I am in love with, and love fucking my boss (m58)

Marica, let me tell you about this thing I have with my boss. His name is Robert, but in my head, and sometimes when I’m feeling particularly brave, I call him “Jefe.” He’s fifty-eight, ¿te imaginas? I’m thirty-five, and let’s just say the man has seen some things. But, mi pana, he has this energy… this quiet, powerful confidence that just… uff, me vuelve loca.

It wasn’t love at first sight. Please, I’m not a character in a telenovela. It was more like… curiosity. I started at this fancy spa six months ago, and he’s the owner. Not some young, flashy guy, but a man with silver in his hair and these deep lines around his eyes that look like they’re from smiling, not frowning. He’s tall, solid, like an old tree that knows how to stand through a storm. And his hands… Dios mío, his hands. You can tell a lot about a man by his hands. His are strong, with capable fingers and clean nails, but they have these veins that stand out on the back. They look like they know how to work, how to hold things. How to hold a woman.

The flirting started small. A comment about the scent of the wax I was using—jasmine and vanilla. “The salon smells incredible today, Cristina. It reminds me of a garden.” He’d say my name so deliberately, not just tossing it out there. He’d linger by my station, asking about my weekend, and I’d tell him some crazy story about my cousins visiting from Maracay, and he’d actually listen, his eyes crinkling when he laughed. Not a fake, polite laugh. A real one, from the gut.

The first time I knew I was in trouble was when he brushed past me in the stockroom. It was tight, shelves full of towels and bottles of oil. I was on my toes, reaching for a box of latex gloves, and my scrub top rode up just a little, exposing a sliver of skin above my yoga pants. He came in behind me, his chest almost against my back, his breath warm on my neck.

“Let me get that for you,” he said, his voice a low rumble that went straight to my cuca. I froze. He reached up, his arm brushing against my side, and the heat from his body was like a furnace. He got the box down and instead of handing it to me, he turned me around. We were chest to chest in that dim little room. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me, his eyes dark and serious, and he tucked a loose piece of my hair behind my ear. His thumb grazed my cheekbone, and I swear, my heart was beating so loud I thought the bottles would rattle. “You have a little glitter on your cheek,” he murmured, his thumb stroking my skin once more before he stepped back. “From the highlight. It’s… chévere.”

I was a puddle. A complete and total puddle. I just nodded, took the box, and practically ran out of there. My pepita was throbbing, begging for attention, and all he did was touch my face. That’s when I knew this wasn’t just a silly crush. This man had a power switch on me, and he’d just flicked it on.

The tension built for weeks. The looks got longer, hotter. The casual touches on my lower back when he’d guide me through a doorway. The way he’d sometimes just watch me work from his office door, a faint, unreadable smile on his lips. I started dressing for him. Lace bras under my uniform, my best thongs. I wanted him to imagine what was underneath. I wanted to drive him as crazy as he was driving me.

It finally happened after a long, shitty day. A client had a full-blown meltdown over a slightly uneven brow tint—marica, the drama—and I was the last one left, mopping the floor and feeling defeated. He came out of his office, his tie loose, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, those magnificent forearms on display.

“Rough one?” he asked, leaning against the doorway.

“The roughest,” I sighed, leaning on the mop handle. “Some people treat their eyebrows like it’s a matter of national security.”

He laughed, a rich, warm sound that filled the empty salon. “I think you need a drink. A proper one. My office. Now.” It wasn’t a question. It was a command, but the kind that makes your knees weak, not your spirit.

Inside his office, he poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a glass and handed it to me. We clinked glasses, and the silence was thick, charged with everything we hadn’t said. He was looking at me like he was seeing me for the first time—not his employee, Cristina the esthetician, but me, Cristina, the woman.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a very long time,” he said, his voice husky. He took my glass and set it down next to his. Then his hands were on my hips, pulling me against him. I could feel the hard ridge of his cock through his trousers, pressing against my belly. Marica, it was a guebote. I’m not exaggerating. I could feel the size of it, the promise, and my mouth actually watered.

He didn’t kiss me like a hungry teenager. He kissed me like a man who knew exactly what he wanted. It was slow, deep, and devastating. His tongue explored my mouth with a possessive confidence that made me whimper. My hands went to his hair, pulling him closer, and he groaned into my mouth, the sound vibrating through my whole body.

He turned me around, pressing my front against his big, mahogany desk. Papers scattered. He pushed my scrub pants and my tiny thong down to my knees in one swift move. The cool air hit my wetness, and I gasped. One of his strong hands splayed across my lower back, holding me in place, while the other… marica, the other hand…

He didn’t dive right in. He traced my folds with his fingertips, making me shiver. “So wet for me,” he murmured, his voice full of awe and lust. “So fucking wet.” And then he slid two fingers inside me, and I cried out, pushing back against his hand. He worked me slowly, deeply, curling his fingers to find that spot inside me that made me see stars. “This is mine,” he growled, his mouth on my neck, biting and sucking. “This perfect, tight cunt is mine.”

I was already close, writhing against his hand, my moans echoing in the quiet office. “Please, Jefe… please…”

I heard the clink of his belt, the rustle of his pants dropping, and then I felt it. The blunt, thick head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He was so big, I thought for a second he wouldn’t fit. But he pushed, slowly, stretching me open in the most delicious, unbearable way. When he was fully sheathed inside me, he stopped, both of us breathing ragged, my inner muscles clenching around him.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

I twisted my head, looking over my shoulder. He was watching himself disappear into me, his face a mask of pure, raw hunger. Holding my gaze, he pulled almost all the way out and then slammed back in. I screamed. It was a full, deep, fucking perfect stroke that hit every single nerve ending I possessed.

That’s how it started. He fucked me with a rhythm that was both punishing and worshipful. Each thrust was deliberate, powerful, claiming. His grip on my hip was iron-tight. The sounds were obscene—skin slapping against skin, my choked sobs, his guttural groans. “You take me so well,” he rasped, his pace quickening. “You were made for this, for taking my cock.”

I came apart, a violent, shaking orgasm that ripped through me without warning. He felt me clench around him and let out a choked curse, driving into me even harder, chasing his own release. When he came, it was with a deep, shuddering groan, his body slumping over mine, his teeth grazing my shoulder. I felt him pulse inside me, filling me up.

We stayed like that for a minute, panting, stuck together with sweat. He finally pulled out, and I almost collapsed onto the desk. He gently pulled my pants up and turned me around, pulling me into a tight, warm hug. He kissed my forehead, my hair.

And that, mi pana, was just the first time. Now? Now I’m in love with him. I love fucking my boss. I love the way he fucks me on his desk after hours. I love it when he bends me over the massage table in room three, telling me to be quiet so the cleaning crew doesn’t hear. I love the way he looks at me across the room during the day, a secret, smoldering look that promises a world of sin for later. He’s fifty-eight, and he has more stamina and skill than any twenty-five-year-old I’ve ever been with. He knows things. He knows how to use his hands, his mouth, that magnificent pipe of his. He makes me revirar los ojos every single time. It’s not just the sex, though the sex is fucking incredible. It’s him. It’s the way he listens to my stupid stories, the way he respects my mind as much as he desires my body. I’m in love with him, and I love fucking him. And I have a feeling he feels exactly the same way.