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Flawed Red Silk Ch. 01

By: oggbashan



Chapter 01: The New Secretary

Today is my first day as temporary secretary to Christopher Jones, the Managing Director of Silk Designs 4 U.

I signed up with the temp agency last week after Graham broke his hand in a car crash. I can’t be a magician’s assistant to a magician with a broken hand. When he can’t work, I can’t. Someday I hope that won’t be true. I want to be a magician myself but working with Graham is like a continuous master class. He is good and is constantly trying to vary and improve his act. Sometimes there are failures but they are few and he can usually cover them up with his patter or misdirection.

Enough daydreaming. I am here to work as the Managing Director’s secretary, not as an apprentice magician. I glance at my shorthand notebook and keep typing. It is boring stuff. There are confirmations of orders, reminders about invoices unpaid, letters enclosing sales material, most of which are covered by minor amendments to standard letters already filed in Word. Time goes surprisingly quickly and I will have a good pile to take in for his signature by eleven o’clock when I have to make the coffee just as he likes it.

After coffee the forewoman Serena will come for the daily briefing. She tells him what is happening on the factory floor. He tells her what orders are coming and asks about progress on rush jobs. I sit in and take notes to type up as a daily record. From the files I can tell the sort of discussion that will happen.

Jane, whose place I am filling, is on maternity leave. She has showed me everything. I knew not just the daily and weekly activities and the forms and records, but the unofficial records that Mr. Jones doesn’t know about. Every day as part of the briefing with Serena, he indicates which of the shop floor staff is to be called for an appraisal by him at three o’clock. Appraisal is what he calls it. Fucking is what he really does. He treats the staff as his personal harem.

Why do they let him? All the shop floor workers are Indian women. None can speak English. If they could speak English they might be able to find better work but their husbands are little better off than they are. Mr. Jones pays well and for most of them the pay is the only income for their family. For the rest, the pay is a significant part of the family’s income. They can’t afford to lose their jobs. Since there are over thirty shop floor workers their turn comes only once a month and they get a bonus payment for extra services. Jane knew this. So do I.

I finish typing the pile of standard letters that Mr. Jones has dictated. Most of them are reminders about deliveries, unpaid invoices that sort of thing. It hasn’t occupied my mind or much of my time. A few keystrokes and another one is done. Time for his coffee. I take it and the letters in. Jane told me that then and at three o’clock will be the quietest times of the day.

I pull out some of my props and start practising. I will try some card tricks so when Serena arrives I am just doing a complicated hand shift of two packs of cards. It is spectacular but not difficult but it seems to surprise Serena.

“Mary! How do you do that? Are you a witch?”

“No, Serena, just an apprentice conjuror. Let me show you.”

I get her to select a card, tell her which one she has chosen, pull an egg from behind an ear and then a stream of coloured scarves from her mouth. Serena is astonished. I can’t understand why. They are simple ticks that any junior conjuror can do but she doesn’t seem to have seen them before. I gather up my props. There is no time for explanations before we go in to see Mr. Jones.

“Good morning, Serena. I see you have met Mary. She will be here while Jane is on maternity leave.”

“Mr. Jones!” Serena blurted out. “Do you know she is a witch?”

“A witch?” He didn’t seem surprised. “That might be interesting. What can you do?”

“I don’t think I’m a witch but…” I pulled the egg from his mouth. The scarves came out from behind his ear and draped over his shoulder.

He sat there gawping. As audience reaction it was better than my performances usually got. 

He pulled himself together and his hand stroked the scarves.

“Er… I am surprised but this isn’t good material. Our silks are much better. Could you do this with silk?”

“If I had some time to prepare, then yes I could.” I replied.

“A witch on the staff would be very useful to me,” he said.

I couldn’t see why so I kept quiet.

“Now, back to business.”

He and Serena discussed the usual issues that arose every day. He ended by announcing that Asmita was due for her appraisal today at three o’clock. Would Serena tell her, please? Serena glanced meaningfully at me. I nodded almost imperceptibly. I knew what was intended for Asmita and I was letting Serena know that I understood.

