took him into her mouth little by little. First just the tip, sucking it with tight lips and her tongue circling around it. Then deeper, swallowing half of him, while her hand worked the base. Her mouth filled with that thick cock she had been imagining for two years without realizing it.

—Ma’am —he panted—. Ma’am Sandra, for God’s sake...

She pulled him out with a wet sound and looked up at him, eyes shining.

—Sandra. None of that ma’am. Sandra now.

—Sandra —he repeated obediently, as if it were hard to say without the title in front of it.

She took him into her mouth again, deeper this time, until the tip hit the back of her throat and triggered a brief gag that made tears spring to her eyes. She didn’t stop. She started moving back and forth, sucking him all the way, with both hands now, one at the base and the other massaging his balls underneath.

Don Augusto had one hand trembling on top of her head, not squeezing, not daring to set the pace. He moaned softly, muted, with his mouth closed, and now and then her name slipped out in a broken whisper.

Sandra felt him beginning to swell a little more in her mouth and pulled off at the last second, ending with a final kiss on the tip.

—Not yet —she said—. Don’t come yet.

She straightened up, turned around, and leaned against the desk with her hands out in front of her, arching her back to offer him her ass. The blue dress lay on the floor, she was still wearing her heels, and in the half-light her pale skin glowed under the lamp.

—Now fuck me —she said, without turning around—. Hard.

Don Augusto didn’t need any more instructions. He moved behind her, grabbed her hip with his left hand, and with his right guided his cock to the entrance of her soaked pussy. He rubbed it once, twice, running the tip up and down between her lips, and then he pushed.

He drove in in one thrust to the hilt, with a guttural grunt that rose from deep in his chest.

Sandra gave a short cry, pressed her fingers against the wood of the desk, and lowered her head. He stayed still for a moment, buried in her to the root, breathing hard, giving her time to adjust to his thickness.

—Move —she gasped—. Move now.

He started fucking her slowly, with long, deep thrusts. Every time he pulled almost all the way out and drove back in, the wet sound of the impact filled the empty office. The desk began to creak under Sandra’s hands. She let herself be fucked like that for a while, her cheek resting against the monthly report folder, glancing sideways at her own phone lying facedown.

—Harder —she said—. Harder, fuck.

Don Augusto obeyed. He increased the pace, grabbed both her hips with his hands, and began driving into her with hard thrusts that shoved her against the desk. The flesh of Sandra’s ass bounced against his groin with every blow. She let the papers go and gripped the edge of the desk with both hands.

—Ah, yes, like that, yes...

He grabbed her hair, not pulling, just tangling his fingers in it, and kept pounding her from behind. Sandra could feel that thick cock opening her up completely, pushing all the way in each time, pleasure building in her belly again. For a second she thought of Diego, of the last rushed, half-hearted fuck months ago, and that memory made her push her ass back farther to take him better.

—Don’t stop —she gasped—. Don’t stop, don’t stop.

Don Augusto didn’t stop. He reached a hand around to the front, between her legs, and with his middle finger found her clit and began rubbing it in fast circles while continuing to pound her from behind at the same rhythm. Sandra opened her mouth in a silent moan and felt the second orgasm rushing up on her, stronger than the first, longer, unstoppable.

—Augusto —she shouted, no longer caring about her voice—. Augusto, I’m coming, I’m coming...

She came, clenching her pussy around his cock in spasms that shook her whole body. Don Augusto felt those contractions around him and couldn’t hold back any longer. He grabbed her hips with both hands, gave three more deeper, frantic thrusts, and on the fourth drove in to the hilt and stayed there, trembling.

—Sandra —he growled—. Sandra, ah, fuck...

She felt the hot jet inside her. She felt his cock jerking inside her pussy, filling her with thick spurts while he squeezed her hips hard enough to leave marks. Don Augusto emptied himself completely inside her, moaning her name under his breath, almost like a prayer.

They stayed like that for a long moment. He bent over her back, resting his forehead between her shoulder blades, breathing hard. She had her cheek against the folder, feeling the hot come beginning to trickle down the inside of her thigh when he finally pulled his cock out.

***

Afterward, the silence was different. Heavier, with another texture.

Don Augusto dressed slowly, without speaking. Sandra did too, picking up her panties from the floor and feeling his sticky warmth still sliding down the inside of her thighs. As she buttoned up her dress, he looked at her with an expression that was hard to decipher: gratitude, something like pride, something like sadness, all together.

—This can’t happen again —she said.

He nodded.

—I know, ma’am Sandra.

The “ma’am” had come back. They both noticed and neither said anything about it.

—You won’t say anything. To anyone.

—Of course not.

He left, closing the door carefully. Sandra opened the blinds, picked up her bag, and switched off the lamp.

***

She got to her apartment at almost half past ten.

When she opened the door, the smell of sautéed garlic and something that had gone lukewarm in the oven greeted her. Diego was asleep on the sofa with the remote control in his hand. On the table there was a plate covered with aluminum foil and a clean glass. He had cooked for her.

Sandra stood in the doorway for a moment that stretched long.

She went to the bathroom without turning on the living room lights. She stripped and got under the shower with the water very hot. She rested her forehead against the cold tiles while steam filled the space. She washed herself between the legs with an open hand, feeling Don Augusto’s semen dissolve and run down the drain along with the soapy water.

Regret didn’t arrive all at once. It came slowly, the way things come when they’re staying. The image of Don Augusto looking at her with that reverence, the weight of something forbidden that had already happened with no way to undo it, and Diego asleep on the sofa with dinner prepared.

I did it anyway, she thought. And he was here, waiting for me.

When she came out of the bathroom, she went over to the sofa and draped the blanket from the back of it over Diego’s shoulders. He muttered something without fully waking.

Sandra got into bed in silence and stared at the ceiling for a long time.

The darkness was complete. The only sound was her husband’s slow breathing on the other side of the hallway, oblivious to everything that had happened that night.