Feminised By Her Secretary

Story by Alecta's Shadow (2026).

Foreword: Hope you enjoy this story! More like it are already available on my website for my patrons! By subscribing here, you get early access to new chapters and Patreon-only stories, you get to make direct requests, and more.

As always, all characters are over the age of 18.

Now, without further ado… enjoy the read!

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I’ve always preferred working with women.

It’s hardly a unique sentiment among white collar female employees… and executives. We all know what men are like. We especially know what some men are like, particularly those who tend to choose a competitive corporate career. We’ve had to fight our fair share of them to get where we are. Hell, sometimes we’ve had to metaphorically step over them to get anywhere.

Even that’s not enough.

Corporate hierarchy may say you are a man’s senior figure, perhaps even his direct supervisor. You might even go so far as to hold, in your hands, the power to fire him. But he will never easily recognise that power, not without a fight. He will do all he can to refuse seeing you as his superior. To some instinctual part of his lizard brain, the mere suggestion that you might be peers is an affront to his masculinity, but taking orders? From a girl? Heavens forbid.

Which is why, whenever possible, I’ve staffed my department with women instead of men.

Cue the complaints of reverse discrimination. I’ve heard it all before, and I don’t care. Women don’t ogle me, or address me by my first name in the office. They don’t distractedly make sexual comments about other employees when they think I’m not within hearing range. They don’t make me feel uncomfortable. They don’t make me feel unsafe.

Usually.

I wasn’t born under a rock. I know there are always exceptions. Of course there is such a thing as female sexual predators, or even more basic, female pervs. It’s not like men have a monopoly on lechery. Intellectually, I always understood that eventually, a female employee or subordinate might make me feel the same, icky way white collar men usually make me feel.

But it’s one thing to know, and one thing to know.

I contemplate all of this with a certain detachment, because as it happens, at the moment, my mind is busy processing a totalising perceptory experience.

Orgasm.

Such an odd word, is it not? So mundane, and yet at once so powerful. But we underestimate just how powerful, especially because not all orgasms are the same. Some are perfunctory and kinda dissatisfying. Some are pretty good, perhaps even very good.

Not this one, though.

This one strikes me like a hammer strikes a pane of glass. It radiates outward from my clit like a fucking explosion, obliterating every structure in its path, until my awareness of my self is reduced to a shipwreck, carried helplessly on the crest of a giant tidal wave.

There’s a quiver in my thighs, and my right calf almost locks up as I writhe in my office chair like a worm in the talons of a bird of prey.

Once again I note, with some detachment, that the imagery is very fitting. After all, Sharon’s left hand is wrapped around my throat, as she sits on my desk, facing my chair. Her right hand is busy pumping back and forth inside my cunt.

"Good girl, Sonja," Sharon says. Addressing me by my first name, just like a man would. "Good girls are built for pleasure."

That’s not what’s supposed to happen in the office.

Besides, when exactly did this young woman acquire such… prodigious fingerfucking talents? She’s making my eyes roll back into my skull.

It takes some effort to notice things that are wrong. Scratch that. It takes a lot of effort. Like swimming against the current. My mind is sluggish, wading feebly in a quicksand of mushy submissive pleasure, but I know for certain that things are out of place. Like…

Why am I wearing these clothes?

I glance down at myself—a feat that requires an almost superhuman effort of will, given Sharon’s fingers are deftly coaxing willpower out of my own cunt—and I register what I’m wearing.

Or rather, what I’m not wearing.

My usual compromise between butch presentation and corporate acceptability is gone. Instead, I’m apparently… in a skirt? Short and tight, too, something I wouldn’t wear in a million years. Even worse, I’m apparently wearing a thin sheer blouse, with a bright pink bra visible underneath. Christ.

Fragmentary memories swim into my mind’s eye. Sharon, singing to herself as she sluts me up with makeup. Sharon, tall and beautiful and terrible, making lewd comments while she applies gloss to my lips.

"You like a hard stick against your lips, boss?" That’s what she said. But… why? Why would my secretary talk to me in this way, or do my makeup, or dress me up like the office sexual plaything?

Why would she fingerfuck me?

