The Bamboo Ceiling Ch. 01

Special thanks for Literotikween's invaluable contributions. The following work of fiction contains adult, dark, and highly offensive content. This highly offensive content includes elements of race play, which many readers could (understandably and validly) find highly offensive. Reader discretion is advised.

Prologue: James's China Doll

The kitchen was a mess as I scurried around, preparing dinner for James. James was about to return from work and I—the perfect housewife—was responsible for keeping his stomach full.

The abrupt opening of the front door interrupted my labors. "How's my little China Doll?"

I hated it when he called me that. To add insult to injury, the asshole knows that I'm Korean; he can't even be bothered to be accurate in his offensive stereotypes. But what I hated most of all was that—for all appearances—I was exactly that. James's doll. His smiling, bubbly trophy wife.

Only a few of his closest friends knew that, before the hormones, the surgeries, and the makeup, I was James's coworker. And before James had his way with me, I identified as a man.

But for all appearances, I'm a stereotypically feminine and submissive young Asian wife. James's "China doll." And, despite being an abusive asshole, James takes painstaking care of his China doll. He paid for my implants. He paid for my vocal reconstruction. He pays for my pilates classes to firm up my butt. He pays for the sundresses he makes me wear. He pays for the lingerie I wear when he fucks me. He pays for the makeup that I have to reapply every morning after he "feeds me my breakfast" and gets my face all sticky. He paid for the chastity device enclosing my little cock. James provides for his little China doll.

I finished setting the last thing on the dining room table and pranced into the living room to greet my man. My James.

He held out his arms for a hug. As a rule, even though James was much taller than me, I hugged his neck so that he could access my body. And he enjoyed it when I fawned over him. And with my inflated lips (DSLs as he called them), he particularly relished when I lost myself in kissing him.

"It's so good to see you," I cooed, "I've been waiting for you aww day." He loved it when I accented my need for him with a bit of baby talk. Even though I am categorically smarter than him—I went to a better school, I had a higher GPA, I have a stronger technical background—it turns him on to have reduced me to a bubbly little bimbo. And I enthusiastically let him do this to me.

I kept up my bubbly, sing-song voice, "I made you one of your favorites; marbled steak strips over penne with vegetables on the side!"

I'd grown up eating more traditional Korean dishes. Those are much healthier than American food and easier to make. But I live in James's house. He is my "Sir," my Sir gets the kinds of foods he wants.

"You've been a good girl for making these. You need your reward."

My heart rate increased because I knew exactly what was coming. James snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor in front of him. I bowed my head as I lowered myself, kneeling at his feet. Once on my knees—the proper place of worship—I looked up at him with a grateful smile.

"Good girl," James commended.

James gripped my chin with his massive hand, scrunching my face up, forcing my lips into an outward pout. "These babies cost me $10,000," James mused to himself as he ran his thumb over my inflated lips. "But I don't do cheap. I want the best for my little China Doll."

James unzipped his pants, and I performed my wifely duties.

~~years earlier~~

Chapter 1: Inherent Inadequacy

It had been a long day at the office and I couldn't wait to get home and take a shower. As I sat in the passenger seat of James's shiny new sportscar, I found myself getting increasingly riled up at the NPR story playing on the radio.

"Does the 'Bamboo Ceiling' shut Asian Americans out of top jobs?" I was familiar with this journalist, and I knew very well what I was in for. White, ostensibly liberal journalists leaning in on an issue of racial justice. While I appreciated the sentiment, this story described my life uncannily. And I did not appreciate the reminder.

The reporter continued: "According to one study, Asian Americans make up only 2.6% of the corporate leadership of Fortune 500 companies; this despite the fact that Asian-Americans tend to have the highest levels of education and income in the country."

No shit. My parents moved to Portland, Oregon from a small town in Korea when I was three years old. Shortly after my parents opened a restaurant, my father died of a heart condition. From the age of three to eighteen, my mother worked herself to the bone supporting my sister and me. And she made sure that we earned top marks in school. She was so successful in this endeavor that I attended the University of Pennsylvania, arguably the finest finance program in the country. Despite my academic achievements, when I moved back to Portland to be close to my friends and family, I had little success in finding a job.