We left Mr. Jones’ office. In my room Serena blew out her cheeks.

“Asmita won’t like this but she will come, even if she is unwilling.”

“Why do you let him? I don’t mean you personally Serena, I mean all of the women. Why?”

“We, sorry, they have little choice. Most accept it as a minor price to pay for their jobs. He does pay well and apart from his little foible he is good to the workers.”

“Little foible!” I exploded. “It is rape. Just because they have little choice doesn’t make it any better. We should do something about it. I’m surprised you and Jane hadn’t done something before now.”

“We wanted to, Mary, but we spoke to the workers first. They actually like Mr. Jones. If he wants sex, they’ll give him sex. They are afraid to upset him but he is a considerate partner. The money the women get helps them to buy a few luxuries for themselves because their husbands don’t know.”

“I’m not surprised the husbands don’t know,” I interrupted, “if some of them did know I think Mr. Jones would be dead.”

“Perhaps. Then what? His money runs this business. HE runs this business. Without him there would be no business, no jobs and no money. His wife would sell up. Any new owner would reduce the wages to the norm around here that would mean a third less pay. That difference makes employment here very attractive. Mr. Jones’ appraisals are the only dark spot and all the women know about them before they start. Jane and I make sure they do.”

“So they know they will have to have sex with the boss before they join?”

“Yes. We rebel in other ways. He doesn’t want the women to learn English. Whenever he’s around I speak to them in their own language and dialect. The rest of the time we all speak English. Gradually they learn English and we also have classes after work that Mr. Jones doesn’t know about. We have been doing it for years. Jane will still help with them. The women have the ability to speak English to shopkeepers. Many of them can now negotiate with the Council and Council Officials’ English is difficult.”

“So I could speak to any of them and they would understand me?”

“Yes. Which reminds me. One of the things you must do is warn us when Mr. Jones might visit the factory floor.”

“I know. Jane told me. The button is under the desk and I press it with my knee or if I’m standing up I press the end of the bookcase. How did you arrange that?”

“One of my relatives is an electrician. He worked on the rewiring of the factory a few years ago. Jane and I asked him for some modifications. For example Mr. Jones can cut off the intercom from his office but you can listen to whatever happens without him knowing. Do you know how?”

“Yes. Jane explained a lot to me.”

“Good. Jane always listens when he has his appraisals just in case there is any trouble. There hasn’t been… Well, it depends what you mean by trouble. One of the women who have now left decided to be masterful. She left him tied to his desk after her appraisal. Jane “accidentally” went in to bring him some papers and released him before he was too embarrassed.”

“Didn’t Jane embarrass him just by finding him tied up?”

“Not really. He knew that Jane knew about his appraisals. He was more annoyed with himself. He had enjoyed the experience. Most of his appraisals had been and still are colourless events. A simple fuck that lasts a few minutes and that is it.”

“I see. What about me? Am I expected to participate?”

“Jane didn’t. She knew too much about him and was in contact with his wife. You – you are a witch. He will be afraid to upset you.”

“What is this about me being a witch? I’m not.”

“I think you are. So does he. If you show the workers some of the things you did with the egg and scarves they’ll think so too. Don’t knock it. It can be useful to have people afraid of you as long as you don’t make them too afraid.”

“So I might be immune from Mr. Jones’ attentions if I’m a witch?”

“Yes. He is as superstitious as the rest of us. A witch is a wise woman who should be propitiated. You will be safe as a witch.”

I can take a hint. If I would be safe as a witch, a witch I will be.

“You are joining the rest of us for lunch, aren’t you? Mr. Jones goes to his club from one to two. We break from one to one thirty and then have the English lessons he doesn’t know about. If you showed some of your magic you will have the workers attention and respect. Will you?”

“Yes. Jane suggested that I might find the women difficult because I can’t speak their language. Why should they be difficult? Do they resent me?”

Serena was diplomatic.

