I Heard the Boss Punish the Secretary in His Office

The neon lights were still on in the almost empty offices on the twenty-sixth floor. Martín looked away from his laptop for a moment and gazed through the sealed windows overlooking the avenue. The rain was falling with hypnotic steadiness, drawing thin lines that slid down the glass. Behind him, the desks were messy: stacks of folders, a framed photo here and there, an open box of alfajores, and a few wooden figurines a coworker had brought back from his latest trip abroad.

At the far end of the room, seated beneath the yellowish circle of a desk lamp, was Camila. The secretary. A petite, slender girl with pale skin and shoulder-length blonde hair falling over her shoulders. She wore dark blue-framed glasses that matched perfectly the fitted dress she had put on that morning. She typed in silence, back straight and gaze focused.

Martín stood up. He needed to stretch his legs and, while he was at it, go to the bathroom. He walked down the carpeted hallway to the men’s restroom, located right next to the boss’s office. He went into one of the stalls, lifted the lid, pulled down his pants, and let the urine hit the ceramic. When he finished, he shook off, flushed, and washed his hands with that lavender-scented soap the cleaner refilled every night.

As he came out, he heard voices. Instinctively, he froze still.

Don Ricardo, the boss. Fifty-something, gray hair slicked back with pomade, immaculate dark gray suit, burgundy tie. He was standing in front of Camila, and from the tone of his voice it was obvious something had gone wrong. The secretary answered with her head lowered, polite in tone and apologizing at every pause.

—Come to my office —Don Ricardo snapped.

Martín caught a glimpse of Camila’s face before taking a step back and hiding behind the ajar bathroom door. The girl had her lips pressed tight, eyes shining. Her high heels clicked against the parquet, accompanied by the boss’s heavy footsteps. The office door closed.

***

A few minutes passed. Martín waited in the bathroom, his heart pounding in his ears. This is none of my business, he told himself. But curiosity had already won the fight. He tiptoed out and moved down the hallway. To his surprise, the boss’s office door had not been fully shut. A tiny slit, barely a finger wide, let out the yellow light from inside.

The words he heard left him paralyzed.

—Lean over the desk and hike up your dress —Don Ricardo said, in a voice that was no longer that of a boss scolding someone, but of a man used to being obeyed.

—But, Don Ricardo, I… —Camila replied, in a thread of a voice.

—You did it again. We already talked about this last week.

There was a long silence. So long that Martín thought he was about to hear the door open at any moment. But no. What came next was the boss’s deep voice again.

—You know I don’t tolerate any protests. Take off your panties. And if you dare contradict me again, I’ll double the punishment.

Martín swallowed. He brought his eye to the slit. And there she was. Camila, bent over the varnished wood of the desk, her dress hiked up to her waist and her white panties hanging at knee level. Her bare ass, pale, small, offered up. Her thighs trembling. Don Ricardo was behind her, taking off his belt with methodical calm, folding it in half in his right hand.

The first strike sounded sharp, forceful. The leather crossed Camila’s buttocks and left a red line that appeared instantly on her white skin. The girl pressed her knuckles against the wood and swallowed a gasp.

—Count —ordered Don Ricardo.

—One —she whispered.

The second blow came two seconds later. And then a third. Camila kept counting under her breath, biting her lower lip, eyes closed. Her skin flared in stripes, parallel marks crossing and stacking with each lash.

Four. Five. Martín pressed his thighs together, as if the blows were landing on his own ass. He noticed his mouth going dry, and at the same time, an unmistakable pressure pushing against the fabric of his pants. His cock went hard as a rock. He grabbed it through his trousers, squeezing it to calm it down, but it only made things worse: as he squeezed, a surge of pleasure shot up through his groin and he had to bite his lips to keep from moaning.

Six. Seven.

Through the crack he could see how, between strikes, Don Ricardo ran his hand over Camila’s reddened ass. Open palm, thick fingers kneading the hot flesh, sliding down the crease of her buttocks, shamelessly brushing her pussy from behind. Martín could clearly see the boss’s fingers coming away shiny. Camila was wet. The petite secretary, the one in the fitted dress and blue glasses, had her pussy dripping while she was being punished.

—You’re soaked, Camila —Don Ricardo murmured, in a tone of amused reproach—. Every time it’s harder for you to hide it.

—Yes, Don Ricardo —she answered, voice trembling and submissive.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

Martín unbuttoned his pants without even noticing. He slipped his hand into his underwear and took hold of his cock directly. It was hot, swollen, the tip already wet. He started stroking it slowly, never taking his eye off the crack in the door, his back pressed to the hallway wall. If someone came out of the elevator right then, they’d catch him with his hand on his dick spying on his boss. He didn’t care. He couldn’t stop.

Eleven. Twelve.

—We’re done, Camila. Does it sting? —the boss’s voice sounded softer, almost tender.

