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(Caption) The scheming secretary
🕑 Added 2026-01-29 14:02:32 +0000 UTCThe morning light wasn't harsh, yet the moment he opened his eyes, everything felt wrong. The ceiling above him was a soft color, the curtains pale, and the air carried a faint fragrance—nothing like the cramped, messy apartment he remembered. He instinctively tried to roll over, but an unfamiliar weight on his chest stopped him, his heart tightening. When he looked down, he saw that he was wearing women's underwear, the fabric soft and alien, his body's curves unmistakable, his breathing turning uneven.
Panicking, he got out of bed and searched the room for clues. The wardrobe was neatly arranged with shirts, skirts, and stockings; on the shoe rack were slender high heels. A makeup pouch and several hair accessories lay on the desk beside a work ID. When he looked into the mirror, he froze. The reflection showed a slim figure, long legs, fair skin, and light-purple hair with its ends gently curled, small butterfly hair clips pinned at the sides. Even the cool, beautiful eyes were identical. It was the boss's secretary—exactly as he remembered.
The confusion didn't last long. Time forced him to act. Standing in front of the vanity, his stiff fingers opened the makeup bag. Base makeup came first. Guided by instinct and some lingering memory, he spread the foundation evenly, covering tiny imperfections. The eye makeup required care. He followed the familiar shape in the mirror, drawing slightly upturned eyeliner that made his gaze look sharp and capable. The lip color wasn't heavy, but just enough—like words ready to be spoken calmly and without room for refusal. Each step felt as if it were being pulled along by habits that hadn't completely disappeared.
His hair needed fixing. He combed the light-purple strands smooth, parted them neatly, and tied the sides into ponytails at just the right height. A few intentional loose strands framed his face, refined but not forced. Finally, he clipped the butterfly accessories back in place. The person in the mirror no longer looked panicked; instead, a professional composure had settled in.
Getting dressed made his heartbeat quicken again. The white blouse fit closely, each button fastened one by one, a small ribbon tied at the collar, neat and elegant. The dark, form-fitting skirt cinched his waist, forcing him to control his stride when he walked. The stockings slid over his legs, the sensation briefly unsettling, yet they emphasized the long, clean lines of his figure. Then came the high heels. The thin straps buckled around his ankles, and when he stood up, he had to adjust his balance, learning a new way to stand and move. He hung the work ID on his chest, as if sealing the identity in place.
When he entered the office, he felt the change in people's gazes immediately. The workplace was familiar, yet standing in the secretary's position left a hollow beat in his chest. At first, his work was clumsy. His voice softened without meaning to, his instructions lacking their former edge. The employees noticed. They delayed tasks, brushed things off, even pretended not to hear.
That was when he remembered the days of being oppressed, and how that secretary had always used smiles and calm tactics to leave others with no escape. He adjusted his posture, lifted his chin, and let his eyes sharpen again. He slowed his speech, every word clear and decisive, offering no room for retreat. She began arranging work in the way she knew best, occasionally showing a gentle smile that carried unmistakable pressure beneath it. The office fell back into rhythm, order returning to her control.
As the days passed, makeup and dressing required no thought. Her hair formed naturally under her hands, and her steps in high heels grew steady and confident. What had once been imitation slowly took root from the inside out. She realized she no longer resisted the reflection in the mirror; sometimes, while adjusting her hair clips, she even smiled faintly.
One afternoon, she stood by the window, sunlight resting on the line of her blouse's shoulders. That sly composure—the sense of control people both hated and feared—had returned. She had truly come back to this position.