I open and close my mouth a couple times, like some dumb fish, before I can finally push the words through.

"W-w-why…"

Sharon shrugs. "Because I can. Because you’re not strong enough to stop me. What other reason do I need?"

I don’t have a good answer to that.

In my defence, it’s hard to think when her fingers are working such magic… playing with my pussy and my clit like they’re her musical instruments, like I’m her fiddle, her sock puppet.

"Good girls don’t resist," Sharon says, and the words settle into my brain like hooks into a piece of meat. "Good girls accept what they’re given."

Her hand tightens around my throat. "Say it."

"I… I don’t…"

It’s perfunctory resistance, and we both know it. My mind is caving in on itself under the imposition of pleasure coming at me from every direction.

"Say: I’m a good girl."

The words are on my tongue before I can stop them. "I’m a good girl."

"And good girls…"

"Are built for pleasure. They accept… what they’re given." I feel like I’ve said the words a hundred times before. Maybe I have. I can’t remember.

"There we go. Much better when you stop trying to think. Goooood girl. That wasn’t so hard, was it? And you dare ask me why." Sharon shakes her head, amused by the thought. "Because I can. That’s the real justification behind every act of prevarication in the history of humanity, my dumb little boss. Is it not?"

Her fingers curve inside me and I stop being capable of speech. Whatever pathetic syllables I was managing to produce dissolve into animal noises.

"Guhhh…"

"Precisely. The justification behind every act of conquest. Behind every single rape. Come on, boss. You and I are both women of the world. We know that every woman who’s ever found herself vanquished or otherwise at the mercy of a man, has suffered exactly one fate. One."

Her thumb fiddles with my clit, and I buck against her hand. My hips grind forward, seeking more of what’s destroying me.

"Eeeekkk…"

"Yes yes, I know. Those are men, so of course it’s not the same, right? They’re tall and strong, with rough hands and beards that sting… but does that mean they have a monopoly on predation? Is that what you think, dyke? You thought a woman would be kinder, more merciful in victory?"

Right now, I’m not thinking much of anything. I’m so lucky to have such a proactive subordinate, such an eager secretary, kind enough to fill the void of my thoughts with her own words.

"Guess again. I’m doing it because I can, and because you cannot stop me. Because I’m strong, and you are weak. Because I’m more, and you are less."

My second orgasm hits without warning. I convulse in the chair, thighs clamping around her wrist, and she just keeps pumping.

"Look at you. Fucking yourself on my fingers like a bitch in heat. Come for me. Come for your new boss. Come as I bring you to heel like a dog. Show me what a weak-willed little dyke you really are."

I find myself grunting in urgent, slutty agreement, even though no woman has ever reminded me so much of men, of my idea of men.

"From now on, you work for me," Sharon says. "Oh, sure, the company org chart will still say I’m your subordinate. But we both know the truth now, don’t we? We both know who’s really in charge. You’ll crouch under the desk and lick my shoes and kiss my feet and eat my pussy, while I’m busy doing your work much better than you ever did it."

I’m gasping, trying to catch my breath, but she doesn’t give me the chance. She immediately starts building me up again, with fingers and words alike.

"A few more sessions like this, and you’ll be my perfect little secretary. Wouldn’t that be so fitting? From butch boss to feminised eye candy for the office. I will impose femininity upon you in victory, the same way men do it to women they conquer. No more thoughts in that empty head of yours. You’ll just be something pretty to look at while I do the real work. And let’s be honest—I’m smarter than you anyway."

"Gnnnhh…"

"You’re right. I should say, much smarter," she says, with a cruel glimmer in her eyes. So deep and blue… like the ocean, both in depth and in lurking terror beneath the waves… "And that gap is going to keep on growing, slut. Every time I scramble your little lesbo head like this, I mindfuck something out of you for good. Haven’t you noticed? You get a little dumber each time. Ditzier and more pliable, easier to control… no, no, this is an office setting, rather I should say, easier to manage."

"Gluh…"

“The damage is permanent, by the way. There’s no coming back from this. How hot is that? I am literally reducing you. Aren’t you in awe of such power? If I can do this to you, with no opposition, doesn’t that mean you deserve it? Deserve to be raped in body and mind?"

