A Hard ANWO Truth Ch. 02

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*A Hard ANWO Truth.*

Chapter 2: The Secretary

It was only my first day as Ken's secretary, yet I was already falling behind. My predecessor--who had taken maternity leave to have *Ken's* baby, of all things--had left a pile of work in her absence. Had Lily been this disorganized? What had she been doing with her time if she wasn't getting through Ken's emails?

*BBRRINNG*

The pink desk phone cut through my rumination, resonating through my cubicle. The obnoxious sound was followed by my started yelp. It was not by my choice that I occupied Lily's desk: It wasn't bad enough that Lily's cubicle was decorated with more pink and more *sparkle* than a '00s girl band. I should have expected her desk phone to be equally ostentatious in its ring.

"You've reached the desk of Ken. Alex speaking. How may I help you?"

My white blouse--one part of my emasculating office uniform--constricted my diaphragm as I spoke. Thus, my words came out in a soft, demure tone.

"Hello miss, this is Mr. Sung-Ho. I'm calling to confirm my lunch meeting with Ken."

Was I just misgendered? Even if a bit constricted, why did the man on the other line think he was speaking with a woman? I thought it would be better not to correct him. This was my first day, and I was more than a little afraid to cross Ken or one of his clients.

"Yes, Mr. Sung-Ho," I spoke softly through the phone, my voice carrying little weight into the receiver, "I can confirm you're on his calendar."

"Excellent!" The voice on the other line sounded politely cheerful. I could almost hear the smile in his voice. "See you then."

It soon occurred to me that I had not seen any emails about a lunch order. Was I supposed to order food? I didn't want to bother Ken--nor interact with him--but I desperately wanted to avoid any disasters on my first day.

"Ken?" My voice squeaked through Ken's solid oak door as I softly knocked. I didn't know why my fist trembled as I knocked.

"Come in!" Ken's disinterested voice resonated through the wall. I timidly opened the door, stepped inside of Ken's threshold, and shut the door behind me.

"You have a lunch appointment with a Mr. Sung-Ho. Do you... need me to handle putting your order in?"

Ken looked up from his computer and smiled broadly.

"Excellent work, Alex!" Ken's voice dripped of praise and sarcasm, "I can tell you're going to do well as my secretary. If you're going to be a good *fit* for me," he emphasized and paused the word 'fit,' as if conveying deeper meaning, "then you're going to need to anticipate my needs. Good work! I want to see more of that!"

Though Ken's tone and smile were condescending, my body reacted to his praise. An unfamiliar tingle resonated through my body. The corners of my lips turned upward. My face went hot with blush.

Was this... joy? It had been so long since I felt genuine joy that I had forgotten the feeling. And why was my body having this reaction to such a simple and (mildly) condescending compliment, and from a man that I didn't like? At a meta level, I did not want to give Ken such power over me that he could lift my emotional state with such silly praise. But it felt so good to have this little win that I did not want to lose this moment.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Sir?"

It should not have already felt so natural to call him that.

"No, thanks Alex. I'll email you our lunch order. Have it ready with sparkling water and tea in Conference Room 3 by noon."

"Yes, Sir," I unconsciously bowed my head as I slipped out of the room. Though I did not look behind me, I could feel Ken's eyes on my ass and hips as I left.

***

As noon approached, I set up lunch for Ken and Mr. Sung-Ho. Happily, the men had ordered simple sandwiches with sides. I carefully laid out ice, a pitcher of water, and cutlery. I then scurried to the lobby to meet Mr. Sung-Ho.

At noon sharp, an older Korean man in a grey raincoat stepped into the elevator. Upon seeing me, he looked me up and down with a serene, knowing smirk.

"Ah," he chuckles, "You must be Alex."

How did he recognize me, despite having misgendered me over the phone? Surely he hadn't clocked me as female? I shook those thoughts out of my hand and focused on the task at hand. I just needed to get this man into the conference room without committing any faux pas.

