Silco as a control freak in my work Secretary.
When I refer to Silco as a control freak, I am not implying a recurring fetish expressed through bondage. His need for control — as a man who was betrayed and who built an empire from nothing, on ruins — runs far deeper than any pursuit of physical pleasure.
While working with this character — reshaping him without tearing apart the fabric of who he already is — I began to notice multiple layers. I chose three of them, layers that can be stripped away like clothing until nothing remains but flesh and bone.
The first layer is work.
Sometimes I think of it as his coat. When he appears on screen with his gloves on and his collar turned up, he becomes the Eye of Zaun we know. I construct him in much the same way in the text. As a boss, Silco controls everything around him — from the company as a vast, intricate machine to a single employee functioning as one precise cog.
“A good company thrives when everything runs like clockwork,” he began almost lazily. The fact that he had set his irritation aside was only mildly unsettling. He looked away, momentarily lost in thought. “My company isn’t good. It’s the best on the market. And that’s because, as the boss, I control everything. I know everything, which keeps me one step ahead of anyone who might try to undermine me.” The confidence didn’t feel performative — it was genuine, effortless. “That is only possible when everyone knows their place,” he emphasized sternly, leaning forward slightly. A few strands of hair slipped from his otherwise impeccable hairstyle as his gaze drilled into you. “Everyone.”
From the very beginning, the moment the main character stepped out of line, he ruthlessly restored order. What is striking is that nothing that happened in this chapter affected his business, his plans, or his authority. Her actions were born of goodwill and commitment — yet even that required correction. Everything stems from his need to ensure that not even a single element deviates from the plan.
Like his always immaculate hairstyle — something he adjusts instinctively when stressed — control is reflexive for him.
This does not mean that Silco is a cruel employer. He is demanding, yes, but he rewards good behavior… with the absence of punishment. And while that sounds almost absurd, it creates stability. His company is not warm or familial. It is not sweet. Silco understands the value of each employee and expects unwavering commitment within the limits of their contract. Nothing more, nothing less. No procrastination — but also no performative overachievement meant to beg for promotion.
The main character recognizes this quickly:
You pointed out the same fear you noticed in every employee here, which only deepened your irritation. And you truly couldn’t understand them. Silco was strict and demanding, but he didn’t punish people for sport. […] As long as the work was done properly, there was no reason to be afraid. It was just unfortunate that so few seemed to grasp that. Though sometimes you leaned toward the theory that Silco understood precisely how to influence people — and chose to use it. The man was a control freak in nearly every sense.
Silco’s control does not stop at the four walls of his office. It radiates outward, across the company, and he does not hesitate to pull the reins when someone from the outside attempts to peer in. What is his remains his — and the world can either accept that, or cease to matter.
His company evolved from an unrecognized name into a business whose product could redefine the market. Yet even at that stage, he has no intention of sharing power. When a company grows into a corporation, one person is rarely enough. A CEO is appointed, a board is formed, shares are distributed, voting rights granted.
Silco rejects all of it at the very first meeting, without concern for how such processes are “supposed” to unfold.
By offering investors a share in profits without granting them decision-making power, he essentially presents them with the same arrangement he offers the main character — only dressed differently. Authority sits on his shoulders like that coat; he wears it instinctively. He never removes the gloves. Nothing is meant to be seen except the scar — the single visible fracture he allows the world to focus on and remember.
The second layer is the relationship.
It is what remains once the coat comes off — the absurd trousers, the red shirt, the fitted vest. A version of him visible only to those he has deliberately allowed closer. And even then, it is not intimacy in the romantic sense. It is access. A privilege. Certainly not partnership.
Silco offers the main character a deal. It could be described as friends with benefits — except they are not truly friends. It is an arrangement between a boss and his employee, two people who suddenly realize they want each other far too much to continue pretending otherwise.
This does not automatically mean feelings are developing between him and his secretary — but that belongs to a different analysis.
In this dynamic, Silco’s need for control intensifies. Not in the crude sense of collars and leashes, but in a psychological one. Control is what makes him feel secure enough to participate. Secure enough to lower his guard. Secure enough to allow intimacy without perceiving it as weakness.
By controlling her and the course of their encounters, he regulates his own vulnerability. Only then can he engage fully enough to pursue his own pleasure.
Their connection operates on dom/sub principles, but it is not a formalized dynamic. It exists in undertones — in implication rather than declaration.
The structure remains consistent: he commands, she obeys. And within that structure, they learn each other. Slowly, they begin to understand that they are more compatible than either of them initially anticipated.
You didn’t pretend it changed anything. The closeness, the heat, the way your body had yielded without resistance — none of it rewrote the rules you had lived by for a year. It didn’t blur the hierarchy or soften its edges; if anything, it sharpened them. You knew exactly what it had been and why it had worked on you. You wanted him, unapologetically — not because you believed it meant something more, but because your body had responded to his control with a clarity that left no room for doubt.
