A Nightmare In Silk And Lace Part 4

Gemma Layton gazed around her new office with a deep and glowing
sense of satisfaction. A traditional girl at heart, she had modelled
the d‚cor and layout on Don Draper's office in the TV series "Mad
Men". There was a big desk with photos of her family displayed
prominently, and an executive leather swivel chair with head rest and
arm rests. There was a sofa of course, long enough to lie down on
fully extended, when needing to spend an hour or two thinking round a
particularly tricky problem, and three padded seats bought, like the
sofa, from a vintage collectables store that specialised in
reconditioned 1950s and 1960s furniture. A drinks cabinet stood in
the corner, though Gemma didn't really drink. Well, maybe a small
glass of Chardonnay now and again, but certainly not hard liquor - it
went straight to her head. Nevertheless, Don Draper had one in "Mad
Men", and he was a successful executive, so Gemma had followed suit.
The windows looking out onto the main office floor had traditional
blinds that could be lowered for privacy. Outside her door stood a
smart secretarial desk that would be manned by the new girl she had
recruited from the Academy. The girl's name was Kissy, and Gemma had
been delighted to see how qualified she was. Top of the class in
nearly every subject, with glowing references from both Nurse
Holloway and the Headmaster, and time spent as a prefect in her
class. It seemed she had been singled out for Special Classes, though
the reports were very ambiguous as to what those could possibly be.

The office also included a wide screen television set - rather more
modern looking than the rest of the d‚cor, but in that and her
computer terminal she had to be realistic in her requirements. The
wallpaper and carpets were of course replica vintage throughout,
adding to the timeless 1963 feel.

To mask the truth, this new, remote office had been given a cover
name to disguise the fact that Amalgamated Amalgamations were
performing due diligence on Prentice Industries, with a view to
injecting investment capital into the ailing business. To this end,
in addition to Mr Grimm's personal business team of twelve
experienced and trusted business consultants, each one armed and
equipped with shiny new Apple MacBook Pros, a new company had been
established - Layton Solutions Inc. While Mr Grimm wasn't exactly
going to entrust Gemma Layton with the serious business of Due
Diligence, he had offered her the job of putting together a new
business plan for Prentice Industries to take effect if, and it was
still an if, Amalgamated Amalgamations injected capital into the
sinking business. Layton Solutions had been Gemma's suggestion over a
late dinner with Mr Grimm. The imposing businessman had appointed her
as Project Manager, reporting directly to himself. Senior key members
of staff had been brought over in secret through secondments from
their jobs at Prentice Tower, with the junior (and relatively simple)
data gathering and processing jobs going to office girls recruited
locally from the Silk and Lace Academy for Girls.

As the representative of the largest share holding family, a bored
looking Charlotte Prentice had been given a large private office
space (that she didn't really want) and the title of Executive
Director (which she couldn't care less about). She sat in one of the
retro 1960s chairs in Gemma's office, gazing out of the window that
overlooked the hotel grounds to one side, and the high walled,
impossibly secure, fortress like, Silk and Lace Academy for Girls on
the other side. She suffered from the incurable boredom of the super
rich where nothing had any real value because everything was there
for the taking. When one dined on Lobster Thermidor for lunch,
prepared by one of the finest French chefs in the city, one soon lost
one's appreciation for the fabulous because routine turned the
fabulous into simply ordinary. Her mind was anyway on other things.
Raoul, her Puerto Rican gardener was on holiday as of two days ago,
and she was already feeling sexually frustrated in his absence. She
crossed her legs in the chair and wondered how she would cope for two
whole weeks without the man's reliably efficient cock pumping her on
demand. Today Charlotte wore a tailored Givenchy dress in black silk,
with a hemline that fell to just above her knee. Her skin was
perfectly tanned, and her long hair glossy and dark after being
professionally straightened with hot irons for twenty minutes in the
hotel salon.

To Charlotte's right sat the hulking figure of Mr Charles Grimm,
tightly suited in pin stripes as always. He was Mr Grimm to her and
everybody else in the world, but simply Charles as far as Gemma was
concerned; a distinction that irritated Charlotte immensely. For
Charlotte's dislike of prissy Gemma Layton was growing in leaps and
bounds. Bad enough that Gemma was incredibly beautiful, with a
'butter wouldn't melt in her mouth' innocence that men obviously
found alluring, but now she was playing at being a 'Project Manager'
in a subsidiary company that bore her surname. The sooner that snotty
little secretary was back in a short skirt and sitting in a typist's
chair the better. Mr Grimm was accompanied by his coldly efficient
Russian PA, Elizabeta, who scared even Charlotte with the cyborg like
way her eyes carefully watched everyone in a room, as if recording
their slightest expression and analysing it for weakness. Someone had
told Charlotte that Elizabeta had a near perfect memory. She could
read a page of text in one go, walk away from it and then reproduce
the text word perfect on a blank sheet of paper.

Charlotte narrowed her eyes as she sat waiting for the meeting to
begin. Was Elizabeta studying her ankles and wrists? She frowned and
for a moment as she stared back, their eyes met. The eye contact
lasted mere seconds before Charlotte looked away. There was something
frightfully intimidating about Elizabeta's gaze, and Charlotte for
one could never out-stare the woman.

"Elizabeta - if you'd care to begin," said Gemma as she turned
slightly in her big executive leather chair.

"Thank you. Most kind. Layton Solutions now fully operational. Much
staffing hired and girls all herded into office spaces. Very docile."

Charlotte blinked. Elizabeta had such a strange choice of words
sometimes. It must be her lack of familiarity with English. Yes, that
must be it.

"Much proactive work now to do. Girls need strict supervision.
Discipline very crucial to achieving targets in competitive business
world." Elizabeta wore a black leather cat suit with a single steel
zip that ran down the front of the outfit and high heeled ankle
boots, also black and shiny. A very large hoop ring was attached to
the end of the zip. It was a strange choice of clothing for an
office, thought Charlotte, and one that she would have commented on
except that Mr Grimm and Gemma didn't seem to give it so much as a
second thought. "I work close with Miss Layton. We share late
evenings together in apartment with expensive wine. Make big business
plans and build mighty economic empire that dominate Wall Street and
then world."

Charlotte uncrossed and crossed her legs again at the knee - a
motion that didn't escape Elizabeta's attention. Once again the
Russian woman's gaze shot like a laser beam in the direction of
Charlotte's ankles. It was making her feel uncomfortable, all this
staring. Perhaps she should have a word with Elizabeta after the
meeting and put her straight?

"Harrumph." Mr Grimm cleared his throat and studied the latest
figures supplied by Gemma. "Well, Miss Layton, you seem to be running
a tight ship here. Far tighter than the sloppy regime at your head
office. Wasn't impressed by what I saw there last week during my
anonymous visit. Girls slacking everywhere, standing around gossiping
when they should be working. I trust we'll have none of that here at
Layton Solutions?"

"Of course not, Charles. That's why I asked the lovely Elizabeta to
take charge of office conduct. Under her firm but fair discipline I'm
sure the girls will prove to be exceptionally productive workers.
She's very talented. We're working together really well." Gemma
frowned for a moment as she noticed something. "Could I have a word
in private, Charles?"

"I suppose so." Mr Grimm looked surprised but assumed it was a
matter of discretion relating to the financial situation of Prentice
Industries, and with Charlotte in the room... He rose from his chair
and followed Gemma outside and into the adjoining office room that
was currently empty. They sat down around a meeting table. "Well?"

"Is that a new tie, Charles?" Gemma regarded his neck wear with a
sniff.

"Pardon?" Mr Grimm gazed down at the maroon tie around his neck.
"Yes, I bought it this morning."

"Oh." Gemma wrinkled her cute little nose and tapped her lips with a
pen, deep in thought.

"Is something wrong, Miss Layton?"

"Well..." Gemma sighed and drummed her fingers against the table. "I
suppose if you like it..."

"You... don't like it?" Mr Grimm looked down at the tie again. He
thought it was very fashionable - a dashing splash of colour against
the sombre pin stripes of his suit.

"Not really, Charles. Not really. No." Gemma fixed him with a stare.
"It's nothing. But..."

"But?" Mr Grimm tried to read her expression. She was obviously
disappointed with him, but he couldn't see why.

"Well Charles, I thought we'd agreed that you'd talk to me before
you made any changes to your wardrobe?" Gemma crossed her arms where
she sat behind the desk. "Remember, in the restaurant on Tuesday?
After we had that silly moment when I ordered a light Caesar salad
for you, and then you complained that you had wanted to order steak
and fries, and then we had that wholly avoidable scene when I had to
tell you off in front of the waitress. You know how I hate doing
that."

"Miss Layton, you said you wouldn't mention that..." Mr Grimm looked
sheepish as he recalled the restaurant on Tuesday.

"And I wouldn't have, but oh, you silly man, you forgot the
conversation we had afterwards, when I said I'd help you choose your
clothes in future. A man can't live in pin stripes alone, you know."
Gemma reached over and patted Mr Grimm's hand. "Tell you what," said
Gemma. "Why don't you go back to your room, change into one of the
pretty flowery ties I bought you yesterday, and then we'll forget all
about this. We can continue the meeting without you. We've really got
everything covered between us."

