What My Married Boss Didn’t Know About Me on Fridays

From Monday to Thursday I was Cristian. White shirt, dress pants, gray tie, polished shoes. I went up to the twelfth floor at eight thirty, greeted the receptionist with a measured smile, and sat down in front of the Excel sheet to keep the consultancy’s books. Sebastián, my boss, passed by my desk twice a day. He patted my shoulder, asked about the family I didn’t have, congratulated me on the latest closing. He was a big man, broad-backed and rough-handed, with a gold ring on his finger and a photo of his wife and three children on the desk in his office.

On Fridays things were different.

On Fridays at seven in the evening, when the office emptied out, I locked myself in the bathroom at the back of the floor. I carried a black backpack loaded with everything I needed to stop being Cristian. First came the straight blond wig that fell to the middle of my back. Then the black corset that cinched my waist and pushed up the chest the hormones had gifted me in the last fourteen months. A white thong, thigh-high stockings with a wide garter band, a pleated skirt barely longer than the elastic on the stockings. Twelve-centimeter patent leather heels, black. Fast but precise makeup: contour, red lips, a firm line on each eyelid.

When I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, there was nothing left of Cristian. I was Camila.

Sebastián was the first to know. Seven months earlier, one night when I had stayed late correcting a balance sheet, I left the backpack forgotten beside the photocopier. He opened it thinking it belonged to the marketing girl. What he found wasn’t hers. When I looked up, he was standing in front of me with the wig hanging from his fist and a look I couldn’t read.

—Is this yours?

I told him the truth. All of it. I told him about the name, the hormones, the lonely Fridays in my apartment putting on clothes I later hid under the bed. I expected to be fired the following Monday.

What I got was a WhatsApp message on Friday at seven ten.

Come up to the office. Dressed.

***

That first time was awkward. I was trembling like a leaf, he was breathing heavily on the other side of the desk. He locked the door and made me stand in the middle of the rug. I walked in heels exactly the way I had practiced a thousand times in my kitchen. He turned me all the way around with one raised finger, slowly, like a buyer inspecting a one-of-a-kind piece.

—I don’t know what the hell you do to me —he said then, and unbuckled his belt.

That night I learned two things. That Sebastián was a lot more patient than he seemed in the office. And that I was capable of asking for things I had never said out loud. That first time I sucked his cock on my knees between his polished shoes until he came in my mouth and made me swallow every drop while looking him in the eyes. After that he fucked me against the office wall with one hand over my mouth so security wouldn’t hear me screaming.

Tonight, seven months later, nobody’s trembling anymore.

***

When I enter the office, Sebastián is sitting in the leather chair, his jacket hanging over the back and his tie loosened. He has a glass of whisky in one hand and the other resting on his thigh. He looks me up and down without saying anything for a long while. I stay in the doorway, letting him look.

—Lock it —he orders at last.

I do. The click sounds louder than it should in the empty floor.

—Come here.

I walk straight to him. The heels sink into the carpet. He doesn’t stand up. When I reach him, he puts one hand on my waist and the other behind my knee, and pushes me so I sit astride him. The skirt rides up on its own. The corset forces me to keep my back straight, as if I’d been taught manners.

—You’re different today —he says, looking me in the eyes—. More woman than ever.

He kisses me before I can answer. It’s a slow kiss at first, then it isn’t. His tongue comes into my mouth with the confidence of someone who already knows the way. One of his hands grips the back of my neck so I won’t move; the other slides up my thigh, under the skirt, until it finds the thong. His fingers pass over the fabric and feel what’s underneath: my little cock, tight and already hard against the cotton, throbbing for him the way it throbs every Friday for seven months.

—I still don’t understand how you hide this under office pants —he murmurs against my ear, squeezing it in his palm over the thong.

He bites my earlobe. He bites my neck. He bites where the corset leaves skin bare. With the other hand he yanks my neckline down until one breast spills free, then lowers his head to suck it. He licks the nipple in slow circles, takes the whole thing into his mouth, lets it go with a wet pop, and blows on it. I bury my fingers in his hair and let out a moan I don’t bother hiding: long ago I learned that he likes hearing me. With the hand that was between my legs he now pushes the thong aside and touches my ass directly, my hole, my perineum. One finger tests the entrance and presses just a little. I shift on top of him and feel against my thigh the hard bulge of his cock stretching his pants.

—Stop. Get down.

I slide to the floor. My knees land on the soft rug. I open his belt with practiced fingers, pull down the zipper, tuck his shirt out of his pants. When I lower the boxer briefs, his cock falls heavy against my cheek. It’s almost hard and smells like him, expensive cologne and a whole day’s sweat. It’s thick, thicker than it is long, with the veins standing out and the head already peeking from the foreskin, shiny with the bead that crowns the tip.

