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“You can put on your clothes again, Susan,” he says, his mouth twitching into a grin.
“Yes, thank you.” Part of her is relieved, and yet another part wants to remain naked so that he can revel in her beauty.
“You can put all your clothes back on except . . . ” he lets it trail “ . . . your underwear.”
“Wh-what?” Once again, he takes her by surprise.
“This is a condition, Susan. From now until next Friday, I don’t want you to wear any panties. No pants either. You are only allowed to wear skirts and dresses. You may wear a brassiere under your blouse, but that’s about it. Is that understood?” His voice takes on an edge.
She feels her stomach contract. “Yes, sir.”
“Good, I like that. Obedience is a virtue.”
He watches her dress. She puts on all her clothes again except for her black lacy panties. She leaves it hanging from the back of the chair.
“You may go now, Susan. Come back here at six. Ms. Radcliffe would have left by then. I trust you have no dinner plans.”
She doesn’t anymore. “No.”
“Good. Had you any, I would have asked you to change them. See you later, Susan Chalmers.”
The sun in the windows has gone behind a cloud. She turns back to look at him, and her breath catches. He’s insanely, gloriously beautiful.
The little kernel of need between her naked legs is actually now looking forward to six o’ clock. She shudders in anticipation of what he has in store for her.
4
It’s strange not to be wearing any underwear. It makes her hyperaware – of the moistness between her legs, of her femininity, of the way her pussy folds rub against one another.
She’s extremely self-conscious when she walks through the office. She feels as if everyone is gazing at her skirt with knowing sidelong glances. Every roll of her buttocks seems to be accentuated. When she sits, she keeps her thighs clasped firmly together. Although her skirt is below her knees, she feels naked.
A draft seems to be perpetually blowing between her legs.
Worse still, she hasn’t stopped creaming since noon. Every time she shifts her legs, a trickle flows out again and she’s mortified. There’s a wet stain on her skirt’s back lining that is spreading wider as she sits, and she daren’t get up.
Oh, this is bad, bad, bad.
She longs to reach for a tissue from the box behind her and wipe the sopping mess that her pussy has become. But she daren’t for fear that someone passing by might peek through the blinds.
Oh, what a dilemma!
5
At six p.m. sharp, she’s at Channing Crawford’s office. True to his word, Ms. Radcliffe’s chair is empty.
She readies herself by taking a deep breath. She has brushed her hair so that her copper curls fall softly and prettily around her shoulders. She has put some makeup on – soft magenta eyeliner and a touch of eye shadow on her lids, as well as red lipstick. She realizes she wants to look beautiful for him. Well, as beautiful as she possibly can, anyway. She wants to please him – make him desire her.
This is no different from a date, she tells herself.
She raps the door twice, and then enters.
He is standing by the windows and looking at the glorious sunset outside. The red ball of sun has sunk between two skyscrapers and has touched the surrounding sky with a hazy crimson tint. He is silhouetted against this amazing view, and he turns as she approaches him.
“Very punctual,” he remarks. “I like what I see of you so far, Susan Chalmers.”
She is aware of the implications of that statement. “Thank you, sir.”
So far, he has not asked her to stop calling him ‘sir’. It must be his military upbringing, she decides.
“Are you naked beneath your skirt, Susan?”
“Yes.”
Oh, but he is so beautiful. Prior to today, she has only seen him from a distance – the closest being from across a boardroom table.
“Show me,” he says. “Lift up your skirt.”
It is an unusual request – one that she has never had before, not even at a doctor’s office. She bends down and tugs the hem of her skirt up. She raises it high – to above the level of her hips. His eyes rove down to her revealed pussy.
She’s embarrassed to find herself wet again. Very wet. In fact, she’s running all over with a sudden deluge of juices at the thought of him scrutinizing her.
“Very good,” he says. “Did you caress yourself in your office?”
Caress herself? No. She shakes her head.
“You should. I would like to see you caress yourself before our week is up. Now take off your clothes.”
With his heated eyes inspecting her every move, she removes her clothes and lays them neatly on the back of the chair once again. She wonders what he has done with her previously discarded panties.
