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.

The days accumulated like unread emails: Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, each sunrise a small reprieve. Finn installed a deadbolt, then a second, turning the key with ceremonial care before bed. He told himself the ritual was rational, a boundary between the life he understood and whatever had crouched on his chest that night. By the weekend he had almost persuaded himself that the episode had been a fevered projection of overtime and caffeine—until the click of the front door sounded at 2:18 a.m., soft as a tongue against teeth.

He was awake already, propped on one elbow, as though some subterranean part of him had kept watch. Footsteps crossed the living-room parquet with the same measured patience. No hurry, no stealth; she simply walked in the way one walks into one’s own flat. The new locks had not even slowed her.

She appeared in the bedroom doorway dressed as before: dark jumper, dark jeans, the black mask that erased everything but her mouth. Finn’s pulse beat so hard he could feel it in his gums. Yet the terror was now braided with something thinner, brighter, that tightened his stomach and stirred his cock almost painfully against the sheet.

She lifted one hand—an economical gesture, as if directing a junior to pass a pencil—and pointed to the headboard. Finn’s arms moved without consultation, wrists presenting to the worn brass rails. The obedience felt pre-arranged, a clause he had unknowingly signed. From the drawer she drew two silk scarves he sometimes wore to client meetings when the air was cold. The fabric whispered around his skin, tightened, knotted. Testing the give, she tugged once; his arms jerked, shoulders rolling back, chest exposed.

Only then did she climb onto the bed, knees planting on either side of his hips. The mask’s eyeholes were unreadable voids, but her mouth was visible, lips parted just enough to show a glint of teeth. She unzipped him with the same detached fluency she might unzip a portfolio, freeing his cock into the chill. He was already half-hard; the exposure finished the job. A small, satisfied sound—almost a hum—escaped her.

She produced a condom, rolled it down him briskly, then pushed her jeans and underwear down only as far as necessary. When she sank onto him the heat was startling, a slick envelopment that forced air from his lungs in a low, involuntary groan. She set a pace immediately: deep, vertical strokes that lifted her almost off him before letting gravity impale her again. The headboard rattled against the wall in a rhythm he could not muffle; his bound hands prevented any leverage.

Minutes stretched, measured by the wet slap of skin and the creak of mattress springs. Sweat gathered at her hairline, darkening the mask’s edge. When she came her thighs clamped hard enough to bruise, inner muscles fluttering around him in silent, furious pulses. She did not pause. Her hand dropped between them, thumb pressing just beneath the head of his cock, coaxing his own climax with the same clinical precision. He spilled with a choked cry, hips bucking uselessly against the scarves.

She dismounted at once, knotting the condom, tucking herself back into her clothes. The scarves loosened with a single tug, slid free, were folded and replaced in the drawer. At the doorway she hesitated, fingers brushing the light switch as though tempted to flip it, then thought better. The front door opened, closed. The digital clock read 2:31.

Finn lay breathing through his mouth, wrists tingling, semen cooling on his stomach. The room smelled faintly of latex and the metallic edge of his own adrenaline. He did not move until the first paleness of dawn seeped around the curtains, and even then he could still feel the ghost pressure of silk, the ghost heat of her, circling his bones like a second bloodstream.

He bought fresh sheets on Tuesday, pale grey with a subtle stripe, and caught himself smoothing the corners with hospital precision. The act felt devotional, absurd. He left the window above the kitchen sink unlatched, testing the give each evening before bed, a private superstition that felt closer to invitation than security.

She came again on Thursday, entering as if the flat had been waiting only for her. This time she brought a length of black cord that smelled faintly of cedar. She bound his ankles first, then looped the rope beneath the bedframe so his legs were spread and tilted, soles flush against the cool metal rails. The position exposed him completely; air moved across places usually clothed, and he felt the involuntary clench of muscle that always preceded penetration. Instead she lowered her mouth, taking him in until the head of his cock nudged the narrow of her throat. The mask brushed his pelvis with each stroke, a soft synthetic tickle that became maddening. She kept the rhythm slow, almost lazy, pausing whenever his breathing grew urgent. When he finally came she stayed there, swallowing in measured pulses, throat working around him until the last shudder left his thighs trembling.

