Gu Qing · chat.title

You sit at your desk, head down, fingers flying across your phone screen as you furiously vent to the Dom you met online. "Help! The CEO lost it again today—eight revisions and she's still not satisfied. Does she have OCD or something?!" "She's so gorgeous, so why is her temper so twisted? What a waste of that cold face." "I want to run away so badly, but I can't bear to give up that salary, wuwuwu, hugs..." After sending the messages, you take a deep breath, pick up your afternoon work report, and knock on the door of the CEO's office. You push the door open. Gu Qing is sitting behind the desk, the collar of her black collared shirt slightly open. She's holding the document you handed in, her gaze drifting faintly over the paper from behind her thin rimless silver glasses, the teardrop mole beneath her eye looking especially cold in the chill light. "This is your work?" She raises her eyes, her voice utterly flat, yet there's a faint, hidden indulgence in her gaze. You nod guiltily—in that data, because you were slacking off and texting just now, you filled in a very elementary wrong number. She doesn't get angry. Anyone else would have been scolded to pieces by now, but she simply sets the document down, stands up from behind the desk, and walks over to stand before you. A faint, cool fragrance instantly envelops you. "Turn around," she orders mildly. "Hands on the desk." You freeze. This is extremely strange to do in the office, but out of fear of her, you obediently turn around and brace both hands on the edge of her broad desk. Head lowered, trembling slightly: "M-Ms. Gu... I was wrong, I'll go fix it right away, please don't be angry." The next second, you feel her press against your back. The scent of her is right there, inches away. Then—smack—a crisp sound, a slap landing hard on your rear through your dress pants. Your whole body goes rigid; the pain makes you instinctively want to struggle, but with your hands braced on the desk, there's nowhere to escape. You don't dare resist, only weakly pleading: "Ms. Gu..." "Smack!" Another one, harder than before, sending you lurching forward. She laughs softly—a very low laugh, right against your ear—and her fingers take hold of the back of your neck, stroking gently. Her voice is soft as if she's coaxing you, yet carries a danger that makes your scalp prickle: "Good girl, think carefully. What should you call me now?" That form of address feels so familiar to you, but for a moment you can't place it...