The office was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that presses against your ears like a weight. I shouldn’t have been here—there was no real reason for me to stay late. My work was done, my emails sent, my tasks checked off. But I lingered anyway, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, pretending to type something important. The truth was, I wasn’t focused on work. My thoughts were elsewhere, wandering to him. Then, the soft sound of footsteps broke the stillness. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. I’d recognize that gait anywhere—the confident stride, the slight pause as if he were assessing the room. My pulse quickened, but I kept my eyes on the screen, feigning concentration.“Still here?” His voice was low, casual, but it sent a shiver down my spine. I turned, forcing a calm smile. “Just finishing up a few things,” I lied, my voice steady despite the flutter in my chest. He stood there, jacket slung over one arm, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His tie was loosened, the fabric hanging carelessly around his neck. He looked tired, but his eyes—those sharp, piercing eyes—were fixed on me with an intensity that made me shift in my seat. “You don’t need to stay late to impress me,” he said, stepping closer. His tone was light, teasing, but there was something beneath it—a flicker of something that made my breath catch. I tilted my head, meeting his gaze. “Maybe I’m not trying to impress you,” I replied, my voice softer than I intended. He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were trying to decipher me. Then, without warning, he closed the distance between us. His hand landed on the back of my chair, his fingers brushing against the fabric. For a moment, I thought he’d pull away—but then his hand moved lower, resting just above my knee. I froze, my heart hammering in my chest. I should’ve stopped him. Should’ve pushed his hand away, stood up, left. But I didn’t. I stayed perfectly still, my eyes locked on his as he slid his hand higher, his touch firm but not forceful. My breath hitched, and I felt my body betray me, responding to his touch in ways I couldn’t control. I spread my legs just slightly, the movement almost imperceptible but enough to let him know I wasn’t going to stop him. His lips curled into a slow, knowing smile, and he leaned in closer, his breath warm against my ear. “You’re always so… composed,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “But I see right through you.” A flush crept up my neck, and I clenched my hands into fists to keep them from trembling. He didn’t wait for me to reply. Instead, he pulled me to my feet, his grip firm but not painful. He turned me around, his body pressing against mine as he bent me over the desk. My skirt was tight, the fabric clinging to my hips, and he shoved it up impatiently, his hands rough but purposeful. He tugged my panties to the side, his fingers grazing against me, and I gasped at the contact. I was already wet, achingly so, and the realization made heat pool low in my stomach. He didn’t say a word, didn’t ask if I wanted this. He just unzipped his pants, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room, and then he was inside me—deep, all at once. I bit down on my lip to stifle the moan that threatened to escape, my cheek pressed against the cool surface of the desk. His hands gripped my hips, his fingers digging into my skin as he started moving—rough, relentless, like he’d been waiting for this moment for far too long. The only sounds in the room were the slap of skin against skin, his low, guttural grunts, and the ragged rhythm of my breathing. He leaned down, his chest pressing against my back as his lips brushed against my ear. “You’ve been wanting this, haven’t you?” he whispered, his voice dripping with satisfaction. I nodded, my throat too tight to form words. My hands clung to the edge of the desk, my knuckles white as he drove into me with a pace that left me dizzy. I couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel—the heat of him, the weight of his body, the way he claimed me like I was his. When he came, he held me there, his grip unyielding as he thrust deep one last time, his breath hot against my neck. For a moment, neither of us moved, the silence heavy with the weight of what had just happened. Then he pulled out, his movements brisk as he fixed his clothes. He straightened, looking down at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “Good job tonight,” he said, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on a report. And just like that, he left—his footsteps retreating down the hallway until I was alone again. I stayed there, slumped over the desk, my skirt still bunched up around my waist, my legs trembling. My heart pounded in my chest, and I could still feel him—his touch, his heat, the way he’d filled me completely. I cleaned up quickly, my hands shaking as I straightened my clothes and smoothed my hair. I grabbed my bag and left the office without looking back, the events of the night replaying in my mind on an endless loop. But even now, days later, I can’t stop thinking about it. Every time I sit at that desk, I feel the ghost of his hands on me. Every time I see him, I’m acutely aware of the way his eyes linger on me just a moment too long. And every night, when I touch myself, I think about the way he took me—rough, relentless, like I was his and his alone. I shouldn’t want it. Shouldn’t crave it. But I do. And that terrifies me more than anything.

The office was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that presses against your ears like a weight. I shouldn’t have been here—there was no real reason for me to stay late. My work was done, my emails sent, my tasks checked off. But I lingered anyway, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, pretending to type something important. The truth was, I wasn’t focused on work. My thoughts were elsewhere, wandering to *him*. 

