Boss2

I'm standing in front of his apartment door, holding the key he gave me weeks ago. It's a subtle nod to trust and normalcy. My fingers no longer shake when I put it in the lock. The soft click has become familiar, a sound that carries with it a sense of home and forbidden promises. He's already there. I smell his cologne mixed with the scent of roasted vegetables. "In the kitchen!" he calls. I hang my coat on the hook and put my pumps on the mat. I glide across the cool wooden floor in just my nylons. He's standing at the stove, a towel hanging over his shoulder, stirring a pan. The sight of it makes my heart skip a beat. It's this incongruity—the powerful boss cooking for me here—that always throws me off balance.

"Hungry?" he asks without turning around. He senses my presence, like an animal senses its prey. "Yeah," I reply, and it's about more than just the desire for food.

I sit down on the bar stool island and watch the play of his shoulder muscles under his thin cotton shirt. These are our evenings now. It's a tacit arrangement that has grown beyond just physical desire. We talk about work, politics, and trivial things that suddenly feel important because we share them with each other.

Later on the sofa, the wine bottle and plates are cleared away. My head rests on his shoulder, and he's slowly stroking my arm. The view of the illuminated city is our private painting. For a while, there's just silence, a deep, contented silence.

"Please don't leave anymore," he says out of the blue. He's got a calm voice, but I can tell he's tense. "Stay here. Always." I look up at him. He's got a serious face, and his gray eyes are looking at me like they're about to take my breath away.

"I love you, Julia."

The words hang in the air. They're not over-the-top or overly dramatic. They're just there. A statement. It's a truth that's been developing between us little by little, on each of these evenings. I saw it coming, and I could tell he was worried when I told him about my fears. I don't say anything. What could I say? That I love him? The words would feel wrong coming from me, too big, too final. Instead, I lean forward and kiss him. Take it slow and steady. "I know," I reply.

He returns the kiss, but his hands are busy. One of his hands slides down from my shoulder, over my waist, until it reaches the hem of my skirt. He pushes the fabric up slowly, revealing my leg and my pantyhose. Today I'm wearing a pair with a fine seam pattern. He loves that. His fingers find the seam at the back of my thigh and follow it upward, under my skirt. I close my eyes and lean back against him. This is a different kind of intimacy than the wild stumbling of our first night. It's familiar and devoted.

His hand flattens on my butt, pulling me closer to him. Then, he starts toying with me by moving his fingers along the front of my body, exploring the thin nylon fabric. He immediately feels the shape of my arousal pressing against the material. He makes a soft, satisfied noise. "You like that, right?" he says in my ear. "You like it when my hand touches you here, don't you?"

I just nod, breathing faster. It's true. It's the total acceptance of this touch that makes me forget all the shame. He's slow and careful, not rough or too fast. The pressure of his palm, the rubbing of his fingers over the most sensitive part of my body, all through the protective but revealing layer of pantyhose—it's incredibly arousing. My erection goes toward him, and I make a soft moaning sound. This isn't about conquest anymore. It's official. His declaration of love wasn't just words; it was written in this touch, in the way he wants that part of me.

He turns so that I'm lying beneath him, without stopping the soothing movement of his hand. He looks at her with a soft, affectionate, and unbroken desire in his eyes. "You're perfect for me," he says, and I believe him. Right now, with his hand on my bare skin under my skirt, knowing that he knows me—really knows me—and loves me, I actually feel perfect.

Absolutely. I pull him down to me and, using our physical language, I express everything my words can't yet say. I spread my legs. At last, I let him inside me with his stiff dick. It's an act that gives me incredible pleasure, more than I ever dreamed of in a million years. Life was so dull before. He's having a hard time with me, but I'm realizing I'm more than I thought I was. A woman with extras. And when I climax at the same time in front and behind, a little moan always escapes me. It's great.

