by Monica Belle
As far as she knew, the only other people who could possibly have known she had tights on were Mr Drake and Miss Manston-Jones, both of whom had seen, and both of whom had her work email on the information sheets she’d given them that morning. Miss Manston-Jones didn’t seem a very likely suspect, even if she had seemed just a bit too keen to get to grips with Laura when trying to teach her golf. It wasn’t hard to imagine her as a dyke, and quite a butch one at that, yet it was hard to imagine her, or any woman, using that approach.
Mr Drake was a more serious possibility, and one she found hard to resent. He was very much her type of man: tall, self-confident, just a little stern. The idea of being under his control appealed, so much so that she knew she would be prepared to forgive him what from any ordinary man would have been a disturbing, even creepy, approach. Unfortunately she would not be seeing him the following day, so he had nothing to gain from the knowledge that she was wearing stockings, nor have any way of finding out if she’d obeyed. The same was true for Miss Manston-Jones, which left the finger of suspicion pointed very firmly at Mr Henderson.
She could not be certain. Another man at EAS might have seen far enough up her skirt to realise she was wearing tights, even Brian, who might well have sent her the message as a childish and kinky joke. There had been other women in the changing rooms at Setchal Manor, but they could be ruled out easily, as could any of her fellow passengers on the train into work. Neither group knew who she was.
Then again, if one of the commuters had picked up the bookmark she’d lost they would know her work email. She pondered the possibility, but she was sure she’d dropped it when she got out at King’s Lynn, either in the train or on the platform and both Darcy and Mr Brown had got out before her. Hovis Boy had lingered, tangled up in the rucksack he’d been carrying, and it wasn’t hard to imagine him as the sort of little pervert who’d look up her skirt. He had to be a possibility, which was a relief in that she would have no difficulty at all in confronting him.
In fact, it might even be possible to conduct an experiment.
As she rolled her stockings up her legs the following morning, Laura was telling herself firmly that she was not wearing them for the pleasure of a man, let alone the man who had sent the message. She was doing so in order to gauge Hovis Boy’s reaction on the train. If he’d got her email address somehow and sent the message he’d be looking, but that wasn’t enough. Only if she was actually wearing stockings would he be bold enough to make the move which would allow her to report the little pervert to the police. That meant flashing her stockings for him, and possibly others, perhaps even Darcy, a highly embarrassing prospect that was quite definitely not the cause of the arousal she’d been unable to shrug off ever since making her decision.
She walked to the station at her normal brisk pace, arriving a few minutes earlier than usual. Hovis Boy was generally among the later arrivals, often jumping aboard the first carriage moments before the doors shut and occasionally failing to make it. Laura reasoned that if he had sent the message he would be excited and so was likely to turn up early, but there was no sign of him. Her train pulled up to the platform shortly after she’d arrived and she got in, taking her preferred seat by the window.
It took a little courage to hitch up her skirt far enough to ensure that with her legs crossed a small section of the lacy top to her hold-ups was visible, leaving her feeling exposed and jittery. She took her book from her bag, feigning nonchalance as she pretended to read while repeatedly glancing from the side of her eyes to see who was coming along the platform. Darcy arrived first, treating her to his usual indifferent smile and taking a seat some way down the carriage, then Mr Brown, who ignored her completely. Others arrived, each one making it that little bit harder to maintain her pose. Not that she was showing much, but it was deliberate and so hard to shrug off the feeling that every woman who entered the carriage was thinking of her as a slut in the old-fashioned sense and every man as a slut in the modern sense.
Hovis Boy finally made his appearance, running along the platform with his sandwiches bobbing in his hand as the doors were about to close. He threw himself into the train just in time and collapsed panting into the seat opposite Laura, one of the few remaining. She immediately wondered if he’d arrived late on purpose, knowing where she liked to sit and taking a risk that one of the seats with a good view would be vacant.
