Her Boss, Her Obsession

The lust started with a single look.

Julien opened the double door, locking his eyes with mine. Almost immediately, I was captivated by him. I first noticed his stillness, how he occupied the doorway without needing to fill it. He stood just off-center, one hand in the pocket of his slacks, a quiet kind of ease in his posture. His hair was salt and pepper, just starting to turn silver, and his face bore the kind of lines that came from time spent outdoors. There was strength in his build, not sculpted, but capable, lived-in, like someone who split his own firewood and didn't mention it.

I didn't realize I was staring, only realized the growing warmth in my stomach. A single look and something about him, the restraint, the quiet confidence, the absence of performance, hit me like a held breath. I felt myself pulled towards him,

"Mr. Blackwood?" I asked, extending my hand with a smile. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person."

Julien returned the formality, firmly gripping my hand. Perched at the end of a winding, tree-lined drive, his estate was a dignified reflection of wealth that's been passed down rather than flashed. The main house, a stately stone manor, had ivy climbing its weathered façade and original leaded-glass windows that caught the afternoon sun just right. The roof was slate, patched in places by seemingly the same masons for generations. A wraparound terrace overlooked a low, misty valley and the glimmer of a private lake.

"You as well, Savannah. And you can call me Julien," he said. "Come inside."

He effortlessly lifted my suitcase and headed in without waiting for me. I followed quickly, gripping my purse, only then noticing how his back muscles looked tight against his dress shirt. My heart skipped a beat.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of old books and beeswax polish. There are no ostentatious chandeliers, just weighty, well-made fixtures that hummed with quiet history. The furniture leaned antique, polished oak, velvet chairs, heirloom rugs from faraway travels, and every room felt gently lived-in. Art on the walls wasn't signed by celebrities but by great-uncles and forgotten cousins whose work had simply always hung there.

I was guided into the kitchen, which blended modern efficiency with timeless charm. Sleek, matte appliances, sub-zero fridge, double oven, induction cooktop, had been seamlessly built into warm wood cabinetry that showed its age in the best way. Soapstone countertops stretched beneath wide windows, and a vintage farmhouse sink had anchored the space with character. Everything had gleamed, but nothing had felt sterile.

Before I could finish admiring my surroundings, Julien was pouring a glass of red wine, two empty glasses in front of him.

"Interested?" he asked.

"Yes, please," I replied, setting my purse down on the countertop and sliding onto a stool next to him. The glass slid across and Julien held up his own.

"Cheers," he said, clinking his glass to mine. We both drank yet kept our eyes firmly locked on each other.

Am I imagining this tension?

"I'll show you around the place in a few, including the room you'll be staying in. As you know, your duties are anything related to taking care of this place. Cleaning, cooking, making guests feel appreciated. Basically, anything related to the house that I don't want to do," Julien said.

I nodded, taking a few strong gulps of win in nervousness. It was already working, having not eaten for most of the day. Yet it was that same tipsiness that made me feel just a little empowered.

"And should I expect to meet Mrs. Blackwood?" I asked, leaning my arms on the countertop.

Julien smirked. "Unless the former Mrs. Blackwood suddenly makes a trip across the ocean from her new husband's French villa, I doubt it."

My cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine," Julien said, waving his hand. "It's been a couple years since we divorced and our relationship wasn't strong by the end anyway. And starting your life over in your late 40s is not as bad as people make it seem."

I nodded, my heart slowing down. "So are you seeing anyone now?"

He took another sip of wine. "Is that really an appropriate question to ask your boss?"

My voice got caught in my throat and I could only stare at him, my mouth slightly agape. Suddenly, Julien laughed. "I'm kidding, Savannah. You need to lighten up if you're going to be working for me and living here. No, I'm not seeing anyone."

I nervously laughed back, finishing my wine to steel myself. So he's single, I thought. It's not like I was trying to hook up with my boss... but he was incredibly handsome.

"Well, I have friends come over, if you know what I mean. But nothing serious, no."

I smiled, setting the now-empty glass down. "I'm sure you have many friends," I whispered, locking eyes with him. A moment of silence passed between us before his hand lightly rested on top of mine. It made my heart jump, but I pretended not to notice.

"How old are you, again?" Julien asked.

"I'm 25, but I'm very mature for my age," I responded, the size and roughness of his hand a constant distraction. Unfortunately, the moment passed too quickly.

"Let me show you where you'll be staying and you can settle in then get started tomorrow," he said, once again turning away and not waiting for me. I was left by myself, my stomach tight and my heart racing.

Over the next month, I became accustomed to the ways of the Blackwood estate. Despite his wealth, the home actually wasn't that big, making it relatively simple to keep clean and organized. My duties were straightforward: laundry every other day, light meal prep, keeping the main rooms dusted and presentable, and ensuring the pantry was stocked to his quiet but particular standards. I wasn't expected to dote, only to keep things in order, a role I found oddly calming.