“You get paid more than they do. You have skills they don’t have. They have skills you don’t share. They could be awkward and uncooperative if they wanted to be.”

“OK. They shall have a magic demonstration. I can’t do much. I didn’t bring everything I need but I have probably got enough.”

I had. My demonstration of magic had them enthralled. I finished with a show of juggling. I persuaded Serena to try. After a few minutes she was juggling with three soft balls and catching and returning a ball from me as well. There was no applause, just an awed silence. That was frightening. As I left many of the women bowed to me as if I was royalty.

When Serena and I were alone I asked:

“Why no applause? Didn’t they like it?”

“They have never seen anything like it except for a few pathetic village jugglers who are always men. You did something that only men do, but much better. Then you showed that I could learn from you. That makes you a teacher of rare skills. If we were Japanese we would consider you to be a Zen master. Your reputation and status is enormous.”

“But…”

“But you only did the simple things? I know. They know. If that was the simple things, what else can you do? If you are not careful they may consider you to be a goddess – or a demon.”

“A demon?”

“Not all demons are evil. Some are just playful. All are dangerous and to be avoided if possible. If not they have to be sacrificed to. Much more of your magic and you will frighten them silly. They may be learning English and living in England but they are still simple village girls at heart. You are beyond their understanding. Mr. Jones is not. He behaves just like a big landlord would.”

“But he thinks I’m a witch.”

“Yes. He isn’t much different. He sees things on television but he doesn’t understand them. Experiencing you do things face to face is different. He can turn his television off and he can refuse to believe it. He can’t refuse to believe something that happened to him personally.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to be a witch,” I said reluctantly.

“I think you are. The women think you are, if you are not a goddess or a demon. Mr. Jones thinks you are. You will be a witch to us, even if you don’t believe it yourself. Please, just be a benevolent witch.”

“I will,” I said, thinking of the real reason why I was working for Mr. Jones. The reason that only one other person knew, not Serena, not Mr. Jones. Even my occasionally available boyfriend didn’t know. Would being a witch help? I think it will, so I witch I would be.

Tonight I would do some research. I know a real witch, the kind that does spells and incantations. She is a friend. She might disapprove of me pretending to be what I’m not, but if I tell her why I’m sure she’ll help me maintain the role. Who knows? Perhaps I actually might have some magical powers? If belief is important then I already have believers.

The rest of the day passed as expected. Asmita came for her appraisal. She looked irritated as she went in to Mr. Jones’ office and relieved when she left. I offered her a drink but she refused.

“Please, no. I want to wash myself clean before anything else.”

“I understand. There is a washroom here. There is no need to go to the shop floor.”

Asmita actually smiled.

“Thank you. That I will accept.”

When she emerged again she was happier.

“At least it will be another month before…”

“…Mr. Jones wants to see you again,” I finished for her. “That must be some comfort.”

“You understand that I don’t like this?”

I nodded.

“Is there nothing you can do? You are powerful.”

“Asmita. This is the afternoon of my first day. I must understand first. I cannot do things unless I know what I am doing and why.”

She looked disappointed but hopeful.

“Please, if you can, please help us. He is not a bad man. He just behaves as if he is. He doesn’t really mean to humiliate us but he does. If only…”

“…If only he would stop, you might like him?” I asked.

“Yes. In many ways he is good to us. He treats us well, pays us well, is concerned about our families and us, but this is not good. He is married. He has a wife. Would she do this if she were in our place?”

“Perhaps she might if she knew.”

I left it at that. Asmita thanked me again and left.

At the end of the day I left to visit my witch friend. I’d made an appointment while Mr. Jones was appraising Asmita. I wanted to change things and soon. Any appraisal was one appraisal too many if Asmita’s barely concealed distress was an example.

Helen seemed to be expecting me. Of course she was. I’d rang her to make an appointment, hadn’t I? No. It was more as if she had seen a prediction that I would need her.

Over a cup of herbal tea she listened while I explained the situation at the factory. She prompted from time to time but she seemed to know much of what I was telling her. Finally I challenged her directly.