"But the figures I was going to approve..." Mr Grimm gazed at Gemma.
Had he ever seen a woman as beautiful as Gemma Layton before? He
didn't think so. Each morning he woke up, knowing that it would be
another day in which he'd get to spend time with her; another day
when he would be able to gaze with longing at the perfectly
proportioned calves of her legs (oh, if only she wore shorter skirts
and he could see more of this delightful, enchanting woman...).

"I'm sure Elizabeta and I can manage in your absence. They're only
silly figures after all. And you'll be back before you know it."

"Well..."

"There you are, Charles, it's all agreed. You'll look so handsome in
your new tie, and I'll be so very proud of you." said Gemma with a
sweet smile as she played with the knot of his current tie, loosening
it slightly in the process. "Oh, if only more men could be like you.
You must have soooo many female admirers. You can always tell a REAL
man because he's not afraid to take advice from a woman."

"Well..." Mr Grimm coughed to clear his throat as the delightfully
beautiful Miss Layton came perilously close to standing within
kissing distance. Oh, but she was so very gorgeous. Could he possibly
hope that one day soon...

"Off you go then. Chop-chop." Gemma gave a little wave with the tips
of her fingers as Mr Grimm stalked towards the door, not totally sure
what had just happened.

                              **********

"Why were you staring at my ankles!" demanded Charlotte with the
sense of blind outrage familiar to the privileged rich, after Gemma
had left to take a light lunch in the adjoining hotel building.
Charlotte had lingered behind to confront Elizabeta as she gathered
her papers together from her presentation.

"I mentally estimate size ankle ring you take," said Elizabeta as
she loomed over Mrs Prentice by a good nine inches in her heels.
"Size 3 standard lockable stainless steel shackle with ten inch
length chain between rings probably best choice. Snug fit but little
chafe."

"What!"

"Do you have poor hearing? That common problem it seem with weak
women of Western democratic lands. Soft from too much of puddings and
lack of fresh air. Hearing not good as Russian woman, who live close
to nature in Siberian pine forest with wolf for friends."

"I don't wear steel shackles!"

"Of course not. That is obvious. No visible marks or abrasions
around ankles where cold steel would be locked. You are not yet in
dungeon, in small kennel cage with snug collar and naked, begging to
please. Much licking and kissing. Dungeon soon be built here in
basement building then prize place for you with other slaves. Must
make list. Need to know size collar you take. Not so easy to guess
without measuring."

"How dare you!" Charlotte took a step back, turned on her heels and
stormed out of the office.

"All girls of course be tattooed and pierced and branded when
owned," said Elizabeta as Charlotte hurried away.


                                (Two)

The click-click-click-click-clicking sound of dozens of mirrored
compacts opening and closing resonated down the corridor as
identically clad secretaries-to-be carefully and mechanically checked
their near-flawless make up in their hand held mirrors. Nervous
fingers dabbed at cheeks and lips to touch up deficient spots with
blusher, foundation and lipstick. They sat in a line leading away
from an office door where interviews were being conducted, with their
ankles crossed together, knees bent together, facing right. Each and
every girl was dressed the same, in a diaphanous white blouse, tight
and buttoned low beneath the bra line, a short black skirt worn over
sheer stockings and suspender belt and a pair of four inch high
heeled shoes.

Deanna couldn't help herself. It was a matter of routine to check
her make-up and so she dabbed a little bit more powder from the
compact on her face. A girl could never have too much make-up, that's
what Miss Lane, the Practical Nail and Hair Care teacher had told
her. As Deanna clicked the lid of her pink compact shut, the office
door swung open and a girl from the Academy hurried out in tears. Not
all the girls did well in the interview, and those who didn't impress
were quickly escorted back to the high-walled school grounds to
resume their life in the class room. Nearly all the girls were
desperate to graduate from the stifling atmosphere inside the Academy
to a job with Layton Solutions, and yet there weren't that many
vacancies left to be filled. Desperation, it seemed was beginning to
hang in the air like a black cloud.

Layton Solutions... Deanna huffed with annoyance. Why was it called
Layton Solutions? Gemma was only Dean Prentice's secretary after all.
Why did she get to have a subsidiary company named after her?

"Next!" said Nurse Holloway as Linzi, the girl who had left the room
crying, was led away by a tall muscular man with closely cropped
hair, dressed in a black roll neck sweater, black trousers and black
para-boots. The poor girl glanced back one last time as her heels
dragged on the floor. She had so wanted to work here, thought Deanna.
But now it might be months, a year even, before another decent job
opportunity came her way. Deanna wasn't particularly concerned about
the interview. After all, Gemma had promised to get her out of the
Academy, and if there was one good thing about Gemma running Layton
Solutions, it was that she could click her fingers and ensure that
Deanna received preferential treatment. Obviously for appearances
sake Deanna would have to go through the pretence of being
interviewed, but they both knew it was a sham. The worst was surely
over. In the next couple of days Gemma was bound to 'promote' Deanna
into a senior position within the firm so that she could run things
from behind the scenes. 'Even so, it might be best to check my
lipstick before I go in,' thought Deanna, as she instinctively
reached for her pink compact again.

"Deanna! I said next, silly girl! That's you!" Nurse Holloway ticked
Deanna's name off the list. As Deanna stood up and walked towards the
door, Nurse Holloway added, "Stocking seams!"

Deanna froze. Oh no! She hadn't checked her stocking seams! Her
fingers ran quickly along each seam. Nice and straight along the left
leg, but just a little crooked on the right. She fussed with her
hands until they felt perfect and then hurried in through the open
door. Once inside she stumbled to a halt. Sitting behind the
interview desk was none other than teacher's pet and class prefect;
the Spanish girl, Kissy.

"Hello Deanna," said Kissy with an enigmatic smile. "Come in. Sit
down." There was a single straight backed chair facing Kissy's desk.

This wasn't a good start, thought Deanna. Kissy had taken a dislike
to her at the school, especially after seeing Deanna kissing Debbie
in the showers.

"So, you want to apply for a job here." Kissy looked at Deanna's
most recent school report. It was a tale of mixed results, with poor
grades in sewing and average results in typing. "So do a lot of girls
in the Academy. Opportunities like this don't arise very often."

"Yes, Miss." Deanna sat down, smoothing her short skirt as she did
so. It was true - competition was rife, as virtually every girl
longed to graduate from the Academy and return to the 'real world'.


"Miss Layton has put me in charge of recruiting for the secretarial
pool. But I have to say, straight away, that your grades really
aren't very impressive."

The bitch! Deanna bit back her tongue. Kissy had never liked her,
ever since she had caught Deanna kissing Debbie in the school
showers. From that day on she had made Deanna's life hell at the
Academy. And now she was in charge of recruitment?

"I know the sort of girl you are, Deanna. Lacking in morals with a
fluffy head that contains nothing but cotton wool. I'm really not
sure you'd fit in here at Layton Solutions."

"But Gemma Layton promised me a job here, and..."

"She said nothing of the sort to me. Perhaps you'd care to speak to
Elizabeta? She will be running the office here and approving my
recruitment selections?"

"Um, no..." Deanna's voice was just a bare whisper when Elizabeta's
name was mentioned. "I really don't think we should bother her..."

"Nor do I." Kissy smiled. "Well, stand up, pretty Deanna." Kissy
walked round the side of her desk, holding a black felt tip marker
pen in her right hand. "You see, I know what's going through your
mind. As soon as you join Layton Solutions you're going to be
flirting with every man in the building, not to mention any silly
girl who might be confused enough to be flattered by your advances."

"That's not true!"

"Quiet. How I hate girls like you. Dirty, filthy little tramps in
your short skirts and tight blouses. All you think about is boys and
sex."

Deanna noticed that Kissy had now graduated out of her school
uniform which, it had to be said, consisted of a tarty short skirt
and tight white blouse, and into a more modest and respectable knee
length skirt and looser blouse. Presumably this was one of the perks
of being Miss Layton's personal girl.

"Pull your skirt down as far as it will go, you tramp." Kissy
gestured with the marker pen. She watched as Deanna tugged at her
short skirt hem. It wouldn't move far, but she managed to extend its
coverage by half an inch. Then, once Kissy was satisfied that
Deanna's skirt was covering as much of her thighs as possible, she
drew a neat black line on each of Deanna's outer thighs, marking
precisely where the skirt ended. "Now lift your hem an inch." Deanna
did as she was told, and now Kissy drew a second black line on each
thigh, parallel with the first. They were very neat lines, perfectly
parallel. Kissy really was top of her class in every little way.

"What are you doing?" asked Deanna.

Kissy smiled. "Do you want to work here? Do you really want to work
here?"

"Yes." Deanna spoke quietly, in a frightened little whisper. The
thought of being sent back to the academy, to have to endure several
more months of brutal canings and discipline was too much to bear.

"Because for every vacancy we have, there are at least four school
girls applying for an interview."

Where was Gemma? Deanna didn't understand why Kissy was here. Gemma
had told Deanna that she would be working in the office. But now it
seemed Kissy was in charge of the recruitment details.

