I knew exactly where he sat. The large conference room with floor-to-ceiling glass. One of those endless sessions where everyone pretends to care about quarterly numbers. My supervisor. The man whose gaze always lingered a beat too long whenever I walked past his desk, eyes drifting to how my skirts settled on my hips.

Home alone and restless, I wore a soft blue ribbed top clinging to every curve and a matching thong barely qualifying as underwear. Standing before the living-room mirror—beige carpet under bare feet, white door behind me—I raised my device, arched my back, and glanced over my shoulder the way I knew would unravel him.

The first shot showed me bent forward, looking back with my mouth slightly open. In the next I eased the thong aside just enough. Then I turned, perched on the couch edge with legs spread, device held high so he could see everything the thin blue fabric tried and failed to conceal.

I typed a single message.

Thinking about you in the boring meeting. Wish you were here instead.

And hit send. Three teasing images. No further caption needed. My pulse raced the moment the delivered check marks appeared. Workplace fantasy. Secret office affair. Everything I was never supposed to do with the man who signed my paychecks.

What He Sent Back

Twenty-three minutes later my device buzzed. Not a text. A video.

I opened it and nearly dropped the screen. The camera pointed downward. His hand. His cock already thick and flushed, the tip glistening. He stroked slowly, almost carefully, as if he had only managed to slip away from the session for a moment. His breathing stayed quiet but rough. Then his voice, low and close to the mic.

“Fuck, Kylie. You’re going to get me fired. Keep them coming.”

I watched it twice. Then a third time. My free hand slid between my thighs before I even realized I was touching myself. I took another photo, this time from above—blue top pushed up, thong pulled aside, fingers already slick. I sent it with one word.

More?

His next clip arrived faster. The angle sat lower. He was in a bathroom stall or the empty office beside the conference room; faint voices murmured in the background. He stroked harder now, the head of his cock disappearing into his fist again and again. A soft groan escaped him as he came, thick white ropes landing on the floor between his shoes. He kept the camera rolling a few extra seconds while he caught his breath.

“You’re a menace,” he whispered. “I want you on your knees under my desk next time.”

I stayed on the carpet in my living room, device still warm in my hand, thighs pressed together, completely undone by the knowledge the man who was supposed to be leading a session had just gotten off to the images I’d sent. Mutual pleasure. The kind of secret making every workday feel dangerous in the best possible way.

I typed one last message while still shaking.

Next time don’t hide in the bathroom. I want the video of you looking right at the camera while you finish for me.

He didn’t reply right away. He didn’t need to. The typing dots appeared and vanished twice. Then a single heart emoji. Enough.

I remained on the floor a long time afterward, device resting against my chest, the taste of risk still sweet on my tongue. My supervisor. My secret. My favorite kind of trouble.