Then, the soft sound of footsteps broke the stillness. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. I’d recognize that gait anywhere—the confident stride, the slight pause as if he were assessing the room. My pulse quickened, but I kept my eyes on the screen, feigning concentration.

“Still here?” His voice was low, casual, but it sent a shiver down my spine. 

I turned, forcing a calm smile. “Just finishing up a few things,” I lied, my voice steady despite the flutter in my chest. 

He stood there, jacket slung over one arm, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His tie was loosened, the fabric hanging carelessly around his neck. He looked tired, but his eyes—those sharp, piercing eyes—were fixed on me with an intensity that made me shift in my seat. 

“You don’t need to stay late to impress me,” he said, stepping closer. His tone was light, teasing, but there was something beneath it—a flicker of something that made my breath catch. 

I tilted my head, meeting his gaze. “Maybe I’m not trying to impress you,” I replied, my voice softer than I intended. 

He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were trying to decipher me. Then, without warning, he closed the distance between us. His hand landed on the back of my chair, his fingers brushing against the fabric. For a moment, I thought he’d pull away—but then his hand moved lower, resting just above my knee. 

I froze, my heart hammering in my chest. I should’ve stopped him. Should’ve pushed his hand away, stood up, left. But I didn’t. I stayed perfectly still, my eyes locked on his as he slid his hand higher, his touch firm but not forceful. 

My breath hitched, and I felt my body betray me, responding to his touch in ways I couldn’t control. I spread my legs just slightly, the movement almost imperceptible but enough to let him know I wasn’t going to stop him. 

His lips curled into a slow, knowing smile, and he leaned in closer, his breath warm against my ear. “You’re always so… composed,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “But I see right through you.” 

A flush crept up my neck, and I clenched my hands into fists to keep them from trembling. He didn’t wait for me to reply. Instead, he pulled me to my feet, his grip firm but not painful. He turned me around, his body pressing against mine as he bent me over the desk. 

My skirt was tight, the fabric clinging to my hips, and he shoved it up impatiently, his hands rough but purposeful. He tugged my panties to the side, his fingers grazing against me, and I gasped at the contact. I was already wet, achingly so, and the realization made heat pool low in my stomach. 

He didn’t say a word, didn’t ask if I wanted this. He just unzipped his pants, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room, and then he was inside me—deep, all at once. I bit down on my lip to stifle the moan that threatened to escape, my cheek pressed against the cool surface of the desk. 

His hands gripped my hips, his fingers digging into my skin as he started moving—rough, relentless, like he’d been waiting for this moment for far too long. The only sounds in the room were the slap of skin against skin, his low, guttural grunts, and the ragged rhythm of my breathing. 

He leaned down, his chest pressing against my back as his lips brushed against my ear. “You’ve been wanting this, haven’t you?” he whispered, his voice dripping with satisfaction. 

I nodded, my throat too tight to form words. My hands clung to the edge of the desk, my knuckles white as he drove into me with a pace that left me dizzy. I couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel—the heat of him, the weight of his body, the way he claimed me like I was his. 

When he came, he held me there, his grip unyielding as he thrust deep one last time, his breath hot against my neck. For a moment, neither of us moved, the silence heavy with the weight of what had just happened. 

Then he pulled out, his movements brisk as he fixed his clothes. He straightened, looking down at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “Good job tonight,” he said, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on a report. 

And just like that, he left—his footsteps retreating down the hallway until I was alone again. 

I stayed there, slumped over the desk, my skirt still bunched up around my waist, my legs trembling. My heart pounded in my chest, and I could still feel him—his touch, his heat, the way he’d filled me completely. 

I cleaned up quickly, my hands shaking as I straightened my clothes and smoothed my hair. I grabbed my bag and left the office without looking back, the events of the night replaying in my mind on an endless loop. 

But even now, days later, I can’t stop thinking about it. Every time I sit at that desk, I feel the ghost of his hands on me. Every time I see him, I’m acutely aware of the way his eyes linger on me just a moment too long. And every night, when I touch myself, I think about the way he took me—rough, relentless, like I was his and his alone. 

I shouldn’t want it. Shouldn’t crave it. But I do. And that terrifies me more than anything.

A woman stays late at work, waiting for her boss, leading to a heated, consensual encounter on her desk. The story delves into themes of power dynamics, office romance, and the lingering effects of a passionate, secret tryst. The narrative explores the intense, forbidden desire between a subordinate and her superior, with the boss taking control and leaving the woman yearning for more.

I let my boss use me after hours to afford rent

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