Finally, I'd managed to get something going in life. I got hired, along with a group of trainees, at one of the biggest real estate developers in the country. But unlike the others, who got in through family connections, I was there by pure luck—or maybe the company had no other options. That explained why our boss, that bitch, never bothered hiding the contempt she felt for me. I didn't have a big-name last name, no lineage that could give the company strategic advantages—I just had talent.
She led our development team, but in practice, I did everything alone. The others? Daddy's boys, too incompetent to even send an email without screwing up the recipient. I tried to keep my head down and focus on the work, but that Friday before Carnival, the damn woman decided I wouldn't get the holiday off.
"You have until Monday to sort this out."
She tossed a stack of documents onto the desk.
"If you can't, don't bother coming back. Your profile doesn't fit the company culture, honey! It's about time you realize this isn't your place, right?"
Translation: either I pulled off the impossible, or I was fired.
An hour before the end of the workday, I got the summons to go to her office. First time stepping foot in there. The space was luxurious, surrounded by panoramic glass windows showing the city at dusk. In the center, sitting like a ruthless goddess, was her. I handed over the work preview, expecting to get ripped apart. But to my surprise, she stayed silent, examining every detail with an unreadable expression. For the first time, she seemed at least mildly impressed.
While she flipped through the report, I took the chance to check out the room more closely. And, of course, to really look at her. She had to be in her early forties, but time had been kind—or the money well spent. Flawless skin, lightly tanned, without a single sign of fatigue, refined features, a sharp jawline, lips painted in a deep red shade that made it impossible to look away. Her dark, silky hair fell in perfectly aligned layers over her shoulders, giving off an expensive scent, something between vanilla and fine wood. The black suit hugged her curves perfectly, outlining her silhouette with precision.
On her arm, an unexpected detail: a tattoo—a heart crossed out by a phrase in Latin, partially hidden by the fabric. A curious contrast for someone who exuded sophistication and total control.
There was something about her beyond the obvious beauty. A dangerous aura, almost predatory. The kind of woman who walked into any room and owned it without raising her voice.
And I was right in her sights.
The desk intercom buzzed, snapping me back to reality.
"Boss, the delivery guy dropped off the tux and the invite for the masquerade ball you asked for. I'll leave it in the coatroom before I head out."
The speaker caught it all, and I couldn't hold back a discreet smirk. Everyone knew about her taste for younger guys. The "escort" who visited her office from time to time was proof of that.
"A masquerade ball?"
I thought.
If I'm not gonna have fun, that bitch won't either.
She finished reading and, without even looking at me, tossed the folder my way. The gesture was clear: contempt. As if my work, which she knew was flawless, was nothing more than some irrelevant chore.
"You can go."
She made a lazy wave with her hand, shooing me away like I was some minor annoyance.
I swallowed my anger. Took a deep breath. It wasn't worth arguing. Not right then, anyway. I left the office, muscles tense, blood boiling. I could just go home and finish the work like a good submissive employee. But no.
Before that, I was gonna fuck her over.
As I crossed the lobby, I noticed the building was practically empty. Most people had already left to enjoy Carnival. Only the security guard remained, slowly disappearing down the hallway as he started his rounds.
The coatroom was right next to the exit. A small, almost forgotten space where employees left coats and belongings. And there it was. The only suit bag hanging on the rack. A black tux, elegant. The ball invite probably tucked in the pocket.
I approached, ran my hand over the fabric, and without hesitating, grabbed it. In seconds, I was out on the street.
At home, I opened the suit bag to check out the clothes more closely. The tux was impeccable, a full set with a precise cut, tailored for someone who never had to worry about the price of anything.
Inside a delicate bag, I found the mask. Venetian style, worked down to the tiniest details. The hood, made of ridiculously fine fabric, was designed to be worn all night without bothering. I touched the cool surface of the mask, feeling the smooth texture, almost like porcelain. This wasn't just a ball accessory—it was rich people's fetish gear, I thought, twirling it between my fingers.
That's when I noticed a bulge inside the jacket.
I reached into the lining and pulled out the contents. A thick wad of cash, enough to cover all my expenses for a month. Then, a luxurious ticket on parchment paper, with gold-embossed letters, so well-crafted it felt like an invite to another world.
And finally, a note.
"Let's play who am I?"
Ps: the cash for your week.
The handwriting was elegant, no signature, but I didn't need one to know who'd written it.
That night, I took a long shower and shaved carefully. The plan was simple: enjoy the party on her dime. At that ball, she'd never recognize me. I just had to keep the mask on and avoid any woman who matched her description.
When I was ready, I called a ride and headed out.
Destination: Parque Lage, Rio de Janeiro.
I'd been there a few times before, but that night it felt like a different place. Fancy cars lined up at the entrance, dropping off guests in impeccable outfits. Men in well-tailored tuxes, women gliding in extravagant dresses, discreet but expensive jewelry sparkling under the subtle lighting. Everyone wore masks.
The air reeked of sophistication, power, and a hint of mystery.
