I Forced My Arrogant Boss to Dress for Me

The office on the twelfth floor of Valmar Tower was Esteban Morales's kingdom, and he made sure to remind me of it every morning. Tempered-glass walls, a view of the city that seemed to surrender at his feet, and an enormous desk behind which he sat like a king no one had crowned. He was forty-four, with a square jaw, a tailored suit that emphasized his gym-built shoulders, and a beard trimmed with military precision. He ran the finance department with an iron hand and such natural contempt that no one bothered arguing with him anymore.

My name is Marina Vega, and for two years I was his secretary. Thirty years old, brown hair that I always wore tied back, high-necked blouses, and knee-length skirts. I had a degree in business administration and had been the best in my class, but the job market was unforgiving, and that salary supported both me and my mother. So I learned to swallow his comments with a calm anyone might have mistaken for resignation.

“Vega, the quarterly report. And move it—I don't have all day to watch you walk,” he barked that Monday morning without looking up from the screen.

I stood, adjusting my skirt. I felt his eyes fixed on my back, that possessive stare he used to remind me where he thought I belonged.

“Right away, Mr. Morales,” I replied, in a voice so neutral I didn't even believe it myself.

One day, I thought. One day.

I handed him the folder, and he took it without a thank-you. He leafed through it with the theatrical gesture he loved so much, frowning.

“This is garbage. Who prepared it? Never mind. I don't hire you to think; I hire you to decorate,” he said with a dry laugh, glancing sideways at me to see whether it had hurt.

I didn't give him the satisfaction. I went back to my desk and continued sorting emails. Then, while checking the shared network, a folder hidden among “miscellaneous expenses” caught my attention. I opened it almost on instinct. They were transfers: substantial sums diverted from the corporate account to a personal one. The beneficiary was Esteban Morales. Dates, amounts, falsified notes to justify them as executive bonuses. It wasn't a mistake. It was repeated, deliberate fraud.

I closed the file with my heart pounding against my ribs and pretended to concentrate on the screen. He was still on the phone, berating a supplier in his thunderous voice.

“If you don't deliver on time, I'll destroy you. It's that simple.” He slammed down the phone and stretched in his chair. “Vega, coffee. Black, no sugar, the way real men drink it.”

“Yes, sir,” I murmured.

As I went down to the cafeteria, my mind was racing. This was a crime. If I reported him, Esteban was finished. But something in my chest—that rage accumulated over two years of humiliation—whispered another idea. What if I used it to my advantage? For the first time in a long while, I walked with my spine straight, feeling a strange tingling run down my back. It wasn't desire, not yet. It was something older: the promise of revenge.

I brought him the coffee. He took it without looking at me.

“At least you're good for this,” he said.

I sat down and hid a smile. That afternoon I copied the files to a flash drive and tucked it into the bottom of my bag. Before leaving, Esteban threw one last jab at me.

“Come in something tighter tomorrow, Vega. The office needs motivation.”

He winked and left. I remained staring at the door, the flash drive burning in my bag like an ember.

***

I reached my apartment when the sky had already turned purple. I closed the door, took off my shoes, and collapsed onto the sofa with a sigh that drained the day's tension from me. I inserted the flash drive into my laptop and opened the folder. The evidence was there, orderly and brutal: a ten-thousand-dollar transfer directly into his account, disguised with a digital signature any auditor would dismantle in five minutes.

As I reviewed the documents, I thought about him. His dominant figure silhouetted against the glass, the way his suit clung to his torso, that masculine certainty that for two years had made me feel invisible. Only now I imagined him differently. I imagined him sweating beneath my gaze, his deep voice begging instead of ordering. The thought sent a treacherous heat into my belly, a wet pulse between my legs that made me squeeze my thighs without wanting to fully admit it. I slipped a hand beneath my skirt almost without thinking and felt that my panties were already sticky. My anger was wetting my pussy.

“This is real,” I whispered, enlarging the image of the transfer.