The key goes in and out of the lock without making a sound. It was a bit too quiet. The silence in our apartment is different than usual. It's only 1:00 p.m., and I finished way ahead of schedule. The presentation in Hamburg has been postponed, so I've got an unexpected free afternoon. Markus has been out of the office for two days, somewhere in Munich, as he said. I've been feeling really good about surprising him, maybe even getting there before him, and that's kept me going all morning.

I put my briefcase down quietly, not wanting to disturb the silence. Then I hear it. A sound. It's quiet, but you can't ignore it. It's coming from the bedroom. There's a rhythmic creaking. The sound of our bed is so familiar to me. My heart skips a beat, and then it stops. Maybe he came back early. Maybe he had the same idea. I try to smile, but I can't. There's another sound. A voice. Deep, throaty. Not his.

I feel a shiver run down my spine. Every step across the tile floor echoes in my ears, even though I'm tiptoeing. It's like a thief in my own home. The bedroom door is ajar. A bit of sunlight streams into the hallway. I feel my way closer, my breath a thin, frozen shackle in my chest. Then, through the crack, I see them.

Two bodies. Entwined. They were glistening with sweat in the pale afternoon light. Markus. My Markus. He's got his back turned to me, and his muscles are all tense. I can see the trembling in his shoulders, which I've kissed a lot. There's another guy under him. Young, dark-haired, eyes closed in concentration and pleasure while he's having sex. His hands claw into Markus' back, white fingerprints standing out against the skin.

The world shrinks to this image. I've linked the creaking bed to so many good times, and it makes me think of laughter and love. To the sounds Markus makes—moans I know, that I loved, that now belong to someone else. I'm not sure what to make of him pouring himself into another man with such devotion. It seems a bit disingenuous to me. All those months. All those "I love you’s" whispered into this same pillow.

I stand there. Frozen. The cold inside me spreads, freezing every feeling into a crystal-clear, cutting layer. I'm not mad. Not yet. I'm empty. You're an observer in a strange reality. Then, as if he had sensed my presence, the dark-haired man turns his head. His eyes, dark and glazy, meet mine. They widen. He freezes in mid-motion, a gasp catching in his throat.

Markus senses the change. He pauses, turns his head to the side. He looks over at the other guy, following his gaze. To the door. To me. His face. His face is just so... He feels lust, but then he's confused, and then he's shocked. It's so intense that it basically shakes his whole world. His eyes, those gray eyes that so often filled me with affection and desire, are now just two black holes of horror.

"Julia?" His name sounds like a choked sound, a mix of disbelief and panic. I don't say anything. I don't have anything to add. I finally let go of the ice shell in my chest. I'm not into tears. I'm not into anger. But it's so clear, and it's absolutely devastating. I ignored all the little things. The mysterious phone calls. His absences were a bit too long. The way he sometimes almost studied my masculine self, not just enjoyed it. It wasn't just me. Maybe I was just part of something I didn't understand. A fig leaf. It's got a convenient facade.

I look from his horrified face to the stranger, who's now hastily pulling the sheet over his hips, ashamed and frightened. Then I look back at Markus. I see the shame, the remorse, the pure, naked panic. I see the guy who told me I was perfect for him, but he was living a totally different life. They just use me as a cover. I'm a guy who looks like a girl. How convenient!

I slowly turn away, keeping my cool, as if I'm on another planet. I leave them in their chaos, their shame, and their broken bed.

"Julia, wait, it's not what it looks like!" I hear him call. His voice is rough and ****.

I don't wait. I walk down the hall and grab my briefcase from the floor. My movements are mechanical and precise. I slip into the pumps, kick off my feet, and open the apartment door, stepping out into the hallway. The door closes behind me. There's no loud slam. Just a soft, final click.

I stand in the stairwell and breathe. Inhale. Exhale. The world keeps on turning. Somewhere, an elevator is moving. Somewhere, a child is laughing. And inside, there's just this huge, quiet desert.

I'm going to keep moving forward on my own.