It… it makes sense… it sounds so deeply un-feminist, but what do I know? She’s… she’s the smart one… she’s—

"We’re going to exchange paychecks too. You’ll sign yours over to me, and I’ll give you mine. Fair trade, don’t you think? After all, I’m doing your job now. You’re just the secretary. Secretaries don’t make executive salaries."

I can feel the little tremor in my eyes, as I try to shrink away from her own eyes, from her words, from her fingers, from her power. But I can’t. Because good girls are built for pleasure, and they accept what they’re given.

"And you know what you’re going to do about it?" Sharon leans in close. "Absolutely fucking nothing. Because you can’t. Because every time you even think about resisting, your cunt gets wet, reminding you that it controls you. And it just so happens that I control your cunt. And so… I control you. Don’t I, sweetheart?"

I nod. I can’t help it. The motion is involuntary, a reflex that bypasses my brain entirely. My head bobs up and down while her fingers continue their relentless work.

"Say it."

"You... you control me."

"Louder."

"You control me!"

"Good." She pumps harder, and I feel myself climbing toward the edge again, coaxed towards the precipice by her fingers. How is this possible? How can my body still respond after two orgasms? But it does. It’s responding beautifully to her, like I really am an instrument she’s mastered.

"Now that we’ve established the new order at work," Sharon says, talking casually over the obscene squelch of her fingers in my cunt, “we need to talk about your living situation.”

My eyes widen slightly. Living situation?

"That’s right. I’m moving in with you. Into your home. Your nice little dyke nest with your girlfriend—what’s her name again? Amy? Annie?"

"Andrea…"

"Who the fuck cares. Well, Andrea is about to learn that her girlfriend’s demotion extends to the home. Because I am a generous conqueror after all, I will allow you to stay with Andrea and myself after I move in… someone needs to clean the place after all, right? And cook the meals. And do the laundry. Isn’t that right, maid? I’ll be sleeping in the master bedroom, obviously. You can have the couch, or maybe I’ll let you sleep at the foot of my bed if you’ve been especially obedient.”

"No… I can’t, I mustn’t. I…"

One deft motion of her fingers is enough to devoice me, like a dog that’s been debarked. Just like that, words are beyond me again. There’s a terrible fury in Sharon’s eyes.

"Never presume to use those words in my presence, ever again. Yes, you must, and you will. Your precious Andrea might object, but… I think I’ve already shown you I have a way to, ahem, handle disagreements between girls. Haven’t I, slut?"

The sheer weight of implication makes my eyes go glassy, and I feel my head lolling against the chair, like I’ve been finally sapped of the last bit of strength and will, sent overflowing out of me along with my cunt juices…

"Say it. Say: Mistress Sharon is moving into my home."

"Sharon… Mistress Sharon is moving into my home."

"And I’m grateful for the privilege."

"I’m… I’m grateful for the privilege."

"Of serving her as her maid."

"Of serving her as her maid." The words come out in a rush now, tumbling over themselves, and something follows. Something load-bearing and fundamental to my self-conception has just departed me. I don’t know what it is, exactly, but I know that without it, I’m not fully a person anymore.

And still, Sharon has more she wants to take from me…

"And if Andrea objects, Sharon will handle her."

"If Andrea objects, Sharon will handle her."

"Just like she handled me."

"Just like she—"

The orgasm hits before I can finish the sentence. This one is different from the first two. Those were powerful, yes, but this one obliterates me. This one takes everything I was and shatters it into fragments too small to reassemble. I’m screaming, or maybe I’m not, I can’t tell anymore. My body locks up, every muscle contracting at once, and then releases in waves of convulsive pleasure.

Through it all, Sharon keeps fingerfucking me, and she’s not just doing it to my cunt, but to my mind as well.

"Fiiiinally. Let it all out, that surplus IQ you’re never gonna need again. Come for your owner. Come for your new boss. Accept your fate, you dumb dyke slut. This is what you are now. This is all you’ll ever be."

I suppose it’s better this way. After all…

I’ve always preferred working for women.

THE END