Chapter 1: Daily Routine
Your heels click a sharp, steady rhythm on the polished linoleum. The office is quiet, still smelling of overnight cleaning products—lemony and sharp. You’re early. The only sound is the distant hum of the building’s HVAC system. You slide into your cubicle. It’s cramped. Your desk is already a landscape of pending files. You hang your coat on the back of your chair.
You are twenty-three. Your face is soft, with wide eyes your mother called doe-like. Your hair, the color of chestnuts, hangs in loose waves. You wear the classic secretary outfit; a white silk blouse, the top three buttons undone. A black pencil skirt that hugs your hips and ends precisely two inches above your knees. Seamed stockings. Black stilettos with a delicate ankle strap. You're required to follow the office dress code for women, anything sexy, yet professional.
You power on your computer. The report for the Henderson account is due by five. It’s a mess of data, columns waiting for your analysis. You take a sip from your travel mug, the coffee already going lukewarm. You open the spreadsheet, your fingers resting lightly on the keyboard.
The office is waking up. Phones begin to chirp. Someone laughs down the hall. You start typing, focused on your work. You don't get very far before a shadow falls across your desk.
“Morning, sunshine.” It’s Dave from Accounting. He’s leaning over the cubicle wall, his tie already slightly askew. He’s got a pleasant face, going soft in the middle. His eyes drift from your screen to your blouse.
“Big day?” he asks.
“Henderson report,” you say, offering a small, friendly smile.
“Need a hand with anything?” He asks fixing his gaze on you, appreciative.
What does Sharon do?
Option 1: Smile wider, lean back in your chair, and say, "I could use a little motivation to get started."
Option 2: Keep it professional. Tap the spreadsheet on your screen and say, "If you can reconcile these supplier invoices, that would be a huge help."
Option 3: Give him an appreciative smile. "Oh that's okay. I should be able to knock it out no problem. Thanks for offering though!" you say pleasantly.
Dave’s smile doesn’t falter, but his eyes flicker with disappointment. “Of course.” He gives the cubicle wall a light tap with his knuckles. “Well, don’t work too hard.” He pushes off and wanders away, his footsteps fading into the growing murmur of the office.
You turn back to the report. You type away, cross-referencing columns and highlighting discrepancies in yellow. The buzz of the office is now in full force around you, punctuated by the sharp ring of phones and the occasional booming laugh from the sales team down the hall.
Another shadow, longer, falls across your keyboard. This one doesn’t lean. It looms. You know the cadence of this breath, the particular scent of this cologne—sandalwood and expensive paper. “Sharon," a man's voice says, deep and confident. Your heart flutters slightly at the sound of his it.
You swivel your chair to face it. Richard Peterson stands at the entrance to your cubicle, effectively blocking the light and the view. He is, as always, impeccably dressed. A charcoal grey suit that probably costs more than your monthly rent, a meticulously knotted tie. His hair is silver at the temples, his face lined in a way that suggests authority, not age. His eyes, a cool grey, are already on you, tracing the line of your throat, the open buttons of your blouse.
“Mr. Peterson. Good morning,” you say pleasantly, your voice a touch higher than normal.
“It is now.” A small smile touches his lips, “My ten o’clock cancelled. I have a window. Come to my office.”
What does Sharon do?
Option 1: Smile, nod, and stand up smoothly. "Of course, sir. Let me just save my work."
You click the save icon. The computer whirrs softly. You stand, smoothing your skirt down your thighs, and follow Mr. Peterson. His office is at the end of a hushed corridor, behind a heavy wooden door with his name engraved on a brass plaque. He holds the door open for you, a gesture that feels more like possession than politeness.
His office is vast, all dark wood and leather. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a dizzying view of the city skyline. It smells like him—sandalwood, ink, and power.
“Close the door, Sharon.”
You do. The latch clicks with a soft, definitive sound. You turn to face him. He’s already behind his desk, but he isn’t sitting. He’s leaning against it, arms crossed, watching you.
“The Henderson report is coming along?” he asks, his tone casual, conversational.
“Yes, sir. I’m about halfway through the data reconciliation.”
“Good.” He uncrosses his arms and gestures you closer. “Come here. Let’s discuss your progress.”
You walk toward him, the carpet muffling your steps. When you’re within arm’s reach, his hand shoots out and wraps around your wrist. His grip is firm, not painful, but absolute. He pulls you gently until you’re standing between his spread knees. He’s so much taller than you, even seated on the desk.
“Sir?” you say, your voice barely a whisper.
His other hand comes up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You look tense, Sharon. A good secretary needs to be… pliable. Responsive.”
He guides your face down and kisses you. It’s not romantic. It’s deep and claiming, his tongue pushing past your lips. You melt into it, a soft sound escaping your throat. You’ve done this before. Many times. You know what he wants. His hands move to your hips, holding you in place as he deepens the kiss. You can feel the hard line of his arousal through his trousers, pressed against your stomach.
He breaks the kiss, his breath hot against your ear. “On the desk.”
What do you do?
Option 1: Obey without hesitation, laying back on the polished mahogany surface.
You obey without hesitation. The polished mahogany is cool against your shoulder blades. Your skirt rides up your thighs as you settle back, the wood smooth and unyielding. You watch as Mr. Peterson stands over you, his grey eyes dark with intent. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.
His hands are efficient. He pushes your blouse open, his fingers skilled and impersonal. The air of the office is cool on your skin. He doesn’t bother with the rest of the buttons. His focus is lower. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your stockings and your panties, pulling them down in one swift motion. The lace catches for a moment on your heels before he yanks them free and lets them fall to the floor.
You look past him, at the ceiling tiles. One has a water stain in the corner, shaped like a tiny continent. You count the perforated holes.
He unbuckles his belt. The sound is loud in the quiet room. The clink of the buckle, the whisper of fine wool. He doesn’t kiss you again. He doesn’t touch you with any tenderness. He guides himself into you with a firm, practiced pressure. You gasp. The desktop is hard against your back.
He sets a ruthless, steady rhythm. Your head tilts back, your vision blurring the water-stain continent on the ceiling. The only sounds are the wet, rhythmic slap of skin, the faint creak of the desk under your weight, and his controlled, even breathing. His gaze is fixed on a point over your shoulder, his jaw tight. It feels transactional. Necessary. A function of the office, like refilling the printer or scheduling a conference call.
You close your eyes. You let the sensation take over—the fullness, the friction, the distant spark of building heat low in your belly. You bite your lip to stay quiet. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. The pleasure is sharp, clinical, and entirely for him, but you can’t help the way your body arches to meet his thrusts, a traitorous response you’ve learned to perfect.
His rhythm falters. He grunts, a short, sharp sound. He drives into you one final, deep time and holds there. You feel the hot, pulsing release inside you. He stays like that for a long moment, catching his breath, before pulling out.
You lie there, exposed and cooling. He tucks himself back into his trousers, fastening his belt with a crisp, final click. He doesn’t look at you.
“The Henderson report,” he says, his voice perfectly level, as if commenting on the weather. “I’ll need a summary slide for the board. Concise.”
“Yes, Mr. Peterson.”
You slide off the desk, your legs wobbly. You gather your underthings from the floor, stepping into them quickly. You smooth your skirt, button your blouse. Your hands tremble only slightly.
He’s already seated in his high-backed leather chair, looking over a document. Dismissed.