After I cheated with my boss, I discovered my husband already had two children.
December 11, 2025
10545 CommentsAs I struggled to break free from an affair with my boss and longed to return to my family, I discovered that my seemingly perfect husband had been maintaining a flawless secret family all along.
Drunken Misconduct with the Boss
I ended up entangled with him. Handsome and charming, he was our newly appointed general manager. To this day, I remain baffled about how we crossed that line. All I recall is having too much to drink that night. Someone kissed me; I mistook him for my husband. I tore off his belt, wrapped my arms around his neck, and pressed myself close against him. Afterward, I took a week off, hiding at my best friend’s place. When she found out, she scolded me mercilessly, urging me to end the affair immediately. After all, she reasoned, my husband was wonderful—nearly perfect. He did the laundry, cooked meals, handed over his salary on time, and remained emotionally steady.
The only slight flaw was… his skills in bed. Perhaps my expectations were too high at thirty, leaving me perpetually unsatisfied. Too ashamed to face him, I made excuses to keep my distance. "Return to work first and cut ties with the boss for good. Then confess to your husband," my friend advised rationally. I resolved to follow her guidance. This mess was my doing, and I had to face the consequences.
Office Punishment
I returned to the office filled with dread. The building was pitch-dark, lights extinguished, eerily silent and deserted. Puzzled, I texted a friendly colleague and learned they had all left for a team-building event at noon. Just as I turned to leave, a figure lunged out and seized me. I screamed in terror, but his mouth silenced mine. His soft yet insistent tongue invaded my mouth. I struggled, but he pinned my arms behind my back. "Where have you been? I missed you desperately," whispered the boss’s voice in my ear. We had worked together for only a week, but his deep, magnetic tone was unforgettable. "I…" I stammered, unable to form words. "Disobedience demands punishment," he murmured, then sank his teeth into my neck.
A wave of pleasure surged through me, and I couldn't suppress a moan. "Seems you missed me too." He swept everything off the desk—files, even the computer crashing to the floor—then lifted me and pinned me down. "Look at me, not anywhere else." He roughly hiked up my skirt, as if meting out retribution. His touch was brutal yet intoxicating. He knew my sensitive spots, skillfully teasing them until I shattered completely. This raw, overwhelming ecstasy was something my gentle husband had never provided; his tenderness had grown monotonous. "Distracted? Thinking of another man?" Sensing his displeasure, I shook my head frantically. He responded by biting my shoulder. I begged him not to leave marks, terrified of explanations later. He ignored me. I collapsed beneath him, bruised and marked. Lying on the desk, I pressed his head down, surrendering to the unbearable thrill of this forbidden pleasure.
The next morning, harsh sunlight jarred me awake. Fumbling for my phone, I found over a dozen missed calls from my friend. She must have been deeply disappointed. Lost in sorrow, I realized this wasn’t a hotel—it was his apartment. He coaxed me into eating breakfast. Seizing the moment he left for work, I escaped.
I wandered aimlessly through the streets until I stood beneath my own apartment building. Fear gripped me. I wanted to flee, but a hand seized mine. "Where have you been?" Husband’s voice froze me. Trembling, I slowly turned. When he saw the hickey on my neck, shock filled his eyes. "I…" I choked on my words. I lied and claimed I had been assaulted. He believed me. We didn’t report it; I feigned fear, and he trusted me again. I quit my job and stayed home with him for a month. We made love constantly—in the kitchen, bedroom, balcony—but the passion he ignited remained unmatched. I began craving him once more. Then, my husband announced a business trip—nothing unusual, as he traveled for days or weeks each month.
The Boss
appeared suddenly at my doorstep. Unemployed, I had settled into a monotonous routine of watching TV and gaming in my room. But one afternoon, the calm shattered. I ordered hotpot delivery, watching the delivery icon recede on my phone as my stomach growled. Distracting myself with the TV, the doorbell rang. Assuming it was the food, I opened without hesitation—and froze instantly, trembling. I had never given him my address. How had he found me? "What are you doing here?" I whispered, nervously scanning for neighbors. Without answering, he pushed past me, shut the door, and slumped onto my sofa as if it were his own, grabbing the remote. "Get out!" I cried, fearing neighbors and my husband’s discovery. I didn’t want a divorce; my husband was too good. We had even discussed having children recently. "Come here." He turned, his gaze icy, signaling me to sit beside him.
