The next morning, the layoffs were real. I returned to the office and found Jack packing.

He called me in and we were both moving to his new office upstairs. As his assistant, I had to join him in same place.

We packed all day. The new office was bigger, and better. By evening, everyone had left. I still had work to do and set up our office and work place.

I texted my husband, "I’ll be late."

Then Jack and I started organizing. Alone again.

The office was dimly lit now, hours past closing. The last of the boxes had been unpacked, and the air smelled faintly of fresh paint and stale coffee. 

I was dressed in my usual office attire, a fitted blouse tucked into a snug pencil skirt, my heels long since kicked off under the desk. My hair was tied back in a loose bun, strands falling out after the long, sweaty day. 

I was crouched beside the cabinet, organizing folders, when I felt Jack behind me. His presence was quiet but undeniable.

His hand brushed against my lower back, too casually to be accidental. I straightened up quickly, my chest heaving slightly.

"You’ve been amazing today," he said, standing far too close. "I couldn’t have done this without you."

I gave him a polite smile and turned away, pretending to focus on aligning papers. But then his hand rested on my hip, a heart-beat passed and my body stiffened.

"Jack..." I whispered, uncertain.

But he leaned closer, breath warming the side of my neck. "You’re beautiful like this. Stressed and exhausted."

My rational mind told me to stop it but my body betrayed me, just like it had before. He moved my hair aside and kissed the back of my neck, his hands sliding around my waist. I didn’t pull away.

Jack slowly unbuttoned my blouse while staying behind me, fingers brushing lightly against my skin. My lacy black bra peeked through.

My breath hitched when he cupped my breast over it, thumbing my nipple until it hardened beneath the fabric.

I closed my eyes. My mind screamed guilt, but my body was already surrendering.

He turned me gently toward the couch and sat down, pulling me into his lap. My skirt rode up as I straddled him, my thighs trembling slightly.

He kissed me deeply, his hands traveling under my skirt, finding the thin barrier of my panties. I was already soaked.

"I shouldn't..." I murmured into his mouth.

"But you will," he whispered, already pulling my panties aside.

He undid his pants just enough, and I reached for his dick. Familiar now, yet still shocking in size and hunger.

He guided my hips down on his dick, inch by inch, until his dick was buried deep inside my pussy. 

My blouse hung open, bra slightly askew, skirt bunched around my waist. I rode him slowly at first, the leather couch squeaking beneath us.

Our bodies moved together with quiet desperation, the office silent but for our breath and muffled moans.

My arms wrapped around his neck as his mouth found my breasts, sucking one nipple then the other through my bra. His fingers dug into my ass, urging me to ride harder.

I came quietly, clenching around him, biting his shoulder to muffle the sound. But he wasn’t done.

Jack flipped me over, laying my back along the couch, and entered me again. This time he was rougher. 

Papers scattered to the floor. My heels fell with a clatter. My body welcomed him, legs spread, blouse open, guilt drowned in waves of pleasure.

He came inside me, holding my hips down as he pulsed deep. When he pulled out, I felt the wetness drip slowly between my thighs. 

I lay there a moment, blouse still half-on, skirt twisted, legs parted, feeling more used than ever.

Jack kissed my forehead and zipped himself up.

"Now this will be our bed. And I am your husband here." he said softly.

I didn’t answer. I adjusted my clothes in silence, eyes stinging. There was no dignity left to fix.

I returned back to the subway station, thinking about the things that just happened. It was already late enough, then the worst train ever arrived.

The train was packed. The night was hot, the air heavy with sweat and exhaustion. I stood near the door, holding the overhead rail, swaying with the rhythm of the tracks, like I don't have any control on my body, tired and exhausted with all the special work. 

My office blouse clung to my skin due to sweat and crushing crowd, my skirt slightly creased from the long day and from what had happened earlier on the couch.

My eyes closed, head clinging to my arms holding the rails, mind replayed everything, again and again. The regret, the kiss and the way I moaned. My body still ached in all the right places. I hated how much I’d given in… again.

A hand brushed my hip, casual at first. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance sideways. The man was close, too close pressed against me as the train shifted. 

Another body bumped me from behind. The kind of closeness that couldn't be helped in such a crowded space. That’s what I told myself.

