by Ella Ford
I glanced around the room. Across from us, on a low coffee table, was a laptop computer. Standard corporate machine, nothing special.
“Looks like we’re not the only ones working late,” I said and nodded over at it.
Kristy turned and followed my gaze, then frowned.
“Hmm, I wonder who that belongs to?” she said. “I haven’t seen anyone else working late tonight.”
“Maybe someone left it?”
“Maybe. Seems odd though. The IT guys don’t like computers to be left places unattended,” she said, her curiosity now thoroughly piqued.
I glanced around. The offices around us remained perfectly still and dark. “There’s nobody else in, who could it belong to?” I mused.
Kristy took a sip of her coffee and fixed me with a mischievous grin. “There’s only one way to find out,” she said and stood up from the sofa.
“Wait… do you think…?” I said, suddenly filled with a feeling of nervous fear that I couldn’t explain.
“Relax,” Kristy replied with a dismissive wave, “I’m just going to find out who it belongs to.” She paused, then turned back and winked. “Maybe post something to their Facebook?”
We both laughed and Kristy wandered over to the abandoned laptop. With a casual flick of her hair, she sat down and crossed her legs, gripping her knee with her hands and leaning forwards to peer at the computer. I waited patiently, sure that someone would come into the break room to claim the machine at any second.
Kristy’s luminous blue eyes suddenly widened and her mouth fell open. “Oh. My. God.”
I blinked. “What is it?”
Kristy fell silent and leaned forward further, studying the laptop screen intently. Her fingers fell onto the trackpad and she began to click and tap. Her cheeks flushed a pale pink color as her hands worked. I sighed, unable to shake the nervous paranoia that had gripped me, then stood and scampered across the room to join her.
“Sarah,” said Kristy finally as I reached her side, “you have got to see this.”
“What? Show me?” I said, turning to face the laptop, resting a hand on Kristy’s shoulder. Distantly, I realized that I could feel the steady, quick beat of Kristy’s heart beneath the thin material of her satin blouse. Thud thud thud. What could possibly have made her so nervous? And then I saw it… “Oh… wow…”
I found myself staring at a fullscreen image of a naked girl tied to a bed.
Actually, the girl wasn’t quite naked. She was wearing pantyhose - pale, sheer pantyhose, quite expensive by the look of them, and strappy high heeled shoes. The picture was taken from the bottom of the bed, looking between her spread legs to her private parts and beyond. It was carefully cropped to obscure her face, stopping at the pert rise of her breasts, topped with rock hard nipples like mountaintop beacons. Her ankles were tied with lengths of pristine white ropes coiled in intricate manacles to the corners of the bed, as were her slender wrists. She wore no panties, and I could plainly see the delicate folds of her sex through the thin gauze of the nylon hose, a frozen diorama of exquisite pink flesh.
Blinking, I found myself unable to look away from the photograph. A warm flush gripped me, and my heart began to hammer. I’d seen pornography before, and even made some in my more daring days, but there was something different about this. Something forbidden and intimate. The image had none of the glossy, professional quality of internet porn. It felt amateurish, real. I wondered if the owner of the laptop had taken the picture himself? I scoured the image for a clue, but found my eyes returning to the tied girl and her long, restrained limbs. All the while, I felt my focus fixate on a particular detail: the girl had a tiny tattoo her hip, on her left side, a tattoo of a stiletto shoe with a comically high heel.
“We… we should go…” I finally said.
“Wait,” said Kristy breathlessly, “there’s more.”
She clicked the trackpad and the image slid to the left to be replaced by another. This time, the same girl, wearing the same flimsy attire, had her legs pulled back and her ankles tied to her wrists, forcing her into frog-like position on her back. Once again, her face was obscured by her body, but her pussy was closer this time. I almost felt as though I could feel the moist warmth of her pleasure radiating from the pale softness of her hose.
Click. The image changed again, this time a close up of her legs, tied together now at the ankles, pretty nude sandals pressed together in an orderly fashion, toes plainly visible, painted perfection lined up beneath the snaking line of her pantyhose seam.