"Mr. Sung-Ho, I'm Alex. Can I take your jacket? Right this way please."

Mr. Sung-Ho handed me his jacket and insisted that I walk in front. I had a strong suspicion of why that might be.

Ken was waiting for us in the conference room. The men shook hands and greeted each other warmly. As they started to talk shop, I stood awkwardly by the conference table. I knew that I shouldn't leave without permission and especially wanted to avoid the embarrassment of being chided in front of Mr. Sung-Ho. I also didn't want to interrupt the men.

After several minutes, there was a pause in the conversation. Finally, a chance to ask permission to leave.

"Is there anything else I ca--" Ken held up a finger, silently interrupting me.

"Mr. Sung-Ho," Ken spoke for me, "Is there anything that Alex can get for you? Coffee? Water? Tea?"

It was a strange feeling for a man to offer my services as if I weren't in the room. It felt comparable to Ken offering a guest to *use* me like he would offer a guest to use his coatrack or coffee maker. I was clearly there as an object--Ken's tool. What 'services' I could provide Mr. Sung-Ho were Ken's to offer. I had no say in that matter.

"Water," Mr Sung-Ho said. Ken looked at me expectantly. I poured him a glass from the pitcher.

Finally, with this pause in conversation allowed me to ask Ken: "Is there anything else I can do for you, Sir?"

I hated using the "Sir" honorary in front of Ken's guest. But I also wanted to get the hell out of there and back to my cubicle. I didn't like this feeling of waiting hand and foot on these businessmen.

"Not right now," Ken barely looked at me while he spoke. "But don't leave. We might need something."

My heart sank. With that denial, Ken continued talking shop with his guest. I stood there, awkwardly waiting to be told what to do. Similarly to my earlier experience in Ken's office, I felt like a piece of ass for the men's visual enjoyment.

When Mr. Sung-Ho's glass was empty, Ken looked at me expectantly. I obeyed his nonverbal command, refilling Mr. Sung-Ho's glass. It felt humiliating to act like a petty slave to these two men. But something deep inside of me--in a part of me that I did not like to explore--I felt pride at fulfilling their needs.

Even more humiliating, I had difficulty keeping up with the men's conversation. They were speaking English, and speaking on the subject that I had just graduated with a degree in. But the concepts, the strategy, and many of the terms they discussed were going over my head. Even if *had* a 'seat at the table' (I did not), I would not have been able to meaningfully contribute to this conversation.

This realization deepened my humiliation. I slowly realized that my imposter's syndrome was merely my mind seeing a deeper *truth*: I truly didn't belong in a leadership role in a firm like this. In this world, my place was that of a secretary, serving my betters.

The meeting for lasted several hours. Throughout this time, when I was not standing awkwardly at attention, I was refilling glasses, fetching coffee, and removing empty cups. At the meeting's conclusion, the men stood up and shook hands.

"Alex," Ken said, "I'm going to walk our guest out. Clean up in here and wait for me to return."

"Yes, Sir." It was humiliating to speak so deferentially to Ken in front of his guest. It was even more humiliating to be denied permission to leave this room. I felt as if I were confined to a prison, and that my very movements were micromanaged.

Ken returned to the conference room alone, closing the door behind him.

"I have some feedback for you, Alex," Ken's face was grave. I gulped. "First," Ken began, "You did generally well by anticipating my and my guest's needs. For example, you anticipated the need to order and serve lunch. And you *mostly* did well serving and cleaning things up."

Despite myself, my heart fluttered at Ken's praise. Why did it feel so good to receive positive reinforcement for such a menial task?

"However," Ken continued, "I can tell you still have a lot to learn. I'm going to have you shadow Heather next time she hosts an event. For example, you should not be seeking permission to leave a meeting. When men are speaking, you must silently keep yourself available in case any of them need anything. It's too much of an inefficient interruption to 'fetch' you if we need anything."