The sky was clear, the night cool. A light breeze rustled the imperial palms in the garden, while yellow lights scattered across the facade gave a golden glow to the neoclassical mansion's columns. Shadows from the arches and balconies cast dramatic shapes on the stone floor. The place felt like a timeless set, a living painting where the real mixed with the ethereal.
I crossed the main hall, where a stone-faced guy took my invite without questions, just letting me through. The polished marble floor reflected the flickering candlelight scattered down the corridors. The ceiling frescoes, impressive on their own, seemed to come alive in the dancing shadows.
Entering the pool area, I had to stop for a moment.
The sight was mesmerizing. The inner courtyard was lit entirely by candles. Tiny flames flickered on iron candlesticks and crystal chandeliers, casting golden reflections on the dark pool water. No electric lights, just that organic, warm glow that swayed gently with the night breeze.
The space was wrapped in an ethereal twilight, where shadows from the columns stretched across the walls, creating the illusion of an even deeper hall. The scent of jasmine and amber mixed with the woody smell of the old mansion, filling the air with something almost intoxicating.
Nothing there felt real.
The background music was slow, sensual—a blend of violins and deep beats that seemed to match the movements of the masked bodies scattered around the courtyard. Conversations were whispers, discreet exchanges of glances hidden behind richly decorated masks. It was like time had stopped. And there, in the middle of that forbidden universe, I blended in with the guests, a glass of champagne in hand, just one of them.
Shielded by the anonymity, I enjoyed the night without fears. I hit on every woman who crossed my path, danced without shame, pulling onto the floor anyone who accepted my invite. That anonymity gave me a freedom I'd never felt before.
During one of those breaks, my throat felt dry, so I headed to the bar. I needed more chilled champagne. I leaned on the counter and waited for the bartender to serve me. That's when I saw her.
Next to me, a woman wrapped in a deep blue silk dress. The dark color contrasted with skin tanned by the summer sun. The Venetian mask covering her face was delicately ornate, but her smile—that was free. It was a restrained smile, dangerous.
She was pure perfection.
Her lips curved slightly, holding the expression of someone who knows the game she's playing and loves it. Her eyes pierced me through the mask, analyzing, testing my resolve.
I returned the look, a silent invitation.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't expose myself. I just watched her, letting the desire show in how my eyes roamed her silhouette. It was a wordless game, loaded with tension, a forbidden flirt that made my body heat up under the heavy suit.
The bartender handed me the champagne glass. The moment she raised her arm to take hers, I saw it.
On her forearm, a heart crossed out by a phrase in Latin.
My blood ran cold. My heart pounded like it was ripped from my chest.
My boss. The whole universe seemed to shrink around that detail. Did she know? Had she recognized me? Or was she playing without knowing who with?
She smiled one last time, in no hurry, just letting the moment drag as if she could feel my breath failing.
Then, with a minimal lip movement, no sound, she mouthed the words.
"Follow me."
I was fucked.
I thought about bolting right then. Of course she'd recognized me. She probably wanted to take me somewhere private, reveal she knew who I was, and call security. The seduction? Just another of her tricks. She was known for playing with people, testing them, pushing them out of control just to watch them fall apart from the sidelines.
But running now wouldn't get me anywhere.
I downed my last glass of champagne while I still had some freedom and followed her trail.
She moved beyond a discreet door, away from the ball's bustle. The way she glanced around before entering made it clear that space wasn't open to the public. I waited a few seconds, watching, then did the same.
As soon as I crossed the door, I closed it behind me, locking the bolt. The room was an art studio that operated there during the week. The smell of paint and clay hung in the air, mixing with the intense perfume she wore. Only moonlight filtered through the window cracks, lighting the space in pale silver tones and deep shadows. In the middle of the room, she stood still, waiting.
I stayed by the door, silent, bracing for the blowup.
"Come here, boy."
Her voice broke the silence, a low, confident command.
I approached without hesitation, stopping in front of her.
The moonlight reflected in her eyes, making them shine in an almost hypnotic way. The setting, the tension, the whole situation threw me off balance. My body was on alert, tense, at the mercy of whatever was about to happen.
We locked eyes for a few seconds. A wait charged with electricity. Then the second order came, as usual.
"Come on."
This time, she pulled me herself.
But before she could lead me at her pace, I was faster. I invaded her space, took her body with anger, feeling the stiffness give way under the firm touch of my hands. Our relationship had never been peaceful. Desire and hate mixed in equal parts, one feeding the other.
I wanted to fuck her out of pure rage. Out of so much lust.
My mouth found hers without warning, without patience, forcing her to adjust to the speed and force of my kiss. Clashing tongues, a silent battle for control. She tried to match me, but I won when I grabbed her neck, squeezing hard.
She gasped against my mouth, from desire and urgency.
Her eager hands fumbled for my pants zipper, while I wrestled with the layers of bulky fabric in her dress. There was a silent competition there, a clash to see who would touch the other's sex first. She unbuttoned my pants in a rush, trying to undo the belt, while I, less patient, grabbed her firm ass and lifted her, setting her on the table without gentleness.