Click. This time she’s hogtied. Lying on her front, face still hidden but I can see now that she is a blonde. Her slender arms are tied behind her, then tied again to her feet, which are pulled up and back, holding her in position. She looks utterly restrained and my flush turns to something else. Distantly, I wondered what it must be like to be in such a position.
“We can’t…” I protest, but my words are half-hearted and limp.
“This must belong to one of the partners,” said Kristy.
“Yes, and he’ll be along any second to get it,” I added breathlessly.
“A few more seconds…” said Kristy, and I didn’t protest, I couldn’t.
Click. A close up of the girl’s feet again. Still hogtied, her shoes have been removed and discarded casually beside her. Her nylon covered soles are plainly visible as an endless plain of gentle wrinkles. I wondered idly what it would be like to reach out and stroke a finger along that soft surface. What would it feel like? Warm? Velvety? Would the girl cry out as I tickled her?
Click. Kristy and I both sigh in unison. With shock or with excitement? It isn’t clear. In this image, the girl is tied to the bed again. The viewpoint of the camera has moved between her legs, closer to her sex. Strapped to the inside of her thigh with two lengths of leather belt is a bulbous looking wand vibrator, positioned such that the meaty head was pressed up against her pussy. In my mind, I could almost hear the frantic whine of the vibrator, could almost feel its urgent motion against me. Again, I saw the tiny tattoo of the stiletto heel and fixate on it. I found myself becoming increasingly aware of Kristy’s warmth beside me. What is happening? I thought to myself.
Click. This time, the viewpoint is from above the girl who is now lying over the lap of someone. Her ass was pushed up and out, taking up the full right hand side of the picture, presented as if for a spanking. I could see the seam of her pantyhose, snaking a wavering line down the straight cleft of her ass. Her buttocks are round and full, presenting a tempting target for the person taking the camera. Not for the first time, I wondered who he was, what the girl has done to warrant this treatment.
Click. The image changes, but barely. Still prone over her captor’s lap, the girl has shifted only slightly. But now, the first glimpse of the photographer: a hand, laid gently on the soft curve of the girl’s ass, cradling one cheek with long, slender fingers. I blinked… there was something about those fingers, something that I wasn’t quite seeing, something that I…
“Well, well, well.” A voice from the doorway to the break room startled Kristy and I. We gasped in unison and looked up, Kristy nearly knocking the laptop to the ground as she pulls her hand back. “What the hell is happening here?”
I recognized the voice instantly. That lilting, feminine accent, soft but somehow barbed and severe. Lucy Cummings, my boss.
“Lucy, I…” I said. “We… we found this laptop, we were just trying to figure out who it belonged to.”
Lucy Cummings smiled broadly and stepped into the room. She was a tall woman, taller than my five six, possibly hitting six foot in her heels, but she had presence that went way beyond her height. She was in her thirties, and wore her jet black hair in a short bob which served to frame her glacial features. Sharp cheekbones with icy blue eyes and dark painted lips, a regal nose and pale, porcelain skin. Quite beautiful, though incredibly intimidating in the way that powerful women often are. As always, she was dressed in a smart, crisp skirt suit, pristine cr
eam lines and perfect tailoring, with tan pantyhose and nude stiletto heels.
She approached us and crossed her arms, a wry smile unfolding across her lips.
“And, Miss Lane, what did you find out?”
“Lucy… Miss Cummings?”
“About the laptop,” she purred, “did you find out to whom it belonged? Any identifying documents or information?”
I had the sense that she was toying with me, that I was being lured into a trap that I couldn’t explain.
“I…” I began, glancing to the side at the still visible image of the girl’s round bottom and the hand placed gently upon it. The slender, strangely feminine hand. “No, Miss Cummings.”
“Oh, I find that hard to believe,” she drawled, peering at me with an intense stare that made my stomach turn to ice water. “A clever, pretty girl like you?” she said, then added, “Like both of you.”
I fell silent, and gazed at the floor, unsure of what to say or what was expected of me.
