The Video I Accidentally Sent to My Older Boss

I had just turned twenty-four and graduated from college when I started as a junior analyst in the finance department of a logistics company downtown. The salary wasn’t bad for a starting position, but the job was an endless wall of monthly closings, reports that contradicted one another, and reconciliations no one ever fully understood. Least of all me.

From the first week, I knew who really pulled the strings on that floor. Gustavo was forty-eight, married, with two grown children, and had the body of a man who’d stopped going to the gym a long time ago but still made an impression: broad shoulders, enormous hands, that easy belly of someone who ate well and denied himself nothing. He wasn’t magazine handsome. He was something else. He had a confidence that made you look at him twice, that kept you looking a second longer when he spoke.

Everyone consulted him. He always had the answer, the shortcut, the missing piece of information. And yet, he’d never been promoted. They said he was “too direct” with the people upstairs. That suited me perfectly: I needed someone to cover for me while I learned to swim.

So I set out to win him over, without even trying to hide it. I texted him on WhatsApp after hours asking for “a little piece of advice,” sent him dumb memes to break the ice, and told him things like, “Gustavo, I’d be lost without you,” with the face of an abandoned puppy. It worked. In less than two weeks, he was doing half my reports for me without my having to ask twice.

That Thursday night, I was in my apartment, wearing a short pajama set, sitting on the bed with my laptop open on my legs and my phone in my hand. Gustavo was guiding me through a horrible projection spreadsheet over chat. At the same time, Andrés—my boyfriend of two years—was texting me from the hospital, asking me for “something tasty” because he was coming home dead after a ridiculously long shift and needed something to wake him up.

I decided to indulge him.

I took the black set he’d given me for the holidays out of the drawer: a lace bra, a matching thong, thigh-high stockings. I switched on the bedside lamp, put on some quiet music, and started recording.

I filmed myself moving slowly in front of the wardrobe mirror. I slipped the straps down one by one, caressed my tits through the lace, and let the fabric fall away until my nipples stood hard against the air. I turned around, bent over slightly, pulled my thong halfway down, and spread my pussy with two fingers so everything could be seen: the pink lips, the wetness gleaming beneath the lamp’s yellow light, my swollen clit waiting.

“See how you turn me on?” I said, looking into the camera, my voice raspier than I expected. “Come over and do whatever you want to me. Fuck me all the way. Fuck me however you want.”

I finished on my knees on the bed, two fingers buried to the knuckles in my own pussy, my other hand squeezing one of my tits, biting my lip, more shameless than I’d ever dared to be in front of Andrés. I pulled out my soaked fingers and sucked them slowly for the camera. I stopped recording with my heart racing.

I watched the video. It was good. Too good. I sent it over WhatsApp and kept touching myself for a while longer, still hot.

Except I didn’t send it to Andrés.

I sent it to Gustavo.

The blue double check appeared three seconds later. Three. Seconds.

I stared at the screen like an idiot, air stuck in my chest. I tried to delete it for both of us, but I was so nervous, so clumsy, that I deleted it only from my own conversation. On the other end, it was still there, intact, playing on his phone while I panicked.

Three endless minutes passed. Then it vibrated.

Gustavo: Lucía… this… was it meant for me? Because if it was, I’ll do all your reports for the month and won’t ask for anything in return.

I started trembling. My hands grew slick with sweat. I didn’t answer. I switched off my phone, threw it to the other end of the bed, and crawled beneath the sheets as if the darkness could swallow me whole.

I barely slept.

***

The next day, I arrived at the office with my stomach in knots. I’d put on a dark-gray pencil skirt, a fitted white blouse, and low heels, as if dressing neatly could somehow put the previous night back in order. I tried to act normal. I said hello in just the right voice, poured myself a coffee I never drank.

Gustavo was in his office with the door open. I saw him from a distance, at his usual desk, cup in hand and wearing that calm smile that now seemed like something else to me, something sharp.

He said nothing in front of anyone. He only looked at me once, raised one eyebrow slightly, and turned back to his screen, like a man saving a card for later.

Midmorning, I went to the printer room to collect some financial statements. I was alone. Or so I thought.

The door closed behind me. I heard the key turn in the lock.

I turned around.

Gustavo was there, leaning against the door, arms crossed, looking me up and down as if he’d already stripped me with his eyes the night before.

“Good morning, naughty girl,” he said, in that deep voice that reverberated through the room.

“Gustavo… last night was a mistake, I swear, I didn’t…”

He didn’t let me finish.

He crossed the room in two steps. With one hand, he turned me around, gently but without giving me any room to resist, and pressed me face-first against the printer, which was still warm. I felt his huge body behind mine, his breath sliding down my neck, and something hard and thick pressing against the fabric of his pants, tight against my ass.

“A mistake,” he repeated, amused. “A mistake you sent at eleven seventeen at night, two minutes and fourteen seconds long, and didn’t delete. A mistake I watched three times before going to sleep. A mistake I jerked off to, thinking about this ass.”

His hand moved down my back, yanked up my skirt, and grabbed everything at once, firmly squeezing my bare flesh as if he had every right.

“Gustavo… stop… someone could come in…”

He gave me a sharp smack on the ass. The sound bounced off the walls and the machine. I whimpered, but my legs parted on their own, just a little, without my allowing it.

“No one’s coming in,” he murmured, lightly biting my earlobe. “And if they do, they can learn to knock first.”

He reached around in front, over the fabric of my thong. His thick fingers found what they were looking for in a second, pressing the wet bulge of my pussy through the lace.

