The Secretary’s Revenge
Mr. Park leaned back in his leather executive chair, the scent of expensive mahogany and arrogance filling the room. He flicked a speck of dust off his tailored sleeve, glaring at the five women standing before his desk. Min-ah, Ji-soo, Hana, Sora, and Ye-jin stood in a semi-circle, their expressions masks of professional submission. “This report is a disaster,” Park spat, throwing a folder onto the desk. “Do any of you actually possess a functioning brain, or do you just occupy space in my office?” Min-ah stepped forward, a thin, predatory smile touching her lips. She didn’t look like a terrified secretary anymore. “We’ve decided that your management style is outdated, Sir,” Min-ah said. Park scoffed, opening his mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but Ji-soo moved with blurred speed. She pressed a chemically soaked rag over his nose and mouth. Park’s eyes bulged, his hands clawing uselessly at her wrists before the world dissolved into a gray, swirling void. When consciousness returned, it came in fragments of vibration and muffled sound. Park tried to move his arms, but they were pinned. He tried to shift his legs, but they were locked. He felt the rough texture of heavy-duty silver duct tape sealed tightly across his mouth, pulling at the corners of his lips. He opened his eyes. Darkness pressed in from all sides, save for a rectangular opening directly above him. He was lying flat on his back in a narrow, velvet-lined box. A heavy wooden lid had been lowered, leaving only a small, precise cutout for his face. He was encased in a coffin. “He’s awake,” a voice giggled. Min-ah’s face appeared above the opening, her eyes gleaming with malice. Beside her, the other four women peered down, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of a nearby lamp in what looked like a lavish, private living room. “Welcome to your new office, Mr. Park,” Min-ah whispered. “No meetings. No reports. Just us.” Park let out a muffled, frantic scream against the tape, his chest heaving. The coffin was a perfect fit; he couldn’t even tilt his chin. He was a fixed target. “He looks so pathetic like this,” Sora remarked, stepping closer. She wore a tight, silk skirt that hugged her curves. “All that power, and now he’s just a piece of furniture for us to use.” “I think he needs a proper performance review,” Hana added, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. The women gathered around the small opening. The air in the room smelled of expensive perfume and something sharper, more primal. Park’s heart hammered against his ribs, the sound echoing in the wooden chamber. “You know,” Ye-jin said, sliding her hand down to the waistband of her skirt, “I’ve been holding in a lot of frustration since the quarterly reviews. And a lot of other things.” Park’s eyes widened. He tried to thrash, but the coffin held him in a death grip. Ye-jin turned around. She hiked up her skirt, revealing a pair of sheer, black lace panties that strained against the fullness of her backside. She positioned herself directly over the hole, her rounded cheeks hovering inches from Park’s nose. “Deep breaths, Boss,” Ye-jin whispered. She leaned forward, pressing her soft, warm flesh firmly against his face. Park felt the heat of her skin, the scent of lace and musk. Then, with a sudden, wet shudder, she released a long, vibrating blast of gas. The sound was a loud, guttural rip that echoed inside the coffin’s enclosure. A cloud of thick, sulfurous heat slammed into Park’s nostrils. Because his mouth was taped, he was forced to inhale the concentrated stench. It was heavy, pungent, and suffocating, smelling of fermented cabbage and old protein. Park’s eyes watered instantly. He let out a muffled groan, his nostrils flaring as he tried to reject the air, but there was nowhere else to breathe. “Oh, that was a big one!” Ji-soo laughed, clapping her hands. “My turn.” Ye-jin stepped aside, and Ji-soo took her place. She didn’t bother with subtlety. She lowered herself, her plump ass sealing the hole completely, creating an airtight vacuum. Park felt the pressure of her weight pressing his face into the velvet. Then came the sound—a series of short, staccato pops, like wet firecrackers. Each burst sent a fresh wave of hot, acrid gas swirling around his face. The smell was different—sharper, more acidic, stinging his sinuses. He began to panic, his muffled screams vibrating through the tape, his lungs burning for a single breath of clean oxygen. “He’s fighting it,” Hana noted, leaning over to watch his bulging eyes. “He really enjoys the attention.” Hana replaced Ji-soo. She shifted her weight, grinding her backside against his cheeks before letting out a slow, sizzling hiss of a fart. It lasted for several seconds, a steady stream of warm, foul-smelling air that seemed to coat the inside of Park’s throat. The scent was cloyingly sweet and rotten, a thick miasma that felt physical, like a blanket of filth. Park’s vision began to swim. The combination of the claustrophobic coffin and the relentless barrage of toxins was taking its toll. He felt lightheaded, the edges of his sight blurring into darkness. “Don’t let him pass out yet,” Sora commanded. “We still have a lot of feedback to give.” Sora stepped up, her movements deliberate. She lowered herself slowly, ensuring there was no gap between her body and the coffin. She unleashed a thunderous, wet roar of a fart that sounded like a tearing sheet. The force of the air pushed against his skin, the heat intense and suffocating. The smell was an overwhelming wall of decay, a concentrated essence of everything foul. Park’s brain felt like it was floating. The oxygen levels in the small space were plummeting, replaced by the heavy, humid gases of the women. He stopped fighting. His muscles went limp, his eyes rolling back as the world became a haze of sulfur and lace. Finally, Min-ah stepped over the hole. She looked down at the broken man beneath her with a look of pure satisfaction. “Last one for the road,” she murmured. She pressed herself down hard, her warmth the last thing he felt. She released a final, long, whistling cloud of gas that filled every remaining inch of the void. The stench was the final blow. Park’s consciousness flickered once, twice, and then vanished entirely, leaving him submerged in a warm, stinking darkness. The women stepped back, laughing softly as they looked at the unconscious man trapped in his velvet prison. “I think he’s finally learned how to listen,” Min-ah said, smoothing her skirt.
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