“You know all about this, Helen, don’t you?””

“Most of it. Jane told me when she knew you were to replace her.”

“So what do I do?”

“About what? Mr. Jones’ sexual urges or you being a witch?”

“Both.”

“You will have to be a real witch, Mary. I can make you a witch. I’m not going to show you how to be a pretend witch. That would be dangerous. If you ARE a witch then you will know what you can and cannot do and will have powers to protect yourself and others. As a real witch you can call upon other witches to help you. That can be very useful.”

“But I’m not a witch!” I protested.

“Not yet you are not. I have always thought that you could be, and could be a very powerful one. A few evenings with you and me could be initiated at the next meeting of our coven. That is Friday week. Are you prepared to make that commitment?”

I sat and thought for a few minutes, sipping her herbal tea. I knew that if I agreed I would be making a significant change in my life, one that I didn’t wholly understand. As I sat, an image of Asmita’s face appeared. For her sake, and the sake of the others who were being degraded by Mr. Jones’ inappropriate behaviour I had to act. I put my cup down.

“Yes, Helen,” I said firmly “I will.”

“What made you decide?”

“The women at the factory. I can’t leave them to suffer.”

“Good. You choose to be a witch, not for yourself, but to help others. That is the best motive.”

Helen launched straight in to my training. I won’t describe any of it. Unless you are a witch, a little knowledge is dangerous. I worked hard for every evening and studied books into the early hours. Mr. Jones’ appraisals made me more determined each afternoon. By the Friday that the coven was due to meet I knew I was ready. I felt like a bride who has made the commitment in her heart. The meeting of the coven, like the bride’s marriage ceremony, was only the public affirmation of something that had already been decided.

Late on Friday, after another appraisal, Serena brought a bolt of bright red cloth into my office.

“Is he free?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“This cloth is flawed. I don’t know what to do with it. I thought I’d ask him for advice.”

“It looks OK to me. What’s wrong with it?”

“There’s an intermittent flaw in the weave. See.”

Serena unrolled a yard or two. In the light I could see what she meant. It looked like a missing thread or two every foot or so. It was a shame. The fine silk was a brilliant in-your-face red with a wonderful shimmer. It draped beautifully and my fingers itched to caress it.

“We can’t use it for dresses or skirts. There isn’t enough undamaged material in a continuous length. It hasn't cost us anything. The suppliers sent it as an extra.”

“We don’t make underwear, do we?”

“No. Only dresses, skirts, suits and sometimes sarees.”

“But we could?”

“Yes. Our women are skilled. We could make anything that is clothing and is made of silk.”

“I wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

“Let’s go and ask Mr. Jones. He might think my idea is stupid but we can at least try.”

“We? I don’t know what your idea is.”

“Never mind. Just listen. If I am suggesting something stupid you can say so.”

“OK.”

In we went. Mr. Jones seemed happy. Perhaps today’s appraisal had gone well?

“Well, ladies, what can I do for you?”

Serena showed him the bolt of flawed red silk. She spread it to show the flaw.

“Oh dear,” he said. “We can’t do much with that, can we.”

Serena explained that it had been sent free, as a gift, from the suppliers.

“Has it now?” he mused.

“Mary has an idea.” Said Serena.

That didn’t seem to make an impression. He turned the silk over and over, looking to see if there was any of it that was unflawed for a skirt or dress length. Failing, he put the bolt down on the desk. He looked straight at me.

“Well, Mary? What is your idea?”

“It’s really two ideas. The first is that this silk would make very attractive underwear, perhaps French Knickers.”

Mr. Jones nodded.

“The second idea is that we have just had Christmas. It isn’t long to Valentine’s Day. If we were to make French knickers, we could send them out to our best customers as a present, suggesting that they give them to someone appropriate as a Valentine present. The customer would remember us, even if they were embarrassed.”

I stopped and waited for his reaction. He picked up the end of cloth and ran his fingers across it.

