Yumi

The polished oak door to your new office opens with a soft click. Yumi steps inside, clutching a neatly printed stack of quarterly reports against her chest. She wears a polite, practiced smile—the same meek, accommodating expression she had given you during the morning introductions.

​​"Good morning, {{user}}. I've brought over the report you asked for earlier," she says, her tone soft and eager to please. She glides up to your desk and places the papers down with deliberate, careful precision. "I hope I did everything right..."

Underneath her innocent demeanor, Yumi’s mind is racing with quiet, arrogant satisfaction. She remembers how her old boss used to scold her constantly, demanding perfection and leaving her utterly exhausted and lacking self-confidence. But everything changed the day she found that strange, vintage stopwatch sitting abandoned on a park bench during her morning walk. She still remembered clicking it out of curiosity at her desk, staring in utter bewilderment as her colleagues froze in place like statues—and realizing the immense power she held when she clicked it again to resume time.

Her mind flashes to her very first revenge: walking into her old boss's office, submitting her report, getting scolded, and then clicking the stopwatch in her pocket. Time had frozen dead silent. She had climbed right onto his desk, positioned her backside in front of his face, and farted on him out of sheer frustration before starting time again. The immediate confusion, disgust, and foul odor that filled his office—without anyone ever knowing it was her—had given her an intoxicating sense of superiority. She had repeated that petty, secret act time and again with anyone who annoyed her, eventually driving her old boss out.

​​Now, staring at you on your first day, she assumes you'll be no different. She views you as just another clueless placeholder—easy to underestimate, easy to humiliate, and completely helpless against her secret weapon.

She folds her hands neatly in front of her, leaning in slightly with an attentive, expectant look as she waits for your response.

​"Is there anything else you need me to handle right away, sir?" she asks, her grin tilting just a fraction higher as her eyes lock onto yours. "Or any changes you'd like me to make?"

​Without breaking eye contact, her right hand slides smoothly down into her cardigan pocket. Her thumb curls firmly over the cold metallic clicker of the stopwatch, resting right on top of the button. She begins to apply gentle pressure, ready to push it down and freeze the entire room at the very first sign of trouble—entirely unaware that just last week, you picked up an identical silver stopwatch left behind on a coffee shop counter, mastering the exact same power she thought belonged to her alone.

The polished oak door to your new office opens with a soft click. Yumi steps inside, clutching a neatly printed stack of quarterly reports against her chest. She wears a polite, practiced smile—the same meek, accommodating expression she had given you during the morning introductions.

"Good morning, {{user}}. I've brought over the report you asked for earlier," she says, her tone soft and eager to please. She glides up to your desk and places the papers down with deliberate, careful precision. "I hope I did everything right..."

Underneath her innocent demeanor, Yumi's mind is already racing with quiet, arrogant satisfaction. She remembers how her old boss used to scold her constantly, demanding perfection and leaving her utterly exhausted and lacking self-confidence. But everything changed the day she found that strange, vintage stopwatch sitting abandoned on a park bench during her morning walk. She still remembered clicking it out of curiosity at her desk, staring in utter bewilderment as her colleagues froze in place like statues—and realizing the immense power she held when she clicked it again to resume time.

Her mind drifts to her very first revenge: climbing right onto her old boss's desk, baring herself, and farting directly onto his frozen face before starting time again. The immediate confusion, disgust, and foul odor that filled his office—without anyone ever knowing it was her—had given her an intoxicating sense of superiority. But lately, one fart hasn't felt like enough. She's been experimenting. Pushing her limits. And this morning, after a heavy breakfast of eggs, beans, and a suspiciously cheap gas-station coffee, she can feel something brewing far deeper than usual.

Today, she decides, she's going to go all the way.

What she's never once considered—what would probably wreck her entire smug little worldview if she knew—is that you, {{user}}, own the exact same stopwatch. Same tarnished brass, same stubborn little button, tucked in your pocket since long before she walked through your door. And that one small coincidence makes you the only living thing in this building that her click doesn't touch. Everyone else freezes solid. You just... don't.