The thin lace of her panties was the only barrier between us for a second. Just one second. I gripped it hard and ripped it, hearing the lace snap. I pushed her back, forcing her to lie down, and spread her legs. The dim light didn't let me see every detail, but the hot, wet scent coming from her took me over completely.
She was thick, soaked, her skin covered in sweat under the heavy layers of that dress. I didn't hesitate.
I let my face drop between her thighs and devoured her.
Tongue, lips, teeth, an unordered assault, chaos across her mound, clit, inner and outer lips. In my mouth, only the taste of champagne and pussy. She moaned loud, scandalously loud, the sound echoing through the empty room. Her body arched against me, hands pulling my hair, begging wordlessly for more.
A spit, and I slid two fingers inside her. I wasn't gentle.
I fucked her with my hands, plunging deep, thrusting without mercy.
"Come, you bitch. Come on my hand, you slut."
My thoughts screamed as I felt her muscles clench around my fingers. She tried to resist, tried to hold out, but it was useless. The scream from her mouth was pure desperation, a hoarse, drawn-out roar, eyes rolling back as she came on my hand, soaking everything, trembling under me.
I didn't let her rest.
Lying there, she pulled me to her side, ravenous, yanked my cock hard. She wrapped her lips around my cock without hesitation, licking, sucking, taking it deep into her throat, gagging without fear. But I was still punishing her with my fingers, buried in her, twisting, fucking her violently, feeling how open and desperate she was for more.
Around us, the workshop papers on that table were destroyed. Brushes, paints, pencils scattered on the floor, gouache stains mixing with the trails of our desire.
She tried to challenge me, forcing herself to swallow it all, to choke on my cock, but she couldn't hold out. My fingers worked with skill, and when the peak hit, her eyes widened, letting out a ridiculous sound, an almost animal scream. Her body twisted, and then a yell cut through the room, a roar of pain and pleasure mixed.
But I wasn't done.
I grabbed her legs and flipped her, bending her over the table, leaving that white ass lit by the moon, forcing her to keep her feet on the ground. She tried to pull back, tried to say something, but I was faster, stronger.
One thrust. I hit the groin.
Another. Wrong hole.
On the third, I shoved in without mercy, feeling her hot, tight pussy swallow my cock.
Her heat enveloped me completely, that velvety sensation squeezing me, pulling me in like it was trying to suck me inside her. And then, I fucked her.
No gentleness, no patience.
I kept her body pinned against the table and kept pounding her from behind, feeling her tight pussy suck me with every thrust. The sound was obscene, wet slaps filling the room's silence, mixed with her screams oscillating between pain and pleasure. She tried to pull away, but my hands dug into her hips kept her in place, only leaving to deliver slaps that marked her pale skin. I smacked that ass hard, feeling the warm, soft flesh jiggle under my fingers.
The faster I pounded, the louder she moaned, the more pleasure took over us both. She thrashed, arched her back, tried to brace against my thrusts and failed. Each thrust pulled a new moan, a new plea, and soon her body started shaking uncontrollably.
Maybe I'd gone too far.
She came crying, tears streaming down her face as her body convulsed from the pleasure. Her breath hitched, fingers clutching the table, and the scream that tore from her throat was primal, something between desperation and total surrender.
The sight of the woman who'd destroyed me so many times now falling apart in orgasm was enough to take me over the edge.
But I wasn't coming inside.
I pulled my cock out of her and shot everything over her ass, dirtying her back, soaking the expensive dress she wore with such pride. The smell of sex filled the air, the heat from our bodies still pulsing, but neither of us said a word.
We stayed silent for a full minute. Then, without looking back, she pulled herself together, adjusted the dress as best she could, and slipped out of the room quietly. I stood there, catching my breath, feeling the scent of sex still hanging in the air, and wondering: did she know who I was or not?
That doubt followed me through the rest of Carnival.
I went on with life, but the memory of that night kept hammering in my head. The moans, the screams, the way her body shook under me. Did she know? Did she have any idea who'd fucked her like that? Or was I still invisible to her, like I always had been in that office?
Monday morning, back at work. I arrived early, as usual, but this time with a different weight in my chest. I needed to see her. Needed to confirm if the mask still protected me or if I was walking straight into the noose.
And there she was.
I crossed paths with her impeccable figure in the hallways, the same firm heels, the same bitchy air, the cold, indifferent gaze. No hesitation. No sign.
"So she gave it up to me and has no clue who I am?"
I thought.
The idea made me laugh inside. I'd fucked the boss and could never tell a soul!
I sat at my workstation and soon noticed something that shouldn't be there.
A box.
On it, a note.
My heart raced a bit when I opened it and saw the contents.
Inside, black panties. Thin. Ripped.
I grabbed the note and recognized the handwriting right away.
"Your lack of control will cost you dearly. Buy me another."
The laugh died on my lips.
The bitch was untamable.
She knew.