Yet it wasn't my job that distracted me, but Julien himself. The man carried himself with a confidence and poise that was addictive to watch. He wasn't flashy. He didn't preen or demand attention. But his presence lingered. When he moved through a room, he owned it, quietly, effortlessly.

And living with him came with unintended, yet pleasant opportunities; accidentally walking in on him getting dressed, his shirt hanging loose over lean muscle before he noticed me and calmly buttoned it without a word. Seeing him emerge from the pool at dusk, water sliding over a body that was clearly strong. Or hearing the low murmur of his voice in the late hours, accompanied by the laugh of some unseen woman, his "friends."

At first, I chalked it up to curiosity. But there were moments, sharp and sudden, when I'd find myself frozen, watching the way he sipped his coffee at the kitchen counter, or how his voice dropped an octave when he asked if I needed anything from town. My body would betray me with a flush, a heat that built low and slow, making routine tasks suddenly feel like distractions from a growing, dangerous ache.

Before long, I found myself trying to get his attention, not in an obvious way, but enough to make him notice. Sometimes I wouldn't even realize what I was doing. It started subtly. I'd wear tops with slightly lower necklines, or shorts that hugged a little tighter than necessary. I told myself it was for comfort, that it was just hot outside, but I knew better. I began to linger longer in shared spaces, hoping he'd pass through the kitchen while I was wiping down the counters, or that he'd catch me bending slightly to reach something on a low shelf.

And then came the bolder moves that were small acts, but deliberate. A lace bra "forgotten" in the laundry basket near the stairs. A pair of underwear left just outside my bedroom door, as if I'd accidentally dropped them. I half-hoped he'd ignore it, half-dared him to acknowledge it. Every time he said nothing, it only fueled my growing obsession. His silence wasn't rejection, it was restraint. And that restraint was maddeningly seductive.

He was my boss yet I started fantasizing. At night, I touched myself to the thought of walking into his study and he'd take his time, letting the tension build until I couldn't take it anymore, then press me against the shelves with a kind of quiet authority, as if he'd been waiting just as long.

Other times, I'd picture myself swimming in the pool at dusk, knowing he was watching from the balcony. The fantasy always ended with him walking down, wordless, slipping into the water naked and pulling me to him, his restraint finally breaking, water beading on his skin as our mouths met and he took me without a word.

One night, my fantasies finally turned into reality.

The house was quiet, the kind of silence where every creak of the floorboards and every breath was amplified. I was in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing a thin cotton dress that clung to my skin in the humid evening air. The counters gleamed under the soft glow of the overhead light, and I was rinsing a glass, the cool water running over my fingers, when I heard his footsteps behind me. My pulse quickened, but I didn't turn around.

Julien paused in the doorway, and I could feel his gaze on me, heavy and deliberate. The air shifted, charged with something unspoken. I set the glass down, my movements slow, and leaned slightly against the counter, letting the hem of my dress ride up just enough to expose the curve of my thigh. My body was already responding, a low heat pooling between my legs, my skin prickling with anticipation.

"You're up late," he said, his voice low, steady, but with an edge that made my stomach tighten. He stepped closer, and I finally turned to face him, my breath catching at the intensity in his eyes. They were dark, focused, stripping away the pretense of the moment. He was close enough now that I could smell the faint cedar of his cologne, feel the warmth radiating from his body. My pierced nipples hardened against the thin fabric of my dress, and I saw his gaze flicker to them, his jaw clenching. The restraint I'd obsessed over for weeks was still there, but it was fraying, and that made my desire flare hotter.

"Couldn't sleep," I murmured, my voice softer than I intended, betraying the tremor of lust that had been building for weeks. I shifted, letting my hip brush against the counter, my body angled toward him in silent invitation. My thighs pressed together, trying to ease the ache between them, but it only intensified, a pulsing need that had been fed by every fantasy of him. His hand moved, deliberate, resting on the counter beside me, caging me in without touching me. The proximity was electric, every nerve in my body screaming for contact.

"I know what you've been doing," he said, his voice dropping lower. His eyes flicked down to my dress, then back to my face, and I knew he was talking about the provocations, the lace, the underwear, the way I'd bent over just a little too long in his presence. My cheeks flushed, but I didn't look away. Instead, I leaned closer, my lips parting, daring him to act. My body was a live wire, every inch of me humming with the need to feel him, to finally break the tension that had consumed me.

"So are you finally going to man up and do something about it?" I said, my voice teasing, but my body was begging. The ache between my legs was unbearable now, my panties damp, clinging to my skin. I shifted again, letting my dress ride higher, and his gaze dropped to the exposed skin of my thigh. The air between us crackled, taut with a month's worth of unspoken desire, and I could see the moment his control began to slip.