He’d certainly got one, opposite her but at a slight angle, so that he’d be able to see as far up her skirt as was possible. Certainly he’d be able to see more stocking top than she’d intended to show, maybe even bare flesh. Not that he was looking, his expression one of fish-like vacancy as the train began to move, but that could simply be a ruse. In Chilled Steel, Rick Cane had tracked the villainous Magnus Abner from New York to Chicago by pretending to be a dullard. Perhaps Hovis Boy was doing the same.
Then again, perhaps Hovis Boy really was a dullard. He never seemed to be interested in anything, and now that he was actually there it was very hard to picture him as the scheming little pervert of her imagination. Feeling rather silly, she uncrossed her legs, and as she moved his eyes flickered towards her, for just an instant, but surely long enough to peep up her skirt and see what she was wearing.
Laura froze, her heart hammering as she struggled to keep her eyes on the open book in front of her. He had looked. He knew. It was him. Or maybe not. He was a teenage boy, and a skinny, spotty one at that, hardly the sort to be indifferent to a woman in a short skirt as she uncrossed her legs. Not only that, but if he thought she had obeyed his command he would surely have given her a knowing look, a dirty grin perhaps, rather than immediately returning to his imitation of a dead fish.
She shifted position a little, wondering if she should force the issue, perhaps tug her skirt up a little more to make absolutely certain he could see what she was wearing. If he’d sent the email he’d have to react, surely, and then she’d have him. She almost did it, only to lose heart at the last moment, aware that she’d be flashing her thighs and possibly her knickers to half-a-dozen other men as well as Hovis Boy.
Abandoning the idea, she readjusted her skirt, tugging it back down into a less revealing position. As she did so her wrist brushed against something sticking up from the crack at the back of the seat where her weight had pushed it down, something blue and embossed with the EAS logo in gold, her bookmark, complete with her name and email address. She pulled it out, sighing with relief for not having made a complete fool of herself. Hovis Boy could be crossed off the list, along with the other commuters, which put Mr Henderson squarely back in the frame.
Her relief lasted only a moment before she remembered that she’d have been in a much stronger position had Hovis Boy been guilty. She’d now be coming into work in stockings, just as she’d been ordered to, and he’d be sure to react. The scene was already clear in her head. He’d know the moment he saw the seams at the back of her legs, only this time there would be no patronising little nod. There would be an order.
‘Good girl. Now show me.’
Or maybe he’d be formal about it, exerting his authority as her boss.
‘Very good, Laura. Now lock the door and hitch up your skirt.’
He might even use her surname, as he tended to if dissatisfied with her work.
‘I’m pleased to see we understand each other, Miss Irving. Now take your skirt off.’
Or worse.
‘Good. Now take your skirt off, Miss Irving. I am going to spank you.’
The loaded word sent a shock through her, powerfully erotic, immediately followed by guilt and shame for her reaction. That was not how it should be, not with her boss seeking to manipulate her, to take advantage of her. Besides, he might not be into spanking.
She shook her head, ashamed for her reactions, but unable to shake the thrill, or the memory of how good it had felt to come over the fantasy of being given a spanking as a punishment. Her boss was the right person to do it as well, only a fantasy boss, not Mr Hend
erson. He was a blackmailing bastard, and married as well, which gave her the answer to her problem.
No, she would not end up showing off her stockings, or with her bare bottom stuck up in the air to be smacked. If he so much as suggested a peep at her stocking tops she would threaten to tell his wife. Mrs Henderson occasionally attended office functions and was definitely not the sort of woman to put up with any nonsense from her husband. She was tall, quite heavily built, and a partner in a local law firm. The tactic would work, without question.
With the situation at least partially defused, Laura allowed herself to relax a little, but it was not easy. She’d had Taken to Turkey open in front of her all the way from King’s Lynn, but she’d scarcely read a word. Real life had taken over, and not with some humdrum necessity. She felt resentful, a little scared, but also very more alive than she had done for years, since leaving university and giving up her carefree life for the endless routine of her work.
