My Boss Breaks Into My Apartment at Night to Use My Body

The sound registered first: a soft scrape of metal against wood, like a key turning in a lock that shouldn't turn. Finn's eyes opened to the darkness of his bedroom, the digital clock reading 3:17 AM. He held his breath, listening to the silence that followed, his architect's mind cataloguing the acoustics of his small Ballsbridge flat—the way sound carried from the front door through the narrow hallway.

Another sound. Definite this time. The creak of floorboards in his living room.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet touching the cold floorboards. The t-shirt he'd fallen asleep in clung to his back with sweat. Moving quietly, he reached for his phone on the nightstand, then thought better of it. What would he do—call emergency services because his apartment was making noises?

The hallway stretched before him, a rectangle of deeper darkness against the ambient glow of city light filtering through his bedroom window. He took three steps, four, his hand brushing against the wall for guidance. The living room doorway appeared on his left.

She stood motionless beside his sofa, backlit by the streetlamp glow bleeding through the curtains. Black jeans, black jumper, black mask covering everything but her eyes and mouth. The mask was simple, utilitarian—no theatrical flourishes, just plain fabric that obscured identity with disturbing efficiency.

Finn's throat closed. His hands hung uselessly at his sides. The distance between them was perhaps twelve feet, but it felt like nothing at all, like the air had compressed and brought her closer without either of them moving.

She stepped forward. He stepped back. Another step forward, another step back, until his shoulder blades touched the bedroom doorframe. The choreography was unconscious, his body responding to some primitive signal that predated language.

Her hand reached for him—not fast, not threatening, just inevitable. Fingers closed around his wrist, skin warm against his pulse point. She pulled, and he followed, his feet moving without instruction from his brain. The bedroom door swung open wider, though he couldn't remember touching it.

The mattress hit the back of his knees. He sat down hard, the springs protesting beneath his weight. She stood over him, close enough that he could smell rain on her clothes and something else—something clean and sharp that made him think of winter mornings.

His heart hammered against his ribs as she reached for the hem of her jumper, pulling it over her head in one fluid motion. The mask stayed in place.

She moved with mechanical precision, unfastening his jeans and pulling them down past his hips. The fabric caught on his skin, dragged away along with his boxers, leaving him exposed to the cool air. Her hands were already on him, fingers wrapping around his cock with practiced efficiency. No hesitation, no exploration—just immediate, purposeful contact.

Finn's breath hitched as she stroked him once, twice, her grip firm and knowing. His body responded despite the surreal terror flooding his system, blood rushing south as she worked him with methodical strokes. She produced a condom from somewhere—he didn't see where—and rolled it onto him with the same businesslike efficiency.

Then she was straddling him, her jeans pushed down just enough. He caught a glimpse of pale skin, dark underwear pulled aside, and then she was lowering herself onto him. The heat of her was shocking, overwhelming. She took him in one smooth motion, her weight settling against his hips.

She rode him hard, her hands braced against his shoulders. Through the mask, her eyes remained fixed on his face, unreadable. Her breathing was controlled, measured, while his came in ragged gasps. She set a brutal pace, using him with single-minded focus, her hips rolling and grinding with practiced skill.

Finn's hands hovered uselessly at his sides. He didn't know where to touch, whether touching was allowed. His fingers clenched the sheets as she increased her tempo, her thighs tightening against his hips. The bed creaked beneath them, a rhythmic counterpoint to the wet sound of their joining.

She came silently, her body tensing around him, internal muscles pulsing against his cock. The only sound was a sharp exhale through the mask. Then she was moving again, working him toward his own release with the same relentless efficiency. When he came, it felt like an afterthought—his body responding to her demands while his mind remained numb.

She dismounted immediately, pulling up her jeans and retrieving her jumper. The condom disappeared—he didn't see where she disposed of it. Within thirty seconds, she was fully dressed again, the mask still in place. She paused at the bedroom door, looking back once, then vanished into the darkness of the hallway.

Finn lay frozen, his jeans still tangled around his ankles. The front door opened and closed with barely a sound. The digital clock read 3:24 AM. Seven minutes. His cock was still wet, his heart still racing, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.

The scent lingered—rain on fabric, that crisp winter smell, and something else now: sex and latex and the faint trace of her arousal. He pulled up his boxers and jeans with shaking hands, then curled onto his side, pulling the covers over himself. His body felt used, claimed, marked by an encounter that existed outside the normal parameters of human interaction.

He stared at the ceiling until dawn, waiting for his pulse to slow, for the trembling to stop. It never did.

The fluorescent lights in the open-plan office felt like physical assault. Finn squinted at his computer screen, the blueprints for the Morrison project swimming before his eyes. He'd managed three hours of fractured sleep, his body still processing the phantom sensations of her weight against his hips.

His hands moved automatically across the keyboard, adjusting measurements, moving load-bearing walls. The numbers seemed to rearrange themselves when he wasn't looking. At 2:47 PM, he sent the final draft to Alannah's inbox and immediately regretted it.

She appeared at his desk fifteen minutes later, her heels clicking against the polished concrete floor. The sound made his shoulders tense involuntarily.

"Finn." Her voice cut through the ambient office chatter. "Conference room. Now."

He followed her across the office, noting how other architects suddenly found their screens fascinating. Alannah's black hair was pulled back in its usual severe bun, her charcoal suit immaculate. She moved with the same controlled precision he'd felt in her hands the night before.

She closed the conference room door and pulled up his blueprints on the wall-mounted screen. "Care to explain why you've designed a building that would collapse under its own weight?"

The room tilted slightly. Finn stared at the screen, seeing his mistake immediately—a decimal point shifted one place too far left, turning support beams into decorative elements. The error was so basic, so fundamental, it felt like a personal failure.

"I—"

"Three weeks of work, Finn. Three weeks, and you've given me something that would kill people if built." She didn't raise her voice. She never had to. "Do you understand the liability issues? The client presentation is tomorrow morning."

His mouth tasted like copper. "I'll fix it."

"You'll stay late and fix it. And you'll present it tomorrow, since you seem to need reminding what competent work looks like." She paused, studying his face with those same dark eyes that had watched him come apart in his bedroom. "Are you sleeping properly?"

The question felt loaded, dangerous. "I'm fine."

"You're not. You look like you've been hit by a truck." She moved closer, her perfume—something expensive and sharp—filling the small space. "I need you functional, Finn. Not whatever this is."

The humiliation burned hot in his chest. She was standing maybe eighteen inches away, close enough that he could see the tiny scar above her left eyebrow, close enough to notice how her breathing remained perfectly steady while his own felt shallow and desperate.

"I said I'll fix it."

"See that you do." She turned to leave, then stopped with her hand on the door. "And Finn? This kind of incompetence won't be tolerated again."

The door closed behind her with a soft click. Finn sank into the nearest chair, his hands trembling. Through the glass walls, he could see her walking back to her office, her posture straight and commanding. Other employees scattered from her path like startled birds.

He pulled out his phone, staring at the blank screen. No messages, no calls. No explanation for why his boss had just reduced him to nothing in a conference room, or why the feeling of being stripped bare felt so familiar now. His body remembered her hands on him, her complete control, while his mind struggled to reconcile that memory with the woman who'd just publicly eviscerated him.

The blueprints glowed on the screen, his professional failure illuminated for anyone to see. He reached for his laptop, already calculating the hours of work ahead, already knowing he'd be here until midnight fixing what he'd broken.

Powerless. The word echoed in his head as he began to type, his fingers moving across keys that suddenly felt foreign under his touch.