Tilda was definitely about to ask me who was on the phone. I had to get out of here.
‘Just going to the powder room,’ I said casually, slinging my bag over my shoulder and hobbling off. The powder room was our private reference to the ladies’ toilets – we found it funny because they were so ungenteel and usually in a horrible state.
They weren’t too bad this morning – the earliness of the hour meant that they were still at least clean, though their dingy tiling and rotten old sinks didn’t exactly cheer the eye.
I wasn’t here to rate them for aesthetic appeal, though. I was here to obey Tom’s orders and show myself for the scarlet woman I was.
I locked myself into the furthest cubicle and ran my hands over my outfit. Officewear wasn’t my natural style, but when I dressed for work I used it as an opportunity to channel my inner Mad Men cast-member. I kept things classic and curve-enhancing. Thank God it was November and my white shirt was made of cotton heavy enough to keep any overtly erect nipples at least half-concealed. My little summer cap-sleeved blouses would have been a different proposition.
I unbuttoned quickly and pulled the lace elastane cups of my bra down over my breasts. My nipples, thanks to the phone call, were in a state of high excitement. I wondered if there was anything I could do to flatten them before going back into the office. The shirt might be heavy, but a couple of dimples were still a strong possibility. Then I remembered my emergency cardigan. Thank God! I could button it over my shirt to keep things a little more modest.
Thus reassured, I fastened my shirt. As it closed over my unfettered breasts, the thick cotton pressed against my nipples, teasing and chafing them. They felt stiff and a little sore, and their peaks were definitely visible. I’d be feeling them every time I moved my arms, every time I pushed back my shoulders or flexed my spine.
‘You bastard,’ I whispered, thinking of Tom and how he would examine me later for signs of my obedience.
The thought made me dizzy and I had to sink on to the toilet lid, trying to block out the images of the previous night that twined around me, laughing at me with his smile and his wicked blue eyes.
Now the knickers. This would be more difficult. My pencil skirt was form-fitting and I wore tights underneath it, since I hadn’t been expecting anything of a sexual nature to happen at work.
I stepped out of my shoes and rucked the skirt carefully up to my waist, making sure not to damage the silky lining. Then I removed my tights, even more carefully because they were a fine denier and given to snagging at the slightest provocation. I laid them in my shoes and sat back down to wiggle out of the knickers.
These ones weren’t ‘special’ but they were still nice enough – white stretch lace boyshorts, to match my bra. If Tom asked to see them, I had nothing to be ashamed of.
Wait – what was I thinking? I was taking off my knickers and bra at work for the purposes of sexual titillation. Wasn’t that something to be ashamed of?
Only in the most exciting way imaginable.
I smiled at myself, my heart skittering along, listening for any signs of creaking doors or footsteps in the corridor beyond. Once I had removed the knickers and stuffed them in my bag, I picked up my tights again.
It seemed weird and wrong to put them back on. Surely the idea of having no knickers on was the sense of being bare and uncovered at an inappropriate time, in an inappropriate place. The tights would be cheating. But I could hardly leave them off without drawing attention to myself.
I put my feet in and eased them up to my knees. I really didn’t want to pull them all the way up. For a start, the idea of the unbreathable nylon right up against my privates didn’t appeal. Could I get away with having them just at mid-thigh? Would it create an unsightly bunch under my tight skirt? And would I be able to walk properly?
I tested the proposition. I needed to spend some considerable time arranging things so that my silhouette remained smooth enough inside my pencil skirt to seem normal, but eventually I was able to come out of the cubicle and take a look in the bathroom mirrors to make sure I wasn’t deluding myself.
I wasn’t. It looked fine. But it felt very, very strange. My walk was constrained to a kind of Marilyn Monroe-esque wiggle. It was just as well my job didn’t require a lot of striding and leaping around.
I did a few catwalk turns, admiring my swaying hips and enjoying the illicit feel of my bare thighs brushing together. The silky lining of my skirt caressed my bottom as I walked. My nipples throbbed, teased by cotton. I had been aware all morning of a residual tingle down below from Tom’s treatment of me, but now it was rudely at the forefront of my consciousness.
He intended me to remember what had been done to me, and to think of what was still to come. He wanted it to be on my mind all day.
I half-shut my eyes and ground my hips at my reflection.
Could I get away with a quick and furtive orgasm in one of the cubicles? I was sorely tempted…
The door of the office creaked and I leapt guiltily towards the sinks and turned on the tap at full blast so it sprayed my shirt.
‘Damn!’ I shouted, as Tilda swung into the room.
‘El, are you OK?’ she asked.
‘I was, until this fucking tap decided I needed a shower,’ I moaned, flapping my hands.
‘Go and stand under the dryer,’ she suggested, laughing at my unwarranted wrath. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? You’re not feeling ill, are you?’
‘No, I’m fine. Had to change my tights, that’s all. Got a ladder.’
‘OK. That’s good. Miles was getting worried about you.’ I caught sight of her raised eyebrows in the mirror. How could I not have seen this? Now Tom had mentioned it, the clues were everywhere.