Her gaze shifted from the book to the landscape beyond the window, but she barely saw the flat black and green of the fields as they rushed past. She was thinking of friends, and of places she’d known, of playing in the woods near what she still thought of as home, of school and the elaborate webs of who liked who, of the thrill of male attention and being slowly teased out of her clothes by Tommy Fuller, of sitting up drinking tequila until the early hours and waking in the arms of a man she hardly knew.
She let her thoughts run, remembering how Tommy brought her an excitement she’d never imagined could exist. Before she met him boys had been cautious, respectful, timid, at best trying for a kiss and a cuddle at her door. Not Tommy. He’d got her drunk on beer and tricked her into playing strip poker. She’d ended up naked, and horny, and willing, while he sat there grinning in his red check shirt and underpants, with his cock a long hard bar beneath the cotton. He’d got it out. He’d made her suck it.
Laura gave a powerful shiver at the memory. She had been willing enough, more than willing in fact, or to be really honest, desperately eager. Yet it was important for her to pretend that he’d made her do it, not forced her, but left her with no option, no option but to get down on her knees, stark naked, and take his lovely big cock into her mouth. She could remember how it had felt with her mouth full of hot hard male flesh, the taste of him and way it had made her feel weak with need, and feminine in a way she had never experienced before.
She’d been quite bold then, and later at university, doing pretty much what she pleased with whom she pleased. If she’d got the email then she might have gone along with it for a laugh, at least until she discovered whom it was from. Then she’d have either told him to piss off in no uncertain terms, or let him indulge whatever wicked piece of kink he had in mind. She certainly wouldn’t have gone running to the authorities.
Maybe she should play Mr Henderson’s game, if only for a little while. Nothing serious, of course, but what was the harm in showing off her stockings to him? Nobody else needed to know, and it wasn’t as if they were having a proper affair. He’d want to go further, yes, that was obvious, but she could control the situation, perhaps even steer him into playing out the fantasy sparked by Taken to Turkey. That would be wonderful, arriving at the office not to write up marketing reports and put together client presentations, but to be turned over a strong man’s knee and given a bare bottom spanking, then to suck him off, which was only fair.
A sudden jolt from the train snapped her out of her erotic daydream. They were pulling into Cambridge, although she’d barely been aware of the passing stations. Reality came back with a rush, leaving her feeling nervous and fragile and she turned her steps towards the EAS building. She was wondering if she could really do it, but her arousal was mingled with resentment for being manipulated, caution for her job and her reputation at the firm and, she realised, fear of the redoubtable Mrs Henderson.
By the time she reached the building she had decided on a plan of action. When she came into the office she would go to the rank of filing cabinets opposite Mr Henderson’s desk and, very deliberately, bend to take something from the lowest drawer. He’d see her seams, maybe even an inch of lace. He’d know she’d been a good, obedient girl. He’d say something, and she would take it from there.
Having made her decision, she went into automatic, no longer thinking but simply doing, something which had often helped her get through difficult moments, from her one and only job interview to her one and only public striptease. Pushing in through the big double doors, she greeted her colleagues with curt nods, speaking only to request her floor from a man in the lift. At the office door she went straight in, bidding Mr Henderson a brisk good morning. He looked up, returned the greeting, his eyes still on her as she put her things down on her desk, her heart now hammering as she took three quick steps to the filing cabinets, turned her back directly to him, bent low to show him what he wanted to see, the outline of her bottom and hips beneath her skirt, her smart black heels, her stocking-clad legs with the tell-tale seam running up to the where the lacy tops would just show beneath the hem of her skirt.
‘Good. Now, Laura, we need to put together a quote. Rotary switches for a company in Birmingham.’
