Chapter three: Just the beginning
Lisa had mixed feeling about her next session with Joan. She
almost didn't want to tell Joan about her feelings. Joan seemed
to understand too much, and Lisa's private thoughts seemed too
private even for her therapist.
"No skirt today?" was the first question Joan asked.
"Um, no, but I did what you said. On Wednesday."
"And how did that go."
Lisa hesitated. "Well, Joan, 4 inches was a lot. That skirt was
really too short for work. I don't think I should do that again."
"Maybe once is enough," said Joan, "but tell me how you felt."
"Well, embarrassed, I guess."
"And . . .?"
Lisa didn't know what to say. She could not admit the pleasure it
gave her. She had just done it because Joan dared her, right?
"Well, you wondered if I could do it, and I did. I promised to do
whatever anyone said, and I did."
"Did someone tell you to do something?"
"Well, yes. Steve, the new, young hire, asked me to wear the
skirt again next Wednesday. So I will."
Joan smiled. "You don't really have to, Lisa. If you really felt
embarrassed . . . "
I did, but it felt good, she thought. "No, I can't back out now.
That was the point. I will wear it again."
Joan clearly sensed something, and seemed to drop the subject.
"Two weeks ago we talked about how stressful you feel when an
employee disappoints you . . ."
And then the session with Joan turned back to normal. Lisa later
thought: thank you Joan. I still need your help, but you revealed
my need to feel vulnerable at the hands of others. You showed me,
but did not abuse it.
Next Wednesday. Skirt day. Lisa, hair wet from her shower, looks
at the skirt, hanging in her closet. It's so short, she thinks
again. She'll be more naked if she doesn't go with bare legs, she
thinks. She'll buy some pantyhose. Just like pants, they will
be, and she will still be obeying by wearing the skirt. Of
course, she doesn't own any. She can be a little late for work.
She stops by a drugstore, on the way to work. She buys a few
pairs of dark pantyhose. She finds a restroom, removes the
packaging, and pulls them on to her legs. Much better, she
thinks. Just like pants. Just tighter, and more transparent . .
. maybe not really like pants at all.
The subway is packed this morning, probably because she's a little
later than usual. The crowd in the train is so thick she cannot
turn around. She keeps one hand on her purse and the other on the
metal bar above her head. She knows she needs to worry about
pickpockets in crowds this thick.
Suddenly, between stops, she feels a hand on her inner leg,
between her knees. She cranks her head around to see who it is,
but this causes the hand to disappear, and all the passenger faces
look the same: innocent, normal, waiting for the train to get to
the next stop. She looks forward again, and the hand appears
again. It must be someone sitting, for the hand to be that low,
she realizes. There are really only two possibilities, then. It
was either that Hispanic guy, or the other guy I didn't get a good
look at.
I am wearing the skirt. I will obey. I will let him touch me.
This time, she does not try to look back.
The hand feels good rubbing against the nylon on her legs.
Without much friction, it wanders freely over her knees. Lisa is
nervous, but the hand feels good. She realizes she doesn't know
whose it is. Someone has no idea who she is: he just knows she
has pretty legs, and they are shown off by this skirt. Perhaps he
couldn't resist. Or maybe, somehow he knows what the skirt means?
Lisa realizes she is getting warm, especially at her crotch. The
combination of panties, pantyhose, and skirt keeps all that warmth
and moisture in. And that hand in starting to move upwards - it
is now caressing her inner thigh, at the hem of her skirt. It
does not have much higher to go. It seems to be hesitant, though.
Is it afraid of getting caught? She must obey. She will let it
go as high as it has confidence to go. She realizes, in fact,
that she wants it to go. She wants to feel it against her crotch,
she wants it to rub her here on the crowded subway car. She
/needs/ it. As the hand slips under her skirt, she hears herself
give off a quiet moan. The older man standing next to her glances
at her face; she blushes. Nothing going on here, she hopes he
will think. I'm just standing here, not feeling a hand underneath
my skirt. Not feeling it wander higher. No, it has not now
reached the junction of her thighs. I can't feel the hand
squeezing between them. No, sir, I am not spreading my legs ever
so slightly, no, it's not wandering higher still, no OH! That's
not a strangers hand on my panties, applying a massaging pressure
against my OH YES! Just a little more, I need it . . .
But the hand stops when the train reached the next stop, and the
hand is lost in bustle of passengers pushing their way off the
train. Lisa fights her urge to put her own hand there, and give
herself a little more.
When Lisa arrives at work, she realizes her panties are soaked.
She is almost uncomfortable. She heads towards the restroom, but
is stopped as she passes Steve's desk.
"Lisa - you wore it!"
Lisa blushes. She had forgotten why she had worn it. It had been
Steve's orders, she realizes.
"Oh, yes, I guess I did." She doesn't know what to say. She
fears what Steve will ask next. But she cannot leave. She must
obey.
"Listen, Lisa, I'm really amazed that you wore that again for me.
For the past few days your clothes went back to normal - so I
thought I'd never see you like this again."
"Well, Steve, every once in a while I like to dress up a little."