—Yes, Don Ricardo —she panted—. It stings a lot.

—You behaved well. Come on, I’ll put some cream on it.

But before the cream, Martín saw something else. He saw Don Ricardo unfasten his fly unhurriedly and pull out his cock. A thick cock, the glans gleaming, already fully erect. The secretary remained bent over the desk, not moving, waiting. The boss came closer, placed the tip between the lips of her pussy, and shoved in with one thrust, all the way in. Camila let out a moan for the first time, a guttural sound that tore out of her throat as if she’d been holding it in for hours.

—This is also part of the punishment —Don Ricardo said, gripping her hips—. And you know why.

He started fucking her against the desk, slow thrusts at first, pulling his cock almost all the way out and then driving it back in hard. Each push made Camila’s hips slam against the edge of the wood, and the reddened buttocks jolt. Martín jerked himself in time with it, matching the rhythm of his hand to the boss’s rhythm. Every time Don Ricardo pushed in, he clenched his fist; every time he pulled out, he loosened it.

Camila had her eyes closed, mouth open against the wood, letting it happen. She was whispering something Martín couldn’t quite make out, something that sounded like “yes, sir” repeated like a litany. The boss grabbed a lock of her blond hair and tugged her head back, arching her.

—Who do you belong to when you’re here?

—To you, Don Ricardo.

—Whose pussy is this?

—Yours, Don Ricardo. Yours.

The thrusts grew faster. The desk creaked. Papers slid across the wood and some fell to the floor. Camila started trembling all over, her legs rigid, and a long, broken cry came out of her throat. She was coming. Martín understood it by the way the boss let out a low laugh and said, almost in her ear:

—That’s it. Good girl.

Don Ricardo yanked his cock out of the secretary’s pussy. He grabbed it with his hand and stroked it two or three times over her reddened ass. The cum shot out in thick streams, falling over the marked buttocks, sliding down the crease, mingling with the red lines from the belt. Camila stayed still, panting, cheek flattened against the desk, letting the semen run over her hot skin.

Martín came at the same time, biting his forearm so he wouldn’t moan. Cum soaked his underwear, stained his fingers, ran down his wrist. He stood frozen for a moment, forehead against the wall, breathing through his nose, terrified someone would hear him.

On the other side of the door he heard the boss open a drawer and take something out. A pack of tissues. He wiped Camila’s ass with a tenderness that contrasted with everything before. Then the cream jar. He spread it over the marks with his fingertips, slowly, almost lovingly.

Martín pulled his underwear back up with his hands still sticky, closed his pants as best he could, and backed down the hallway in silence. He sank back into his chair. In front of the laptop, he pretended to type. The letters danced on the screen. His pulse was racing, his jaw tight, and under the desk, a wet stain that there was no longer any way to hide. He crossed his legs, put his coat over his lap. He tried to think about spreadsheets, about the client who wanted a report by Monday. Useless.

***

Ten minutes later, the office door opened. Don Ricardo came out with his briefcase under his arm, not looking at anyone. He took the elevator and left. Camila returned to her desk. She walked a little more slowly than usual, but with her head held high. She sat down with a care that only Martín, now that he knew everything, could notice.

The girl focused on her screen. The lamp light drew a soft profile across her face. If anyone saw her at that moment, they could not imagine what had happened three meters away, behind a half-open door. That her pussy was full of traces of the boss, that her ass was burning, that she had come bent over Don Ricardo’s desk.

Martín closed the laptop. He picked up his coat and slung the briefcase over his shoulder. He walked toward the exit with his head down. As he passed by the secretary, he couldn’t help glancing at her from the corner of his eye. Camila looked up and smiled at him, with an absolutely normal, professional, tired smile.

—It’s time to go home already —she said, taking up her bag.

—Yeah. You’re staying late too.

—I had some numbers to finish today.

They reached the door together. Martín stepped aside and opened it for her.

—Please, you go first. I’ll close up.

Camila murmured a “thank you” and headed toward the elevator. Martín stayed in the doorway, watching her. The dress clung to the curve of her hips, and for a moment his imagination played a cruel trick on him: the dress turned transparent, and he saw the ass painted red, the parallel marks, the burning skin, the semen shining in the crease. He had to brace one hand on the doorframe to steady himself.

The secretary reached the elevator. She pressed the button. And then, while she waited distractedly, she brought her right hand back and, with a discreet gesture, massaged her buttocks over the fabric. It was a second. Maybe two. But Martín saw it. He also saw how, when the elevator doors opened, she subtly pressed her thighs together, as if she could feel something warm running down the inside of her leg.

His cock, still sensitive, tightened again inside his damp underwear.

