At your service, master I. Dirty and rich

The office of Enrique always smelled of expensive leather, strong coffee, and power. At 46, he presided over one of the most important financial firms in the country. Always immaculate, always firm. A man of routines, of measured words. No one dared to address him informally. No one... except him.

Aarón was 23, with dark skin from living in the sun and muscles chiseled like a work of art. He didn't know about ties or balances, but he did know how to read gazes. And Enrique's, the first time he saw him delivering packages at his country house, said: make me yours.

—Should I sign this, boss? —Aarón asked, half-jokingly, as he removed the pen from behind his ear.

—Yes... yes, of course. —Enrique took the paper with trembling hands.

—I didn't know that rich guys also trembled.

The businessman didn't respond. He just lowered his eyes, humiliated... and excited.

Aarón noticed. Something lit up inside him. That night, he returned. Without an invitation. Without asking.

—Kneel.

And Enrique, who gave orders to judges and ministers, obeyed. He fell to his knees in his own living room, Persian carpet beneath his hands, waiting like a faithful dog.

Aarón unzipped his pants without saying a word. He wasn't in a hurry. He enjoyed every second of this surrender. He grabbed Enrique's hair, forcing him to look at his bulging crotch.

—Do you want this, old bastard?

—Yes, sir... please...

—Call me master.

—Yes, master.

Aarón laughed with pleasure. He pushed Enrique's head, and he swallowed as much as he could. He coughed, drooled, but didn't pull away. He was in heaven.

—I like it like that. That you really work. Like a cheap intern.

He dragged him to the floor, ripped his silk shirt without care. Buttons flew, dignity unraveling. He gave him a gentle slap.

—You're mine now, do you understand?

—Yes, master.

—Get on all fours.

He did. His Armani suit, wrinkled against the floor. His tense buttocks, already moist. Aarón spat in his hand and thrust it inside him abruptly. Without warning. Without gentleness. And Enrique screamed, but didn't ask him to stop.

The young man fucked him mercilessly, grabbing his hips like he was livestock. Enrique came without touching himself, with each wilder thrust than the previous one.

—Who's in charge here?

—You, master! You're in charge!

—Who are you?

—Your whore, master! Your rich whore!

Aarón came inside him with an animal grunt. He left him trembling, empty, satisfied.

Afterward, as Enrique lay on the floor panting, Aarón lit a cigar and said:

—Tomorrow, I expect you in your office. Naked. And without a tie.

And the businessman could only nod, smiling with tears of pleasure.