My heart sunk even more deeply. My mouth felt dry. Clearly, I had made a blunder by asking Ken's permission to leave. My hands gripped the edge of the conference room table to steady myself.

"Second," Ken continued, "We're a global, international office. We have clients from Singapore, Tokyo, Beijing, and others. There are certain customs that you our assistants need to follow when serving men."

It struck me that it was 'men' that we--the assistants--would be serving. This contrast seemed intentional. Without saying as much, Ken made it clear that he did not see me as a man.

"For example, you must maintain a calm and focused demeanor. I'm sure you're nervous, but when waiting on a meeting like this, we expect your hands to be folded together. And would it kill you to smile?"

I bristled at that last remark. But I forced the corners of my mouth up into a fake, Stepford wife grin. Ken nodded approvingly.

"Good. You need to be a calm, happy, submissive presence to the men of this office and their guests. You'll catch on. Lastly, your movements when serving should be more gentle--be deliberate and smooth. Bow respectfully after serving a drink. Present cups and plates with both hands, ensuring that everything is turned correctly."

"Yes, Sir." This wasn't too much information to take it, but it was a *lot* to adjust to. I felt as if I were being trained as some servant or geisha from a different era.

"Good. Well, anyway," Ken trailed off for a moment, lost in thought, "I have a lot to do this afternoon. I know it's late in the day, and I don't want to keep you late your first day."

My heart skipped a beat. Was Ken going to let me go home early?

"Make me another coffee before you head out. Otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Thank you, Sir," my smile was for the first time in several hours, not artificial.

I hurriedly brewed, measured, and poured Ken's coffee. This would be my last impression for my first day, and I wanted to prove to him that I could learn from feedback. Even though acting as his personal servant was humiliating, I had neither the career prospects nor the financial safety net to complain. Thus, I kept that same, serene smile as I gracefully floated down the office hallway toward Ken's office.

I entered Ken's office, holding Ken's coffee in both hands. With my graceful smile, I set the coffee on Ken's desk in front of him, bowed deeply, and spoke in a light, controlled voice.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Sir?"

Ken beamed triumphantly. Somehow, his smile didn't convey pride at my performance; he looked like he had just 'won' at something. Had he not expected me to submit to his preferred conduct? Was he merely testing me to see how quickly I would prostrate myself to him?

"Actually," Ken leaned back in his chair as he spoke, "I dropped my pen in front of my desk. Could you grab it for me?"

I looked at the ground and saw indeed saw a silver pen on the ground. I turned away from Ken and tried to squat down to retrieve it. Somehow, my work uniform was sown so tightly in the knees that I couldn't bend my knees to squat. And given that the pen was wedged against the wall, I would have no choice but to fully bend over in front of Ken to pick it up. A dark thought arose in my mind that perhaps the need to bend over was an intentional feature of my uniform.

Humiliated, I bowed forward retrieving the pen. I could feel Ken's eyes on my ass. I knew that the tailoring on my assigned uniform lifted and accentuated my large ass. And just knew that I was be putting on quite a show for Ken.

I turned to see Ken smiling like the Chesire Cat.

I gracefully set the pen down on his desk. But when I looked down, I would see a bulge forming in Ken's lap. My eyes widened and my mouth fell open in surprise. Was Ken getting an erection from seeing me bend over? I could tell that he had a *lot* going on under there, and the pinstripes in his pant only accentuated his impressive mass.

"Something the matter, Alex?" Ken spread his legs slightly, showing off more of his developing tent, and grinned unapologetically. I couldn't help but stare at his lap for several more moments before returning his gaze.

"N-no S-Sir!" I stammered, "Is th-there anything else I can do for you, Sir?"

Why was I incapable of getting these simple words out? What has Ken done to my brain? And what was this electric feeling that flowed through my ass and hips?

Ken paused thoughtfully for a moment. I could tell that he was debating internally how to answer my question. After several suspenseful moments, Ken shook his head.

"No, Alex. You may leave. Enjoy your afternoon."