With my resume, I had no trouble landing interviews. But every interview was with either (1) an older white man who towered over my 5'6" frame, or (2) a gorgeous white woman who, if not for the artificial context of a job interview, would never have spoken to me. In either case, I found myself unable to look my interviewers in the eye or assert myself beyond meek, short answers.

"Don't worry," my friends would admonish me, "Portland is a tiny city! You can't land a job unless you know somebody. Just keep putting yourself out there and you'll find something!"

Such invalidation. While I eventually found a job, it was at a much lower rate of pay than my colleague. Indeed, as I sat there in the passenger seat of James's car, I simmered over the fact that James had graduated in the same year as me, from a less prestigious school, yet out-earned me three-fold. Despite myself, I looked at him from the corner of my eye. Even sitting down, James's 6'4'' frame towered over me. While I was dressed in a full suit, he sported dark-wash jeans and an untucked grey button-down, the sleeves rolled up and cuffed just below the elbows. While not the most professional attire, the sleeves clung to his bulging biceps. I could see the veins in his hands and forearm move subtly as he manipulated the wheel. While I've always identified as straight, I couldn't help but stir a bit when this cocky white man dressed like that.

The NPR story broke me out of my trance. "As one expert explains, the 'bamboo ceiling' refers to the processes and barriers that serve to exclude Asians and Asian-Americans from executive positions based on subjective factors such as 'lack of leadership potential' and 'lack of communication skills.'"

"Interesting story," James spoke over the radio, "do you hear much about this? It goes to show the importance of soft skills in the workplace." His hand pushed back his thick, dishwater-blond hair up and behind his ears. I could see the distinct creases of the muscles in his broad shoulders through his shirt. I envied James's physique in every way. While I couldn't grow facial hair to save my life, James had a full-blown wolfman beard if he neglected to shave for just a few days. I worked out daily to increase muscle definition but was still soft and a little plump on my bottom. By contrast, James exercised only a few times per week and sported an amazing body. It was little wonder that he had such a stream of women coming in and out of the house. His house, specifically. Even in his mid-twenties, James had the salary to make a down payment on a mortgage, while I paid him every month just to rent one of his bedrooms.

"Is that what you're getting out of this?" I asked quizzically, "that Asian-Americans lack 'soft skills,' and that's why they can't get ahead in the workplace?"

"Kimmy, we don't call building business relationships 'soft skills.' We call that 'leadership.' I hate to break it to you, Kimmy, but connecting with a potential client or manager during a golf game is probably more important than writing a python script or predicting a 0.5% increase in stock value."

I hated it when he called me 'Kimmy.' My name is Jung-Hoon Kim, or Jung for short.

"But you still think it's the Asian-American community's fault that they get passed up for higher-paying roles?" I didn't want to overstep and make James angry, but I wanted him to explain what he meant.

"It's nobody's fault that they weren't given what it takes to succeed in business. But it is their responsibility," James said nonchalantly. "I mean, look at you, Kimmy. You're more tech-savvy than anyone in the office. But what's your account acquisition and retention like? It's abysmal."

"I don't think that's a fair characterization," I retorted.

"Is that back-sass I hear?" James's voice was vaguely threatening. Even though we had been roommates for only a month, I knew better than to make him angry.

"Sorry," I looked down submissively, "I didn't mean to be disrespectful."

"That's better," James possessively patted me on the thigh, "but I need you to be a little more clear."

His hand conspicuously stayed on my thigh as he continued, "You characterized corporate relationship-building as 'soft skills.' I need to know that you understand which of us is the 'soft' one."

His large, veiny hand pressed into my inner thigh. I could see through my slacks that my soft skin gave way to his pressure, as if to accentuate which of us was the 'soft' one.

"I need to hear you say it," James continued, "between the two of us, which one is a leader."

"You are," I mumbled begrudgingly.

"What was that?" James feined not hearing me.

"You are," I said a bit louder.

"Good boy," James patted my inner thigh but kept his hand firmly positioned there. "And between the two of us, which one is better characterized as 'soft'?"

I sighed and rolled my eyes, "I am."

"Excuse me?" In response to my attitude, James's upper lip curled into a snarl.

"I am!" I said louder.

"Let's have some real talk, Kimmy. Have you ever had a girlfriend?"

"Just one," I responded. My head was still lowered.