“Look at you,” he said, laughing softly against my neck. “You tell me to stop, but you’re soaked, dripping down your thigh. Did you get this wet filming yourself last night, or now, knowing this was going to happen sooner or later?”

I didn’t know how to answer. The truth was that both things were true, and I was embarrassed to say so.

He spread my legs with his knee. He yanked my thong to one side until I felt the elastic biting into my hip, then started touching me slowly, sliding two thick fingers between my pussy lips, drawing slow, deliberate circles over my clit, with a patience that was worse than any haste. I pressed my face against the cold lid of the printer to keep from making a sound.

“Stay still,” he ordered. “And stay open. That’s how I like you. With this little hole open for me.”

He pushed one finger inside me, slowly, all the way in. Then another. He curled them inside, searching for the spot that even Andrés took a while to find, and hit it immediately. A moan escaped me, and I had to smother it with my hand. He kept whispering in my ear, so softly that I had to strain to hear him over my own breathing, while he fingered me with a slow rhythm, sliding his fingers in and out, squelching through how wet I was.

“All morning I watched you walk by in that skirt, pretending to be serious,” he said. “And I knew what was underneath. I knew exactly what you look like when you let go. You showed me yourself, legs spread for the camera.”

I closed my eyes. The room smelled of hot toner, and the machine kept spitting out pages no one was going to come collect, one after another, marking an absurd rhythm while he brought me to the edge with one hand and held me with the other, resting it on my belly. He pulled out his dripping fingers and brought them to my mouth, pushing them between my lips.

“Suck,” he ordered. “Taste yourself. You’re this delicious.”

I sucked them without thinking, my tongue curling around them, tasting myself mixed with the flavor of his skin. He pulled them from my mouth and lowered them again, burying them inside me once more, faster now, deeper, his thumb pressing against my clit in circles.

I felt the zipper of his pants opening behind me. I heard the sound of his belt loosening. Then something hot, hard, and heavy pressed against the cleft of my ass beneath my bunched-up skirt. Gustavo’s cock, thick and pulsing against my skin, leaving a wet trail on my hip.

“Feel it,” he murmured, moving his hips slowly, dragging the tip between my cheeks. “Feel what you do to me. This is what you did to me last night, you slut.”

He slid it downward, between my spread legs, and started rubbing the entire length against my open pussy, gliding back and forth over my swollen lips, striking my clit with every pass. He didn’t put it inside me. Not yet. He only let me feel it, thick and hot and promising, while he kept touching me with his fingers above it.

“Please,” I murmured, not knowing whether I was asking him to stop or to fuck me right then.

“Ask properly,” he said, almost tenderly, biting my shoulder through my blouse. “Tell me what you want.”

“Fuck me,” I whispered, my face crushed against the printer, my voice breaking. “Fuck me, Gustavo, please.”

He laughed softly against my nape. He guided the tip to my entrance, set it there, and thrust once, driving all the way in before I had time to adjust. I screamed into my own hand. He was much thicker than I’d imagined, filling me completely, touching places I hadn’t known I had. He stayed still for a second, letting me feel every inch, then started moving.

He fucked me slowly at first, with deep, measured thrusts, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in to the hilt. Each stroke lifted me onto my tiptoes, pressed my tits against the machine, and tore a moan from me that he silenced with his palm over my mouth. His other hand gripped my hip, leaving finger marks, guiding me against his cock with every thrust.

“That’s it, that’s how you like it,” he panted against my ear. “With a real cock inside you. Tell me you like it.”

I nodded because I couldn’t speak. He sped up. The rhythm turned filthy, brutal, the sound of our skin colliding filling the room alongside the printer’s hum. I felt my climax rising from inside me, unstoppable, every thrust driving him deeper.

“Hold it,” he growled. “Hold it until I tell you.”

He buried his fingers in my clit while he kept fucking me from behind, rubbing in quick circles, and I bit down on my palm to keep from screaming. The machine kept spitting out pages. He kept thrusting.

“Now,” he ordered. “Come for me. Now.”

I didn’t say it. I didn’t need to. My body said it for me, trembling all over against his, squeezing his cock inside me with spasms I couldn’t control. He covered my mouth with his palm just in time as I came, choking a cry into his hand, my knees on the verge of giving out, supported only by his body against mine and the warm machine in front of me. He kept fucking me for a few more short, deep thrusts, then pulled his cock out sharply. I felt the hot spray land on my lower back, at the top of my ass, thick come sliding downward as he panted and bit my neck.

It took me a while to start breathing normally again. He waited, unhurried, letting me slowly come down. Then he ran a finger along my back, gathered up his own cum, and brought it to my mouth. I sucked it without opening my eyes. He wiped off the rest, unapologetically, on the edge of my own skirt and adjusted my thong back into place with two fingers.

“Good girl,” he said. Then he gave me one last smack on the ass, gentle this time, almost like a reward.

He straightened his shirt, zipped up, ran a hand through his hair, and walked toward the door as if he’d only come to collect some copies.

“Tomorrow, no thong,” he ordered as he passed, without turning around. “And don’t make me repeat myself.”

He opened the door, turned the key, and walked out into the hallway, greeting someone with complete naturalness, as if nothing had happened.

I stayed there, legs trembling, clothes out of place, his semen still warm as it ran down my back, the half-printed report hanging from the tray. I adjusted my skirt with clumsy hands, looked at myself in the machine’s dark screen, and barely recognized myself.

And the worst part, the most fucked-up part of all, wasn’t the fear that someone might find out, or the half-deleted message, or Andrés waiting at home without knowing anything.

The worst part was that I was already thinking about tomorrow. And I didn’t want him to stop.