I take it in both hands and give it a first lick from base to tip, tongue flat, slowly, savoring the sweat mixed with the salty taste of his skin. Sebastián closes his eyes and lets out a breath through clenched teeth. I know him. I know he likes it when I start slowly, when I kiss it, lick it, tease him before taking him. I give him what he wants for a few minutes: I kiss his balls one by one, take them into my mouth little by little, suck them carefully while with one hand I keep pumping his cock; I run my tongue under the head, over that spot that makes him shiver; I take just the tip between my lips and hold it there, without sucking, looking up at him with eyes already wet.

—Stop playing —he growls.

I open my mouth all the way and swallow him as far as I can, until I feel him hit the back of my throat and my eyes fill with tears. I stay there for a few seconds, swallowing around his cock, breathing through my nose, feeling it throb between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. Then I start moving. I bob my head up and down in rhythm, hollow out my cheeks, let saliva dribble from the corner of my lips until it falls onto his balls. Every time I get to the base I press my nose into the hair and stay there a moment, choking. Every time I come up, I release him with a wet pop and run my tongue around the head before sinking down again.

—Like that, suck it like that, good girl —he pants, grabbing my wig to guide the rhythm.

He sets the pace, faster now, deeper. He drives it down my throat and holds me against his pelvis for seconds that feel eternal. I force myself not to cough, to breathe through my nose, not to let go. When he releases me, I gasp for air and a thread of saliva runs down to my corset. I take him in both hands and keep working him with my hand and mouth, alternating, until he yanks my hair back.

—Enough. I’m going to cum if you keep going.

When he lets me go, my lipstick is smeared, my chin is wet, my chin is shining. I wipe myself with the back of my hand. Sebastián looks at me as if he’s only now seeing me fully, his cock standing straight up at the ceiling, slick with my saliva, throbbing on its own.

—The desk. Face down.

***

The desk is huge, dark wood, with two monitors and a stack of folders he sweeps aside with one arm in a single gesture. The folders fall to the floor. He doesn’t care. He lays me over it with my face against the cold wood and my skirt hitched up to my waist. He pulls my thong down to my thighs and leaves me exposed like that, heels still on, stockings still up, corset tight. I feel the office air on my bare ass, feel my cheeks spread when he lays one open hand on my lower back and uses the other to part me slowly, looking at me.

—Look how she opens for me —he says softly, almost to himself.

I hear him open the drawer where he keeps the lubricant. It’s our routine now. A routine that from Monday to Thursday doesn’t exist. I hear the cap click, then the cold stream hitting my hole directly and making me jerk against the desk.

His fingers come first. Cold at first, then warm. He spreads it around me with his thumb, drawing circles, pressing little by little. Then he slides one whole finger into me, to the knuckle, and leaves it still. He prepares me patiently, without rushing, moving slowly. When the second finger goes in, a long moan escapes me against the wood. He opens them, closes them, curls them forward searching for that spot he learned to find over the months. When he finds it, my whole body jerks and my own little cock, flattened against the edge of the desk, leaks a thread of pre-cum that stains my pleated skirt.

—There it is —he murmurs, smiling—. Dripping like a little whore.

He slides in a third finger. I rest my forehead on the desk and breathe deeply, letting them in, letting him open me. He knows how to do it. He learned over time, with me. The first time I hurt; now he knows to wait. He works them inside patiently until I’m relaxed, until I start pushing my ass back into his hand asking for more.

—Please —I say with my mouth against the wood—. Put it in already.

—Ask properly.

—Fuck me. Fuck my ass, Sebastián, please.

When I finally feel him pull his fingers out and rest the head against my entrance, my whole body goes taut with pure anticipation. He slides it up and down there for a few seconds, wetting himself with the lube left on me, letting me feel the thickness without putting it in yet. Then he pushes. He enters in a single slow, deep thrust, measuring every centimeter. A long, guttural moan escapes me, tangled with his growl. I feel myself opening, feel his thick cock stretching me, feel the ring of my ass burn slightly and then give way completely. When he reaches the bottom, when I feel his balls against my thighs and his pelvis pressed to my cheeks, he stays still for a moment, giving me time to breathe.

—Hold on —he whispers, and starts moving.