"So this is what you're going to have to do. Open your purse." Kissy
watched as Deanna retrieved her pretty pink handbag and opened it to
find her purse. It was a simple clutch purse with girlish sequins
sewn on the sides. Inside were the remains of her last pocket money:
two five dollar notes. Kissy produced a further hundred dollars and
slid it into the open purse, clicking it shut afterwards. "You're
going to go to the shopping mall in the hotel. Remember where the
hair salon is situated?"

Deanna nodded. She had been there three days ago to have her roots
retouched.

"Well, three doors down is a tattoo parlour."

Deanna's expression looked suddenly startled. "Please, Miss... no...
please..."

"Don't interrupt. You walk in and tell the tattooist that you want
the word 'Slut' tattooed on each thigh here." Kissy stroked the outer
thigh of Deanna's right leg where the higher of the two parallel
lines had been drawn. "The letters will be shocking pink and one inch
high. As long as you pay careful attention to your hem line, you'll
be able to keep the words covered up by an inch of skirt. But if you
insist on exposing a little more of yourself than is necessary,
well... everyone will see just what sort of filthy minded little
tramp you are."

Deanna burst into tears and began weeping into the palms of her
hands.

"Or... I can tell Miss Layton that you didn't pass the typing test,
and so we sent you back to school for another four months. I'm sure
Nurse Holloway will welcome you back with open arms..."


                               (Three)

"So, let me get this straight. You want me to tattoo the word 'slut'
on both your outer thighs? Just an inch above your hem line?" Steve,
the Tattooist, had seen some strange requests before, but never one
like this. He sat beside the reclining chair on which his clients
would lie down while he worked on their chosen designs. The tattoo
shop was clean, brightly lit and felt like a wholesome and stylish
salon rather than the more common backstreet businesses that seemed
to cater to rock chicks and bikers. That it occupied shop floor space
in the hotel mall was testament to the fact that it offered up-market
services to the rich and famous.

"Yes." Deanna adjusted her skirt hem again so that it covered up the
exposed inch where the tattoo would be inscribed.

"So, you're a slut, then?" He began to sort through his collection
of sterilised needles and inks while he talked.

"No." Deanna wiped a tear from her eyes. It had been a long walk
from the office compound to the hotel and her feet ached now. She sat
on the very edge of the reclining chair and swung her feet back and
forth, brushing the high heels together.

"Then why do you want the word slut tattooed on your thighs? It's
going to be permanent, you know."

"Oh God... Oh God..." Deanna pressed her hands to her face and broke
down into an uncontrollable stream of sobbing. After a minute of this
she felt the tattooist's strong hands on her shoulders, gently
rubbing them.

"Hey, it's okay. If there's something wrong, you can tell me."

"I can't," sobbed Deanna. "I can't. You wouldn't understand." Deanna
felt so very helpless. Events just continued to spiral rapidly out of
her control and she couldn't see any end in sight.

"You'd be surprised. I'm a good listener." Steve sat down on the
edge of the seat, next to Deanna. His right hand began to stroke the
back of her head as he talked. "Just let it out. Have a good cry.
You'll feel better for it." With his left hand he passed a box of
white tissues.

"But I don't want to cry!" Deanna clenched her small hands into
equally small and ineffectual fists. "Why am I always crying! What is
happening to me?" As she said that, she subconsciously licked her
lips again, tasting the sweet cherry red lip gloss. She knew that
she'd have to reapply it sometime soon.

"It's okay. You're a girl. Girls are allowed to cry." Steve smiled.
"I'll let you in on a little secret. Breaking down in tears is always
a good way to bring out the protective instincts in a man."

Despite everything, it felt good to be held. Deanna had at first
twitched and tried to move away when the man had run his hands
through her hair, but now as his soothing voice spoke gently to her,
now as his arm went round her waist to comfort her, Deanna began to
feel strange emotions well up inside her. She was being comforted,
looked after, protected. That didn't usually happen with anyone else
she met. Now the relief at finding someone, who didn't seek to
torment her in some new and horrible way was a welcome prospect, even
if the person consoling her was a man with strong arms and a broad,
hairy chest. Deanna glanced up at the man's face. There was a rugged
chin, a day or two's worth of stubble, strong blue eyes, some
laughter lines around the eyes, and close cropped dark brown hair,
with specks of grey at the sides and fringe. Deanna wasn't the best
judge of such things, but she supposed the man would be considered
handsome by women. Before she knew what she was doing, Deanna
responded to the comforting embrace by snuggling closer into his
arms.

"See," said the calm and reassuring voice. "Things don't have to be
so bleak."

Yes, it felt good to be held when you were crying. Deanna crossed
her slim ankles and nibbled her lower lip nervously. She wasn't used
to people treating her kindly. Only Debbie had done so. She felt a
hand guide her head against the man's shoulder. Deanna closed her
eyes and sighed. A few minutes peace from the madness and the
torment. Was that too much to hope for?

"You okay like this?"

Deanna nodded, her voice too choked up to reply.

"I'm glad." The man laughed. "Don't take this the wrong way, but,
well, you're a very sexy girl. I think this feels good too."

Oh, if only you knew the truth, thought Deanna silently. If only you
knew...

"So tell me. Why the tattoos? Honestly. Because I'm not going to put
them on you until you tell me what's wrong."

"I'm applying for a job, and I'll only get it if I go through with
the tattoos." Deanna snuggled a bit closer. The strong arms were sooo
comforting after all the stress and terror of the last month. Was
this what it felt like to be a girl? To weep and be comforted by a
strong man? Part of her mind rejected such things automatically. But
another part welcomed the respite from her never ending ordeal.

"That's the craziest thing I've ever heard. The job can't possibly
be that important to you."

"You don't understand." Deanna felt frustrated. How could she
possibly explain? Things had spiralled so far out of her control. In
just under a week now her second batch of share futures would come
due, and so it was imperative that Prentice Industries secured the
investment capital from Amalgamated Amalgamations. If the share price
rose, then Deanna stood to win her losses back. If it didn't, well,
it was quite possible she'd be ruined. There was no way she could
leave matters solely in the hands of Gemma Layton. Deanna had to be
present in the office to ensure the deal went through in time.
Signing the contracts one day after the futures were due would be one
day too late.

"Then make me understand." The Tattooist cupped Deanna's chin in his
hand and lifted her face until he was looking down into her eyes.

"I can't... I just can't..."

"Okay." He held his hands in the air as if in surrender. "Then I'll
need you to sign a release form, because I don't want any comebacks a
few days later when you realise the enormity of what you've paid me
to do. Each tattoo will cost eighty dollars."

"Eighty dollars?" Deanna thought hard. Kissy had given her one
hundred dollars. Was that more or less than two times eighty? These
were big numbers. Two times eighty, why, that was..." Deanna did some
sums on her fingers, counting off some tens, but she quickly got lost
and had to start again.

"Something wrong?" Steve watched her silently mouthing 'ninety five,
ninety six, ninety seven, as she tapped the fingers of her left hand
with the index finger of her right.

"I'm... what's the total cost?"

"One hundred and sixty dollars. Plus state tax."

"Oh." That was definitely more than the money she was carrying. "I
don't have that much..."

Steve sighed. "Well, don't get the tattoos then. Honestly, I'd
seriously advise you not to have them."

"I don't have a choice. I have to get this job!" Unless she was
present in the office, there was no telling whether the finance deal
would go through smoothly before the share futures deadline passed
by.

"You do, do you?" Steve tapped his chin with the tip of his electric
needle. "How about you pay me some other way?"

"Some other way?" Deanna fidgeted in a very feminine manner on the
edge of the reclining chair. She kicked her heels in the air as she
gazed up at the man. "You don't mean..."

Deanna didn't have the chance to say anything else as without
warning Steve leaned forward and kissed her full on the lips. Taken
completely by surprise, Deanna tried to pull away, but a firm hand in
the small of her back pressed her forward to receive the kiss with a
sexy wriggle of her body. "What are you doing?" cried Deanna in alarm
as she came up for air.

"What does it feel like I'm doing? Lips that look like that just cry
out to be kissed. So, what do you say? I can waive the fee..."

"No... please..." Deanna was horrified to feel a warm feeling in her
groin. A second kiss tasted her lips, followed by a third, and this
time she felt the man's strong body pressing through her thin blouse,
and against her sensitive nipples. Deanna's face flushed red as she
emerged breathless from the third kiss.

"You say no, but your body is wriggling like the slut you want me to
tattoo on your thighs." His hand had snaked up under her skirt and
was stroking now close to Deanna's panty line. She slapped his hand
where it lay under the skirt.

"You mustn't!"

"Harsh words coming from someone who wants 'slut' tattooed on her
thighs. But okay, your choice. The door is over there."

"Please... I can't go back to Kissy without the tattoos..."

"God, you're a real bimbo, aren't you? It's not just the fluffy
hair." Steve reached down and took hold of Deanna's hips with both
hands. With hardly any effort he flipped her round and on to her
stomach. Deanna kicked her slim ankles in the air as she felt the man
lay her belly down over the reclining leather chair and pull the
hemline of the back of her skirt until her panties peeked out.

"Oh! Your hands!" They were between her thighs now as she wriggled
on the surface of the chair.

"You're wearing a chastity belt?" Steve's hands had found it under
the silk panties. Deanna nodded and blushed as her head hung over the
side of the chair.