Sunday she wanted his back. She positioned him on knees and elbows, chest pressed to the mattress, and entered him with a slim silicone plug she’d warmed first under the hot tap. The stretch burned, then settled into a dense, foreign fullness that made his cock jerk against the sheet. She fucked him with deliberate shallow thrusts, one hand steadying the base while the other reached beneath to milk him in counterpoint. He spilled without warning, untouched, the orgasm rolling through him in long, helpless waves that left his arms too weak to hold the posture.

Between visits he catalogued fragments: the silver ring on her right pinky, a plain band so thin it caught light only when she turned a page or lifted a coffee mug; the way her lower lip flattened slightly when concentrating, the same expression he had seen on Alannah’s face during Monday-morning site meetings; a faint scar at the hinge of her jaw, pale and comma-shaped, that he tasted with the tip of his tongue one night when she allowed him to mouth her throat while she rode him.

He began to sleep lighter, senses tuned to the hush of the street door, the particular squeak of the third stair. Some mornings he woke already half erect, body rehearsing submission before consciousness caught up. At work he revised drawings with mechanical efficiency, the memory of rope indentations around his wrists translating into neat, confident lines on the screen. When Alannah stopped by his desk to request an updated section, her gaze lingered on his fingers as they gripped the mouse, and he wondered whether she saw the faint red weals the scarf had left the night before, already fading beneath his shirt cuff.

The email arrived at 4:47 p.m., subject line crisp as frost: Riverfront Development – Lead Architect Assignment. Finn read it twice, the words refusing to rearrange themselves into anything less than a death sentence. Alannah had nominated him—personally—to helm the competition bid her division had been chasing for months. Forty million euro. International press. A site that flooded twice a year and came with three heritage overlays and a councillor who still thought brutalism was a moral failing.

He looked across the open-plan room. Alannah stood at the photocopier, back straight as a datum line, one hand feeding sheets while the other kept her phone pinned to her ear. She spoke without inflection, the way she tightened rope: enough pressure to let you feel the weave. When she turned, her eyes skimmed over him as if he were another sheet of A3, creased and ready for recycling.

That night she came at 1:52 a.m.—earlier than usual, almost eager. She didn’t bind his wrists immediately. Instead she pushed two fingers into his mouth, tracing the line of his lower teeth while her thumb pressed his tongue flat. He tasted paper and toner and the faint citrus of the hand soap the office cleaners refilled every Friday. When she did knot the scarf, she left it looser than normal, a careless loop that tightened only when he moved. The negligence felt deliberate, like a deadline set just short of achievable.

She fucked him on his side, one knee hooked over her forearm, driving into him with the same cadence she used when marking up drawings: decisive, iterative, unhurried. Each thrust seemed to annotate him—here a revision, here a deletion—until his body became nothing but tracked changes. He came with her hand clamped over his mouth, her thumb sealing the sound inside the same way she’d sealed the bid documents that afternoon: Confidential – Do Not Distribute.

The next morning she placed the physical brief on his desk, paper clipped to a single yellow sticky: Site visit 09:00. Don’t be late. Her fingernail tapped the edge of the page twice, the exact rhythm she’d tapped against his hipbone hours earlier. Heat surged to the surface of his skin so quickly he had to grip the desk to keep from swaying. She was already moving away, heels striking the concrete like a mallet testing stone.

He worked until the cleaners arrived, then until they left. The building emptied and the sky over the Liffey turned the colour of wet cardboard. Somewhere around 2 a.m. he realised he was sketching with his left wrist angled upward, unconsciously exposing the underside where rope or silk would rest. The line weight grew heavier, more certain; every time he hesitated, he felt the ghost tug of restraint correcting him. When he finally walked home, the streets felt corded, the city itself lashed together by invisible filament that tightened with each step.