The fierce possessiveness in his eyes was unmistakable. I despised my own weakness. Before sleeping with him, I hadn’t even known his full story. Was I just a pitiful fool, throwing away a perfect marriage for him? This time, I resolved to end it. "I… I don’t want this anymore. Please leave," I pleaded. He merely chuckled and rose slowly.
With ominous clicks from his polished shoes on the floor, my nightmare came alive. Swallowing hard, I looked up at the imposing man, mustering the courage to resist. "Please go. My husband could be back any moment." My threat only amused him. His eyes curved into beautiful arcs. A chilling smile played on his lips, radiating absolute defiance. "Your husband is away on business." I froze. How could he know my husband’s schedule so well? What did he want? I was just an ordinary thirty-year-old woman, not some youthful beauty. Why me? Was I just convenient? An easy conquest? He certainly had admirers; from his first day, girls openly flirted, sent flowers—he must have noticed.
Betrayal Beneath the Wedding Photo
If it was about that night, I could apologize. Just let me go. But he didn’t. He dragged me by the wrist into the bedroom, flung me onto the bed, then pounced, tearing my favorite dress. "You missed me too, didn’t you?" I shut my eyes, refusing to look. I hated him. Just as I resolved to flee, he pulled me deeper into hell. His technique was flawless. My resistance crumbled quickly. Lost in the dizzying rhythm, my head fell back—my gaze landing on the wedding photo above the bed. The newlyweds beamed, blissfully unaware that years later, beneath their happy image, in the home they built, another man would lie in their marital bed.
Outside, rain lashed the window, mirroring my churning guilt. My husband had called earlier, saying he’d return tomorrow. What could I do? The ecstasy of the past days had made me forget him completely. Watching the man asleep beside me, I despised myself. At thirty, I should have known better. But now, I was entangled with my former boss. Before him, I loved my job—managing files, sneaking out for milk tea, occasionally admiring younger colleagues. I’d had fantasies, but never imagined an office liaison. Feeling him stir, his arm draped over my waist, I froze, afraid to wake him. His vitality was astonishing, leaving me barely able to move.
Recalling his early days at the company, he was courteous to everyone—except me. He always ordered me to make tea or buy snacks. Colleagues asked if I’d offended him. I couldn’t fathom it; we’d barely met. Could I have cut him off while driving? Exhausted by his demands, I collapsed at home. My husband remained tender, massaging me and brewing nourishing soups. Then came the team dinner. I got drunk and ended up in his bed. Details blurred; who initiated it? I couldn’t say. Later, I coldly kicked him out and scrubbed the apartment clean, desperate to erase his scent. I even tossed the stained sheets into the trash, watching the garbage truck haul them away. Relief washed over me.
Thankfully, he obeyed my plea, ignoring the marks on my neck and focusing elsewhere, leaving me sore yet intensely satisfied. "Darling, I missed you so much." Brushing my teeth, I jumped at my husband’s voice. He embraced me tightly from behind. Panicked, I blurted, "My period started." It wasn’t a lie—thank heavens for the timing. "Does it hurt? I’ll make ginger brown sugar soup." He kissed me affectionately before hurrying to the kitchen. Tears welled instantly. I didn’t deserve his kindness. He was so good, yet I betrayed him. "Darling, let’s have a baby," I proposed suddenly. Silence. Then, a faint voice from the kitchen: "Your health isn’t ideal yet; don’t rush."
