MY BOSS IS A CENTAUR AND HE HAS TWO DICKS

My name is Marília, and lately I’d been drowning in a wave of failed jobs and sudden layoffs that left me with no idea what to do next.

That Monday I woke up long before the alarm. The apartment was still dark, and the silence carried that familiar weight of someone who had spent too many nights adding up bills in their head. I lay there for a few minutes staring at the cracked ceiling, feeling my heart beat faster than it should. It was the first day. After six months of sending out résumés, sitting through interviews that led nowhere, falling behind on rent, and living with the constant fear of being put out on the street, I had finally landed something. Moreira Holdings. One of the biggest companies in the country. The salary was twice anything I had ever earned. I needed it with an urgency that hurt.

I got up, took a long shower, and chose my clothes carefully. A light blouse, black pants that still fit well enough, low heels I could walk in all day without suffering. I looked in the mirror and tried to fix my expression. I wanted to look confident. Competent. Like someone who wasn’t desperate. The problem was that I was.

I arrived far too early. The Moreira Holdings building was still quiet when the security guard at the front desk checked my name on the list and directed me to the private elevator for the top floor.

“Ms. Marília… Everything’s in order. You can go up,” he said, glancing at the list and confirming my name.

As the doors closed, I adjusted my bag, my hair, my posture. The elevator rose slowly, and I took the chance to breathe deeply a few times. The nerves came in waves. I couldn’t afford to mess this up.

When the doors opened, the corridor on the top floor met me with a different kind of silence. Dark, thick carpet, polished wood walls, low lighting. And the smell. I noticed it immediately. Wood, expensive leather, and underneath it all something warm, almost animal. It wasn’t cologne. It wasn’t cleaning product. It was denser, more alive. I told myself it was just my imagination. Still, the scent clung to the back of my nose and refused to leave.

The floor secretary was waiting near a discreet desk. A middle-aged woman with her hair pulled back and a professional, tired expression.

“Good morning. You must be Ms. Marília. Mr. Moreira is already in his office. He asked for you to come in as soon as you arrived.”

She handed me a badge with my name and pointed to the door at the end of the hallway. I thanked her, adjusted my blouse one more time, and walked. Every step felt too loud in that silence. I knocked once, firmly.

“Come in.”

The voice was low, rough, completely unhurried.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside, my heart hammering.

The office was far too large. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the city still half-asleep. A dark wooden desk dominated the center of the room like a throne. And behind it, seated, was him.

Immaculate white shirt, black tie, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Broad shoulders, veined forearms, dark hair combed back. He didn’t stand. He only lifted his gaze. His eyes were dark and studied me with a calm that made me uncomfortable. As if he already knew more about me than I would have liked.

“Have a seat, Ms. Marília.”

“Actually it’s Miss Marília, but you can just call me Marília.”

“Hm…” he muttered at that useless piece of information.

The fact that he used my name right away caught me off guard. I sat in the chair across from the desk, bag in my lap, posture far too straight. He opened a black folder, flipped through a few pages in silence, and only then spoke again.

“Your résumé is solid. Enough experience, and you made it clear you have full availability. Does that still hold?”

“It does,” I answered. My voice came out steadier than I expected. “I can stay as late as necessary.”

He nodded once, slowly, as if confirming something he already knew.

“Good. Because here the workday doesn’t end at the usual hour. I need someone who is available when I need them. No complaining. No sour faces. No asking too many questions.”

I nodded. He went on explaining the duties: organizing his schedule, screening calls and emails, preparing meeting summaries, handling confidential documents, tracking international contracts. Everything clear, everything direct. While he spoke, I tried to focus on the words, but my body was too busy registering other things.

The smell, for example. The longer I stayed there, the more obvious it became. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was warm, masculine, with that animal undertone I still couldn’t place. My stomach turned in a strange way. A low, treacherous heat rose through my belly. I hated myself a little for it. It was my first day. I needed this job with everything I had. I couldn’t sit there reacting to my boss’s scent like a teenager.

