My Boss’s Wife and the Morning Routine
The fluorescent lights of the office building used to feel cold and sterile. Now, they feel like the spotlight on a secret stage, and I’m the lead in a play I desperately want to exit.

It all started so innocently. I was a young guy, new to the company, and got temporarily moved to Tracy’s division for a big project. Mary—the wife of my main boss—ran her own successful department. I’m an early bird, so I’d get in an hour before everyone else to prep my reports. I figured the extra overtime looked good, and honestly, I liked the quiet.

Then I noticed her. Mary was there early, too.

The Slow Burn
It started with a smile, a friendly nod. Soon, she was bringing me little things: an extra latte, a gourmet pastry, office supplies I didn’t even know I needed. “Gotta make sure my best temporary asset is well taken care of,” she’d joke. We became friends. The early mornings turned into our private time, filled with comfortable silence, shared jokes, and genuine, booming laughter. She was smart, funny, and surprisingly down-to-earth for a division head.

One Tuesday, she beat me in. I walked in, and she was already at my desk. When she turned, I saw it—a flash of something raw and intense in her eyes. Not the friendly glow I was used to. It was fire.

She didn’t mess around. She approached me, her voice low and serious. “I need to tell you something,” she said, her eyes locked on mine. “I like you. A lot more than I should.”

My mind short-circuited. I was terrified, excited, and completely blindsided. All I could manage was a ragged breath and the truth: “I… I like you, too, Mary.”

She stepped closer, slowly, like a fawn approaching water. I opened my arms, and she came right into my chest. The hug was solid, endless. My world narrowed to the sound of her breath and the feeling of her body pressed against mine.

Then, the slow exploration. My lips moved from her ear to her cheek. Then, our lips met. It was a soft, barely-there touch. No hunger, just a gentle, almost timid testing of the waters. We pulled apart, breathing hard, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis. Everything was brand new.

The Point of No Return
The real damage happened that afternoon. Everyone had cleared out. It was just us. We met in the little office kitchen, the one tucked away in the back corner.

This time, the hug was different. Comfortable, like coming home. The kiss, however, had authority. We didn’t test the waters; we dove in. It was a greedy, demanding kiss that said, You are mine, and I am yours. My hands were everywhere.

Cheek, neck, and then, her breasts. I squeezed and gently pinched her n***** just enough to feel it harden under the fabric. Down her sides, over her hips, to her b***. I tried to slip my hand into her jeans. She turned around, pressing her back against my front. My lips were at her ear, her neck. One hand held her breast while the other was exploring down, right into her jeans.

We both hesitated, a moment of shared, gasping fear, but she didn’t stop me. She let me touch her. I didn’t need instructions. My fingers found their target, and I worked fast, focused, and intent on one goal. She came hard, a loud, beautiful, jolting moan that echoed in the quiet kitchen. I pulled my fingers out, licked them clean, and sealed the act with a long, final kiss.

We cleaned up, straightened our clothes, and walked out to the parking lot together.

The Weight of Guilt
The next morning, she was wearing a long, flowing skirt. I knew what that meant. We exchanged a knowing glance, a conspiratorial smile.

“It’s not what you think,” she whispered playfully when I caught her eye. But I knew she’d planned it.

Later, after 5 PM, after the last cubicle light flickered off. Back to the kitchen. The central, heavy kitchen table. I lifted her, placed her on it, and pulled that skirt up. I ate her there, right on the cold, sterile formica. Circles, clicks, every single fold attended to. She came again, beautiful and loud. Then she returned the favor.

And that’s when the guilt started to weigh heavy.

I couldn’t stop. I was trapped. She had the power here. I was afraid of losing my job, of the scandal, of everything. So, I made sure she was satisfied—every day. My only leverage was to keep her happy.

I started to try and avoid her. I’d be late for the morning ritual, hoping to delay the inevitable. She’d get angry. Mad that I was late. Mad that I was pulling back. She started demanding more and more in the afternoon.

Her husband—my actual boss—is blissfully unaware. He works from home most of the time. I tried to send him silent SOS calls. “You should really come into the office more,” I’d say with a strained laugh, yelling “HELP” on the inside. He never got the cue. Not a single hint.

We’ve made love in every part of the office without a camera. Wild, animalistic, desperate s** that’s more about release than affection.

I want out. I don’t know what to do. The high is long gone. All that’s left is the guilt, the fear, and the sound of my boss’s wife moaning on a cold office table.

I’m trapped. And I’m terrified of what happens when she finally gets bored.