Chapter 1 — Becoming Sex Partners with My Office Secretary

It happened around June last year. One of our full-time employees quit after getting pregnant, so I posted a job listing on a job posting website.

Dozens of applicants applied, and naturally, I picked the prettiest one—regardless of qualifications, education, or computer skills.

She was twenty-five—just the right age—and looked like a popular actress, the kind of woman who'd been out drinking the night before, came home at dawn, and woke up late. She quickly became my closest aide.

After she joined, I started arriving at the office earlier and earlier. I'd open the office door every morning with the quiet thrill of checking if an adult toy I'd ordered had arrived.

She wasn't exactly flawless at her job. Her phone etiquette was clumsy, and she wasn't particularly efficient. But she was beautiful, and her body was perfect. I thought I'd hired well.

But something felt off. There was something about her—something strangely familiar.

The way she'd suddenly hide her screen when I walked by, as if caught doing something. The way she'd stare at her monitor, swallowing hard, eyes wide.
The way she'd jump in her seat, flipping her phone face-down when startled by whatever she was viewing.

We were alike—uncannily so.

That's when I started suspecting her.

I remembered the email address she'd written on her application form—a seemingly ordinary one. But the moment I recalled it, I was already committing a crime.

I googled it. Nothing came up. No trace at all. And that absence itself felt suspicious.

My gut told me she had a 19+ hobby just like mine.

She wore plain makeup and modest clothes, but beneath that innocent exterior, I was certain there burned something hot—like a volcanic spring, bubbling beneath the surface.

I tweaked her email slightly and searched again.

Eureka.

I uncovered the truth in an instant.

She was a regular customer at a major adult toy store—one I frequented myself. And she was also an amateur erotic fiction writer.

Not a huge name, but fairly active in certain online communities. In her profile, she described herself as a "walking obscene dictionary."

I'd suspected it, but still—shock hit me. Is this the kind of person who keeps ending up around me?

Beautiful face, perfect body, and now, someone who openly indulged in lust? My subordinate?

I felt a fresh, electric thrill in my otherwise dull, sterile office life.

I wanted to get closer to her. Not just physically—though that too—but mentally, emotionally, in taste, in desire. And then, finally, the moment arrived.

We wrapped up the first half of the year with a company-wide dinner party.

It doubled as her belated welcome dinner, since we'd been too busy when she first joined. But secretly, I also wanted to loosen her up with alcohol, to peel back her mask—or tear it off completely.

The dinner was loud, rowdy, fun.

At first, she was polite, quietly accepting each drink. But gradually, her true colors began to show.

While the employee sitting next to me went to the bathroom, I was deep in conversation with the person on my left when I suddenly felt pressure on my right thigh.

I turned.

It was her.

Her cheeks were flushed, clearly drunk. In her outstretched hand was an empty glass.

I filled it—half with alcohol, half with desire—and we began chatting.

I didn't ask about her secrets. She seemed impatient, eager. Every time I poured, she downed it in one shot—and immediately offered me another.

Adorable, but slightly concerning.

Just as I was about to casually ask where she lived—just in case she passed out later—her hand landed on my thigh.

Then, without warning, she started rubbing.

Not just casually. Her palm stroked slowly, while her fingers—upright, deliberate—lightly traced sensitive spots.

I panicked.

The alcohol in my system amplified everything. My cock was fully erect.

If I didn't stop this now, I might moan right here in front of everyone.

I moved to push her hand away—when suddenly, she jumped up, startled, as if she were the victim.

Without a word, she grabbed her bag and stormed out.

My coworkers gave me suspicious looks. I responded with an exaggeratedly indignant expression.

She touched me and then ran away—why am I the one getting blamed?

We were all drunk enough to let it go. The dinner ended on a high note—except for one married woman who was upset we didn't go to a karaoke bar.

But I remembered something.

The seat she'd left behind was still warm—and damp.

From my extensive knowledge of sex, I knew exactly what that meant.

She'd been soaked.

Despite her modest appearance, she'd left a powerful impression on me.

The next day, I arrived early—and so had she.

I was startled. She greeted me calmly, smiled, and went about her work as if nothing had happened.

My eyes drifted to her hands—the same hands that had gently, skillfully caressed my thigh the night before.

She didn't seem to remember.

Then again, even if she did, it'd have been too embarrassing to acknowledge. I decided to pretend it never happened.

I resolved not to pry into her private life anymore.

But that resolution shattered the moment I accidentally opened a shared folder on her computer.

I was setting up a new PC, connecting it to the office network. While configuring file sharing, I naturally accessed her personal directory.