“What if I was to tell you that I know who owns this computer?” she said cryptically. “What if I was to tell you that I know exactly what you’d seen on it, what kind of sordid sights I know must be running through your tiny little minds right about now?”
I glanced around at Kristy and she returned my look. Her eyes were wide, mouth parted. She looked as scared as I felt.
“I… I don’t know,” I finally replied. “Who… who does it belong to?” But I already knew. The slender hand, the particular dress code, the girl’s attire. It wasn’t a difficult puzzle to solve.
“Why, you silly little girl,” she said with a broad grin, “it belongs to me!”
2: The Punishment For Dress Code Violation Is…
Lucy Cummings allowed her revelation to wash over us, peering at us with an amused interested that bordered on sinister.
I looked away from her, unable to take that icy scrutiny any longer. I glanced over at Kristy, willing her to say something, but she just stood there, wide eyed and fixated on Lucy with a peculiar expression that I couldn’t fathom. My brain whirled, catapulting a thousand thoughts into my mind at once. Why did Lucy have those pictures on her laptop? Was she into that kind of thing? Was she… was she a lesbian? Why couldn’t I get the image of the girl’s bound ankles from my mind?
I shuffled from stockinged foot to stockinged foot, unable to figure out what to do next, wanting only to run from the uncomfortable scene. Then Lucy Cummings broke the silence.
Blinking quickly twice, she leaned her head to the side and her eyes fell to the floor where I was nervously dancing on the spot. A half-smile rose on her face as she stared at my naked feet.
“Say, you both seem to have lost your shoes…” she drawled, with a butter-wouldn’t-melt tone that filled my heart with dread.
I glanced down at my feet, then across the room to the sofa area where my heels lay discarded on the floor beside Kristy’s. An echoed image of the girl in the photos rushed through my awareness - hogtied, barefoot, strappy sandals dropped to the floor beside her restrained body. An odd deja vu, to be sure.
“I… It was...” I began, looking to Kristy for support, but she had nothing to offer and maintained her blank look of stunned silence.
Lucy crossed her arms across her chest, pushing her full breasts up against the tight material of her blouse. She smiled with a warmth that had surface depth only.
“Honey, I get it,” she purred, pursing her dark lips together. “You’ve been at work all day, walking around on those uncomfortable shoes. Your poor feet must be aching, am I right?”
I nodded mutely. Kristy did the same.
In a flash, Lucy Cummings’ expression changed from faux-warmth to unconcealed fury. Her eyes narrowed, her lips thinned, she breathed out through her nose in one angry exhale and her mouth rose in a snarl. “Well it’s not fucking good enough!” she shouted without warning. I flinched back, unable to believe what was happening. Beside me, Kristy blinked and gaped, but didn’t move, remaining resolutely still with her arms held limply at her sides, fists clenching and unclenching with a quick beat. “Does the dress code that J.Whitman and Sons expressly requires allow you to fucking take your fucking shoes off and wander round the place like a fucking college dorm?” she spat. Her voice echoed around the silent offices.
“I… I…” My voice sound weak and reedy, and I wished that Kristy would come to my defence. Or say something at least. At that moment, it seemed like the focus of Lucy’s rage was on me alone.
“I… I…” Lucy mimicked, mocking my fawning tone. “This isn’t a fucking sleepover!” she added.
“I’m sorry Miss Cummings,” I said, lowering my head, focusing on the spot between us where I fervently hoped a hole would open that I could jump into. “It won’t happen again. I…”
All of a sudden, she laughed. A haunting, mocking, musical chuckle that surprised and terrified me in equal measure. “Oh, Sarah,” she said as I shook my head in confusion. “I was just messing with you,” she added, stepping forward and touching a slender hand to my shoulder. An image of that hand resting against the nylon-covered bottom of the unseen girl rose in my mind, adding to the sense of utter confusion I was feeling. “Say,” she said, in the sweetest tone imaginable, “do you mind if I join you for coffee? We can talk, maybe get to know each other?”