Thursday she reviewed his concept model in the glass-walled meeting room. She circled the base with the tip of her pen, not touching the cardboard, only indicating. “Structural logic?” she asked. The pen hovered, silver barrel catching the fluorescent light exactly where her ring would be. He swallowed. “Cantilever to the north,” he said. “Tension rods hidden in the façade seam.” She didn’t look up. “Show me.” He leaned forward, pulse hammering against his collar, aware that beneath the table his ankles wanted to cross, to be bound apart. The pen tapped once—decision rendered—and she moved on, leaving the faint scent of cedar and woman’s sweat that he recognised from the plug she’d used the night she took his arse.

By Friday the blur was complete. In the studio she reduced him to tolerances and load paths; at night she reduced him to openings and yield. Both felt equally necessary. When she stood over his shoulder, pointing out a mis-registered detail, her sleeve brushed his wrist where the scarf had left its microscopic abrasion. The error was minor, almost nothing. He corrected it immediately, fingers steady, while every nerve in his body strained toward the next invisible knot.

She came late on Saturday, after the rugby crowds had spilled out onto the quays and the buses stank of spilled cider. Finn was already in bed, laptop open, cursor blinking on a detail call-out he couldn’t finish. The sash window lifted with the usual hush; cool air slid across his bare shoulders first, then her weight dented the mattress. No preliminaries tonight—she yanked the duvet off, rolled him flat, pinned his shoulders with her knees. The mask was in place but her hair, usually tied back, hung loose and crackling with static. He could smell cigarette smoke, probably from the terrace outside the pub where the client had kept her arguing about brick samples until dusk.

She tugged the drawstring of her hoodie and produced a new toy: matte-black silicone, thicker than anything she’d used on him, curved like a comma. The sight knocked the breath from his lungs; so did the speed with which she gloved it, slicked it, nudged his thighs apart. Usually she worked up to it, fingers first, patient geometry. Tonight she breached him in one slow, unapologetic push, the burn blooming outward until his heels drummed the sheet. She paused only long enough to loop a scarf around his wrists, pulling so tight the cotton squeaked. Then she started to fuck him hard, hips snapping, the base of the toy clacking against his tailbone. Each thrust carried an after-echo of the meeting: the client’s patronising drawl, the budget slashed, the programme compressed. He could almost hear her thoughts—useless, all of them—and feel them translated into the force driving through him.

His cock leaked against his stomach, untouched. He wanted to reach for her, to slow her, but the knot held. Instead he arched up, chasing balance, and his hands found her forearms. Sweat made her skin slippery; he tightened his grip, thumbs sliding inward until—metal. A hair-thin circle, warm from her pulse. The same ring he’d watched tap, tap, tap against a printout that afternoon while she dismantled his section detail word by word. Recognition detonated behind his eyes: Alannah. Not metaphor, not fantasy. The woman inside him was the woman who signed his timesheets.

His gasp came out ragged. She mistook it for pain and slowed, but he bucked upward, impaling himself deeper, a silent refusal to stop. Knowledge rearranged every nerve ending; the toy felt bigger now, each stroke branded with her real name. He pictured her at the conference table, voice clipped, and felt an answering clench around the silicone that made her exhale through her teeth. She leaned down, mask brushing his cheek, and for the first time allowed her mouth to linger—no kiss, just pressure, breath, the shared secret pulsing between skin and silicone while she kept fucking him, harder, as if the truth itself were something she could drive through him until it lodged permanently under his ribs.

She shifted angles, the toy dragging across his prostate with surgical precision, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from saying her name aloud. The metallic taste of blood mixed with the salt on his lips. His hips moved without permission, meeting her thrust for thrust, each collision sending bright sparks across his vision. He could feel her watching him through the mask's eyeholes, could picture the exact shade of concentration that would darken her irises—the same expression she'd worn yesterday when she'd red-lined his entire structural grid.

