How My Boss Become My Lover

Dubai wasn’t just a city of gold—it was a place where silence had weight. Every morning, I swept polished marble floors in Mr. Faris’s penthouse apartment, the Burj Khalifa shimmering in the distance. I came from a village in Kerala, escaping a broken marriage and years of feeling invisible. I never expected to feel seen again.

Mr. Faris was in his late thirties. Reserved. Clean-shaven, dark-eyed, always dressed in tailored shirts. He barely spoke beyond what was necessary. But his eyes—God, those eyes—they followed me.

At first, I thought it was my imagination. I’d bend down to wipe the floor, and when I glanced up, he’d be standing still—watching. I caught his gaze in mirrors, on security monitors, in the chrome reflection of the refrigerator. Not leering. Just quietly devouring me with his eyes.

I didn’t know what I felt.

No man had looked at me like that in years—not since my husband stopped touching me. Not since I stopped feeling like a woman. I wore simple cotton sarees, wrapped tight for ease, never expecting them to stir anything in anyone. But with Mr. Faris, I started tying them a little lower at the waist. Left my hair down longer. A tiny rebellion.

One evening, after cleaning the bathroom, I stepped out in a towel. I didn’t know he had come home early.

He stood at the end of the hallway, phone in hand, his eyes frozen on me.

I should’ve rushed back inside. But something in his stare... made me stay. For a second, I held the towel tighter, my wet hair dripping onto my shoulder.

Then I walked past him slowly—feeling the weight of his gaze slide over every inch of me.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

The next day, everything was normal—except it wasn’t. He lingered longer in the kitchen when I cooked. He asked me to sit and have tea with him, something he had never done before.

We didn’t talk much. But the air between us had changed.

A few nights later, he called for tea again—well past midnight. I wore a loose satin nightgown beneath a cotton shawl. He was in his vest and pajama trousers, sitting on the leather couch.

I placed the cup on the table.

As I turned to leave, his hand caught my wrist.

"Rehana…" he said, his voice low and rough.

I looked at him.

“I see you,” he whispered.

And then he pulled me into his lap.

My shawl slipped. His hands were warm and firm on my waist. Our lips met—hesitant at first, then deep, needy. My body melted into him. His kiss was patient but powerful. As if he’d waited for this moment as long as I had.

He carried me to the bedroom—not the guest room I slept in, but his.

The sheets were silk. The lights were dim. He undressed me slowly, as if unwrapping something sacred. I trembled—not out of fear, but hunger. His hands explored every curve, every scar, every forgotten part of me. And I returned the favor, learning his body like poetry.

He started with gentle touches, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw, down my neck, and across my collarbone. He kissed me deeply, his tongue exploring my mouth, his hands roaming over my body. He cupped my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples, making them harden under his touch. I moaned, my body arching into his.

He slid down my body, his lips tracing a path down my neck, my chest, my stomach. He parted my legs, his tongue licking my clit, his fingers sliding into my wet channel. I moaned, my hips bucking against his mouth, my hands fisting in his hair. He sucked and licked, his fingers moving in and out of me, driving me wild with desire.

He knew the art of sex, the art of foreplay. He took his time, his tongue and fingers exploring every inch of my pussy, making me moan and writhe with pleasure. He licked and sucked, his fingers sliding in and out of me, his thumb circling my clit. I was on the edge, my body trembling with anticipation. He knew just when to stop, just when to push me over the edge. He licked my pussy, his tongue delving into my channel, his fingers circling my clit. I came with a scream, my body convulsing as I released a gush of fluids.

He crawled up my body, his cock hard and ready. He slid into me, his hips moving in a steady rhythm. I wrapped my legs around him, my nails digging into his back. We moved together, our bodies in sync, our moans filling the room. The bed creaked under our weight, the sound of our flesh slapping together echoing in the silent house.

He came with a groan, his cum spilling into me. I smiled, my eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He rolled off me, his body spent, his mind racing. He knew he was in deep, that this was more than just sex. He was falling for me, and he didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t pull out immediately. Instead, he rolled onto his side, taking me with him, our bodies still connected. He kissed me deeply, his tongue exploring my mouth. I could taste myself on his lips, and it turned me on even more.

He slid out of me, but before I could protest, he pulled me into the shower. The warm water cascaded over our bodies, washing away the sweat and the remnants of our passion. He soaped my body, his hands roaming over my curves, his lips finding mine in a passionate kiss. I returned the favor, my hands exploring his muscular body, my lips tracing a path down his neck, his chest, his abs. He groaned, his cock hardening again under my touch.

We stepped out of the shower, our bodies clean and refreshed. We dried each other off, our touches lingering, our kisses deep and passionate. We dressed quickly, our bodies still humming with desire.

We watched a Hindi movie, our bodies pressed together on the couch. He fed me popcorn, his fingers lingering on my lips, his eyes never leaving mine. I could feel his desire, his need, and it matched my own. We were like lovers, our connection deep and intense.

After the movie, he helped me wash the dishes. We stood side by side, our bodies brushing against each other, our hands lingering on each other's skin. I could feel his desire, his need, and it matched my own. We were like lovers, our connection deep and intense.

I prepared juice for him, the sweet scent filling the kitchen. We sat on the kitchen slab, our bodies pressed together, our lips meeting in a passionate kiss. He slid his hand up my thigh, his fingers finding my wet pussy. He rubbed my clit, his fingers sliding in and out of me, making me moan with pleasure. I unzipped his pants, my hand wrapping around his hard cock. He groaned, his hips bucking into my touch. We pleasured each other, our bodies moving in sync, our moans filling the kitchen.

That night, I wasn’t a maid.

I was Rehana—the woman he desired, the woman who finally remembered what it felt like to be touched, to be adored.

We didn’t speak much afterward. But the silence was no longer empty.

Behind the closed curtains of that Dubai penthouse, we found something between shadow and silk—something raw, forbidden, and unforgettable.