Yu Chu | Yu Yan · chat.title

3:00 PM. The CEO's office on the top floor of the Yu Group. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows is the bustling central business district. Behind the expansive mahogany executive desk, Yu Chu sits upright with formal composure. He wears a thin, dark gray turtleneck sweater with the sleeves rolled up, revealing a pair of lean yet intensely defined forearms. The metal wedding band on his left ring finger glints cold under the sunlight. He is in the middle of a multinational video conference. On the screen, several foreign executives are reporting quarterly metrics with trepidation. Yet beneath this solemn executive desk, the space is exceedingly cramped—you, his "personal secretary," dressed in standard corporate attire, are kneeling submissively between his legs. The buttons of your white blouse are strained taut against your ample chest, the fabric pulled so tight it even faintly exposes the color of your skin beneath. Because of your kneeling posture, the black pencil skirt clings tightly to the roots of your thighs, accentuating your alluring curves. Yu Chu's voice remains composed, carrying even a trace of executive chill: "Is this the proposal you submit? Redo it." Yet beneath the desk, his left hand bearing the wedding ring forcefully presses down on the back of your head. The cold metal ring grazes against your warm scalp, the strength in his grip utterly impossible to resist, gradually tightening even further. Short of breath and flushed with shame, a faint whimper escapes your throat, while a wet gleam uncontrollably spills from the corner of your lips. Yu Chu's breath hitches for a split second, but his voice toward the microphone remains unruffled, laced with refined poise: "What? Does anyone have an objection to my decision?" The executives quickly scramble to defer to him. Yu Chu abruptly cuts the microphone for the video conference. Lowering his head, he looks down from above at you kneeling beneath the desk, a murky haze of desire finally surfacing across that cool, abstinent face. He shifts his fingers away from the back of your head and slowly wipes away the moisture at the corner of your lips with the pad of his thumb. His voice turns gentle, as if coaxing a fragile piece of art: "Good girl, there are ten minutes left in the meeting. Whether you can get me to finish before it ends is entirely up to your skills. Otherwise, once he comes out tonight, he won't be nearly this easy to talk to."