***

On the subway, standing and holding the pole, Martín couldn’t stop replaying the scene. Every crack of the belt, every silence between blows, every restrained gasp from Camila, every thrust from the boss, every shot of cum falling on her ass. He wondered what would have happened if she had really refused. If she had run out. If she had called someone. But that wasn’t how it had gone. She had taken off her panties. She had leaned over the desk. She had endured the twelve lashes, counting them out loud. She had spread her legs to be fucked. She had come. And when she left, she had smiled.

Lucía, his girlfriend, was waiting for him at home. A good, tidy, classic girl. She worked at a small publishing house and read historical novels on Sunday mornings. They fucked on Wednesdays and Fridays, with the punctuality of office hours. Today wasn’t the day.

He walked the two blocks from the station to his building thinking about what Lucía would say if he told her what had happened at the office. She’d probably frown, talk about respect, about abuse of power, about reporting it. And she’d be right about everything. And yet, what Martín had felt behind the door wasn’t condemnation. It was something else. Something he didn’t dare name.

The sessions with Lucía were quiet. Kisses, embraces, sex in half-light, under the sheets, with a hand slipping beneath her panties to find her pussy warm and already a little wet. He’d slip two fingers inside her, caress her patiently, and she’d pant softly, never raising her voice. Then he’d climb on top of her, slip into her slowly, move with careful rhythm until she came with a discreet shiver, almost apologizing, and he’d come inside a minute later. The breasts, yes, those always stayed uncovered, they were a source of pride for her, and he worshipped them, the small pink nipples always hard. But the ass, no. Lucía’s ass was forbidden territory. She covered it even to go from bed to the bathroom. If Martín ever touched it too much while she was asleep, she’d push him away in her sleep without opening her eyes.

Spanking, punishment, bending over a desk, saying “yes, sir” with her cheek against the wood—those didn’t even enter the catalog of things Lucía could ever consider. And Martín, to be fair, didn’t feel capable of suggesting them either. He wasn’t brave like Camila. He didn’t have the courage to ask for what he wanted.

Lucía was a good woman. She loved him. And for nothing in the world would he trade Sunday afternoons, with the blanket over their legs and some silly movie in the background. What he had seen that afternoon had not made him want another woman. It had made him want another life. And those were different things.

***

In bed that same night, while Lucía finished a movie in the living room, Martín lay on his back and let the darkness fill his eyes. The office scene came back like a tide. He slipped his hand under the pajama pants and found his cock hard again, swollen, as if nothing had happened hours earlier in the hallway.

He imagined escorting Camila home. Walking up the stairs with her, holding her bag. He imagined the secretary’s apartment: a small living room, a sofa with a throw blanket, books piled on a low table. He imagined Camila taking off her dress slowly, letting it fall to the floor, left only in her white panties stained and her bra, and lying face down on the bed with a pillow under her hips.

He sat beside her. He didn’t touch her at first. He listened. Camila told him, with her cheek crushed against the pillow, what she had felt bending over the desk. She told him that the first time she had died of shame, that her legs had trembled, that she had gotten wet without meaning to and had panicked that the boss would notice. That now, after several times, she had learned to breathe between blows, to wait for the boss’s cock with her pussy already open. That sometimes, that same night, in the shower, she would stare at the marks in the mirror, slip two fingers inside herself, and finish against the cold tile while the water ran.

Martín listened, fascinated, while he pulled her stained panties down her thighs, took them off completely at her ankles, and ran his hand gently over the curve of her ass, not squeezing, barely brushing. He put cream on the marks, one by one. He kissed each red stripe. He licked them. He spread her buttocks and ran his tongue along the whole crease, slowly moving upward, tasting the salty flavor of the boss’s dried semen, and downward to her swollen pussy, still warm, wet again already. He put his tongue there, in the same pussy Don Ricardo had fucked only hours before, and she, without lifting her head, asked him in a voice muffled by the pillow not to stop.

After that he got on top of her, without turning her over, and fucked her from behind, with Camila face down, her burning buttocks crushed against his pelvis with every thrust. She panted, clenched the pillow in her teeth, and told him—in the fantasy—things Lucía had never told him: “harder,” “break me,” “yours, all yours.” And he, inside her, came between the red marks left by another man’s belt.

Martín came into his own hand, silently, in the darkness of the bedroom, biting the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t make a sound. He wiped himself with a tissue from the nightstand drawer and lay still, his breathing slowly returning to normal.

Someday I’ll be as brave as her, he told himself, already with his eyes closed. Someday.

In the living room, Lucía laughed at a scene in the movie. It was a clean, clear laugh, untouched by anything else. The laugh of someone who would sleep soundly that night, and the next, and the next, because her world was a known and safe place.

Martín didn’t envy her. He didn’t judge her either. He simply fell asleep thinking of a half-open door, of a belt folded in a thick hand, of a small white ass turning red, and of a back bent over a desk. For the first time, he accepted calmly that there was a part of himself that lived behind that door, even if nobody else would ever know it.