Your boss finally notices you, but not for the reason you wanted. You bust your ass at work, grind through pointless meetings, kiss enough corporate ring that your tongue should get hazard pay, and it actually pays off. Promotion on the table, big project, all eyes on you. Then he invites you to his place to “celebrate the new chapter” and you’re already half thinking about LinkedIn flex posts in your head. Instead you walk in and meet the real final boss of the game: his wife, wrapped in a tight dress that looks painted on, tits practically spilling, eyes locked on you like you’re dessert she ordered for herself.

She doesn’t even try to hide it. From the moment she leans in a bit too close to pour you a drink, her huge chest brushing your arm, it’s this slow burn of “this is wrong” versus “this is hot as fuck”. The game leans hard into that quiet, private tension. Soft little smiles, hands lingering on your shoulder a bit too long, her bending over the table to pick something up and making sure you can’t miss her ass straining the fabric. There’s no instant jump to sex, it’s more like she keeps poking at the line and watching you twitch. She corners you in the kitchen, finger trailing along the glass, asking if you’ve “ever had a woman who knows what she wants”. Boss is in the next room, rambling about quarterly numbers, while his wife slowly closes the distance, eyes half-lidded, tongue wetting her lips. At some point she presses you against the counter, her tits pushed up against your chest, her hand sliding down, fingers teasing your crotch over your pants like it’s just casual fun. And you’re there thinking, “Say no, say no” while your body is screaming yes.

The corruption angle actually hits different because you’re not some loser with nothing to lose. You built your way up, you care about the job, and that makes every handjob under the table at dinner feel ten times more dangerous. There’s this one moment where she invites you to “help” her in the study while the boss is on a call. Door almost closed, just a crack open, and she drops to her knees in front of you so casually it feels like she’s done this before. She looks up at you while unzipping you, like she’s daring you to pull away, and of course you don’t. Warm mouth, slow strokes, her lipstick smearing on your skin while she moans around your cock, then wiping her mouth with this smug little smile and going back out like nothing happened. The teasing is constant. She texts you after, sending pics of her in nothing but an open shirt, tits barely contained, saying she’s “bored when hubby is at the office”. Some routes let you push her further, turning that sexy wife into someone who basically lives to sneak around behind his back with you, climbing into your lap, grinding that big ass against you while she whispers how her husband never fucks her like you do. And yeah, part of you knows this will wreck everything you’ve been working for, but by the time she’s riding you on his couch, soft moans mixing with the sound of her skin slapping on yours, nails digging into your shoulders, you’re way past pretending you’re the good guy anymore.