He was right. Five years ago, I had surgery for blocked fallopian tubes. Though successful, the doctor advised restoring my health before conceiving. Three years passed. Now at thirty, guilt gnawed at me. My husband adored children, always stopping to admire cute little ones. We met in college, colliding at the school gate—love at first sight. After graduation, we endured a year apart before marrying amidst family and friends. Married life was blissful; his gentle nature was renowned, making me the envy of many. Thankfully, for two months after my husband’s return, he stayed away. Relief flooded me. I began job hunting. An ex-colleague recommended a position—great benefits, though chaotic-sounding. I didn’t mind; mortgage and car loans loomed. My husband’s salary alone wasn’t enough. Though he never complained, I knew our savings were dwindling. We needed my income. Plus, I yearned to give him a child. On impulse, I interviewed
The New Company Boss
. Unexpectedly, the interview went smoothly. To impress, I styled my hair and bought new clothes. On the first day, I dressed in my finest suit and heels, stepping out with vigor. My figure was decent—tall, well-maintained, though not voluptuous. People often said I looked younger than thirty; I credited my husband’s care. New colleagues welcomed me warmly, complimenting my looks and poise, until one confided her marital woes—her husband’s infidelity, a dead heart, staying only for the children.
I sympathized, unable to fully relate, but learned about the company: locally established for years, stable operations. The boss had the surname Chen, in his thirties, handsome, rarely in the office. A chill swept over me. My ex-lover also had the surname Chen. I dismissed it, assuming a coincidence. For weeks, I didn’t see the boss. I buried myself in work, returning home exhausted each night. My husband brewed soup and massaged me, making me feel cherished. His attentiveness deepened my guilt, strengthening my resolve to work hard and save. He’d long eyed a new car. Time flew. A month later, payday arrived. I planned a celebration, but the relief was fleeting.
Near quitting time, my manager asked me to deliver files to the boss on the third floor. I wouldn’t miss this rare chance. Eagerly, I carried the box upstairs. The third floor was silent. His secretary led me in. Thanking her, I entered an empty office. Calling softly, no one answered. As I set the box down, a voice came from behind: "Long time no see." I froze. That voice—deeply etched in my memory. "I missed you." Strong arms lifted me. Eyes shut tight, I heard the door lock. He straddled me, fingers undoing my blouse buttons. One, two, three… I seized his wrists, opening my eyes. He looked unchanged—features still handsome, gaze tender and hungry.
"Don’t you like this?" Leaning close, hands beside my head, he expertly freed the last button with his teeth. "Has anyone told you how skilled your tongue is?" I cupped his face, forcing eye contact. He merely murmured, "Do you like it?" His tongue probed my ear, delicately teasing sensitive spots. Cheeks flushed, I bit my lip, fearing eavesdroppers. "Relax, it’s soundproof," he chuckled, reading my mind. His tongue parted my lips and slid inside. Heat flooded me. Struggling only deepened our entanglement. "Craving more?" He paused, studying me intently, then flashed a wicked grin. Long fingers loosened his tie, then shirt buttons, belt… My throat tightened, toes curling. My gaze locked on him. He was toned and sleek, skin smooth to the touch. His manicured nails caused no discomfort. "Here?" He covered me, pressing down. "Yes," I gasped, primal desire overriding caution, craving his roughness. "Make me feel ultimate pleasure." This time, he considerately left no marks.
A Glimpse in the Elevator
My husband remained gentle, never forcing me. On the surface, we were a perfect couple. Privately, exhaustion grew. My workload now included extracurricular burdens. I didn’t question his sudden takeover of my company or his prior role as general manager. Ours was a physical relationship, with unspoken rules. Secretly transferred to his office as an assistant, I visited often. We experimented everywhere—elevator, rooftop, late-night unlocked offices. He loved my moans; I thrilled at his boldness. One day, he summoned me via private elevator. Entering, I found him waiting. I wrapped my arms around his neck, teasingly pressing close. Unsurprisingly, his desire ignited. His hand slid under my blouse.
His breath scorched my skin, his lips tracing mine. Gentle at first, then rapidly escalating into fervent entanglement. Reason drowned in sensory waves. Suddenly, the elevator dinged open. "Boss?" His secretary’s voice. I shoved him in panic. He merely grinned, pinning me harder against the wall, hands still roaming freely. I glared, glimpsing the secretary head down, pretending not to see, then scurrying away as doors closed. Had she recognized me? Anxiety surged. "Focus," he commanded, hands gripping my waist, thrusting more urgently. I sagged, clinging to him, nails digging into his back, vision blurring. In that confined space, only stifled moans and ragged breaths remained. "Your secretary might know," I fretted later, pacing with a water bottle. Thrilling, but reputation mattered. "I’ll handle it," he dismissed, pulling me onto his lap. "Darling, if you want your husband oblivious… you’ll need to work harder." His eyes burned with desire, yet he deftly teased me into initiative.