Without warning, he moved, his hands gripping my hips and lifting me onto the kitchen island countertop in one fluid motion. I gasped, the cold granite against my bare thighs sending a shock through me, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his touch. His fingers dug into my skin, firm but controlled, and he stepped between my legs, spreading them slightly as he leaned in. Our faces were inches apart, his breath warm against my lips, and I could feel the hard length of him pressing against my inner thigh through his pants. My body arched toward him, desperate, my hands gripping the edge of the counter to steady myself.

"Please..." I whispered, my voice trembling with raw need. The fabric of my panties was useless against the flood of arousal. He didn't respond with words. Instead, his lips brushed the sensitive skin of my neck, slow, deliberate, igniting a fire that spread through every inch of me. My head tilted back, a soft moan escaping as his tongue flicked against my pulse point, tasting me. My hands twitched, wanting to pull him closer, but I held back, savoring the agonizing slowness of his movements, the way he was drawing this out.

His hands slid up my thighs, pushing my dress higher, exposing the damp lace of my panties. My breath came in shallow gasps, my body trembling under his touch. He paused, his fingers brushing the edge of the lace, and looked up at me, his eyes dark with hunger but still holding that infuriating control. "Tell me what you want," he said, his voice rough, commanding, and the sound of it sent a fresh wave of heat through me.

"I want my boss to make me his," I breathed, my voice barely audible, but the desperation in it was unmistakable. "Please, I need you." My hips shifted, pressing against his hand, seeking relief, and he let out a low groan, his restraint cracking at the edges. Every fantasy I'd had, his hands on me in the study, his body against mine in the pool, paled in comparison to this moment, the reality of his touch amplifying my desire to a fever pitch.

He didn't hesitate now. His fingers hooked into my panties, pulling them down in one swift motion, leaving me exposed on the counter. The cool air against my heated, slick skin made me shiver, but before I could process it, he was kneeling between my legs, his hands spreading my thighs wider. My heart pounded, my body throbbing with anticipation as his breath ghosted over my core. I was dripping, my arousal glistening, undeniable, and the sight of him there, so close, made my entire body clench with need. This was it, the culmination of every late-night touch, every stolen glance, every deliberate provocation. My lust for him, built over a month of obsession, was about to be unleashed.

He didn't rush. His lips brushed the inside of my thigh first, soft, teasing, and I whimpered, my hands gripping the counter so hard my knuckles whitened. The anticipation was torture, every nerve in my body screaming for his mouth, but he took his time, kissing the sensitive skin, his stubble grazing me lightly, sending sparks of pleasure through me. My hips twitched, desperate, but he held me in place, his grip firm, controlling.

When his tongue finally touched me, it was a slow, deliberate stroke, tracing the length of my folds, and I cried out, my voice echoing in the quiet kitchen. The sensation was electric, overwhelming, every fantasy I'd had collapsing into this single, exquisite moment. He licked me again, slower, savoring, his tongue parting me, tasting the full extent of my arousal. My head fell back, my moans unrestrained as he explored me, his lips and tongue moving with a precision that drove me wild. He teased my entrance, dipping inside just enough to make me gasp, then pulled back, circling my clit with agonizing slowness.

"Julien... please," I begged, my voice raw, my body trembling with the weight of a month's worth of desire. My thighs quaked, my core clenching as he continued, his tongue now flicking against my clit, light and teasing, building the pressure but denying me release. My hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands, urging him closer, and he groaned against me, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure through my core. He was relentless now, his tongue alternating between soft, languid strokes and quick, precise flicks, each one pushing me closer to the edge.

My body was a live wire, every touch amplified by the weeks of longing, the fantasies that had consumed me. I could feel the heat building, a tight coil of need ready to snap, but he kept me teetering, drawing it out. His hands gripped my thighs harder, spreading me wider, and he sucked gently on my clit, the sensation so intense I screamed, my hips bucking against his mouth. He didn't let up, his tongue now joined by his fingers, sliding inside me with ease, curling just right to hit that perfect spot. The combination was devastating, pleasure crashing through me in waves, my entire body trembling as I hurtled toward release.

Every moment of lust I'd felt for him converged in this moment. My orgasm built like a tidal wave, unstoppable, fueled by the weeks of tension, the deliberate provocations, the silent restraint that had driven me to this point. When it hit, it was cataclysmic. My vision blurred, my body arching off the counter as pleasure ripped through me, a white-hot explosion that consumed every inch of me. I screamed his name, my voice raw, desperate, my walls clenching around his fingers, my clit pulsing against his tongue. Wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over me, my thighs shaking uncontrollably, my hands pulling at his hair as I rode out the intensity of my orgasm. My body shuddered, aftershocks rippling through me as he continued, softer now, drawing out every last tremor until I was gasping, limp, utterly spent.