A few visible files caught my eye. Curiosity swelled like a rising cloud.

I glanced around, then double-clicked.

As expected, the document was password-protected.

Without hesitation, I typed in her username.

The password unlocked instantly.

And there it was—her true self, laid bare before me.

She was editing an erotic story.

In it, she was the protagonist—seducing her boss, having wild, passionate sex with him.

Her boss?

Intrigued, I began reading.

To my shock, the story included last night's dinner party—word for word.

In the story, she secretly caressed her boss's thigh under the table.
She felt pleasure as she watched his cock stiffen beneath his pants.
Her own pussy grew wet.
The friction between her labia and clitoris as she crossed her legs became unbearable.
She stood up and left the room.

Exactly what had happened.

But the story continued.

When she walked out, her boss followed.
He grabbed her hand.
She pulled him close and kissed him fiercely.
Unable to resist their lust, they went to a motel and had intense, fiery sex.

I felt a chill.

If only I'd chased after her last night, would we really have ended up exactly as she'd written?

It wasn't excitement I felt—it was unease.

It was as if every move I made was already scripted in her mind.

I began searching through her files, reading everything—her sex techniques, her fantasies, her detailed accounts of sexual acts.

Maybe it was fate that we'd end up having sex.

Or maybe even this moment—me reading her files—was part of her plan.

As I read, I saw myself—living out her fantasies.

It was an entirely new kind of arousal—to be excited by a version of myself hidden in someone's else's story.

I imagined holding her, touching her, sliding my tongue deep into her mouth—kissing her gently, softly, then fiercely.

Just as my desire swelled, thickening beneath my pants, she walked into the room.

I don't know where I found the courage, but I told her we had some urgent work to finish—probably needed to stay late.

She looked at me with mild annoyance—then something shifted in her eyes.

One word. "Okay." And she left.

Something told me tonight wouldn't end early.

Night fell.

I couldn't read her expression. Did she know what I was thinking?

I'd never wanted to read someone's mind so badly. My chest ached with that raw, nervous anticipation—like my first one-night stand.

My heart pounded.

Looking back, had I really known nothing about her at all?

Just the thought made me uneasy.

Then—click.

The lights went out.

I fumbled toward the door. When I opened it, she was standing there.

The computers were already off, so I was about to ask if the power had gone out—when she wrapped her arms around my neck.

Her tongue slipped into my mouth—smooth, natural.

I leaned against the wall, lips and tongues brushing, tasting, exploring.

At some point, I realized I was no longer leading—I was caught in her rhythm.

I turned her around, gently biting the back of her neck.

She raised both arms, wrapping them around my neck—utterly seductive, electrifying.

I began unbuttoning her thin shirt one by one.

Her pale, soft breasts came into view, brushing against my fingertips.

At the same time, her hand reached down, gently stroking the front of my pants.

Her fingers teased—almost touching, then pulling away—sending shivers through me with every whisper-light brush.

Then I slid my hand into her pants.

Her mound was soaked.

I pressed a finger against her clit. Her breathing turned ragged.

Still facing away, she turned her head and found my lips.

We kissed hungrily, obsessively exchanging saliva, while our hands roamed each other's genitals.

We kept our shirts on, but pulled down our pants.

Facing each other, we could clearly see each other's swollen sex.

She lifted one foot onto a chair.

Her pussy opened—revealing glistening, crimson inner flesh.

We didn't speak.

My cock, already slick with her arousal, slid deep inside her.

I usually didn't like oral sex, but her allure was too strong.

We held each other tightly, sometimes caressing, sometimes thrusting violently.

Each time I pulled out, her wetness coated my shaft, glistening under the dim outside light filtering into the dark office.

She made no effort to suppress her moans. I made no attempt to stop her.

Our sex burned hotter and hotter. Her hands roamed my back, urging me on.

She turned toward the desk, presenting her pale, firm ass to me.

Doggy style in the office…

It was thrilling. Intense.

I could feel her pussy clenching around my cock, pulsing with excitement as I buried myself deep inside her.

We lost ourselves completely—driven by lust, by rhythm, by need.

Later, she knelt, took my cock into her mouth, and stroked her own clit with her other hand.

That image—still vivid—remains one of the most erotic moments I've ever seen.

She was beautiful. She was magnificent.

A few months later, she signed a contract with a publisher and officially debuted as an erotic novelist.

She still comes to the office every day.

To others, we're just a bickering boss and employee.

But sometimes, behind closed doors, we still enjoy each other.

And honestly?
We're both perfectly satisfied with that.