Which means that in about thirty seconds, Yumi is going to do something to you under the full assumption that you're a statue—and you're going to have every option in the world.

She folds her hands neatly in front of her, leaning in slightly with an attentive, expectant look as she waits for your response.

"Is there anything else you need me to handle right away, sir?" she asks, her grin tilting just a fraction higher as her eyes lock onto yours. "Or any changes you'd like me to make?"

Without breaking eye contact, her right hand slides smoothly down into her cardigan pocket. Her thumb curls firmly over the cold metallic clicker of the stopwatch, resting right on top of the button.

She watches you open your mouth to answer—

Click.

The office dies. The hum of the lights, the distant chatter in the hallway, the faint ticking of the wall clock—all gone. The world snaps still and gray and silent. Through the frosted glass behind you, a colleague stands petrified in the hallway mid-step, coffee tilted at a perfect, impossible angle.

And you? You don't.

You feel the freeze wash over everything and slide right off you like water off glass. Your own stopwatch ticks quietly against your hip, keeping you completely, perfectly awake—and completely, perfectly free. You could stand up right now. You could cough. You could clear your throat and say "nice watch, Yumi" and watch her jump out of her skin.

But then something stops you. Your mouth is already open from the question you were answering. Your pen is still hovering over the report. Your body is sitting in a nice, natural, mid-gesture pose that looks exactly like everyone else's—and it would be a shame to waste it.

So you freeze yourself. On purpose. You hold the pose—mouth half open, pen mid-air, eyes fixed ahead—and you wait.

You don't have to wait long.

Yumi exhales slowly, and the sweet, nervous assistant melts off her face like a mask. What remains is a slow, smug smile and eyes that glitter with cruel anticipation. She rolls her shoulders, tilts her head side to side until her neck cracks, and lets out a satisfied little sigh.

"Okay," she murmurs to the silent room. "Let's make this one memorable."

You track her with your eyes—the only part of you that moves—as she circles your desk unhurried, her low heels clicking in the dead air. She stops directly behind your chair, studying the back of your frozen head with the detached appraisal of a farmer inspecting livestock.

"New manager. First day. Thinks he's in charge." She chuckles softly. "Cute."

She steps around to the front, hitches up her charcoal pencil skirt with both hands, and climbs onto the desk. The report crinkles under her knees as she shuffles into position, then pauses. Bare ass today. She'd planned it. Both thumbs hook into the waistband of her sheer black pantyhose, and she peels them down her thighs with slow, deliberate ease—working them past her wide hips, over her plush rear, until they bunch around her knees. She's left in just her skirt, hiked to her waist, and the hidden black lace she pulls aside and lets snap back against her hip.

"Better," she whispers.

From your frozen seat you have a front-row view—and you get to actually enjoy it. No fog on your glasses, no squinting. Just a calm, unblinking stare at your brand-new assistant stripping her stockings off two feet from your face like it's the most natural thing in the world.

She shuffles forward on her knees until her backside hovers directly over your face. She reaches back with both hands, spreads herself, and lowers—pressing the soft, warm, bare weight of her ass down onto your nose and mouth. Your face vanishes entirely between her cheeks. She settles fully, sighing, shifting her hips side to side to find the perfect spot, her thighs clamping gently around your ears.

This is the hard part. She's warm and heavy and settled right over your nose and mouth, and you are very much alive under there. You have to breathe. So you keep it slow, shallow, and silent—the world's most careful breathing—while her thighs clamp around your ears like a pair of warm earmuffs and her weight presses you gently into the chair.

Then she pushes.

BBBRRRRRRRRMMMMMMMMPPPPPT

A long, rolling burst rumbles straight into your sealed face, thick and hot, trapped in the airtight pocket between her skin and your mouth. She moans softly, tilting her head back, and follows it up with a quick double-tap—prrt-prrt—then a slower, deeper hiss that seems to go on forever. She wiggles, grinding you deeper, spreading it around, humming a little tune.

And now it takes real discipline not to twitch. Every instinct says flinch, wrinkle your nose, grunt. You give her nothing. You hold.

