My boss offered me money to send him videos of me masturbating

The dividing wall had been too quiet these last few weeks. Too quiet. I already missed those guttural groans from my neighbor, that sound of pelvis slapping against flesh that made me rub myself against the pillow. But his girlfriend, that skinny witch with a hawk’s stare, started giving me dirty looks every time we passed in the hallway. It wasn’t worth the risk. A warm heart is one thing; a crazy woman with a wrench is another altogether.

So my libido, orphaned and restless, looked for another place to land. And it found it at the office. Or rather, he found me.

My supervisor, Ricardo. A guy in his forties, with that air of a family man that’s all a front. Suit always impeccable, wedding ring that shines under the fluorescent lights, and a smile that never reaches his eyes. But his eyes… his eyes sure do talk. They’d been roaming over my cleavage, measuring my hips, imagining what’s under the blouse for weeks.

It all started with an email. “Could you stop by my office? I need to go over the monthly report with you.” A Friday at 6:30 PM, when the floor was already deserted. The report was such a transparent excuse I almost laughed.

“I’m not going to beat around the bush,” he said, leaning against his mahogany desk. His gaze was a magnet. “You are the most exciting woman I’ve ever seen in my life. And I’m willing to pay for a little of your… attention.”

My heart did a flip against my ribs. It wasn’t the proposition itself, it was the thrill. The power. This man, who signs checks and gives orders, reduced to begging for scraps of my nudity.

“What kind of attention?” I asked, feigning an innocence I’d lost a long time ago.

He pulled out his phone. Swiped his finger and showed me a picture. It was a screenshot from one of my Instagram stories, one where I was at the beach in a tiny bikini. “I want to see you. Like that. But without the bikini. Or… using it in creative ways.”

A slow smile spread across my lips. “That sounds expensive.”

“Name your price.”

And that’s how it was. It started with photos. First, just a nipple peeking over the edge of my bra, taken in the office bathroom. Then, one of my panties, soaked, dangling from my fingers. He’d transfer the money instantly, with a message that said: “Investing in you is my best financial decision.”

But photos soon stopped satisfying him. And me, truth be told, too.

“I want movement. Sound,” he texted me one night, after his third transfer of the week. “I want to watch you come.”

That was the spark. The next day, I went to a sex shop and bought “The Executioner.” A black vibrator, thick as my fist, with a curved tip designed to find the G-spot. That same night, I set the scene.

I lit the candles. I put on a playlist with soft ambient music. I placed the phone on the tripod, with self-destruct mode activated. I wasn’t going to leave evidence.

I started the video. I lay back on the bed, legs spread, and placed the cold tip of the Executioner on my clit. A shiver ran through me. “This is for you, boss,” I whispered to the camera, and then I turned the device on.

The vibration was instant, a deep, dull buzz that resonated in my bones. I closed my eyes, letting the sensation flood me. With one hand I guided the vibrator to my entrance, and with the other I pinched my nipples until they hurt. The camera caught it all: my parted lips, my belly arching, the wet shine on my thighs.

“Do you like it?” I moaned, imagining it was him controlling it.

I turned up the intensity. The Executioner roared inside me, finding that deep spot that makes me see white stars. My moans started low, but soon turned into ragged screams. “Yes! Right there, right there!”

I knew the neighbors would hear it. That the elderly couple next door would be looking at each other in shock, and that the student downstairs was probably jerking his cock with his ear pressed to the ceiling. That idea, instead of embarrassing me, turned me on more. It was public and private at the same time.

The orgasm hit me like an electric shock. A scream tore from my throat, so loud and long it hurt. My body shook uncontrollably around the vibrator, and a wave of pleasure left me trembling and breathless. When I could finally move, I stopped the video and sent it. It would disappear in ten seconds.

The response was immediate. A photo. His dick, thick and well-groomed, with cum dripping from the head. “The best work meeting I’ve ever had,” the message said. “My wife is in the other room. I couldn’t wait.”

A wave of power, warm and sweet, washed over me. His marriage, his respectability, it was all a fragile lie that I could break with a video.

Since then, it’s been a delicious spiral. I’ve sent him clips of me using the Executioner on the office desk after hours. Of me fucking myself with it with my panties in my mouth to muffle the moans. Of my fingers smeared with my own juices, writing his name on the bathroom mirror.

It’s only a matter of time before he asks for a real meeting. And when he does, the price will be much higher. Because now I know what my silence is worth.