In a sense, they found each other — not romantically, but physically. Functionally.
As a control freak within this relationship, Silco is primarily concerned with ensuring that every moment unfolds according to his design. From her clothing to positioning, from pacing to sound, nothing is accidental. He embodies the archetypal image of a dominant man: he gives instructions, defines boundaries, dictates what she may and may not do in his presence. He determines when and how she reaches release.
Crucially, he does not force her into reactions. He does not manufacture obedience. She creates the space in which he can exercise control. Trust is the foundation.
She relinquishes control because she needs to. And the moment Silco realizes that the reins are willingly placed in his hands, he stops asking and begins commanding. He pushes her limits — not to break them, but to make her understand what it truly means to give control to someone like him.
“Consider this your lesson,” he murmured. “You gave me the reins yourself. Don’t expect me to loosen them. You wanted direction. You wanted to be told. And now that you’ve yielded it, don’t look surprised when I keep it.” He finally looked at you, and you shivered, pressing your thighs together. “I don’t indulge halfway. Not with you.”
The third layer is the body.
Everything hidden beneath the clothing that makes him who he is. Flesh and bone. Skin and scars. The version of him he does not willingly reveal.
During intimate moments with her, Silco remains mostly clothed. He removes his gloves for comfort, and his garments are adjusted only as much as necessary. Exposure is minimal, functional. The same principle applies to her — hence the instruction that she is never to wear trousers at work. Accessibility, but within parameters he defines.
Returning to him: Silco controls himself precisely when control should be impossible. The small gestures, the withheld reactions — things that are invisible if one looks only through the lens of pleasure.
He does not kiss her. There is no such softness between them. Even when his lips brush her neck or jaw, he never crosses onto her mouth. There is no cascade of affection, no indulgent tenderness. That would blur lines or imply emotion.
Instead, there is domination expressed through controlled discomfort — enough to sharpen the senses, never enough to cause harm. When his teeth press into her skin, it is not wild, nor tender. It is communicative. A warning or a quiet: stay still and remember where you are.
Silco does everything he can to conceal the part of himself most vulnerable at the height of pleasure.
Physiologically, ecstasy is brief — from few seconds to few minutes — during which the body and mind enter a state akin to intoxication. Hormones surge and control slips. Awareness narrows. It is, by nature, a surrender.
And yet, Silco resists it. More than that — he strategizes around it.
How? By ensuring she reaches her peak first. If her body is overtaken, if her mind is suspended in that moment, she cannot observe him. She cannot witness what he refuses to display.
His restraint runs deeper still. When the focus shifts to his own stimulation, he buries his face in the curve of her neck. He prolongs her reactions to delay his own. He avoids eye contact.
But when her pleasure is the focal point, he does the opposite. He does not allow her to look away. What may appear provocative on the surface reveals something more fundamental beneath: control. Control of her gaze. Her breathing. Her response. Her release.
Control does not dissolve when the pleasure fades.
Silco recovers more quickly than she does. While the main character lingers in the aftershock — suspended, unsteady — he is already reassembling himself. Adjusting his clothing. Reclaiming composure. Withdrawing.
There is no extended tenderness afterward. No soft conversation. No ritual of reassurance. The need has been met; the structure must be restored. He returns to his world as if crossing a threshold.
This detachment is only possible because both of them accept the unspoken rule: the relationship remains physical. Contained and defined.
And for Silco, containment is everything.
Conclusion.
Silco’s need for control is not a superficial trait, nor is it confined to dominance in a physical sense. It is structural. It defines the way he exists in the world.
Across the three layers — work, relationship, and body — control functions as both armor and architecture.
At the level of work, it is strategic. He controls systems, people, outcomes. Authority is not merely power; it is stability. His company thrives because unpredictability is eliminated before it can take root. Order is not cruelty — it is preservation.
Within the relationship, control becomes intimate. It is no longer about machinery and hierarchy, but about proximity. He regulates the dynamic so that vulnerability never exceeds his threshold of tolerance. Dominance is not spectacle; it is self-protection. By setting the terms, he ensures that closeness does not destabilize him. She yields, but he also calibrates — constantly.
At the level of the body, control turns inward. This is where it becomes most revealing. He disciplines instinct. He strategizes around pleasure. He avoids exposure at the very moment when the body demands surrender. If work is the coat and the relationship the vest beneath it, then the body is what he guards most fiercely. Not because it is shameful — but because it is uncontrollable.
The common thread across all three layers is not domination for its own sake. It is safety.
Silco feels secure when variables are contained. When roles are defined. When desire follows structure. Even intimacy is permitted only when framed within boundaries he understands and enforces.
Control, for him, is not about owning others.
It is about never again being at the mercy of something — or someone — he cannot predict.
And that is why the dynamic works. Because she does not wrest control from him. She hands it over — willingly.
Which means, paradoxically, that in giving him power, she reinforces the one thing he cannot live without: the illusion that nothing can take it from him.