She turned and gestured over to the sofa area. I nodded without speaking. In reality, the very last thing I wanted to do right then was sit and get to know Lucy Cummings. But it was better than being shouted at.
The three of us walked across the room, Lucy leading with Kristy and I trailing along with our hands held before us like guilty schoolgirls heading for a spanking. Lucy took the large armchair and lowered herself into it, crossing her long legs before her and resting her hands on her lap, while Kristy and I sat beside each other on the long sofa facing her. I glanced around at Kristy and found her struck with the same deer-in-headlights expression of mute fear.
After a glacial epoch of uncomfortable silence, Lucy finally moved. With slender fingers, she brushed a piece of invisible lint from her otherwise pristine pantyhose and laced her hands on her knee, then kicked her foot out before her, slipping her shoe from her foot and regarding it with quiet fascination. Kristy and I followed the motion as if in a trance.
“I get it you know,” she said eventually, still peering at her dangling shoe. “It’s not easy being a woman, don’t you think?” she asked rhetorically. “Do you think that my feet don’t ache?”
I shook my head.
“But standards must be maintained. Otherwise what would we have?”
I glanced at Kristy and she glanced back. Neither of us spoke.
“Chaos, girls, chaos. One day you kick off your uncomfortable heels, the next day you wear jeans instead of a nice skirt, and finally, the mob is at the castle gate, brandishing pitchforks and torches and demanding the head of the king. Do you understand?”
Kristy nodded, to my surprise. I remained still. I had no idea what she was talking about.
Lucy smiled her viper smile. “What I’m saying is: I sympathize. But, there are things we can do to help each other out.” She leaned her head to the side and studied me.
“I don’t understand…” I said.
“You will,” she replied, then reached down and slipped her shoe back on her foot. “Kristy, kneel down before Sarah.”
The strange, leftfield request hung in the air between us while I parsed the words. What on earth did she mean? To my surprise, Kristy moved, sliding forward on the couch and dropping to her knees on the plush rug of the break room floor. Resting her hands on her knees, she turned to face Lucy with a look of hesitant expectation on her face.
Lucy Cummings smiled at her. “Good. Now Kristy, be a darling and give your friend a foot massage.”
I opened my mouth to protest, feeling the situation slipping out of control.
“Something to say, Sarah?” said Lucy with a smirk.
“Yes. This isn’t n
ecessary, my feet…”
Kristy moved into position in front of me, shuffling around the floor on her knees. Her eyes met mine for a fraction of second, then she lowered her gaze to my pantyhose covered feet. Reflexively, I pulled away from her, curling my toes into tight bunches.
“Oh, I think it is necessary, Sarah dear. If your feet are too tired to let you even wear shoes, then something must be done.”
“I’ll put my shoes back on. I’ll never take them off again,” I protested.
Kristy reached forward and took hold of my left ankle, lifting my leg toward her and raising my foot. A wave of paranoia struck me, a procession of nervous thoughts: did my feet smell? Did I have holes in my pantyhose? Were my nails neatly painted? Kristy didn’t seem to mind at all.
“Do you mind if I speak frankly, Sarah?” said Lucy, sitting forward, peering at Kristy on the floor between us as she lifted my foot.
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean…” I stammered, barely hearing what Lucy had said. Instead, I found myself fixated on Kristy before me as she began to work on my foot. Why wasn’t she protesting? the thought ricocheted around in my mind like a bullet. Why was Kristy doing what she was told so readily? I had no idea, but she was. Wrapping her slender, painted fingers around my foot, she lifted it before her face and peered at the underside with wide eyes and parted lips. Nervously, she blinked and exhaled, then began to work her thumbs into my sole. I tried to pull back, but half-heartedly. Despite the thoroughly odd situation I found myself in, the sensation of having someone else’s hands on my body was strangely appealing. There was a cloying warmth to it, a strange intimacy. I shook my head and tried to regain a kind of control.
“What did you think, Sarah?”
I sighed and looked up, confused. “What?” I said.
“What did you think about what you saw?” she replied and turned to look over at the discarded laptop, still sitting on the table where we’d found it.