Chapter six: Cheryl
When she visits Joan later that afternoon, Lisa has trouble
remembering exactly what happened earlier that day, after Steve
sent her back to her desk. She does remember that Steve's order
not to use the bathroom heightened her urge to do just that, and
her willingness to obey the order provided a continuation of the
arousal that had been increasing in her all morning. After she
got back to her desk, Lisa found it extremely difficult to work.
She continued to be extremely horny for hours - all she could
think about was that hand on the subway, feeling her wetness
through her panties. That hand had felt so warm against her bare
thighs. But more than that - had anyone been watching her? She
could not even remember, even though it had only happened a few
hours before. Someone must have noticed, she thought. She had
probably moaned. She had probably been writhing. She had a
picture of herself in the subway, flushed with excitement, humping
the hand of some unshaven homeless pervert, trying to cum while
mothers hid the eyes of their children on the train. Was I that
bad? Her memories were already blurred by the pressure and the
insistent itch of her crotch.
Add to this the fact that she really, really needed to pee. Her
morning coffee and half a bottle of water were pressing her
bladder, but she was afraid to ask Steve's permission to use the
bathroom. And she needed his permission, she remembers, because
the day was, like the day before, and the day before that, a skirt
day.
She tried her best to ignore her bladder and her morning's
adventures and get some work done. As soon as she started typing
her weekly report, however, her thoughts wandered and her right
hand perpetually drifted to her lap. How easy it was to sneak
that hand under her skirt. How nice that there was nothing but
those thin cotton panties between her hand and the source of her
pleasure. She tried to type with one hand as her other hand
stroked herself beneath her short green skirt.
Suddenly, "Lisa, can I get a copy of the Roberts report from you?"
It was Cheryl. She poked her head into Lisa's open cubicle. Lisa
looked down and realized her skirt was resting far above the tops
of her stockings and her hand was . . . oh my god, did Cheryl see?
"Um, of course, hold on a moment," said Lisa, as she straightened
her skirt as if she had only been innocently scratching her knee.
She dug to the bottom of a stack of folders on her desk and found
the report. Cheryl stood at the cubicle door, silent. Lisa
handed her the report, looking into her eyes to see if there was
any response. Cheryl was silent and stoic. She took the report,
smiled, and then abruptly walked away.
I have /got/ to get my own office soon, Lisa thought. She has
some 10 employees - does that not warrant her an office? But then
she thought: why do I need my own office? So I can masturbate
while I'm supposed to be working? She sat in contemplative
stillness for probably twenty minutes. Did Cheryl see? What did
she think?
Finally she snapped out of it. Oh my god, she thought, I so need
some privacy, a splash of water, and a pee!
She stood up and pulled her skirt down as far as it would go,
which was not very far, she thought. She marched to Steve's
cubicle.
"Steve, may I /please/ use the restroom now?"
"Did you drink the bottle of water I gave you?"
"I drank half of it. If I have any more I'll burst. Please
Steve."
"Stand a little closer."
Lisa approached Steve, who remained seated in his cubicle chair.
She is quite tall and his chair was low, putting his face at the
level of her crotch. His hand reached for her thigh, which he
gently stroked.
"Why do you want to use the restroom now? I was going to play a
little game with you at lunch. All part of your punishment,
remember?"
Lisa shuddered at the feeling of Steve's hand on her thigh. It
was different from the subway hand; that hand was much firmer, and
its anonymity made it seem larger. Steve's hand was gentle,
almost a tickle - and she needed more than a tickle. She looked
at Steve's face; at his large, childish grin, and wondered what
she really felt about this man. He is assertive, but . . .
"Steve, I need to pee. Okay? You said not to go without your
permission, but I have to go, NOW." Steve's hand had now gone
under her skirt, where his fingernail was gently tickling her bare
thigh. He tickled her for a few seconds, as Lisa waited for a
reply, her distraction mounting.
"Okay, boss," said Steve, " . . . but we'll play a little game
right now instead of later." He removed his hand from her skirt
and folded his arms. "That's a nice blouse you're wearing," he
said.
Lisa looked down at her blouse. With the garter and skirt, she
had barely given any thought to her shirt that morning, choosing a
simple cream cotton blouse.
Steve turned away from Lisa and jotted something down on a piece
of paper, which he then folded twice.