Her hand found his throat, thumb pressing against his larynx with measured pressure. Not enough to choke, just enough to remind him who controlled his air, his voice, his job. The power dynamic that had always existed between them snapped into sharp focus: her fingers on his pulse were the same ones that signed off on his professional liability insurance. When she squeezed slightly, his cock jerked against his stomach, painting a wet stripe up to his navel.

"Please," he managed, the word escaping before he could stop it. She stilled immediately—he'd never spoken during these encounters, had learned to take what she gave in silence. But now the word hung between them, loaded with double meaning. Please don't stop. Please don't fire me. Please keep fucking me like I'm your drawing board, something to be marked up and revised at will.

She resumed her rhythm, slower now, deliberate. Each withdrawal left him empty for a heartbeat before she filled him again, the toy's curve hitting that spot that made his toes curl. Her free hand traced the tendon in his neck, down across his collarbone, mapping him like she was checking dimensions. When she pinched his nipple, hard, he arched so violently the headboard cracked against the wall.

The scarf around his wrists had loosened with his struggling; he could probably work one hand free. Instead he clenched his fists, digging crescents into his palms, choosing to stay bound. Choosing to let his boss—his boss—continue fucking him into the mattress while she thought he remained ignorant of her identity. The deception felt like another layer of bondage, one he'd wrapped around himself, and the knowledge made his balls draw up tight, orgasm building at the base of his spine.

She leaned forward, mask brushing his ear, and he felt her breath hitch—the closest she'd ever come to losing control. "Come," she whispered, voice distorted but unmistakably hers, the same tone she used when dismissing him from her office. The command snapped something in him; he spilled across his stomach with a muffled cry, pulses of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain, while she kept driving into him through the aftershocks, using his body until she was satisfied.

Monday’s design team meeting started at nine-thirty sharp. Finn arrived early, placed his laptop at the far end of the walnut table, and sat where the overhead lights reflected off the glass partition, giving him an unobstructed view of Alannah’s chair. She entered at 9:29, charcoal blazer cut sharp as a blade, hair twisted into the same severe knot he’d gripped the night before. No sign of fatigue, no tremor in the hand that set her coffee down. The mask was literal now: matte foundation, liner precise enough to dimension. He wondered how many minutes she’d spent in front of the mirror restoring that armour, and whether she’d felt him between her legs while she did it.

She opened the agenda, pen already in motion. Same silver barrel, same pinky ring catching the fluorescent glow. When she clicked the top, the sound matched the toy’s base locking into its harness, and Finn felt an involuntary clench in his pelvis. He shifted, recrossed his legs, grateful the table hid everything. She spoke about programme delays, her cadence clipped, each sentence ending in a full stop he now read as a small aftershock of control. He watched the tendons in her hand flex when she underlined a date—pressure identical to the grip that had left scarf burns on his wrists—and realised the pen was simply another extension of the same authority.

Midway through the presentation she asked for structural feedback. Heads turned to him. He cleared his throat, surprised by how steady it sounded. “We can pull the steel forward, expose the edge. Let the forces show.” He sketched quickly on the trace paper, left hand anchoring the sheet the way she’d anchored his chest. When he looked up, her eyes were already on him—cool, evaluating—but the corner of her mouth twitched, a micromovement no one else would register. Agreement, approval, complicity. The room remained silent, waiting. He tore the sheet free, slid it down the table. She caught it with two fingers, the same two that had circled his hole before entry, and nodded once. “Proceed.”

The word landed in his gut like a hand on the back of his neck. He realised he was hard, not from memory but from parity: she could still command, but now he could withhold. Knowledge was a safeword he hadn’t needed to utter. He closed his notebook, met her gaze without dropping his chin, and felt the axis between them tilt. Everyone else saw a junior architect being instructed by his boss; they saw a man who had measured her pulse from the inside and found it racing.