"We can work round that." Now Steve pulled the panties down around
Deanna's knees, exposing her anal passage. "Last chance to say no."

"Oh God..." Deanna whimpered and tried to brush hair away from her
eyes. Her upper body was tilted now over the side of the chair, and
her long hair dangled over her face.

"I'm not hearing that no," said Steve. Deanna heard a zip open,
followed by some fumbling as Steve pulled his cock out through the
front of his jeans. It was thick and hairy and already beginning to
get excited. He brushed the head of his penis against Deanna's
buttocks while he began to stroke his balls. Gradually the cock began
to stiffen and push insistently against Deanna's bottom.

"Please be gentle with me. Please..." This was going to be very
different from the dildo that Debbie had used on her. This was the
real thing, and it belonged to a man. Steve reached out and took hold
of the girl's wrists, pulling them together at the small of her back.

"Hope you like bondage, honey, because I sure do." He took a length
of wire flex from his work table and lashed Deanna's wrists tightly
together. It hurt, and would definitely leave marks on her skin.
"Mmm, all trussed up with your ass in the air." Steve traced his
fingers across Deanna's crack. "Do you have any idea how inviting
that is?" His hands felt rough against Deanna's soft skin. A month of
ex foliating and applying body lotions to her skin had worked
wonders. Now she felt those strong hands pushing her thighs apart.
She felt the man's lips and teeth kissing and teasing around her
inner thighs, above the line of the stockings. Despite herself she
began to moan and pant. Within minutes Deanna began to feel aroused,
and she hated herself for feeling that way. It was almost forgivable
with Debbie, but Steve was a man! She had to be strong. She had to
resist any possible sensations that might feel good. She mustn't
enjoy any aspect of...

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" Deanna had no idea what Steve had just done, but a
shiver of pleasure rippled through her body. Her back arched and her
thighs opened to his touch with a mind of their own.

With his left hand still stroking Deanna's heavenly bottom, Steve
ripped open the foil wrapper of a thick condom with his teeth. It
only took a few seconds to slide the lubricated rubber down the
length of his shaft. All the while his left hand never let up from
teasing Deanna in her most sensitive spots - the spots where an
experienced touch released a gasp of pleasure from her lips. Now
Deanna felt something stiff pressing against her tight bum hole. She
bit her lips as a series of probing thrusts forced a small entry - no
more than an inch, but a beach head nonetheless. It was painful,
sufficient to make Deanna grit her teeth.

"You're doing great, girl," Steve whispered into Deanna's right ear
as he brushed some of her hair aside. "You're nice and tight, which
is just the way I like it." Now he pushed harder, forcing another
couple of inches inside Deanna. She wriggled, still hurting, as Steve
continued to stroke and caress her. "God, you're sexy."

'But I don't want to be sexy,' thought Deanna as she was penetrated
by another inch of penis. 'I don't want to be a sexy girl, all soft
and feminine! I just want my normal life back before it's too late.'
A strong hand pressed her face down against the foam padding of the
seat as Steve made himself comfortable, resting his weight against
Deanna's back. With a final thrust he forced himself all the way
inside Deanna's ass. Already Deanna's legs were trembling, thrust
wide apart as they were. And now that long stiff cock began to slide
back and forth, accompanied by grunts and gasps from the man as he
took hold of Deanna's hair and twisted it around his left hand like a
set of reins.

Deanna felt helpless again, with her hands secured behind her back,
and her head under Steve's control. She could do nothing but lie
there on her stomach as the tattooist drove himself slowly at first,
but then picking up speed with each thrust. His hips rocked as his
pelvis thumped hard against Deanna's bottom.

"Yes. Fucking, yes!" Steve was flushed with excitement now as he
slapped Deanna's bare thighs in time to his thrusts. His hands began
to play with the suspender straps holding her stockings up, tweaking
and pulling them. "God, I love suspenders and stockings on a girl.
There's nothing sexier."

Now the head of Steve's cock was brushing that special spot deep
inside Deanna's ass. She began to tremble and shake as she felt her
own penis swell to the small extent her chastity belt allowed.
Despite her best intentions, Deanna began to gasp and moan as Steve
continued to thrust deep inside her. If he just kept brushing her
erogenous zone like that, even with the belt on Deanna was sure to...

"Aaaahhhhh!" Steve forced Deanna hard against the chair as he thrust
one last time and pressed down with all his weight, ejaculating
inside his condom.

"No, no, no. no..." Deanna sobbed with frustration. Just a couple
more minutes... just a couple more minutes... that's all it would
have taken.

"God... fuck... yes..." Steve bit deep into Deanna's right shoulder
and nibbled at the back of her neck through the long blonde hair.
"That was... amazing."


                                (Four)

It was raining again. These last two weeks it had rained more often
than not, adding to Charlotte's annoyance at having to even be here
in the first place. Her husband, Dean, should be here overseeing the
business meetings, leaving her free to soak up the sun at San Tropez
or at the private house in the Seychelles. If she wasn't careful her
perfect tan was going to suffer before too long.

Charlotte was still feeling horny. She needed sex badly, but in the
absence of obedient and incredibly long lasting Raoul, she wasn't
sure where she might get it. As she stood smoking a cigarette in the
shelter of a side doorway, she noticed a delivery van coming up the
road towards the office complex. She idly rubbed her thighs together
again and thought about sex. It was difficult to think of anything
else. Two weeks, less two days, that was how long she still had to
wait before Raoul was back. It felt like a lifetime. God, but she
needed relief. At least in the hotel there had been the luscious
sight of badly performing maids thrust over a chair, with their
skirts pushed up to reveal soft bottoms just begging to be spanked.
During her stay Charlotte had engineered the spankings of three
different maids on five separate occasions.

"Excuse me, Miss." One of the delivery men approached her as his
partner began to unlock the rear doors to the van.

"Yes?" Charlotte took another drag from her cigarette and tapped the
ash against the door frame. The man was dressed in poorly fitting
overalls and smelled of dry sweat. One of the lower classes,
obviously, and precisely the kind of man Charlotte tended to only
deal with at a distance and via intermediaries. Simply allowing him
to stand close to her was a matter of some irritation.

"I'm looking for..." he checked his clipboard. Already the pages of
paper were damp from the rain, "Layton Solutions?"

"That's here." Charlotte smoked her cigarette again and cocked a
finger at the door behind her back.

"Right. Well, I've got a delivery. Are you important enough to sign
for it?"

"Of course I am. I'm an Executive Director. That's a very important
job title." Charlotte wasn't sure what Executive Director actually
meant, but Mr Grimm had promised her it was second only to Managing
Director in importance. As such she had a large office with a big
desk, and she was entitled to come and go as she pleased. Most days
she would make an appearance just before lunch and watch some day
time TV on the wide screen Plasma TV. Occasionally there might be a
meeting for her to sit in during the afternoon, though any ones with
Elizabeta in attendance made her nervous for some reason. From time
to time Mr Grimm would have some papers to sign in lieu of her
husband being present.

"Okay. We have five medium steel cages, two small steel cages, two
communal feeding troughs, some non-slip rubber mats, an eight foot
tall wooden post with a steel ring bolted to the top, two sets of
hinged stocks and a wooden frame shaped like an 'x' with eye hooks
screwed into all four corners. Could you sign here, please?"

Charlotte frowned. "Are you sure you have the right place? We're
some sort of finance company, I think." She scrutinised the
paperwork. It did indeed say 'steel cages' purchased from a company
called 'Shackled Love'. Most peculiar.

"Layton Solutions?"

"Yes..."

"Well, that's where we're delivering to." The man checked the
details on the delivery invoice. "For your basement, I think."


"I really don't understand..." Charlotte stubbed out her cigarette
and stared through the light rain as the van doors swung open to
reveal the first of several steel cages. It had a low door that
required an occupant to crawl into it on her hands and knees. There
was also a small steel ring welded onto one of the ceiling bars to
which a chain snap lock could be attached.

"Don't look at me, Miss. We're just paid to deliver this stuff." The
men began to lift the equipment and carry it through to the basement
floor.


                                (Five)

Gemma Layton had found real IBM Selectric typewriters of 1962 at
'typewriter.com' for the office to enhance the retro look of the
floor space. The important work would of course be done on laptops,
archived onto a central server, but she took a sense of serene
pleasure at looking out through her glass partition wall at a busy
office full of bustling secretaries with girdle enhanced hourglass
figures, dressed in skirts and seamed stockings, typing memos and
letters on old fashioned IBM machines with their type balls. 'Mad
Men' was such a good TV series, she thought. The men wore such smart
suits and the women had such elegant frocks. It was a simpler time,
and perhaps a happier time, without the stress and complexity of
iPods, Facebook and 24/7 reality TV shows. She ran her manicured
fingers along the spines of the boxed sets of seasons one to three on
DVD that sat on her shelf space. She could imagine being a young
accounts executive at Stirling Cooper, happily surprising the men
with her brilliant ideas that would seem to come out of nowhere to
defy their expectations.

Gemma's intercom buzzed from the front desk. "Yes?" Gemma pressed
her finger down onto the heavy button. A crackly voice that belonged
to Kissy came through the old fashioned system.

