Yeah, it's true, I've always had a thing about female bosses. I love the tension between us, the closeness and even the arguments that come out of working together. When you interviewed me, I couldn't tell if I was nervous because I really wanted the job or because I really wanted you.

It was a hot day, and your office was sweltering. I remember the suit you wore, the sheen on your black hair. I pictured us working late together, sweating over a deadline. Maybe sharing a drink afterwards. There were other people there, that's right; that idiot from resources was there, and one of the directors. But you would be my immediate boss, and that was all I was interested in. Did I catch your eye then? Could you tell my nerves and excitement had made me wet? My blonde hair against your dark hair, my pale skin against your darker complexion. Maybe it was later, when we finally worked together. I always felt there was an invisible thread between us after I got the job, but I didn't see you that much. The work I was doing was tough, I felt out of my depth, and wished you were there to help. When we got the chance to talk, you were cold, and all the anticipation inside my jumped into my throat. You walked off, leaving my ears ringing. Then you started to work next to me, and that was when it really started. "That's a nice shirt," you said to me on the first day, as if you were apologising for shunning me before. I blushed, and you seemed embarrassed. Was that because you could see through my shirt? I know you said later I was shameless, and that was why you liked me. We used to work in silence, but I felt like a silent conversation carried on all the time. Gradually, we relied on each other, we touched each other more. We had what you call a good working relationship. I used to dare myself every day to touch you somewhere else; the top of your head, the back of your knee. You always glanced back, acknowledging the dare, and it sent a thrill through me. Then there was the meeting, do you remember? It went badly, we wanted a lot more money for the work than the firm could afford, and we hadn't prepared for it. I thought you were going to shout at me when we left early, and I was going to say sorry. But you just laughed, and leaned on me. A taxi was going past, and I hailed it. Inside, we giggled and took the piss out of the pompous idiots we had just met. And then - and you called me shameless - you just reached over and kissed me. I could see the driver looking in the mirror but I didn't care. I could feel your breasts pressing against me, smell your perfume and taste it too if I wanted. I couldn't keep my hands off you. How long had I wanted to touch those legs? Suddenly, everything was permitted. I stroked your legs from your calf, then up further to your thigh. You were breathing hard, and so was I. I was so wet I was sliding around on my own juices. I wanted your fingers on me, so I slipped mine into your knickers. The sharp intake of breath you gave just turned me on more. "Make me come before we get back to the office," you said, so I did. I clumsily put my briefcase in front of your legs while I worked away. I only paused to taste you, but the connection I had always felt was still there. I felt I knew exactly how to turn you on, and you were there at my fingertips. You squeezed my hand tightly between your thighs as you orgasmed, just as the cab drew up outside of the office. It was perfect. So now I know I was awkward after that, distant even, and you must have wondered why. The truth is, I was really struggling to keep my mind on the job. Every time I saw you I wanted to drag you into the stationary cupboard. It was too much, I had to leave. And no, I don't work for another woman - or a man - I work for myself. It's early days yet, but everything is coming together. So that leaves just one more question: do you want to come and work for me?