That thrill was unique, indescribable. I lost myself, returning late nightly, my marriage crumbling. Arguments erupted. My husband didn’t know I provoked them—each fight eased my guilt, freeing more time for my lover. Yet his kindness endured. However fierce the quarrel, he never yelled, just sat quietly until my rage subsided. When I stormed out, he thought I went to my friend; she thought I’d ended the affair. No one knew I dined with *him*. "Your husband…" he began suddenly. Frowning, I paused my meal. He’d never asked about my husband. "What? Ready to end this farce?" I retorted. "Never. How could I lose you?" I laughed. We were just bodies seeking pleasure, nothing more. Disposable. Seeing my disbelief, he fell silent, handing me meticulously sliced steak. I devoured it.
Recklessness by the Roadside
That night, our talk transcended the physical—a first. Words exhausted, we sought new thrills. Language failed that experience. We found a desolate stretch—no traffic, no streetlights, just a warehouse, dimly lit entrance, unattended at night. He parked roadside, high beams blinding oncoming drivers, car rocking. Unbuckling, he waited silently, eyes expectant, hands impatiently pulling me close. "You’re wicked," I chided softly, then complied.
His hand clamped my neck, pressing hard. His breath grew ragged, near frenzied. "Be careful next time," I scolded afterward, wiping my mouth with a tissue. He suddenly lunged, yanking me atop him, holding tight. My mind drifted. Tilting my head, I yielded, craving closeness to dispel lingering unease. Just then, headlights flashed. I jerked free, fumbling for clothes on the passenger seat. My panic sparked exhilaration—perhaps my fear aroused him. "You said no one comes here!" I accused. "It’s fine, they won’t see," he insisted, excitement palpable. He reclined the back seat, pinning me firmly down. Rough and relentless, he made me cry.
Home, I found my husband awake on the sofa, smoking pensively. As I entered, he waved smoke away. "I’m… back," I said guiltily. "Glad you’re here." He sighed, crushing me in an embrace, as if fearing I’d vanish. Fighting tears, I smiled. "What’s wrong? It’s my fault, don’t cry," he soothed. Clinging tight, I buried my face in his chest, dampening his shirt—reason and chaos warring. I knew I was pathetic, betraying this good man. That night, I slept quickly. My husband slept soundly; I initiated—a first for us. He cherished it.
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The Sanya Escapade
Back at work, my manager handed me travel documents. I knew instantly he arranged it. Excitement warred with guilt. Timing was perfect: Husband was away for two weeks. Our mutual absence eased my conscience. We kissed goodbye, suitcases rolling opposite ways. Arriving in Sanya, he waited. Barely resting, he dressed me in clothes he’d chosen—a fitting "business trip" gift. Jokingly, I asked if he bought dresses for many women. Without answering, he took me sailing. Days passed blissfully. What if… "I want to be with you." His words stabbed like ice. I shoved him hard. He crashed down, head bleeding. Grimacing in pain, rubbing the injury, eye swelling. I turned away, wrapped tight in a blanket, fled to the bathroom, locked the door. Was this deliberate? A slip? Bedroom promises meant nothing. Yet panic churned. What if he meant it?
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"Enough. Come out." His concerned voice came through the door. Hesitantly, I emerged. Instantly, he scooped me up, tossed the blanket aside, and pressed me against the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. Chill bit my skin; his heat seared my back. Below, city lights flickered, crowds flowed. "Don’t you want to be with me?" He nipped like a puppy, as if marking me, provoking reaction. But my heart numbed. "I have a husband. I can’t be with you," I whispered.
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He spun me around, lifted my leg, trying to ignite familiar desire. His ragged breath filled my ear. Sensing my resolve, he suddenly stopped, retreated to the sofa to smoke. Acrid fumes made me cough. Glaring, I walked to the bathroom. Returning, the ashtray overflowed. "Trying to kill yourself?" My voice trembled with conflict. He knew I hated smoke, yet chain-smoked a pack in minutes. He shot a resentful glance, head down, expression inscrutable. We were just lovers, nothing more. Discussing commitment was absurd.
