My Strict Boss Is the Secret Artist Drawing Spicy Comics of Us novel · Chapter 3 of 24
Chapter 3: Booth 14
He tracks the chief to a manga cafe booth, drops a pen on purpose, and the strictest man in the building finally breaks.
Chapter eighty had a window in the background of panel six.
Through it you could see the yellow train line, a pachinko sign shaped like a cherry and a tiny corner of a rooftop water tank.
Sota had spent Friday night with a map, a ruler and the Nakano station side of the internet.
By one o'clock on Saturday he was standing in a manga cafe, looking at a row of doors.
He held a paper cup of free melon soda.
Booth fourteen was the only one with a real door and a frosted window.
Through the glass came the soft, patient scratch of a pen on a screen.
Sota counted to ten.
He thought, The procedure says knock.
He knocked, and the scratching stopped dead.
Something slid and thumped inside, and a voice said, "Occupied."
"It's Ichinose, Chief."
There was a long, terrible silence.
Then the door opened a hand's width, and the chief looked out in a gray sweatshirt and glasses with a pencil behind his ear.
Behind him a screen lay face down on the desk, and he was standing between it and the door.
"Ichinose."
"I didn't know you read manga, Chief."
"Research."
"For claims?"
"For claims," the chief said, and Sota thought he would remember that voice for the rest of his life.
He stepped past him into the booth and sat on the flat seat.
It was a tiny room with a desk, a laptop, a reclining mat and a shelf of unread volumes.
The strict man in the sweatshirt took up the rest of it.
Sota took out the red pen he had bought that morning on purpose and set it on the desk.
Then he knocked it off with his elbow.
It rolled under the chair.
This was panel nine of chapter eighty, where the salaryman kneels under the desk and does not come out for several pages.
"Sorry, Chief."
He slid off the seat onto his knees and went under the desk after it.
He found the pen. He did not come out.
He put his hand on the chief's knee, flat, and felt the whole leg go still.
"Ichinose," the chief said, above him, in his office voice. "Stand up."
Sota looked up from the floor, past the sweatshirt and the sharp jaw to the glasses.
"Make me, Chief."
The chief's mouth opened.
Nothing came out of it.
Then one hand came down into Sota's hair, hard, and tilted his head back.
"Say that again."
"Make me."
The kiss was not like the comic.
In the comic, it was one clean panel with a shine on it.
This one was rough, and clumsy, and tasted of cheap booth coffee, and the chief's glasses knocked against Sota's cheekbone.
Sota grabbed the front of the sweatshirt in both fists.
He pulled himself up it until he was on the man's lap, knees on the mat, mouth open.
The chief made a sound that was not in any panel.
His hands shoved up under Sota's shirt and dragged down his back, and Sota arched into them and swore into his mouth.
"I should fire you," the chief said against his jaw.
"You should put your hand in my pants."
The hand was already there.
It undid the belt with perfect efficiency and went down inside his briefs and closed around Sota's cock.
Sota's head hit the wall.
"You're hard," the chief said, in a voice so level that Sota almost came from it.
"I've been hard since Thursday."
"Thursday."
"Since you leaned over my desk."
The hand stroked him, slow at first, thumb dragging across the head until he was slick, and then faster.
Sota got his own hand down between them and found the chief's trousers, the heat of him, the thick shape straining the cloth.
"Chief."
"Do not say that here."
"Chief," Sota said again, and pushed the zip down, and took him out.
The chief's cock was heavy and hot and already wet at the tip.
Sota wrapped his hand around it and stroked it the way he stroked himself, tight and quick, and felt the whole body under him shake.
They worked each other in the half dark, panting, foreheads together, their wrists bumping.
Sota's thighs trembled. His hips jerked up into the grip.
"Look at me," the chief said.
Sota looked.
The chief's face had finally come apart: flushed, mouth wet, eyes dark behind a fogged lens.
"Come for me," he said. "Now. Good work."
Sota came with a broken noise, spilling hot across the chief's hand and the gray sweatshirt.
A few seconds later the chief followed him, grunting once into his shoulder, his cock pulsing in Sota's fist.
Someone knocked on the door.
"Excuse me," said a bored voice. "Your time is almost up. Would you like to extend?"
Sota froze with his hand still wet and wrapped around the chief.
The chief breathed in, once, through his nose.
"Yes," he said, in the voice that returned reports. "Three hours."
"Drinks are free," said the clerk, and walked away.
Sota started to laugh, and clamped his own mouth shut with his clean hand, and shook.
The chief wiped his fingers on a napkin, one at a time, and zipped himself up without looking at anything.
"This did not happen," he said.
"No, Chief."
"On Monday you will be at your desk at eight forty. I will be at mine."
"Yes, Chief."
"You have melon soda on your sleeve."
Sota looked down. He did.
He walked out past the unread volumes with his belt undone and his heart going, and neither of them said goodbye.
On Sunday night, at eleven, his phone chimed.
It was a three-page bonus update, and the second page was a booth, a door and a bored clerk with a speech bubble.
The last panel showed the salaryman, on his knees, holding up three fingers.
The caption said, Extension approved.
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