He takes me slowly at first. He grips my hips with both hands, holds me as if I were something fragile. He comes out almost completely, with a slowness that makes me sigh, and goes back in to the hilt. Once. Again. Again. I feel every centimeter, every vein, every throb. Then he speeds up. The thrusts become deeper, harder, mine. Every time he drives into me to the hilt, he tears a new moan from me that gets lost against the wood. His cock slips in and out with a wet, obscene sound that fills the office. The desk’s wood bangs against my hipbones and I don’t care: what matters to me is him, his breathing, his fingers digging into my waist, the brush of the tie he forgot to take off against my back.

He lands an open-handed slap on my ass that leaves my cheek burning. Then another. I scream against the desk and clench my ass around his cock and he lets out an animal groan.

—Clench like that. Clench like a bitch —he pants into my ear, without stopping—. Tell me you’re mine.

—I’m yours. I’m your Camila. I’m your little whore. I’m whatever you want.

He grabs me by the hair —by the wig, really, but by now it’s the same thing— and forces me to turn my face toward him so I can look at him. Sebastián looks at me with wide eyes, forehead shining, jaw tight. And he says something he has never said to me before.

—I don’t want to share you with anyone.

Something comes undone inside me. I don’t know if it’s because of the words or because of the way he moves from that moment on, slower, tighter against me, deeper inside. He lets go of my hair, pulls out of me with a yank that wrings a hollow moan from me, turns me over on the desk, lifts both my legs and settles between them. He rests my heels on his shoulders. He wants to see my face. He wants to look Camila in the eyes while he fucks me.

He spits into his hand, rubs his cock, and sinks it back into me in one single thrust. I arch over the wood and a cry escapes me. Now he really drives his hands into my thighs, opens my legs all the way, and starts pumping me with a steady, brutal rhythm. Every thrust shakes me whole, makes my breasts jump inside the corset, makes the wig bounce against the desk.

—Don’t close your eyes —he orders.

I don’t close them. Even though pleasure climbs my spine like a live wire, even though I feel my legs beginning to tremble, I don’t close them. I look at him. I look at his forehead, his neck, the gold ring on the hand holding my thigh. I look at him and feel that something between us, in this office, stops being just Friday sex. He lowers one hand and grabs my own little cock, ignored until now, and shakes it in time with his thrusts. With two fingers. He knows I don’t need more.

The orgasm hits me from the inside, in waves. I don’t need him to keep stroking it: the friction of his belly against mine, the pressure in my ass, the depth, are enough. My little cock, squeezed between his fingers, releases a warm stream of thin cum that splatters my corset, my stomach, even my chin. I arch, moan louder than I should in an office even if it’s nine at night, and clamp my legs around his waist, clench my ass around his cock in spasms he feels and answers with a growl.

—There it is. Cum for me. Cum with my cock inside you.

Sebastián holds out two, three more thrusts. Then he buries himself to the hilt, digs his fingers into my hips, and empties inside me with a rough groan. I feel him pulse several times against my walls, shot after shot, the heat that remains, his body going slack over mine. He stays inside a long while, still hard, while his breathing slowly settles. When he finally pulls out, I feel the warm trail run down the inside of my thigh to the stocking. He rests his forehead against my neck. He stays like that, breathing against my skin, until the wall clock says nine thirty and the office air fills with the smell of sex, lubricant, and warm whisky.

***

After a while he helps me sit up. He hands me some tissues from the drawer and chuckles softly when he sees the mess of smeared lipstick and my own cum drying on my corset. He cleans me himself, between my thighs, with a tenderness that contrasts with what he has just done to me. He kisses my forehead. He kisses my temple. He kisses that part of my shoulder the corset leaves bare.

—Did you mean what you said before? —I ask, without looking at him.

It takes him a while to answer. When he does, his voice is lower than usual.

—I meant it.

—You have a wife.

—I have a wife.

We stay silent for a while. Outside, somewhere in the building, a vacuum cleaner switches on. The cleaning staff is starting their rounds. In fifteen minutes I’ll have to go back to the bathroom, take off the wig, peel off the lashes, put on the tie, be Cristian again for the security booth.

But not yet.

Sebastián sits me on his lap in the armchair, wraps both arms around me, and lets me rest my head on his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I close my eyes. He smells like himself. He smells like us. For an instant I imagine the impossible: a life in which we don’t have to wait for Friday, in which that family photo doesn’t exist on his desk, in which Camila doesn’t have to live hidden under a bed.

On Monday he’ll pass by my desk twice. He’ll pat my shoulder. He’ll ask me about the month-end close. I’ll answer him in Cristian’s neutral voice and we’ll both pretend very well.

But as he passes, without anyone seeing, he’ll slip a folded little note under the keyboard.

And I, from inside the white shirt, will already know what it says.