"Every Wednesday, right?"
Was that an order or a joke? Lisa worried for a moment. But it
must be a joke. He can't possibly know that she will obey . . .
even his jokes. /Vulnerable/, Lisa thought. Vulnerable and
alive.
"Lisa?"
Lisa realized she had stopped responding.
"Lisa? I was wondering if maybe you'd like to get some dinner
with me tonight."
There it was. The standard date request. Dinner.
"I don't know, Steve. I'm your boss, technically, and . . ."
"No one has to know. Meet me at Chez Lou's at 7pm. I'll have a
present for you."
That's how the date was made, Lisa remembers as she sits in her
apartment, asking herself whether she will really make the date or
not. She remembers that she was taken aback by his sudden
confidence. Joan claimed she would find this attractive . . . and
she did. Even though Steve was younger, and an employee . . .
anyway, it didn't matter what she thought, because it was a skirt
day, and on skirt days she would obey. It made her feel
vulnerable, and alive, and she would not give it up. She would
obey.
"I'll see you there," she had replied. And she intended to.
It was shortly before her weekly departmental meeting, later that
day, that she realized how warm and squishy she again felt between
her legs. Right before the meeting, she retreated to the ladies
room, pulled down her pantyhose and then removed her panties.
They were sopping wet. She had no desire to put them back on.
She cleaned herself up as best she could, and pulled her pantyhose
back up. They would offer enough decency, she thought.
But as she stood in front of her employees, she could feel that it
was a little breezier under her skirt than normal. The warm
cotton of her panties somehow offered more protection than the
nylon of her pantyhose. Protection from what, she wondered?
Now she has to decide whether or not to put on a clean pair of
panties for her date. Already she feels warm. She knows it is
because of the danger. She knows that Steve's confidence is
increasing, and she knows that she cannot stop obeying now. She
knows that she will do what he says, and all she can do is hope
that he will be a gentleman tonight. What if he isn't?
Needing a little more protection, she finds a pair of modest black
panties in her drawer, puts them on, and heads for the restaurant.
Steve is waiting at a table for two. There is an open bottle of
red wine. There is a small box, wrapped in shiny green paper.
This must be the present he promised. He's trying too hard, she
thinks. He doesn't need to give me a corny present. It is
probably chocolate. Not that she didn't like chocolate. It just
seemed too much like payment.
"You made it," he says, as she sits, briefly showing her
nylon-clad legs as her green skirt rides up, but hiding them under
the tablecloth immediately after.
"Steve," she says, "before this goes further . . . "
Steve pours her a glass of wine.
"Thank you. Now, before this goes further, you should know . . ."
"Lisa, I understand. I'm younger, an employee. This doesn't have
to go any further than you let it."
I have to let it go, Lisa thought. I cannot let you let me feel
safe. But what will people think?
"Let's just not let it get out of hand, okay?"
"Okay. Now, order. They always have good fish here."
By the end of the meal, the wine has left Lisa a bit tipsy. She
eyes the green box. Mmmm . . . chocolate. Steve sees her looking
at it, and hands it to her.
"For you," he says. "But don't open it now; open it when you get
home."
"Awww," she replies, "I can't open it?" She weighs it in her
hand. Too light for chocolate. What could it be?
"Open it later, when you get home. I really hope you like it."
"I'm sure I will," she says. And then she thinks . . . "when I
get home." This means she will be going home. Steve will be a
gentleman, tonight. Oh goodness, she thinks, I /am/ attracted to
him. Or am I attracted to the idea of doing everything he says?
She thanks him for the dinner, and he walks her home. Not so much
as a good night kiss is offered as he says goodnight and leaves
her, present in hand, to return to her bedroom.
What is in the box? She cannot wait to find out. She lies on the
bed with the box and tears off the green wrapper, revealing a
plain white cardboard box. She removes the lid, and unwraps the
white tissue. It is a garment, black. She pulls it out, and
holds it up.
It is a skirt. Black, pleated . . . and short. Maybe only an
inch longer than the one she is wearing, but she is not sure.
There are many pleats, and the skirt sways around as she holds it.
It looks like it is even her size.
In the box, is a note:
Lisa,
Please, please wear it tomorrow so that I know if it fits.
Return it to me if it doesn't.
- Steve
Lisa remembers her promise to herself: when I wear a skirt, I
obey. She looks down at her green skirt, and then the note. If
that little black skirt fits, then I will have to wear it
tomorrow. And then tomorrow I will have to obey as well.
Anxiously, she removes her green skirt and pulls the black one
over hips. It sits a little higher on her waist then the green
one, but it has a little strap that she pulls tight and buttons.
It fits perfectly.
And she was wrong. It is shorter, perhaps an inch shorter than
the green one. And as she poses in the mirror, she twirls, and
the skirt flies up. Those pleats aren't meant to keep it down,
she thinks. And she believes she saw her panties! She twirls
again, and there they are! She can't wear this to work! One
overenthusiastic turn and her employees - and maybe her boss -
will see her underwear! How can she?
But she knows she will. She must.