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Trapped in His Home.
He kidnapped me. More precisely, lured me into captivity. Back home, he suggested visiting his place—a remote villa—to collect a gift. I knew the drill: men gave mistresses gifts to prolong the liaison. Unsuspecting, I entered, and he pounced, binding me before I could react. Chains appeared from nowhere. When had he prepared this? Was this his so-called gift? "You’re insane!" I shrieked. His response was fiercer. He tore at my clothes like a starving wolf. Wild passion ignited instantly. Wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over me, my resistance crumbling. I molded like putty to his will. "Your body’s far more honest than your mouth," he taunted, slowing deliberately to force pleas. I whimpered, begging for release from the torment. His low laugh intoxicated like nicotine, driving me to climax after climax. Then, freedom vanished. Shackled to the bedpost. No key. No phone. Desperate, I curled in a corner, drowning in regret. Was my husband frantic? Had he called police? Would they find me? How to escape? "I’m back." His voice made me shudder. Hugging my knees, I wished to disappear.
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Those days blurred into a nauseating haze. His demands grew wilder, ignoring pleas, serving only his whims. Physically and emotionally drained, throat raw, he showed no mercy, tormenting me day and night. "So disobedient," he chided, carrying me to bed, eyes falsely tender. Ignoring his kidnapping, he remained charming. "When will you let me go?" I knew he hated the question, but it was all I could muster. "Divorce your husband. Be with me. Please?" His fingertips brushed my cheekbone, the once-pleasant tingle now unwelcome.
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"I’ll never divorce him. Never," I spat, slapping his hand away. This man was unrecognizable. Had I ever truly known him? "Why won’t you listen? I don’t want to hurt you." I laughed bitterly. Wasn’t this hurt? Chaining me like a dog, then feigning concern? Had he forgotten his role? He was just a lover, nothing more. He had no right to demand anything. "Please, don’t look at me like that." His voice cracked, eyes unnervingly bright. Was it a trick of light, or were those tears? Suddenly, he kissed my eyelids, nose, then lips—surprisingly gentle, soft caresses. So unlike him. I didn’t resist. Perhaps I was pitiful. Rejecting his cage, yet craving his touch. "You… were you once a gigolo?" The question slipped out again. Same reply: "Did you like it?" Neither admitting nor denying. "Yes." His smile widened, efforts intensifying.
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Freedom Bought with Deceit
My strategy shifted. I began placating him. Chains loosened, I pushed him down, straddling him. "Like this?" I murmured, blouse half-open. His hands gripped my hips. "Or this?" I leaned down, nipping his throat. He groaned softly. "Don’t tease. Now." We moved together. He tightened his hold on my chest. Seizing his distraction, I grabbed a nearby vase and swung hard. Freedom. Ignoring my disheveled state, barefoot, I fled, the afterglow of passion still pulsing within. I didn’t look back, unsure if he pursued. Flagging a taxi, I gasped my home address. The driver sped off, but his lewd gaze lingered in the rearview. Nauseated, I ordered him to stop. I leapt out, crouched by roadside bushes, vomiting violently. He caught up, yanking me up, cursing—shameless, vile, disgusting bitch. Passersby gawked. I was a circus freak. Unable to fight, I covered my face. He was right.
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Husband’s Forgiveness
Home, about to knock, my husband appeared behind me—returning with groceries, all my favorites. "Darling, where have you been?" I sobbed into his arms. I had missed him terribly. He must have missed me too. I confessed everything—the affair, the kidnapping. I couldn’t meet his eyes; I knew fury burned there. After an eternity, he brought chicken soup, spoon-feeding me. Swallowing, tears streamed. If it were poison, I’d drink willingly. He promised forgiveness if I truly returned. I wept uncontrollably, tissues failing against my shame. How could anyone be so good? How lucky I was to marry such a man! I vowed eternal loyalty. We didn’t call police; I feared exposure of my infidelity. My husband respected my choice. For him, I quit my job, staying home full-time. He was ecstatic. Happiness enveloped us; our bond strengthened. I secretly began preparing for pregnancy. He vanished completely. Perhaps for the best. Life normalized.