"Sorry to bother you, Miss, but I have a junior secretary here who
wants to speak to you. I told her you were busy but she seems to
think you'll make an exception for her." Kissy was such a good
personal secretary - efficient and professional in every way. She
really was the pick of the crop from the Silk and Lace Academy for
Girls.

"Oh, really?" Gemma sat back in her big chair. It was sooo comfy.
And it swivelled 360 degrees with just a small push of her fingers
against the edge of the desk, and the ball bearing socket didn't make
the slightest sound during a complete revolution. That was the sign
of quality engineering at its best. It was made in Germany of course.
Swivelling round three times in quick succession made Gemma light
headed and giddy, but it was fun, nonetheless. "And what's the name
of this self-important girl?"

"Deanna, Miss Layton."

Deanna. Well, it would be, wouldn't it? Gemma sighed. What on earth
would it be now? You would have thought the girl could manage to get
through her first morning in a new job without having to knock on
Gemma's front door. "Send her in this once." Gemma picked up the
remote control and switched off episode five from season two of Mad
Men. The outer door opened and closed as Deanna stepped cautiously
into Gemma's office.

"Gemma! There's been some sort of mistake!"

Here we go, sighed Gemma as she rested her head in one hand. As she
tapped her fingers on the surface of her desk blotter, Gemma came to
the dawning realisation that she had finally had enough. Picking up
her pen she tapped the name plate on her desk that read 'Miss Layton'.

"Miss Layton..." said Dean as she moved towards a seat facing the
desk. Smoothing down her short skirt, she sat down on her silicone
enhanced bottom and wriggled until she was comfortable.

"What now?" Gemma regarded her boss with a sense of irritation. To
be honest she couldn't conceive of him as her boss any more. Deanna
looked every inch the airhead bimbo secretary. And in some ways she
seemed to suit the role. After all, Gemma knew perfectly well that
Dean Prentice had been a disastrous Managing Director. He had almost
single-handedly driven a once thriving and successful company to the
brink of collapse. It was obvious to Gemma that the company was
actually running smoother now that Dean Prentice was out of the
picture. It was also obvious to her that thousands of men and women
depended on their jobs with Prentice Industries for their livelihood.
Mortgages, bills, the upkeep of children, all these things had
recently teetered on the brink of disaster. If Prentice Industries
collapsed it wouldn't just impact Dean Prentice's stock portfolio, it
would also destroy the lives of many thousands of good people, who
needed the job security during the recession. The fact was, Dean
Prentice as Managing Director was a risk to every man and woman, who
worked for him. Putting it like that, it was difficult not to think
along certain obvious lines.

"Kissy has hired me as a junior secretary! She has me typing on the
main floor and making coffee." Deanna pouted as she leaned forward in
her seat, bottom lifting slightly, as she put her weight on the toes
of her shoes.

'And it keeps you where you can't do any harm to your company,'
thought Gemma to herself. "Are you saying you don't know how to type
or make coffee? I do hope Kissy hasn't placed you in a job you're not
qualified for?"

"What? No. I mean..."

"What you mean is you're a stupid little bimbo, who can't go three
hours without making a fuss. How am I supposed to get anything done
when you keep interrupting me?" Gemma tapped a few keys on her Mac
keyboard and checked her Hotmail account. She was waiting for a reply
to a personal e-mail she had sent earlier in the day. It was in
relation to the matter at hand, concerning the former Mr Dean
Prentice.

"You don't understand! Kissy spanked me this morning! She doesn't
like me." Deanna rubbed her tightly skirted rump. It still felt sore.

"Did she now?" Kissy was obviously a perceptive girl and a good
judge of character, thought Gemma. If only Dean Prentice had been
spanked a little more often when he was pretending to be a man, then
perhaps it wouldn't be quite so necessary now.

"Yes. And you have to put a stop to it, Miss Layton. She says my
deportment isn't up to the standards she expects in the office. She
says she'll spank me until I learn to walk better. There's nothing
wrong with the way I walk! I use both feet, for God's sake. You have
to do something!"

"Well, she is technically in charge of the secretarial desks. But
you're right, we can't have you being spanked every morning. That
really won't do."

At last. Deanna sighed with relief. At last his dumb bitch of a
secretary realised that this sort of treatment couldn't be condoned.
At long last he had got it through her pretty head that she needed to
rescue him.

"It would cause a scene and disrupt work for ten minutes at least.
No, we can't have that. There's only one way to put a stop to it,"
mused Gemma as she rose from her chair. Now Deanna smiled. Revenge
would be so sweet. Kissy would be summoned into Gemma's office and
given a serious reprimand. Deanna would enjoy every moment of it. She
wasn't sure whether she wanted Gemma to dismiss Kissy afterwards, or
simply demote her to some very junior role. Both punishments had
their various merits.

"The first thing you're doing wrong, Deanna, is you walk too
quickly. Stand up please."

What? Deanna blinked and glanced back towards the door. Wasn't Gemma
going to buzz Kissy in from her desk? Deanna wanted that damn Spanish
girl to take her punishment in front of her. Kissy had been a real
bitch at school and now she was being a bitch here too. Why on earth
had Gemma given her the top secretarial job?

"Now, first things first. Let's practice your posture in your four
inch heels. Throw your shoulders back and push your pelvis slightly
forward. That gives you a good starting point before you take your
first step."

"Miss Layton, what are you doing?" Deanna felt Gemma's hands pose
his body.

"Teaching you how to walk better so that Kissy doesn't have to spank
you any more, silly. That is why you came here, right?"

"No, I mean, what I meant was..."

"I know exactly what you meant. I read all about it in a book
yesterday: 'How to feminise your man and make him beg for more.'
$14.99 from Amazon. I love the fact they don't charge for postage. I
understand what you're looking for now, Deanna. I'm sorry that it
took me so long to realise."

"No, wait, that's not..."

"Now, when you take your first step in heels, what you need to do is
place the ball of your foot down first. Don't make the mistake of
trying to lead with your heel! What a disaster that would be.
Balancing your weight on the ball of the foot ensures an elegant
stride. It's like walking on your tippy-toes. Much better than
clunking around on your heels like a mule. Take a couple of practice
steps like that."

"Please, Miss Layton!"

"I can spank you too, you know?"

Deanna took a couple of practice steps, placing her weight down on
the balls of her feet first. It felt strange to walk that way.

"Now the other thing you're doing wrong is just striding forward
like you're in charge of the place, when really you'd struggle with
changing the coffee beans in an espresso machine. You should just
place one foot literally in front of the other. That's right - heel
to toe, and toes must always face forward! So now, you're walking
along an imaginary line, a bit like a tightrope walker. And look, see
how walking like that makes your hips rotate."

It was true. With each step Deanna now took, her body swung from
side to side. Only her feet kept the discipline of a perfect straight
line.

"Now you see you're taking short steps, but there's a trick so that
you can disguise that. Lift your legs like a graceful pony would.
Don't just drag your feet along the ground - lift each foot a good
distance with a slight bend to the knee. Then place it down just in
front of the foot that is supporting your weight. Look straight ahead
- never look down! Try focussing on an object or person in the
direction you're walking. But do keep your chin down a little and
your eyes up. Never swing your upper arms - just let your lower arms
sway a little. There - that's so much better, Deanna. What else?
Fingers... sooo important for a girl. See how yours look while you're
walking. You're naturally curling your fingers. That's such a no-no.
Let them hang straight down. Sometimes shaking your hands out will
help your fingers relax and look so pretty when you do it."

Deanna whimpered softly as she followed Gemma's instructions.

"Now practice everything together, up and down my office floor five
times." Gemma watched carefully as Deanna swished across the room,
head up, hips swinging in time to each small step she took.

"Much better. Much better, Deanna. I don't think anyone's going to
be spanked for walking sloppily from now on, are they?"

"But, Miss Layton..."

"Hush." Gemma picked out a book from her wooden book case and opened
it to chapter seven. "Since you're here, Deanna, there's something
I've been meaning to say to you."

Deanna could see the cover of the book as it flopped open from a
broken, heavily creased spine. It was a paperback entitled
"Sissification for Beginners", a title which did not bode well.

"Miss Layton..."

"It's amazing what you can learn from books, Deanna. They really are
repositories for knowledge. Take this one for example. Chapter seven -
if I hadn't read it I would have overlooked a crucial aspect of your
disguise." Gemma ran her finger across a couple of paragraphs that
she had highlighted with a marker pen. "I'm glad I spotted this small
but important detail before the other girls in the office did. They
would have got very suspicious."

"Miss Layton, please, about Kissy..." Why didn't she listen? Deanna
flapped her hands at the wrists, impatient to get this over with.

"Please do not interrupt me, Deanna. It's one of your more
unappealing habits. Now, since you're going to be a girl for the
foreseeable future, we're going to have to face some hard facts.
Girls have periods. If you don't have periods too, the other
secretaries are going to suspect something is wrong. Do you know what
the symptoms of periods are? Are you familiar with the biology of the
female menstrual cycle?"

"Not really..." Deanna knew that they involved women being grumpy
and unavailable for sex, which is really all Dean Prentice ever
needed to know about the subject.

