Fast And Loose. Justine Elyot
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to say.
‘You can walk, then?’
‘Just about.’
He chuckled. ‘I mean, your ankle.’
‘Yes,’ I said, bending low to the desk to avoid being overheard. ‘That’s what I meant.’
‘Just wanted to make sure I hadn’t…incapacitated you…in any way.’
‘I thought you had a breakfast meeting.’
‘Yeah, done that. Stale croissants, bloody cheek. Anyway, speaking of bloody cheek…’
‘Were we?’
‘Mm, I’m thinking about cheeks now. And I don’t mean the ones on your face.’
Tom! It was on the tip of my tongue, but a throat-clearing from Tilda brought me to my senses. I would have to keep my words neutral or risk the third degree.
‘Though I’m not into drawing blood,’ he continued thoughtfully. ‘So literal bloody cheek isn’t quite what I have in mind. A nice bit of red flush, though…mmm.’
‘Did you call me for a reason?’ I muttered, beyond flustered.
‘Yes, I did,’ he said. ‘Did you set up that account on Safeword.com?’
‘Oh…not yet. I’ll do it later.’
I’d made a start but my brain had failed to co-operate, too preoccupied with Tom and his wily ways. I was in no mood to be penning kinky come-hithers to strangers after all that.
‘You’d better,’ he said, his voice like raw-edged silk. ‘Or you’ll know about it when I see you.’
Now this sounded promising.
‘Oh, will I?’ I said, trying to keep my tone light enough to deflect any attention from my neighbouring desks.
‘Yes, you will,’ he said. ‘And I’m getting a sense that you’re testing me. Do I have to prove that I mean business?’
I gulped. ‘Yes’ or ‘No’? Which was the right answer?
I couldn’t resist it. Despite the danger that surrounded me, I put my lips close to the mouthpiece and said, ‘Maybe you do.’
I could almost hear his smile at the other end.
‘Oh, dear, Foxy, you do have a habit of letting yourself in for it. OK then. As soon as you put the phone down, you’re going to go to the Ladies’ and do two things for me. One, pull the cups of your bra down and keep them that way for the rest of the day…you are wearing a bra, I take it?’
I gave a little yelp of indignant laughter. Mistake. Tilda was on the case right away, her neck tilted in my direction.
‘Of course,’ I hissed.
‘Just checking. I know what you’re like, Ms Cox, you rampant little animal. So, yeah, the bra is number one. Two, take off your knickers and put them in your bag for the rest of the day. You are…?’
I tutted and huffed. ‘Yes, again.’ I paused. ‘Oh, God.’
‘What?’
‘Do I have to?’
‘Yes, you have to. I’ll be waiting for you in the lobby at six, to make sure.’
Now this was a thrilling thought, as if I wasn’t thrilled enough.
‘Will you?’
‘You bet. What are you wearing?’
I gave Tilda a swift side-eye. I wasn’t sure I could answer this without arousing suspicion.
‘What do you mean?’ I hedged.
‘Skirt? Trousers?’
‘The former.’
‘I was hoping you would be! Excellent. Go on, then. And don’t forget. Six o’clock in the lobby for your underwear check.’ He made a couple of smoochy noises and rang off.
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