Then it happened again, a hand lightly grazing my ass. I felt it. I knew it wasn’t an accident. But I didn’t move. I just stared blankly at the window, breathing through my nose, face unreadable.

I could feel the heat of them behind me, beside me, and smell the alcohol from their breath surrounding me. 

One of them leaned close, maybe too close, his breath ghosting near my neck. I closed my eyes for a moment.

That time my guilt, my fatigue, my shame, It all wrapped around me like a fog. But my thighs pressed together, my nipples tightened beneath my blouse.

I hated this. Hated how my body betrayed me.

A bulge pressed against my skirt, subtle but deliberate. I felt everything and knew everything. And I let it happen. I pretended I didn’t notice. Pretended I didn’t care. But inside, I was unraveling.

It was a really long way back home, with the train packed, not even space to even move. I could feel the cold breath on my sweaty neck, with skin touching whenever the train swayed. 

By the time my station arrived, I stepped off the train with my heart pounding. I felt their eyes follow me, even as the doors closed. And as I walked toward home, legs weak, my thoughts were a storm of self-loathing and undeniable, aching arousal.

Finally it was home, my sweet home. The hallway light was dim when I unlocked the door. My fingers trembled slightly around the keys. I stepped inside quietly, letting the door shut behind me with a soft click. The apartment smelled of home, cooked food, laundry detergent, the faint warmth of my family.

My husband was asleep on the couch, the TV casting flickers of light across his face. He stirred when I walked past, blinking.

“Hey… you’re late,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

I nodded with a tight smile. “Office stuff. Just finished setting everything up.”

He sat up, reaching for my hand, pulling me gently onto his lap like he always did when I returned late. The weight of my body collapsed into him, but my mind was far away. 

He kissed my shoulder, his touch soft and familiar not like the rough grip I’d left behind hours ago. The touch of love, the touch of care unlike the ones I got, the ones that wanted to hold me down and fuck me hard to break my ass.

I winced. My thighs ached. My panties were damp, still holding the final traces of what had happened on the office couch. The same couch I’d arranged earlier that day, organizing his desk right before he pushed me over it.

Now, I was in my husband’s arms.

He kissed me again, and I let him. But my heart twisted with guilt. As he reached to touch beneath my blouse, I gently stopped him. “I’m tired. Long day.”

The guilt or saying that to my husband, after letting a stranger use me and fill me, was immense.

He nodded, accepting it without question. I leaned my head against his chest. He held me like nothing had changed, while I was thinking about this moment.

It was his love and respect for me, that he just accepted my rejection yet gave me his full love. But if it was Jack, he would have thrown me down and fucked me hard. 

For him, I was just a hot body which he can fuck and fill as much as he wants now. 

Then we went to bed. 

____________________________________

Next morning, I woke up tangled in my sheets, my body still sore. My phone buzzed: Jack.

 “Bring coffee when you come in. Black. No sugar.”

No greeting, No thanks. Just a reminder of who I now belonged to between the hours of nine and six.

I stared at the screen, numb. Then I got up, showered, and dressed in a clean office blouse and navy skirt. My makeup was minimal. I looked into the mirror and didn’t recognize my own eyes.

Still, I showed up. With coffee in hand.

Time went by, and this routine became a new normal for me. It didn’t take long for the routine to form. Mornings with my husband. Kids off to school. A quick kiss at the door, the warmth of a man who still trusted me completely.

Then the elevator ride up to Jack’s office, where the door always closed behind me and silence meant consent. I never said no. Not anymore, but embraced it.

Sometimes it was his desk, sometimes the window, sometimes the bathroom, sometimes the couch. Always quick, raw and unspoken.

I thought I’d feel worse over time. But instead, my body stopped trembling. My mind stopped racing. I started getting used to it.

The way his hands knew my curves now. The way he whispered orders, and I obeyed. The way my husband’s touch felt gentler in contrast, less urgent, more… innocent.

And it didn’t go unnoticed. My husband started commenting.

“You’ve been glowing lately,” he said one evening.

“You’re more… confident. Sexy.”

I smiled and said nothing.

Because what could I say? That I was now having more sex with my boss, than with him? That guilt was still there, but quieter, dulled by routine, and just barely edged out by the way Jack made my feel needed, desired, used?

I still loved my husband deeply. But desire had become a different language. One that I spoke fluently now.