"Well, we're talking about significant menstrual pain, abdominal
pain, migraine headaches, depression, emotional sensitivity, feeling
bloated, changes in sex drive and nausea. Then there are other
problems like breast swelling and discomfort caused by premenstrual
water retention. Binge eating occurs in a minority of menstruating
women, leading to fluctuations in weight. Then of course there's the
bleeding, lasting between two to seven days."

"But I'm not a woman. That's not going to happen to me," said Deanna.

"Well it will, provided you take these tablets once a week." Gemma
produced a small bottle of tablets and placed it on the edge of her
desk. "Atromicycline, Deanna, was supposed to be a new wonder drug
designed to reduce problems with menstrual flow. Prentice Industries
have been working on it for sixteen months now. Sadly the trial
samples proved flawed as they actually made menstrual symptoms worse.
According to the test paper, the tablets would induce symptoms in a
man similar to a woman's menstrual cycle. The tablets never made it
onto the market, obviously, but we still have boxes of the first
batch in storage. Isn't that wonderful? Provided you take the
tablets, all the other girls will see you suffer just like they do."

"But I don't want to suffer! Miss Layton, can't I just pretend?"

"Of course not. I really don't think you're being fair here, Deanna.
In fact you're being very selfish. How dare you expect all the other
girls to suffer alone? You're in the typing pool now. I'm a firm
believer in team bonding and ensuring members of staff all experience
the same things in the work place. Take two tablets." Gemma opened
the cap and dropped two of the pills onto the palm of her left hand.
"Come on. I haven't got all day."

"No!" Deanna stamped her foot. "I won't. I don't want to suffer from
period cramps and headaches and feeling bloated. This is a step too
far."

"Is it? Well, I suppose there is the other option. If you weren't
working in the office, then the other girls wouldn't see you, and
they wouldn't know you're not having a regular period. How about you
just don't work in the office any more?"

Deanna couldn't believe Gemma had just said that. "Seriously? I
could stop wearing this office skirt and blouse?" She looked stunned.

Gemma nodded. "Of course."

"I wouldn't have to sit at a typewriter desk any more?"

"Well, you couldn't really, could you? We couldn't have you meeting
the girls on a regular basis."

"Oh, Miss Layton. That's wonderful news! This has been such an
ordeal. You have no idea. All these long weeks since we first arrived
at the hotel. Thank you. Thank you!"

"Well, it's settled then. Shall we say you begin work as one of the
Portuguese cleaners tomorrow night? The shifts begin at six in the
evening and finish at..."

"What? Wait a minute..."

"Oh, is there a problem?" Gemma juggled the two pills in her left
hand. "You'll be cleaning the offices and toilets throughout the
night, so we should be able to avoid any awkward questions from the
office girls. It's unlikely any of them will see you, unless you're
still working when they come in in the morning. It's a long shift,
mind, and Mrs Habberfast, the overseer, is a stickler for perfection.
I hear she wears a white cotton glove on her right hand, and if
there's any trace of dirt on it when she runs her index finger along
a freshly cleaned surface..."

"I'd rather be an office girl than a cleaner, Miss Layton!"

"Would you?" Gemma paused to think about this for a minute. "Well,
yes, I suppose you would. It's really not a pleasant job cleaning the
toilets. Cleaners always go home smelling of bleach for hours
afterwards. And it's such gruelling work, especially using just an
old toothbrush."

"Toothbrush?"

"Mmm. Apparently if a girl annoys Mrs Habberfast, she makes the girl
clean the toilets with an old tooth brush. It takes hours apparently.
And woe betide a girl who is still furiously scrubbing away on her
knees when the office opens for business at eight in the morning.
It's really not good for your knees."

"Please let me stay in the typing pool! Please."

"Well, I don't know, Deanna." Gemma continued to juggle the pills.
"I think a job in the office is more suited to girls who menstruate,
don't you?"

Close to crying again, Deanna reached out, took the pills from Miss
Layton's hand, and popped them into her mouth. She made a swallowing
motion and sniffed back a tear.

"Open wide," said Gemma, who was wise enough to check for herself.
She carefully examined the inside of Deanna's mouth until she was
completely satisfied. "Good. You should experience your first
symptoms in just over 24 hours. You'll be needing these of course..."
Gemma produced a pack of tampons - long cylinders of rayon/cotton
blends - and a stiff applicator designed specifically for men.
"Insert these each morning and you shouldn't have any stains
spreading on the back of your skirt. But do check for any trace of
leakage throughout the day. Sometimes a girl's flow may be heavier
than normal. Check, check and always check again."

Deanna looked very miserable as she took the packet.

"That will be all, Deanna. I've got a meeting in ten minutes time
and I need to prepare."

As Deanna left, still feeling very frustrated, Gemma buzzed Kissy at
the outer desk and said, "I don't want Deanna interrupting me again
in future. She really has to learn to look after herself. Next time
send her away with a sound spanking if you feel it's appropriate."

"Yes, Miss Layton," said Kissy with a sense of smug satisfaction,
already flexing her fingers.


                                (Six)

The junior secretaries enjoyed a 15 minute coffee break at 11.00 AM
each morning. It was a time to down pens, stretch cramped legs and
catch up with all the gossip from the night before in the alcove room
that housed the hot drinks vending machine. Deanna felt out of place
as a gaggle of excited girls set about discussing all the latest
celebrity news in a glossy magazine that was being passed around.
Only Kissy was absent, for Kissy was entitled to enjoy coffee at her
desk, in a cup and saucer no less - something that was considered out
of bounds for junior girls. Kissy's coffee was freshly ground and
from the same espresso machine that Gemma Layton drank from.

"Heels killing you?" asked Amanda as she sat down next to Deanna
with her plastic cup of brown liquid that shared certain similarities
with instant coffee. Deanna was fidgeting with the back of her right
shoe, pulling the leather away from her heel. She nodded in answer to
the question.

"They're new, and tight. I think I've rubbed some skin from the back
of my heel."

"You'll need a sticking plaster then." Amanda sipped her drink and
bit a small piece off the edge of her biscuit. It was a dainty little
bite, the kind that Kissy encouraged in the office. Smart efficient
girls didn't gobble biscuits, she had said at the first coffee
morning meeting. In fact, office rule 17 clearly stated no gobbling
of biscuits. A biscuit should last as long as the cup of coffee, if
not longer. "So, how are you getting on?"

"Not well." Deanna looked at the girl from under the line of her
platinum blonde fringe. "I keep making so many typing mistakes. It's
these fingernails..." she held up the long nails, painted a glossy
pink. "It's not possible to type with nails like this."

"You'll learn." Pause. "We all know about Debbie." Amanda nibbled
another fragment of biscuit and gazed hard at Deanna.

"They made a mistake... I ticked the option to share the detention,
but Nurse Holloway made a mistake!"

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Amanda kicked Deanna under the table.
"Everyone knows what you did. Believe me, you don't have a single
friend in the secretarial pool."

"No, please, it's not like that!"

"You'd better watch yourself, Deanna. Nobody here likes you. Debbie
had a lot of friends." As Amanda said that, one of the other office
girls, Jenny, 'accidentally' bumped into Deanna's chair and suddenly
spilled half a cup of coffee over Deanna's perfect white blouse.

"Ooops. Sorry!" said Jenny in a voice that made it clear she was
anything but.

"My blouse!" Deanna jumped to her feet. As she did, a hand sneaked
out from right of her and pinched her arm hard enough to draw a
bruise. "Ow!" Deanna spun round, clutching her arm, only to see three
office girls standing very close together, trying hard to look
innocent, stifling giggles. Having turned round, Deanna felt another
hard pinch against her left buttock. "Ow!" She snapped back round,
tottering slightly on her heels.

"See how it is," said Amanda as she took another nibble of her
biscuit. "You've made a bad name for yourself. We're not going to
forget that in a hurry, missy."

Deanna was in tears as she hurried back to her desk, mindful of the
glares and frowns from the other secretaries. They were all being so
horrible! Deanna pulled a pink tissue from a box that sat beside her
typewriter and dabbed at her moist eyes. Why was she crying so much
these days? It had begun at that wretched school. Eight days in and
Deanna had found herself becoming far more sensitive to being upset.
Little things that Dean Prentice would have shrugged off as being
unimportant would now make her feel emotional. But she didn't
understand why. She was still trying to figure it out as she clicked
open her compact and began to re-apply her lip gloss. It was
infuriating the way she couldn't help licking her lips on a regular
basis. She was practically ingesting tubes of the lip gloss every
week, and it wasn't cheap. Kissy insisted on the brand as standard in
the office, and it was costing Deanna twenty dollars a tube. And then
there was the cost of the regular body sugar waxings and the trips to
the hair salon to have her roots dyed as soon as they began to show.
Why was she feeling so emotional all the time? Just yesterday she'd
had to rush to a toilet cubicle and have a weep after Kissy had told
her off in front of all the other secretaries. She had made three
typing errors on a letter and her quality score for that day was 43%
which wasn't very good at all. There - now her lips looked nice and
shiny again. It was important to have pretty lips. In English class
at the school, Deanna had been forced to write an essay on the
importance of pretty lips.