"Here's the game: on this page is a number," said Steve. "It is
the number of buttons of your blouse you will have to unbutton in
order to use the bathroom now. If you want to use the bathroom,
you have to tell me a number of buttons. If it is smaller than
the number on this page, then you may /not/ use the bathroom;
rather you will have to wait until after lunch. If it is equal to
or larger than this number, then you have to unbutton the number
of buttons that /you/ say. And the buttons will stay unbuttoned
all day long."
Lisa was confused at first, but then she thought about what number
to guess. She couldn't guess too low; she HAD to get into the
bathroom NOW. She had to guess Steve's number. She looked down
at her blouse. Five buttons showed above her skirt. He wouldn't
ask for all five - that would not pass in the office. Neither
would four. Three might, MIGHT just barely pass for decent.
That's probably his number.
"Three," said Lisa.
"Well, then," said Steve, his grin wider still, "unbutton three
buttons."
Lisa did it, she guessed right! She unbuttoned the buttons; the
first was one she might have unbuttoned on her own when it got too
hot. The second showed a bit of cleavage. The third showed the
middle of her lacy white bra. The thought of her office mates
seeing her underwear unnerved her. I have to leave these open all
day?
"Now," continued Steve, "you may use the restroom, but only to
pee, since, as you said, that's the reason you needed to go. You
may do nothing else. That's an order."
Steve handed her the piece of paper and turned back to his
computer.
Lisa walked down the hall towards the restroom. As she walked,
her blouse strayed open, showing large amounts of her upper chest.
She hoped no one would see her in this state of dress. She felt
so exposed - her legs were on display, her thighs were naked under
her short skirt, her white lacy bra was visible to all - and her
pussy felt like a river with a leaky dam about to burst.
But 10 feet from the bathroom, her boss Jim turned the corner and
spotted her. "Hi, Lisa," he said as he passed, an obvious smirk
on his face. Lisa rushed into the bathroom.
Finally in the privacy of a stall, she lifted her skirt and pulled
her panties down to her stocking tops. (That was easier than
usual, she thinks.) The relief of emptying her over-full bladder
filled her with pleasure, and she almost orgasmed from it.
Almost. As she sat on the stall, feeling relieved, she noted she
was still holding a piece of paper. What's this? She unfolded
it. Scrawled in pencil was a single large number: "1."
Oh, she thought. She looked down at her chest, at her B-cup
breasts behind the lace of her bra. She could have guessed 2. Or
even 1. And then she would not have had to have her bra on
display. She must have been confused by the game. It was that
hand at the subway, she thought. It left me so confused. She
again started stroking herself, as she sat on the toilet. But I
must not do that, she thought. Steve ordered me not to.
She cleaned up as best she could - finding herself and her panties
extremely wet - and exited the stall. Then she saw something
that gave her pause.
There, in the large mirror above the sinks, she saw a 26 year old
blonde woman, whose blouse was open to her bra, whose skirt was 4
inches too short, and one of whose stockings had fallen so low
that the start of the lacy stocking top was visible beneath the
skirt's hem. Her cheeks were red, her breathing was heavy, and as
she looked she could see that the woman's right hand was sneaking
under her skirt, stroking her pussy through her wet panties. That
woman in the mirror is going to go back out to the office, looking
just that, she thought. Everyone will know that she desires sex.
They will see it in her exposed cleavage, in the glimpses of bare
thigh above her stockings. They will smell it in her pussy which
gushes all day, feeling no relief. And anything they ask, she
thought, anything, she will do. That woman in the mirror - that's
a SLUT. Look at how lustfully she is rubbing her panties. But
she won't let herself orgasm, because Steve told her not too.
Yes, a slut. She thought of saying the word out loud. It is what
Steve wants, isn't it? She said it. "Slut." Her stroking
intensified. "SLUT." She knew Steve ordered her not to
masturbate, but it felt so good. So very, very good. Her entire
body was warm and sensitive with pleasure. "Ssssslut" she gasped,
as she felt the orgasm, the biggest one ever, she thought. Her
fingers were inside her panties, her skirt pulled obscenely to her
waist, and the pleasure overwhelmed her. She felt the orgasm hit
her, and hit her hard. Her eyes closed as the waves of sexual
release began to surge through every part of her body.
But just then, the door opened. Cheryl walked in, and without
another word walked right back out. Lisa was shocked by the
intrusion; her orgasm was cut short and she tried to quickly
straighten herself up, but she knew it is too late. "She
definitely saw this time," Lisa said to the slut in the mirror, as
she felt the pleasure start to fade away.