He rose, his lips glistening with my arousal, and kissed me deeply, letting me taste myself on his tongue. The kiss was hungry, possessive, and I moaned into it, my hands fumbling with his belt, desperate to feel him inside me. My body was still trembling, sensitive from the orgasm, but my desire for him was insatiable. I needed everything, his strength, his roughness, the complete surrender of his restraint. He helped me, his pants hitting the floor, and I felt the hard, hot length of him against my thigh, thick and ready. My pussy clenched at the thought of him inside me, my body greedy for more despite the intensity of what I'd just experienced.

He positioned himself at my entrance, teasing me with the tip, and I whimpered, my hips rocking forward, begging, before leaning into his ear.

"Are you finally going to fuck your housekeeper?" I whispered, my voice raw, and he looked at me, his eyes dark with a hunger that matched my own. The restraint was gone now, replaced by something primal, and I wanted it all. He thrust into me, slow at first, stretching me, filling me completely. The sensation was exquisite, every inch of him claiming me, and I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper.

But slow wasn't enough. Not after weeks of torment, of imagining him taking me with the kind of force that would shatter me. "Harder," I gasped, my voice desperate, my nails digging into his shoulders. "Julien, give me everything." My words seemed to unleash something in him. His hands tightened on my hips, his fingers bruising, and he pulled back before slamming into me with a force that made me cry out. The counter shook beneath me, the cold granite a stark contrast to the heat of his body, and I arched into him, my body craving the roughness, the intensity.

He didn't hold back. Each thrust was deep, relentless, his hips driving into me with a rhythm that was both punishing and perfect. My body rocked with his, my breasts bouncing under the thin dress, my moans filling the kitchen as he fucked me with a ferocity that matched every fantasy I'd had. I'd pictured him like this and now it was real, every thrust a collision of desire, every grunt from his lips fueling my need. I reached down to frantically touch my clit, hoping to force another orgasm from my body, as my moans reverberated through the empty home.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he rasped, his voice rough, his eyes locked on mine, fierce and unguarded. He shifted, one hand sliding to my lower back, pulling me closer, angling himself deeper, hitting a spot that made stars burst behind my eyes. I screamed, my body trembling, already climbing toward another peak. My fantasies had been vivid, but they hadn't prepared me for this, the raw power of his body, the way he filled me completely, the way his roughness matched my deepest desires. I wanted him to consume me, to take every piece of me, and he was delivering.

My legs tightened around him, my heels digging into his back, urging him on. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his muscles flexing under my hands, and I could feel him losing himself in me, his thrusts growing erratic, harder, faster. "Julien!" I moaned, my voice breaking, my body on the edge again, every nerve alight with the intensity of it all. My fantasies were nothing compared to this, the reality of him fucking me with everything he had.

The pressure built, a second orgasm rising fast, sparked by the roughness, the friction, the sheer force of him. My walls clenched around him, my body shaking as I teetered on the brink. "I'm gonna come," I gasped, my voice desperate, my hand rubbing my clit in perfect rhythm with his cock. The orgasm hit like a freight train, a blinding, all-consuming wave of pleasure that tore another scream from my throat. My body convulsed, my walls pulsing around him, my vision going white as I shattered, every fantasy I'd had over the past month exploding into this moment.

He wasn't far behind. My orgasm pulled him over the edge, his thrusts stuttering as he groaned, deep and guttural, his release hot and powerful as he pulled out and spilled himself all over my cotton dress. His body shuddered, as he stroked himself to force every bit of pleasure out, his forehead eventually resting against mine as we both gasped for air. We stayed like that, breathless, tangled together, the kitchen silent except for our ragged breathing. My body hummed with aftershocks, my skin flushed and sensitive, every inch of me alight.

He stepped back, his breath still uneven, then reached for a towel and wordlessly wiped the mess from my dress. The gesture was oddly tender, but without ceremony. Like everything he did, it was practiced, self-contained. When he was finished, he met my gaze again, unreadable.

"I expect the kitchen to be cleaned before morning," he said with a smirk, his voice back to its usual calm. Then, after the briefest pause, "And you'll join me for dinner tomorrow."

I swallowed, nodding. My legs were still weak, my skin still buzzing, but I found my balance.

"Yes, Mr. Blackwood."

He held my eyes for a moment longer, just long enough to let me feel the weight of what had passed between us. Just long enough to tell me this wasn't over. He kissed me then he left me there, barefoot, flushed, soaked in sweat and sex, standing at the center of his perfect kitchen.

I exhaled, heart pounding, the echo of his body still alive inside me. Tomorrow, I'd be the housekeeper again. But I couldn't wait to become his obsession too.