                               (Seven)

Charlotte had the door to her office open while she sat gazing out
at the office floor. She was bored with a capital B. Scattered on her
desk were several glossy brochures for exclusive and reassuringly
expensive holidays to premium resorts in Dubai and Bali. She could be
out there now, basking in the glorious sunshine, spending Dean
Prentice's inheritance, but instead this dreary Due Diligence dragged
on and on and on and... just where was her philandering and
untrustworthy husband exactly? Every time she asked Gemma she got a
vague response about skiing trips or business trips or visiting sick
relatives. As she pondered the gross unfairness of life, her
attention was drawn to the sight of an office girl being led away by
that mad Russian woman, Elizabeta.

"My office, now!" barked Mr Grimm's Personal Assistant. "Five
mistakes in typing already today! Seven yesterday. Stupid girl. How
many is that?"

"Fifteen?" sobbed Deanna as she trembled in plain view of all the
other secretaries.

"Close enough. Fifteen stripes from good Russian leather riding
crop! As used by Rasputin. Teach you to pay attention to typing like
pay attention to pretty nails."

Charlotte's heart suddenly skipped a beat. Elizabeta was going to
beat one of the office girls! Just the thought of that impending
punishment sent a shiver of pleasure through her body. She was on her
feet in seconds and hurrying through the secretarial floor.

"Elizabeta!" Charlotte skidded to a halt just as the Russian woman
was about to open the door to her own office.

"Spoilt Rich girl? What?"

"My name's Charlotte Prentice, actually. Did I hear you say you were
going to beat this secretary?"

"Yes. Performance poor. Not meet standards essential to glorious
Layton Solutions Five Year Plan. Smacking of ass to commence shortly."

"Oh." Charlotte could feel herself go all weak at the knees. "I'd
like to watch."

"Watch?" Elizabeta studied Mrs Prentice carefully.

"Yes. I am an Executive Director after all. I think that means I'm
entitled to..."

"You beat office slut. I watch." Elizabeta swung open the door and
pushed a terrified Deanna into her office space.

"Me?" Charlotte could hardly believe she had heard that correctly.
If it was good to watch, how much better would it be to actually
conduct the beating? 'Oh, heavenly gates, feel free to open now,' she
thought to herself.

It was a Spartan room, was Elizabeta's office, so long as you
disregarded the leopard and panther skins hanging from the walls,
alongside a pair of crossed Zulu spears. In between them was a framed
black and white photograph showing a semi-naked Elizabeta with
gleaming oiled skin, her hair coiled into a long silky braid,
brandishing a bloody spear as she stood in an African jungle clearing
with one foot resting on a recently impaled and now deceased panther.
Kneeling beside her in the photograph, with a crude iron collar
hammered around his neck, and from it a length of heavy iron chain
looping down to the ground and then up into Elizabeta's left hand,
and a fresh panther brand burned into his left buttock, was a naked
man holding a bronze cup of wine for her to drink. His head was bowed
low and there were vivid whip marks across his back.

"A good holiday," said Elizabeta as she caught sight of Charlotte
staring at the photo. "I also wrestle twenty foot African Rock python
to ground and kill with bare teeth and nails, but British Airways not
allow me bring on plane. I tell them it dead, but still they insist."

"Oh."

"Ridiculous really. In glorious Soviet Union never problem in taking
dead twenty foot python on plane, provided you have second seat
ticket. Do you hunt?"

"Foxes. Once. On holiday in England with Dean." Charlotte stared at
the man in the picture. He seemed to have some sort of metal thing
locked around his genitals but it was hard to make out the details.

"Not same thing." Elizabeta walked both women towards a pair of
wooden contraptions that occupied the far side of her office space.
It was a matching set of two replica Mediaeval stocks with spaces for
a person's neck and wrists. Once locked in place, a man or woman
would be helpless, with their buttocks raised and exposed in plain
view.

"Please, no, I'll improve my typing. I will, I promise!" Deanna
never meant anything quite as much as she meant that now.

"Quiet. Why soft western girl talk so much? Always talk, talk, talk
like bright plumed parrot." Elizabeta lifted a supple riding crop
from a hook beside the coat rack. She gave it a few practice swings
before forcing Deanna to bend over and place her neck and wrists in
the spaces provided. The upper half of the stocks was mounted on
steel hinges. It swung down smoothly with a series of double clicks
as the snap locks engaged automatically. Wriggling and squirming was
all Deanna could do now. "Note how soft bottom revealed as girl
forced to bend over in stock." Elizabeta tapped Deanna's bottom with
the tip of her riding crop.

"Oh yes." Charlotte felt positively giddy at the prospect. "Could
I..." she pointed at the hem of Deanna's skirt which of course had to
be lifted before the beating could begin.

"Yes. And pull down pretty underwear. Must always whip bare ass."

"Of course." Charlotte eagerly hiked Deanna's skirt up and pulled
the silk panties down her legs. Oh, but this was going to be so good.
She'd whip Deanna fifteen times and then excuse herself to hurry into
a toilet cubicle and bring herself to the peak of a glorious orgasm.
Raising the crop, Charlotte took a moment to savour the exquisite
sensation of seeing that helpless bottom thrust out before her. So
smooth and unmarked. Well, that was about to change!

Crack!

But there was something wrong. Charlotte lashed out with the crop at
Deanna's bottom, slicing stripe after red stripe across the pale
skin, but where was that warm happy feeling between her thighs? Back
in the hotel she had been squirming with arousal as she had watched
the maid being beaten. If anything she should be even more aroused
now that she was actually wielding the stick. Charlotte gazed down at
the pink bottom with its skirt rolled up, exposing those lovely and
vulnerable cheeks. Nothing. Only the barest of tingles. She was back
to the frigid feeling she endured when Dean, her husband, insisted on
penetrating her. Which he did with monotonous regularity if she
didn't have a ready excuse to hand.

"Something is wrong?" Elizabeta noticed Charlotte's hesitation after
the first five lashes. "You pause. Surely arm not tired?"

"No... it's just..." Charlotte stamped her right foot in frustration
as the stupid office girl blubbered and cried. "Oh, this is so
frustrating!" She sliced a sixth stripe across the exposed bottom,
but again it left her with nothing but a faint tingle.

Deanna's bottom felt like it was on fire. Each blow had been harder
than the last in response to Charlotte's frustration at not finding
any sexual excitement from the beating. Deanna wriggled and squirmed,
as wet salty tears streaked her mascara. How could his wife do this!
Okay, so Charlotte didn't know who Deanna really was, but even so.

"You not enjoy spanking office slut?" Asked Elizabeta as she crossed
the deep pile carpet on her bondage stiletto shoes. "It not make you
hot between legs?"

How did she know? Charlotte looked up surprised. "Well..."

"It obvious why you ask to do beating." Elizabeta took the crop from
Charlotte's hand. "Of course understand. I enjoy beating girls too.
Make strong Russian woman hot for much licking and kissing after. But
you not enjoy after all?"

"I don't understand why not." Charlotte stood there, several inches
shorter than the tall Russian PA. "Back in the hotel I watched a maid
being beaten and I got so turned on... so unbelievably wet between my
legs... and now here, I'm getting nothing. I should be squirming with
arousal by now."

"Hmm. I think see problem." Elizabeta smiled like a salivating
leopard. "You were aroused by sight of maid beaten. But here when you
beat office girl, you feel nothing."

"Oh. I see... you think it was the maid's uniform? Perhaps if we
dress her up in a maid's uniform and then I beat her again..."

"No, no, no... silly girl." Elizabeta put her arm round Charlotte's
shoulders. "Solution much simpler, much more obvious."

"Well then, what is it?"

Elizabeta didn't say anything by way of reply. Instead, she turned
Charlotte round until she was facing the second set of stocks, open
as the first set had been before Deanna had been locked in place.
With a sudden and unexpected push, Elizabeta forced Charlotte's head
and hands into the stocks. Before the girl could push back, Elizabeta
swung the wooden top down, trapping Charlotte's wrists and neck in
place. With a loud click, the snap locks engaged, trapping Mrs
Prentice.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Screamed the outraged Mrs Prentice.
"Let me go!"

"Explaining why beating office slut not make you happy." Now
Elizabeta took hold of Charlotte's designer slacks and pulled them
violently down her legs until the silk weave fabric was gathered,
bunched up around the woman's ankles.

"How dare you!" Charlotte opened her mouth to scream for help, but
before she could, Elizabeta picked up a ball gag from a nearby shelf
and quickly stuffed it into Mrs Prentice's mouth. With experience
born of constant practice, she buckled the sturdy leather straps
around the back of Charlotte's head. Under the slacks Charlotte wore
a pair of delicate pink silk panties. Elizabeta cut the underwear
apart with a pair of nail scissors, exposing the girl's bottom. Now
both husband and wife stood bent over, bottoms exposed, in
Elizabeta's stocks.

"Solution simple. You aroused in hotel not by thought of beating
maid, but by thought of being maid being beaten. That why giving
beating no good. You secretly desire to be beaten."