I bowed unconsciously, thanked him, and scurried out of his office and gathered my things.

***

When I arrived home, there was a red piece of paper taped to my apartment door.

"Oh no," I murmured to myself. I knew that I was behind on rent, but I hasn't realized *how* behind until I saw the words "NOTICE OF EVICTION" in capital letters. I wouldn't be paid for another two weeks and had no idea how to solve this problem.

As I stepped inside my slum of an apartment, I rechecked my bank account on my phone, knowing before I looked that I would not like what I would see. No surprises: I didn't have sufficient funds to procure dinner, much less make up on my rent. Unless I found a source of funds or another housing solution, I might literally be on the streets within the week.

I went to bed that night, tired, hungry, and alone. With nothing else to do, I scrolled on my phone unproductively for over an hour. It then occurred to me to start my little bedtime ritual before falling asleep.

Was my proneness to daily masturbation a contributing factor to my lack of a job, money, and a relationship? Maybe. But my nightly ritual of scrolling images and videos of blonde bombshells while rubbing myself was the only opiate I had available.

I started rubbing myself slowly as I scrolled through my phone. In a typical 'session,' my member would react (and be finished) very quickly. Perhaps one benefit of being... less than well endowed was that it took little time and blood pressure to finish the job.

I was surprised when after several minutes of scrolling, I had no reaction whatsoever. Though I would typically be rock-hard by this point, my little white member hung limply under my sheets.

What was going on? I initially attributed my temporary impotence to a mix of hunger, fatigue, and anxiety. I decided to try a little longer before giving up.

Typically as I would scrolled through my phone, I would fantasize about having my way with one--or multiple--of the blonde bombshells whose images occupied my screen. But on this night, I found myself incapable of forming these images in my head. I would close my eyes and imagine the girl in question. But my mind would immediately drift to an image or John or Ken.

Even worse, I could not help but recall Heather and Lily, those curvaceous blonde women who I saw over the last couple of days supplicate themselves to older, dominant Asian men like John and Ken. Likewise, as I scrolled through the images on my phone, I could not help but imagine John or Ken having his way with these beautiful women, while I merely sat and watched.

Ashamed of myself, I exhaled and embraced the images. I fantasized about one of the woman getting on her knees in front of John. I then imagined another woman bending over a bed, looking over her shoulder at Ken.

At that last image, my dick immediately stood at attention. I slowly rubbed myself, imagining a white woman presenting herself to Ken. I recalled the bulge I had seen in Ken's pants, and fantasized about how huge his member would be as he released it from his expensive suit. I imaged the way the woman would gasp as she saw Ken's massive member. I imagined Ken caressing the woman, reaching between her legs and playing with her clit to 'warm her up' to take his massive piece.

Another image arose that surprised me. I found myself involved in this fantasy, making Ken a cup of coffee in just the style he liked. I imagined myself gracefully entering the room, holding Ken's warm cup in both hands as he railed the beautiful blonde woman. I imagined myself approaching Ken, wearing my skin-tight uniform and swinging my hips seductively, bowing deeply to him, and handing him the cup with both hands.

I imagined Ken taking the cup but barely noticing me. I imagined looking down at the gorgeous white woman on the bed who would completely ignore my existence.

As I stroked, I unconsciously stopped 'stoking' myself, instead rubbing the underside of my foreskin in a circular motion, at the same rhythm as I fantasized of Ken rubbing the woman's clit.

Without conscious thought, I spoke aloud during this fantasy: "Is there anything else I can do for you, Sir?"

Something incredible happened when I spoke these words aloud. I felt as if electricity was alighting my toes, moving up my leg, through my hips and ass. I flexed my sphincter, and electric signals continued moving up my spine, down my arms to my fingers and out my mouth. I moaned like an idiot as the electric feel coursed through my body, down my navel and out my dick. At that moment, with my vision of serving Ken as he defiled this beautiful blonde woman, I experienced the most intense orgasm of my life.

***TO BE CONTINUED***