I could report him to human resources or the police and end his career in a scandal. But I didn't want that—not yet. The anger over his insults—“move it,” “at least you're good for this”—mingled with a primitive thrill at imagining him at my mercy. What would it feel like to have him obeying me? I closed my eyes and let the fantasy unfold: his broad shoulders trembling, his arrogant gaze lowered to the floor, that cock of his—the one he surely bragged about in the locker room—hard and trapped, unable to touch it without my permission. The heat intensified, and I shifted on the sofa, pressing my clitoris with two fingers over the wet fabric.

I copied everything into an encrypted, password-protected folder and backed it up to the cloud as well. Then I made myself some tea, and while the water boiled, I laid out my plan. Tomorrow I would confront him. Not angrily: with cold calm. I'd show him one page, enough for him to understand that I had him trapped. And then the blackmail would begin. Not for money—that would have been vulgar—but for control. For every humiliation, a bill.

That night I slept with an anticipation bordering on erotic, dreaming of the power I had just unleashed.

***

The next morning dawned gray. I looked at myself in the mirror, adjusting a white blouse a little tighter than usual and a black pencil skirt. I let one lock of hair loose and painted my lips red. The flash drive was in my bag beside a printout of the most incriminating transfer. I needed nothing more to begin; the rest was ammunition.

I arrived fifteen minutes before him, as always. Esteban came in on time, wearing his immaculate gray suit and that self-satisfied expression that was beginning to look fragile to me.

“Coffee, Vega. And yesterday's summary,” he ordered without looking at me, typing on his phone.

I served him the coffee. And this time, instead of returning to my place, I went to the door and turned the key. The click alerted him. He frowned and straightened.

“I need to talk to you, Esteban,” I said, using his first name for the first time in months. I took out the printout and slid it across his desk.

He took it disdainfully. But as he recognized the details—the transfer, his account, the false notes—the color drained from his face. A thin sheen of sweat beaded his forehead.

“What the hell is this? Where did you get it?” he growled, crumpling the paper in his fist.

I leaned against the edge of my desk and crossed my arms, unruffled.

“I found it yesterday, in the files you gave me access to. It's embezzlement. Fraud. You could end up in prison.”

He shot to his feet, trying to fill the space with his body to intimidate me.

“You don't know what you're talking about. Delete it right now or you're fired. I'll ruin you.”

I didn't move. I took out my phone and showed him the screen: more evidence, backed up in the cloud.

“Try it,” I replied, and the edge in my voice stopped him cold. “I have copies everywhere. One email to human resources—or better yet, to the police—and you're finished. But I don't want that. Not yet. You do what I say, or you go to prison. Your choice, ‘boss.’”

I pronounced the last word with such sarcasm that he took a step back. His chest rose and fell. Sweat was already dampening his shirt collar, and I noticed, and a pulse of excitement ran through me at the sight: the man who always gave orders, destabilized, betrayed by his own body.

“What do you want? Money? How much?” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to pull himself together.

I shook my head and stepped forward, invading his space for the first time. I felt the heat coming off him, his cologne mingled with nervous sweat.

“I don't want money. I want control. For every time you humiliated me, you pay now. Starting today. Otherwise, I press send.”

He swallowed, his throat moving visibly. Fury and fear battled across his face, but there was no way out.

“All right,” he said through clenched teeth. “But this isn't over.”

I smiled and put away my phone.

“Oh, it ends exactly as I say it does. Go back to your desk. We have work to do.”

***

The rest of the morning was a tension you could cut with a knife. Esteban pretended to look at his screen, but his eyes kept returning to me. The coffee cooled untouched on his desk. I, on the other hand, savored every minute of this new dynamic: a lingering look, the faintest hint of a smile whenever he avoided mine.

At noon I decided to take the first real step. I stood, went to the door, and turned the key again. The click made him raise his head.

“What do you want now?” he murmured, with none of his former authority.