Charlotte's response was a series of muffled protests and squeals
that barely registered through the ball gag. She kicked back with her
feet to the extent she was able to with her slacks wrapped around her
ankles. Elizabeta permitted Mrs Prentice to struggle in her
restraints for two minutes. It was the optimum time to impress on
someone how helpless they were. Then, when the frantic wriggling
briefly subsided, Elizabeta drew the length of the riding crop softly
between Charlotte's inner thighs, teasing her vagina and then
stroking her soft bottom with it. All of a sudden Charlotte felt a
rush of heat between her legs. She stiffened in the restraints,
overcome by a flush of instant arousal, of the kind she only ever
felt before by the time she was on page seven of a chapter, in bed
with Raoul. Now a soft whimper sounded through the tight gag.

"See? You aroused in hotel by thought of being maid being beaten.
You did not know?"

Charlotte's cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. This couldn't be
happening, could it? She squirmed again in the stocks as the softness
of the riding crop leather brushed back and forth between her
trembling thighs. After a few minutes of this teasing she felt wet
and ready to be penetrated. This had never happened before. But
frustratingly she couldn't do anything about it. With her wrists
tightly secured, there was no way she could touch herself between her
thighs.

"No... you did not know until now." Elizabeta stalked around the
helpless and bound Mrs Prentice. "All these weeks thinking excitement
from being dominant. You not dominant." She smiled again, very
pleased with this revelation.

Deanna risked a glance to her side as Dean's wife wriggled again,
but this time in miserable frustration. Charlotte was hot and ready
for sex without a book the first time in living memory. She didn't
need to be beaten of course. Just the feeling of being made helpless
and the realistic threat of punishment was enough to make her juices
flow. Oh, but she needed a thick, hard cock right here and right now.
This was intolerable! The gag made it impossible to order Elizabeta
to release her. But surely the Russian woman could see that she
wanted out?

"So, let us proceed. First beating should be six stripes. We build
up from there."

No! Charlotte struggled hard again. No! She didn't want this. She
didn't need this! All she needed was the sensation of being helpless:
just the feeling that any moment now she might actually be beaten
like some lowly maid, but no more than that. Surely Elizabeta wasn't
actually going to use the riding crop on her... She was an Executive
Director of the company after all! She was rich, cosseted, from a
family of excellent breeding. Why, if she had only been born in
England, she would probably have been traditional blue blood. It was
unthinkable!

"Mmmffff!" She desperately tried to scream 'enough - just let me go
now!' but she couldn't form a single word. The gag was made of black
rubber with a stainless steel bit through the middle of the ball, to
which supple leather straps were threaded and secured. It forced her
mouth open, it pressed down on her tongue and against her teeth. It
tasted like the rubber sole of a shoe. "Frrrnnnmmmmth!"

"What is that?" Elizabeta looked down at her helpless victim. "Are
you feel sharp thrill between silk thighs now? Good. Very good. Now
know what you need."

The first slash of the riding crop felt like the jolt of an electric
current. Spoilt, rich and bored, Charlotte may have been, but all
that was forgotten as she jerked hard against the wooden stock. A
second crack completed a cross of two perfectly formed stripes on her
buttocks, and again the little rich girl mewled and spluttered
through her gag. She felt totally helpless now - absolutely at the
mercy of this mad Russian, and the effect on her libido was
staggering. Moisture dripped slowly down the inside of her thighs as
she felt overwhelmed by the sheer intoxication of helpless
submission. Nothing had ever made her feel like this before, but then
nothing had ever been forced on her before. But the pain was deeply
unpleasant. A third stripe and now a fourth, both delivered on the
sides of her thighs. Charlotte writhed in an intoxicating mix of
pleasure and pain, desperate to feel something stiff thrusting
between her legs. But there was only the riding crop, striking twice
more, just where the flesh of her peach like bottom gave way to the
surface of her thighs. Tears rolled down her face, sticking wet hair
to her nose and cheeks. And then it was over, but the sheer sexual
need remained. She wanted nothing more than to be fucked now. It
wouldn't take much - just a minute or two of thrusting, and then she
would come like a river crashing over rocks towards the sea. Just a
couple of minutes.

Nothing. Elizabeta stepped away and went to pour herself a drink.
Whimpering and begging through her gag, now wet and dripping with
saliva, Charlotte furiously rubbed her thighs together to try and
stimulate some measure of an orgasm, but it wasn't nearly enough. She
needed a cock. Or a dildo. Anything that was big and stiff. As the
minutes stretched by, and no relief came, Charlotte realised with a
mounting sense of horror that her arousal was beginning to subside.
If she wasn't fucked now the moment would soon pass, and then what?
Frustration. Frustration made worse by knowing that she had been so
close. So very close.

Elizabeta left Charlotte in the stocks for a good ten minutes, by
which time the ache between her thighs had receded.

"Next time perhaps," said Elizabeta as she released the snap locks.
"When you next here I fuck you hard with black leather strap on after
whipping on stocks." She helped Charlotte out of the device and
watched as she stood there trembling, her crumpled black silk weave
slacks still tangled around her ankles.

"Mmmfff!" Charlotte reached for the ball gag, but a quick slap with
the riding crop on her bare thighs convinced her to behave.
"Uuuoowwwww!"

"No touch! Stand still and quiet!" Now Elizabeta began to release
the snap locks on the first set of stocks, freeing a cramped and
miserable looking Deanna from her own confinement. Only when Deanna
had pulled the hem of her skirt back down around her thighs and
adjusted the way the fabric clung to her legs, did Elizabeta unfasten
the supple leather straps of Charlotte's ball gag. The rich, spoilt
Mrs Prentice spluttered and drew in deep lungfuls of air once her
mouth was free of the rubber ball. She could still taste it of
course.

"When next come here you will wear short skirt," said Elizabeta.

"What?"

"When next you come and beg strong Russian women to spank you and
fuck you, you wear short skirt like office slut do."

"I will do no such thing!" Charlotte crouched on the balls of her
feet as she quickly drew her slacks back up around her waist and
belted them tightly.

"You will. Matter of days before need to come from much fucking
become too great to ignore. Then rich girl come begging. You see."

"Oh! This is intolerable!" Charlotte gazed around the office,
crossed her arms over her chest, fixed her eyes on the hated stocks
and tried to ignore the painful burning sensation on her bottom.
There was no way she would ever allow herself to be put in such a
situation again. Absolutely not! There was the simple matter of
dignity at stake. She could do without sexual relief. It was only 10
days until Raoul was due back from holiday. She could cope for 10
days, couldn't she?

"And high heels. Black. Shiny. Skirt will not be longer than skirt
worn by office girl." Elizabeta pointed at Deanna's scandalously
short hem line that barely covered her stocking tops. "I call Girl in
to compare skirts. If yours longer, you spend three hours in stocks
without relief."

"If you think I'm going to come here again..."

"Oh you so will!" Said Deanna with a smile. For once someone else
was coming off worse than she. "I bet you will!" She flapped her
hands at the sides of her waist in girlish excitement. "I saw the way
you were moaning into your gag, desperate to be touched between your
legs!"

"Shut up! This is all your fault," said Charlotte to Deanna as she
opened her mirrored compact to fix her smudged mascara. Her face was
a frightful mess from all the blubbering while she had been locked in
the stocks. Curiously, Charlotte did not recognise Deanna's voice.

"My fault?!" Deanna too had clicked open her pink compact and was
repairing her own tear stained mascara, squinting into the mirror as
she applied the small sticky make up brush around her eyes.

"Yes, your fault - slut!" Charlotte was angry, and if she couldn't
take out her anger on the scary Elizabeta, she'd deflect her insults
to the next available target.

"Pot-calling-kettle-black alert!" Deanna snapped back as she fluffed
her hair up with her fingers and smoothed the straight fringe down
above her eyes. "I saw you squirming and moaning with excitement in
the stocks. Slut, right back at you, slut!"

Charlotte snapped her compact closed and rounded on Deanna. "At
least I'm an important Executive Director and not just some junior
secretary! Slut!" With a click she opened the compact again to repair
her foundation.

Deanna now stood virtually nose to nose with her unsuspecting wife.
If only she knew! "Oh, shut up yourself. Just because you're a
director doesn't mean you're any better than I!"

"Really? Then tell me what five multiplied by seven is?"

"Twenty three!"

"Ha!" Charlotte crossed her arms in triumph.

"No, wait... forty six? Um..." Deanna was suddenly all confused as
she tried to remember her maths class. Perhaps if she used her
fingers... In frustration she stamped her foot petulantly and
resorted to checking her make up in her pink compact instead. Numbers
were difficult when you had to multiply them together on the spot.
Anyone could have gotten a sum like that wrong. It wasn't fair! At
least she could console herself with make up. "Yes, well at least I'm
not going to come crawling back here begging to be spanked, just
because it makes me all hot and wet between my legs! Slut!"

"I am so not going to do that! Slut! Slut!" Now Charlotte pushed
Deanna with both hands. The girl tottered back on her heels for a
moment before regaining her balance.

"Hey! Don't you push me!" Deanna quickly pushed Charlotte back.
"Slut! Slut! Slut!"

 "Noisy girls be quiet now, or spend two hours in stocks together
again!" Elizabeta strode forward on her spiked leather bondage heels
and gave each quivering bottom a sharp smack with the riding crop
before Charlotte and Deanna could start slapping their hands at one
another. Both girls jumped and quickly rubbed their sore bottoms in
unison. They continued to scowl at one another but were too scared to
say another word.