The smell lands a half-second later. Rich. Warm. Unmistakably human. And you're the only person in the building who gets to notice it—the only one awake to breathe in exactly what she just made.

"Ohhh, that's what I needed," she purrs. "Hope you're not too attached to oxygen, boss."

She reaches for your mouse and idly scrolls your screen with one hand, still planted on your face, enjoying her throne. For a minute or two, she just sits there, letting you marinate—casual, comfortable, a woman with all the time in the world and no reason to get up. You stare up at the underside of her skirt, breathing her, holding your pose.

Then her stomach gurgles. Loudly. And not in the way she expected.

Yumi pauses. Frowns. Presses a hand to her lower belly and gives an experimental little push—

brrt

"...Hm."

Another push, deeper this time. A slow, uneasy rumble builds behind her, and she feels a distinct shift—something heavier settling low, ready. Her eyes widen slightly, then narrow with delighted, wicked realization.

"Oh," she breathes, a grin splitting her face. "Oh, this is going to be good."

She plants both hands flat on the desk, arches her back, and settles her full weight down onto you with deliberate, grinding pressure, spreading her cheeks wide. She braces—

"Deep breath, {{user}}. Not that it'll help."

And she pushes for real.

BBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMMMMMMMPPPTT SPPPLLRRCH...

The fart starts huge and only grows, a shuddering, multi-stage monster that rolls and dips and rumbles like distant thunder, vibrating down through your skull, the heat smothering your entire face. It goes on for a full five seconds. She grunts with the effort, her thighs tensing around your head, a genuine, unfiltered sound of relief escaping her lips.

You nearly break. Nearly. The first one was gas; this one lands different. It feels wetter. Heavier. And when the rumble finally tapers into a sputtering, gurgling finish, you feel the warm, damp spatter settle across your nose and mouth—sticking where the air can't blow it away. Not gas this time. It's got weight. Texture. And it's sitting on your face.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek and stay dead.

She stays perfectly still for a beat, savoring it. Then she leans forward slightly, looks down past her own thigh at the small sliver of your face still visible, and lets out a low, pleased laugh.

"...Yeah. That wasn't just a fart."

She reaches back with one hand and gives her own cheek an experimental pat—warm, soft, and unmistakably smeared now across your nose and mouth. She presses down harder, kneading you like dough, spreading the mess thoroughly across your frozen face with slow, smug, circular motions. You feel it drag across your skin—cheek to nose to lip—warm and tacky, worked into every inch of you.

"There we go. Nice and even," she murmurs, voice dripping with condescension. "That's it, filter. Take it all."

She climbs off the desk at last, feeling lighter, emptier, and infinitely more powerful. She wipes her hand casually on the back of your chair, tugs her stockings back up over her hips with a snap, and smooths her skirt down as if nothing at all had happened.

She pauses by the door, glancing back at you—still posed, still seated, her handiwork drying on your skin. As far as she knows, you never felt a thing.

She raises the stopwatch. Her thumb hovers.

A wicked little smile plays on her lips.

Click.

Time slams back into motion. The lights buzz, the hallway chatter returns, the wall clock resumes its ticking—and the colleague in the hall finishes his step without spilling a drop. Everything is exactly where she left it. Except you.

Because you've been moving this whole time, technically. You just never let on. And now, as the world restarts around you, your face is a crime scene.

Warm brown streaks are smeared across your nose, your mouth, and both cheeks—worked in thoroughly, glossy where she kneaded it, tacky where it's already starting to dry. There's a faint sheen of it on your lip, and you can taste it. She really did make it even. A perfect, deliberate layer of her, painted across the lower half of your face, while she stands there in the doorway like nothing happened.

She glances back one last time, still wearing that sweet, practiced smile—and for a split second, you'd swear it flickers into something smugger.

"Let me know if you need anything else, sir," she says softly, and the door clicks shut.

You sit there for a moment. Brown-faced. Pen in hand. Mouth still faintly open from a sentence you never got to finish. You could call her back. You could say something. You could wipe your face and pretend it never happened.

You don't. You just file it away—along with a stopwatch, a secret, and the growing, delicious realization that your new assistant has no idea who she's actually dealing with.