I also noticed his chair. It was lower and wider than the others. His pants, though well-cut, had a strange drape at the bottom, as if there was extra space where there shouldn’t be. Every so often he shifted position and I heard a muffled, heavy sound coming from under the desk. I told myself it was the carpet giving way. Or the chair. I tried not to pay too much attention.

When he finished explaining the duties, he pushed a folder toward me.

“Your office is through that door,” he said, pointing to a frosted sliding glass door on the left. “You’ll work there. You only come in here when I call you. And between three and five in the afternoon the door stays locked. No one enters. Not even you. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Any questions?”

I had several. Why the locked door at that hour? Why the different chair? Why that smell? But I swallowed them all. I wasn’t in a position to question anything. I needed that paycheck.

“No, sir.”

He watched me for a few more seconds. His gaze dropped quickly to my mouth and then lifted again, as if he had corrected himself. Then he lowered his head to the papers, clearly dismissing me.

“You may go.”

I stood, took the folder, and walked to the glass door. Before leaving, I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder. He was still seated, unmoving, but his shoulders were a little more tense than before. As if he were holding himself in check.

The adjoining office was smaller, clean, with a new desk, a computer already on, and a window looking out over the same side of the city. I sat down, opened the folder, and tried to focus. His schedule was complex. Meetings with investors, international calls, tight deadlines. I spent the morning organizing everything, answering emails on his behalf, noting priorities. Every now and then I glanced at the frosted glass and saw his shadow moving. Never the full body. Only the upper half.

The smell was still in my nose. Even with the door closed, it seemed to have stuck to me.

Around noon he called for me again. The voice came through the intercom, low and direct.

“Marília. Come in.”

I entered carrying the summary he had requested. He was in the same position, elbows on the desk, eyes fixed on some document. When I stepped closer to hand him the paper, my hand brushed his by accident. His skin was warm. Almost too warm. He stiffened his shoulders immediately and pulled his arm back.

“Careful,” he murmured, without looking up.

The tone wasn’t angry. It was controlled. As if the touch had been more than he expected.

“Sorry,” I said quickly.

He only made a short gesture with his hand, dismissing the apology, and returned to the document. I left the office with my heart beating a little faster than it should have.

I ate lunch alone in the cafeteria on the ground floor—there wasn’t another employee in sight, even in a building that large—eating too quickly and trying not to think about the smell that still seemed stuck to my clothes. I went back upstairs and kept working. At three o’clock sharp I heard the dry click of the office door locking. The air conditioning kicked up higher. The silence grew even denser.

I stayed in my chair, staring at the frosted glass, trying to focus on the emails. But every so often I listened. A low, irregular sound, as if something heavy were settling on the carpet. Hooves. The word arrived without me asking for it. I forced my mind to reject the idea. It was ridiculous. Impossible. It had to be the chair, the carpet, anything else.

Still, the sound continued.

I spent the rest of the afternoon working in silence, answering what needed answering, organizing what needed organizing. Every now and then the intercom buzzed and his voice asked for something—a phone number, a summary, a document. Always low, always direct. Never more than necessary.

Near six he called for me one last time.

“You can go home, Marília. Tomorrow morning, same time.”

I stepped in just far enough to confirm there was nothing left pending. He was seated, his shirt a little more open at the chest, tie loosened. The smell in the air was stronger. Warm. Almost humid. My fingers tightened on the edge of the door.

“Good work today,” he said, without looking at me. “Don’t be late tomorrow.”

“I won’t.”

I left. Closed the door carefully. In the elevator, riding down alone, I rested my head against the cold wall and breathed through my mouth, trying to get his scent out of my nose. I couldn’t.

Outside, the city air felt too light. I walked to the bus stop with my bag clutched against my chest, body still a little tense, head far too full. It was only the first day. I had gotten the job. I had survived the first hours. Money would be coming in again.

But as the bus pulled away from the building, I could still smell it. I could still hear the muffled sound coming from under the desk. I could still see the way his shoulders tensed when my hand touched his.

And for the first time in a long while, the fear of running out of money wasn’t the only thing that followed me home.