I took a small package wrapped in tissue paper from my bag and set it in front of him as though it were another report.

“Your first task. Open it.”

He looked at it suspiciously. His large hands, accustomed to signing and giving orders, trembled as he tore open the wrapping. Inside was a lingerie set: a black lace bra and matching piece, delicate and deliberately provocative. His eyes widened, and an incredulous laugh escaped him.

“Are you crazy? I'm not putting this on. Forget it.”

I leaned over his desk, just enough for him to understand that I wasn't negotiating.

“Yes, you are. Or I press send on the email I have ready for the general manager. Imagine it: your career destroyed, your reputation in ashes. All because you wouldn't follow such a simple instruction.”

My voice was soft, almost sweet, but charged with steel. I watched his jaw tense, his fists closing around the fabric.

“This is ridiculous. I'm a man, not one of your dolls,” he protested, but his voice wavered.

“Go to the bathroom and put it on. Now,” I ordered, pointing toward the door. “And when you come back, you will prove you're wearing it. You know what happens if you don't.”

He cursed under his breath, grabbed the package, and left with rigid steps. I sat and waited, crossing my legs. I imagined the fine fabric against his rough skin, the lace forcing him to feel a vulnerability he had never known, and the thought sent that subtle, insistent heat through me again. This was no longer only revenge. It was a game that made me feel strangely alive.

He returned minutes later, his face red with shame and fury. He closed the door and stood before me, avoiding my gaze.

“Done. Happy?”

I rose slowly and walked around the desk until I was close to him.

“Show me. Lift your shirt and lower your pants a little. I want to see that you're wearing it properly.”

He hesitated, breathing heavily.

“This is humiliating. You're a sadist.”

“And you're a thief who's going to learn his place,” I replied calmly. “Do it, or I call security and show them the evidence.”

With a frustrated groan, he obeyed. He lifted his shirt: his gym-built torso, suddenly contrasted with the black lace stretched across his chest, looked almost unreal. Then he unbuckled his belt and lowered his pants to his thighs. The lace panties fit him poorly, pulled tight, and the bulge of his cock pressed the fabric forward, obscene and thick, more rigid than he wanted to admit. The flush climbed from his neck to his cheeks, and he looked away, mortified.

I moved closer and reached out to adjust a strap, brushing his hot skin. The contact was electric; I felt him shudder. I lowered my fingers slowly, following the line of the lace to his flat stomach and from there, without hurry, to the obscene protuberance pushing against the panties.

“Well, well,” I murmured, pressing my palm over his lace-clad cock. “Look what we have here. You're getting hard, Esteban. Do you like being humiliated? Is that it?”

“It's not… no,” he gasped, but his cock jumped beneath my hand, betraying him.

I seized him by the chin and forced him to look at me. His eyes had grown glassy, a mixture of shame and rage and something else, something hungry he didn't know how to hide.

“On your knees,” I ordered.

“What?”

“Kneel. If I have to repeat myself, the next word will be ‘police.’”

His legs folded almost by themselves. Mr. Morales, king of the twelfth floor, dropped to his knees before me on the expensive carpet of his own office, with the garter straps around his thighs and the black panties stretched over an erection he could no longer deny. It was the most obscene and satisfying moment of my two years at that company.

I pushed my pencil skirt up to my waist slowly, letting him see every inch of skin. I wasn't wearing panties underneath. I had come prepared. My pussy was glistening, already soaked from the first time I had turned the key.

“Look at me,” I said. “Look closely at what you've spent two years wanting and treating like garbage.”

A guttural sound escaped him, something between a complaint and a plea. I grabbed his hair with one hand and drew his face toward my crotch.

“Now you're going to use that mouth that barks so much for something more useful. You're going to eat my pussy, Esteban. And you won't stop until I come. If you do it badly, if you even think of biting, if you hesitate, tomorrow you're going to prison. Understood?”

“Marina, please…”

“Miss Vega, to you. Open me up.”