4
FOR THE REST of the working day time dragged as never before. Mr Henderson’s behaviour towards Laura had not changed in the slightest. He seemed to approve of the way she was dressed, but made no overt comment, let alone a sexual one. Instead he was consummately professional, immersed in work and expecting her to follow suit, to the point where she had begun to wonder if his concern for her appearance really was no more than a desire to present EAS in the best possible light.
If he had sent the email he had either lost his nerve and decided not to make a move, or was playing an extremely subtle game with her. Neither possibility seemed to fit in with what she’d learnt of his character, and she knew full well that if he’d meant the instruction without erotic overtones he’d simply have told her to her face.
Her thoughts turned to Brian and the possibility that the whole thing was a joke, although that didn’t seem particularly likely. With his juvenile, smutty sense of humour he was more likely to have come up with something cruder, perhaps an instruction to go without bra and knickers, or to photocopy her bottom the way he’d made Tina do at the office party the year before last. At least he was fairly easy to test. Mr Henderson might just be able to play it so cool he’d give nothing away, but not Brian. Brian would snigger. Brian would make some dirty remark.
Unfortunately Brian was quite likely to snigger or make a dirty remark anyway. To him the mere existence of a woman seemed to be provocative, either sexually, if she was conventionally attractive, or as the butt of a joke if she dared to deviate from his ideal by more than a few years or a few pounds. Yet there had to be a good chance he’d give himself away.
By luck accounts queried the margins on the quote she and Mr Henderson had put together, giving her a perfect excuse to go over to Brian’s department. Not that there would be any reason to talk to him, but she would have to pass his desk. Perhaps a smile would provoke a response, or a deliberately frosty detachment.
She decided on frosty detachment, marching towards him with her chin in the air and her eyes fixed firmly to the front. His eyes had been on her from the moment she’d come in, but that was usual, so was his remark to his sidekick, Dave.
‘Is it getting hot in here, or is it just my imagination?’
Dave’s reaction was equally predictable.
‘It’s getting hot, Brian. Hotter, even hotter.’
Brian’s next remark was not.
‘Hot enough for the girls to leave off their tights, Dave, don’t you think?’
‘Yeah!’
Laura stopped, reacting on the instant as she reached down and took Brian by his gaudy, pink silk tie. Pulling him up a little from his seat, she bent her face to his.
‘Do not do it again. That’s all.’
She walked on. A chorus of jeers and hoots follow
ed her as both Brian and Dave did their best to reassert bruised masculinity. Laura ignored them, contenting herself with a smile for two of their female colleagues who’d begun to clap. Continuing into Mr Bannerjee’s office, she quickly went through the quote, explaining the margins and why they needed to be so low. After a few questions and a few grumbles her reasoning was accepted and she left. Brian made a joke of her earlier reaction, pretending to shield himself from her, and as she reached the door making a remark about the Gestapo that set off Dave’s high-pitched laughter.
Back in Mr Henderson’s office she explained Mr Bannerjee’s reservations and returned to her desk. Her emotions were complex, an almost savage satisfaction for what she’d done, mixed with the urge to burst into tears and undercut by a bitter disappointment. It had turned out to be just one more silly office prank, and from Brian, who had even less potential as a figure in her fantasies than Hovis Boy.
She hid a sigh as she tapped her computer off stand-by. Only now that the solution to the mystery had proved to be mundane did she realise how badly she’d wanted it to be something more. All the positive emotion she’d invested in the event was gone, leaving only the fear and resentment he’d managed to impose on her, but she found herself earnestly wishing the email had come from some attractive man.
As she checked her mail she was wondering if he’d sent something else, perhaps some smug little taunt or one of his stupid jokes. There was nothing from him directly, but there was something from the same address as before, and as before from the Controller. There was a sudden tightness in Laura’s throat as she clicked open the message, expecting some predictable quip from Brian but praying it would be something else. It was. VERY PRETTY, BUT HOLD-UPS ARE SO UNFEMININE. TOMORROW YOU WILL WEAR SUSPENDERS.