Under the gaze of the boss

It all started on a rainy Monday in the city. I was 28 years old and had just been transferred to the company's central office. I had spent two years in the provincial branch, where the days were quiet, predictable, and uneventful. But the management decided that the marketing team needed reinforcement, and they sent me here, to the capital, with a reasonable promotion and a salary that allowed me to rent a small apartment in the city center.

I arrived early, with my tie too tight and my pulse racing. The building was modern glass, with open views of the bay. Human Resources greeted me, handed me the access card, and accompanied me to the 12th floor. My desk was at the far end of the open space, stuck to the window. I had barely sat down when I felt a presence behind me.

—Welcome. I'm the marketing director.

I turned around, and... damn. He was imposing. Thirty-something years old, tall, broad shoulders that seemed to occupy the entire door frame, a chest that tensed his impeccable white shirt. Muscular arms that stretched the sleeves to the limit, a marked jawline, a perfectly trimmed three-day beard, and green eyes that seemed to pierce any attempt at disguise. He smelled of cedar and something deeper, more masculine.

—Thanks. Nice to meet you —I managed to say without my voice trembling too much.

—We use first names here. We're a team.

He gave me a pat on the back that lasted a fraction of a second longer than usual. The heat from his hand permeated the fabric of my shirt and stayed there for several seconds after he withdrew it.

From that first day on, I noticed he was watching me. Always. If I arrived early, he was already leaning on my desk with a coffee in hand, asking how the report was going or if I needed anything. If I stayed late, he would appear with any excuse: "There's leftover pizza from the meeting, it seems like only you and I are left." He would get so close that I could feel the heat emanating from his body. In meetings, his leg would brush against mine under the table. His hand would rest "accidentally" on the lower part of my back when he explained something on the screen.

Days went by, and I tried to focus on my work. But every time I looked up, he was there: watching me from his office with the door open, with that half-smile that melted me from the inside out. I started dressing more carefully. Tighter shirts, pants that accentuated my shape better. I knew he was looking at me. And he knew I knew.

Three months passed. During that time, he became a constant obsession. At night, in my apartment, I would masturbate thinking about those arms, about how the veins on his neck stood out when he discussed something with a client over the phone, about the bulge that sometimes formed under his suit pants. In the office, the tension was getting thicker and thicker. He would brush my shoulder as he passed by, speak to me in a low voice during mee...