With trembling hands he opened my thighs and buried his face between them. His carefully trimmed beard scraped the skin of my inner thighs, and that single sensation tore a moan from me. He started clumsily, his tongue stiff, like someone who had never wanted to do it. I tugged his hair.

“Slower. Flat tongue. Move it up. There. The clitoris, idiot. It isn't that difficult.”

He corrected himself. And once he found the rhythm, he began licking with a desperation that surprised me—as if doing a good job on me were the only way to save his skin. His tongue curled around my clitoris, moving up and down, sinking inside my pussy before coming back up. His lips filled with my juices, bright and thick, running down into his beard. I looked down at him from above, leaning against the edge of the desk, my skirt bunched at my waist and my blouse half open. The man who had told me “move it” was now on his knees eating my pussy as if his life depended on it. Because, in a way, it did.

“That's it,” I panted. “That's it, boss. See how good you are when you shut your damn mouth and obey?”

He inserted two thick, calloused fingers and curled them, searching inside for that spot. He found it almost by accident, and I let out a cry that I had to bite back so I wouldn't scream across the entire floor. His tongue never stopped. He drew one finger, wet with my pussy, down to my asshole and pressed, probing, and I squeezed my thighs around his face.

“I didn't give you permission there,” I hissed. “Not yet.”

He obediently returned to my clitoris. He sucked it whole, closing his lips around it and drawing hard enough to make me bend over him. The orgasm began rising from the soles of my feet, a tremor running through my legs and back, and by the time it reached my waist there was no turning back. I came on his face, clutching his hair, rubbing my pussy against his mouth, feeling him choke a little and keep licking because I hadn't told him to stop. I soaked his beard and the collar of his expensive shirt with my orgasm.

“Good boy,” I panted, trembling. “Good boy.”

He pulled back slightly, mouth open, chin glistening, eyes red, breathing through his nose like an animal. The black panties were stained in front with a dark, wet patch. He had come too, or nearly so, inside the lace, without anyone touching him. His cock remained rigid against the damp fabric.

I lowered my skirt calmly, smoothing out the wrinkles. He was still on his knees, waiting for instructions like a dog.

“Stand up.”

He rose, unsteady.

“You are not changing those panties. You're going to wear them like that all afternoon, with your own come on them. Every time you move, every time they stick to you, I want you to remember who is in charge of this office now. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice broken.

“Yes, what?”

He swallowed. He closed his eyes.

“Yes, Miss Vega.”

I smiled. I ran a finger over his wet beard, brought it to his mouth, and he sucked it without my having to ask.

“Very good. Pull up your pants. Go back to your chair. And finish the report you criticized, this time without any mistakes.”

“From now on, you'll wear them all day,” I said, moving away. “And if you try to take them off, I'll know. Tomorrow you'll bring something more… suitable. This is only the beginning, Esteban.”

I sat back down. The heat in my own body was undeniable, and I could still feel the tremor of my orgasm between my thighs. Seeing him like that, humiliated, my juices drying in his beard and his own semen in the panties, stirred something deep inside me. He spent the rest of the day fidgeting in his chair, feeling the sticky fabric constantly rubbing against him, while I watched him with a pleasure I made no effort to hide.

***

At the end of the day, as he gathered his jacket with clumsy movements, I stopped him with a calm but firm voice.

“One last thing before you leave. Tomorrow, shave that beard. You have to look presentable, right? Isn't that what you always say?”

I looked him straight in the eyes, and my cold smile returned every word he had hurled at me and at others for two years. He froze for a second, instinctively touching the beard he was so proud of—the same beard that still smelled like me. He flushed again, but didn't argue. He simply nodded and left without a word, leaving the door ajar.

I remained alone in the office, rubbing my neck as I relived every one of his gestures. I had two years of debts to collect and all the time in the world to collect them, one by one.

Tomorrow I'll raise the stakes, I thought. And, for the first time in a long while, I couldn't wait for it to arrive.