My hardcore Boss

Chapter 1: At Night

Another night, like so many others. I'm home alone after a workday that stretched on forever. More overtime that almost certainly won't be paid, nearly an hour in traffic, and then finally—home.

Dinner tonight is an ice cream I grabbed on the way back, spooned straight from the tub while a reality show plays in the background, filling the silence. My umpteenth evening as a single thirty-year-old, flipping channels, trying not to think too hard.

The day wasn't all bad, though. Work went surprisingly well. I managed to fix some tricky issues, even impressed my boss for once. For the first time, he seemed to notice my commitment, my professionalism. He's only a few years older than me, but somehow he manages three divisions of our software company without breaking a sweat. He's serious, always so focused—I can probably count on one hand the times I've seen him smile.

There's something about him, though. A kind of quiet, magnetic intensity. Sometimes I catch myself staring, admiration mixed with... something else. Maybe even a little restlessness. He's tall, attractive, well-educated, the kind of man who could charm anyone. Rumor has it he might be gay, though I've never seen him with anyone, man or woman. Still, I can't help but wonder. My mind wanders to odd places lately; too much time alone will do that, I guess. But if there's one person I shouldn't fantasize about, it's my boss.

I shake off the thought, flipping channels again until I stumble onto a scene that makes me pause.

It's an erotic film—one of those low-lit, stylized ones that feel halfway between art and voyeurism. In a dimly lit room that looks like a cell, there are two men and a woman. One man is bound to a cross in an "X" shape, face masked, while the other kneels, obedient, licking the foot of the woman who holds him by a leather leash. The word "SLAVE" is engraved on his collar.

She's striking, tall and imposing, with raven-black hair falling in loose waves around her face, piercing green eyes, and olive skin that glows in the dim light. She wears a latex bodice with a skirt so short it leaves little to the imagination. In one hand, she holds the leash; in the other, a leather whip. With practiced ease, she yanks the man on his knees toward her, guiding him precisely where she wants him to worship. Each time he falters, she snaps the whip against his shoulder, a punishment he seems to crave as much as he fears.

My heart beats a little faster as I watch, spoon pausing halfway to my mouth. The scene is intense, almost hypnotic, and I feel a strange mix of discomfort and intrigue. I know I shouldn't be watching this—it's absurd, really. Yet something about the control, the unspoken power between them, draws me in. My thoughts drift again, to the office, to the boss who never seems to let his guard down.

Ridiculous. I force myself to look away, the familiar pang of loneliness creeping back in. It's just a movie, just another meaningless scene on another meaningless night. 

The whole thing is intoxicating, igniting desires I haven't allowed myself to feel in ages. I watch, frozen, feeling a thrill pulse through my body, as if some long-locked door inside me has suddenly creaked open. Part of me wants to look away, but I can't. My eyes flick nervously around the room, absurdly afraid that someone might see me—even though I'm alone, the only witness to my own shame.

The scene shifts, the woman untying the boy from the cross and guiding him to his knees. I watch as she positions the other man beneath her, each movement deliberate, authoritative. Then, she straps on a leather harness, fixes a rubber dildo to it, and moves between the legs of the boy lying on the ground. My breath catches in my throat. What... what am I even looking at?

I know I should turn this off. But something about her confidence, her control, makes it impossible to look away. As she touches him, as she orders the other man to suck her fingers, I feel a heat rising in me, a tingling curiosity that I'm almost afraid to acknowledge. My mind drifts to the office, to my boss with his intense, unreadable eyes and quiet authority. He's so composed, so untouchable. What would he be like if he let someone take control?

Ridiculous. I shake my head, my cheeks flushing, but I can't stop watching.

The bodies on the screen move together, an entangled rhythm that draws me in against my will. Without even thinking, my hand slides beneath the waistband of my pajamas, my fingers finding the heat there. It's been so long since I've felt this way—aching, wanting. I touch myself, half-ashamed, half-desperate, and watch until the screen fades to black.

When it's over, I sit back, feeling strangely empty. My hand falls to my side, and reality crashes back in. What the hell is wrong with me? I haven't felt this way in years, and here I am, alone in my living room, doing... this.

The image of the woman's confidence, her uninhibited freedom, lingers, taunting me. And what do I have? A life of meaningless nights, too awkward and repressed to even say the word "blowjob" without blushing. I'm ugly, sour, destined to be the office "cat lady." A spinster. Who would want someone like me, so stiff and buttoned-up, someone who freezes up at the thought of desire?

Maybe I am hopeless.

I turn off the TV, sinking into the silence, the cold remains of my forgotten ice cream melting beside me. Tomorrow, I'll go back to work. I'll see him, and this will all be a memory I'll bury, like every other silly thought I let myself have.