"Really? I'm not going to lie, I'm a little surprised it's that many," James laughed condescendingly, "how'd you manage to pick her up?"

"She was a classmate. Her parents also moved here from Korea, so we had that point of empathy. We started as just friends, then became more as we got closer."

"Wait," James held up a hand to interrupt, "did you ever actually fuck?"

I was taken aback by his forward question. "Well, we didn't exactly 'fuck' . . ."

James cut me off, "What you're describing sounds like a couple of girlfriends. Did she take you shopping?"

"Well, yes."

"Did she ever talk to you about guys she found attractive?"

"Well, yeah, but she often asked about how it made me feel or if I felt threatened."

"And I'm guessing that you meekly told her that it wasn't a big deal," James was grinning and shaking his head, "isn't that right, Kimmy?"

"Well, sort of," I responded. My gaze was still aimed straight at my feet.

The car slowed to a stop as James pulled into the garage. "So why did you break up?"

Growing up, speaking this openly about sex was never something my family did. Like in many cultures, the subject is taboo in a Korean household. But I was shocked by how open and free James was about the subject. While James—the cocky asshole that he was—was anything but a "safe space," I felt suddenly free to talk about sexuality in a way that was unfamiliar to me. While this did not dampen my shame, I felt compelled to open up about my experiences—or lack thereof—with sex. And this openness was completely new for me.

I envied James that he didn't feel shame about his sexual history. Unlike me, James didn't have an Asian older sister who exclusively dated—and exclusively gushed over—white men. Unlike me, James didn't have a troubled and unsuccessful dating history throughout school. Unlike me, James didn't have a roommate/landlord who insisted upon exerting power using any avenue available. Unlike me, James was a tall, athletic, successful, privileged white man.

"She kept cheating on me," I replied, my eyes still pointed directly at my feet.

"I'm going to make a guess," James put his hand on my lean shoulder, completely enveloping it, "she kept sleeping with white men." It stung that he wasn't wrong.

At this point, I was wildly uncomfortable. My more-than-a-little-racist colleague (and landlord) was prying intimate and embarrassing details out of me and invalidating my experience growing up in this country. Emboldened, I looked up at James and exploded. "Look, buddy! I don't know where you get off, but my sex life is none of your business."

James's facial expression went stiff. He squared his shoulders to look me in the eye. Uh oh.

I looked down again, unable to meet his gaze.

"Kimmy, I want you to look at me." I looked up at him, knowing better than to disobey.

I hated this aspect of our relationship. I was smarter than this asshole. I had gone to a better school. I worked harder at work. I worked harder at keeping our shared space clean. But none of this mattered when his bright blue eyes stared into mine. He held the power at work. He held the power over my housing. And as I sat there staring into his bright blue eyes, I became acutely aware of his five o'clock shadow framing his thick jaw and the smell of his end-of-day musk.

A cocky, shit-eating smirk grew across James's face. Despite his feigned offense a moment ago, he was unphased. Whether or not he deserved it, the world was his oyster. Why should his beta, passive roommate phase him?

"You're right, Kimmy. Your sex life is none of my business. I'm just trying to help you." His hand moved from my thin, wiry shoulder. "Speaking of which, I have a girl coming over tonight. Met her on an app. Cute little Asian chick named Tiffany. Can I count on you to take care of dinner tonight? It'll be for three."

"Yeah," I was taken aback by how blasé he acted about this girl coming over, "does pasta sound good?"

"Nah," James looked thoughtful, "you made this great dish the other day. Bibby-something?"

"Bibimbap?"

"Yeah that! I'd love some of that. And Tiffany probably does too."

More racist assumptions.

He continued, "and make yourself scarce after serving it up, would you? Set the table and all that, but why don't you play some video games or something in your room while you eat?"

The underlying context stung. And it wasn't new. While James talked to girls—and usually fucked on the first date—I would typically spend my afternoons earning PlayStation achievements. And James didn't miss an opportunity to rub in that contrast.

---

I spent the next hour cleaning and setting up the dining room while the rice, veggies, and beef steamed in the kitchen. I heard a knock on the door.

"Could you grab that?" James shouted from upstairs. "Tell her I'll be right down!"