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Driving my husband to the airport for his business trip, I bought his ticket. We lingered in reluctant farewell. Yet, once gone, a troubling emptiness rose. Anxiety gnawed—unfamiliar, unwelcome. Blaming idleness, I headed to the supermarket. Near the apartment corner, I saw him. "Long time no see." Instinct screamed "run," but my legs refused. He didn’t pursue, instead shoving bags of fruit into my hands, then turning away. Guilt, I assumed. Days passed. Each time I left, he appeared—more fruit, local specialties, always my favorites. I accepted mutely, eating numbly. But neighbors’ scrutinizing gazes felt like judgment, stripping me bare.
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Husband’s Absence Exposed
After a restless night, I bought a ticket, determined to surprise my husband. "Where are you?" He readily told me. Smiling, I hailed a taxi, the scenery and anticipation lifting my spirits. This impulsive trip was unprecedented. During our long-distance phase, he always begged me to visit—too hot, too tired, excuses abounded. Knowing my laziness, he indulged me. "If you won’t come, I’ll find you," he’d soothe gently, forgiving even my flaws. Arriving at his hotel, the front desk insisted no one by his name was registered. Bewildered, I persisted—he never lied. After futile pleas, security escorted me out. Reluctantly, I accepted it. Calling his phone repeatedly, no answer. "He must be busy," I reassured myself.
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I wandered aimlessly through streets less lively than home, yet warmly inviting. A children’s clothing shop window caught my eye. Outside, my hand drifted to my belly. If only a baby could grow there. He’d be overjoyed. Inside, decor was elegant. Two matching-clothed mannequins stood by the door, adorable. "Auntie, you’re so pretty." A soft voice startled me. A four-year-old girl tugged my skirt, gazing up with innocent eyes. "You’re pretty too." Kneeling, I replied sincerely. She was utterly precious—those large eyes eerily familiar, mirroring my husband’s.
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Two delicate braids framed her cheeks. Touching one, I marveled at the intricate weave. I knew nothing of hairstyles, though my husband had once braided mine similarly. "Auntie, my daddy did it! Isn’t it beautiful?" Beaming, she gushed praises for her father: gentle, smart, tall, handsome—every compliment she knew. About to laugh, a woman appeared, carrying a toddler boy. The girl clung to her leg; clearly her mother. Bonding over the child, we sipped tea, the woman chatting animatedly. Her husband traveled often, she said, but cherished family deeply. I smiled, envious. Noticing, she gifted me a drawing of two plump, naked babies. "Place this in your bedroom. Your wish will come true," she instructed. Her unexpected superstition surprised me, but I accepted, yearning for a child like hers. "Must go! My husband’s home." She left her address, inviting me over. Agreeing, I treasured the precious drawing.
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Leaving, I spotted the girl’s hairpin near my seat. Recalling her clutching it—a birthday gift from daddy—I grabbed it and chased. Feet aching, near despair, I saw them exiting a bakery, pausing on the sidewalk. The girl darted out. I prepared to shout, to run… then a clear voice rang: "Daddy! Daddy! Hurry! We’ll miss the movie!" "Honey, faster!" the woman echoed. My gaze followed hers. A man emerged from the bakery, small cake in hand. "Don’t look," a voice commanded, warm hands covering my eyes, pulling me into an embrace. He held me tightly, desperately comforting.
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But my heart felt nothing. Tears spilled. Salty tears. I don’t know how long I wept. Later, I woke in darkness, him seated bedside, back turned. Reaching out, I tugged his sleeve. He turned, silent, eyes filled with pity. He cared. I sensed it. "Hold me tighter." He crushed me to him. Unsatisfied, I demanded more pressure, as if weight could fill the void. Tears flowed endlessly. "Don’t cry," his voice trembled. He kissed away my tears repeatedly. Was it pity? I kissed his lips, seeking oblivion in physical escape. But the bitterness lingered. That image—my husband, cake, children calling him daddy—burned into my mind, replaying endlessly. My perfect husband shattered our perfect lie. He already possessed his flawless, secret family.
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