I wiped my hands on my apron as I scurried to the front door. When I opened it, the image of a very thirsty-looking Japanese girl stood before me. A few thoughts immediately crossed my mind. First, I could see how the nuances of Korean v. Japanese would be lost on my landlord and coworker. But really? Did he think that Tiffany, a Japanese girl, would prefer bibimbap? Second, what the hell is it about James that gives him such power over these girls? Why did so many girls abase themselves for an asshole who doesn't respect them?

Off-white, eggshell stockings went up to her upper thighs, just below a plaid, pleated miniskirt. A white blouse clung to her ribs, high enough to slightly expose her midriff and with a v-cut low enough to show off her cleavage. Her hair was—of course—pulled into two long, tight pigtails.

She looked up at me with an expression of revolt and disgust. "James!? You look NOTHING like your photo. What the fuck is this?"

"Oh, hi," I stammered, "I'm Jung. James will be right down. Do you want to come in?"

I barely finished my sentence when James descended the stairs behind me. "Tiffany! Good to see you. Don't mind Jung here. How was the drive?"

Her demeanor changed immediately. "Oh my god hi! It's so good to see you, James!" Her former tone of disgust was completely gone. She now spoke with a higher-pitched, sing-song tone. She brushed past me and ran into James's arms. I noticed her black, Mary Jane flats as she raised one of her legs during James's embrace.

Was she trying to be a fetish model for this guy?

James's hand moved to her lower back as he led her toward the dining room. James nonchalantly looked over his shoulder at me, "Plate the food, would you Kimmy?"

My head tilted down and to the side, I shuffled toward the kitchen. I filled up three bowls and brought two to the dining room, where the pair were chatting it up. They were sitting weirdly close for a first date. At least, I've never had such an intimate experience on a first date.

The contrast between Tiffany's attitude toward James and me was salient. And it hurt. She had been disgusted at the thought of hanging out with a guy who looked like me—and my appearance was the only information she had when she stood at the threshold. By contrast, she acted like a slutty schoolgirl for this cocky, undeserving asshat. What was it about me? What was wrong with me? What was so magnetic about James, both to Tiffany and, confusingly, to me?

Tiffany looked as if she was ready to crawl into Jame's lap, which felt a little on the nose to the stereotype she was trying to sell. She had moved her chair right next to James's and relentlessly made an effort to touch his chest and arm as she spoke. She laughed at nearly every little thing he said, moving her hand up to adjust her pigtails.

As I set the two bowls in front of the pair, James slapped me on the ass. "Thanks, Kimmy! Everything looks great! I'll take it from here."

I blushed at the intrusion. While I would ruminate on my frustration later, I was too shocked at the moment to protest at the facts that (1) I had just served James and his one-night-stand like some maid, (2) James had just referred to me as "Kimmy," and (3) he had just slapped me on the ass in front of this girl, who acted as if it was the funniest thing she had seen all day. Just like her reaction to every dumb joke from this asshole's lips.

I shuffled back toward the kitchen, grabbed my bowl, and returned to my bedroom.

I didn't want to feel the inadequacy that was creeping into my thoughts. I didn't want to feel like James's little maid. I didn't want to feel the last bastion of my masculinity slipping away. So I put on some loud music on my noise-canceling headphones and booted up a videogame.

After a couple of hours of playing, I took my headphones off and stood up to go to the bathroom. Without the headphones, I could now hear a distinct banging sound from an upstairs bedroom, with a wild but methodical scream that matched the tempo of the pounding.

As Tiffany's high-pitched squeal resonated through the house, she sounded like some caricature from a bad hentai video. This little Japanese girl in a schoolgirl uniform, squealing in delight as her white superior mounted and dominated her. I wondered whether James had her on her back, ordering her to look him in the eye as he brought her to repeated climax; or whether he had her face-down, holding onto her hips with one hand and pressing her back into the mattress with the other. I wondered whether she slipped her panties below her stereotyped, pleated skirt, or whether James just ripped them off of her. I wondered whether Tiffany knelt in front of James to suck his big white cock before he started fucking her. Did she look up to admire it before chowing down on it? When she talked dirty to him, did she take a complimentary tone about the size of his member? Did she care that James didn't respect her as a human being, much less as a woman? And why did the thought of James's dominance, of James's disrespect for this poor girl, make me so profoundly aroused?