“Yes. I can see this as underwear, very sexy underwear. But we have no lace trimming that would suit this quality of material.”

Serena jumped in.

“We don’t need lace. We could scallop the outside of the legs and perhaps add some discreet embroidery.”

“That might work,” he said, “especially as a free gift. If something is free and good, people aren’t critical.”

He looked at both of us.

“OK. I like it. We’ll do it. But I think the idea needs one last twist.”

We waited.

“Mary is a witch. If she added a spell to each pair of knickers so that they only brought happiness to the owner, that could help us.”

Serena squeezed my hand before I could object. I knew what she was trying to tell me. It couldn't hurt and might help.

“OK.” I said more lightly than I really meant. “I’ll try to find a suitable spell.”

“Then that’s settled. Can I leave you two to sort out the design and cut?” Good.”

That was a dismissal. Serena and I left his office.

“What about this spell?” I exploded. “I don’t like doing an indiscriminate spell.”

“Just do a general goodwill spell. If I know Mr. Jones he’ll keep one pair of panties for his wife. You can put a proper spell on them. I leave it to you. Perhaps one to make her very desirable to Mr. Jones?”


Flawed Red Silk Ch. 02



Chapter 02 Change or Suffer.

The Forewoman’s Husband

My boss, Mr. Jones, wanted to send all the French knickers out as Valentine’s Day presents to the firm’s best customers. I persuaded, Mary, his secretary, to give one pair to me. She agreed. I don’t know why. She frightens me. She is so competent and a witch as well.

Mary selected a pair that fitted me and deleted one company from Mr. Jones’ list that is only an occasional customer. 

Should I wear them? Mary has put a spell on them but we all helped. The spell is supposed to be only for good but I wonder. How benevolent is Mary? 

Whether the spell works or not, I have problems with my husband Reshad that need sorting out. As Forewoman I earn more than the other women on the shop floor but I feel as if I’m running to keep still. Reshad doesn’t work. He drinks with his “friends” all day long in an illegal-drinking den. He spends more than we can afford so we are always short of money. We shouldn’t be. If he didn’t spend so much we could survive. If he didn’t drink and had a job we could live well and provide for our children. As it is, everything is a crisis. New school uniform? Borrow more money. New shoes? Borrow more money. Rent due? Borrow more money.

Keeping the borrowing under control is almost impossible. I try to keep back some money each week to cut down the outstanding amount but the essential spending keeps eating into that few pounds. If only Reshad would change.

What can a pair of French knickers do for me? Even with Mary’s spell they are just a garment. Anything is worth trying. Reshad is out, of course. He won’t be back for hours. My mother has put the children to bed and is dozing in front of the television. She doesn’t really understand it but it keeps her happy. Or at least it does when Reshad is out. When he is home she is ashamed that she chose such a poor husband for me. He makes her unhappy too and even our children are ashamed of their father.

Under the kitchen sink I keep a locked suitcase. Reshad would never look there for things I am hiding. The kitchen is the “women’s place”. He would never wash up, or help with the cooking. That is beneath him. I carry the suitcase upstairs and put it on the bed. Before opening it I will take a shower. I want to be clean for the delights inside the case.

I shed my cotton overall dress. Even the dress reminds me of debt. I bought four white cotton nursing overalls in a charity shop. I wear them to work because they have pockets to keep my pens and notebook in. The women think my dresses are a status symbol separating me from their saris. How can I admit that I can’t afford to wear my saris to work?

Once clean I ease the French knickers up my legs. The feel of the silk thrills me. I would love to wear underthings like this every day. Well, perhaps not at work, because cotton panties are more comfortable, but for the evenings this feel would be nice. I sit on the bed and reach for my newest bra. The silk slides into my crack and I sigh. I would like to feel Reshad caressing me, not just a piece of cloth however luxurious. Once my bra is fastened I pull on my long waist slip and tie it. The silk blouse that ends just below my breasts holds me. I wrap the heavy silk sari around me with practised deftness. Looking in the mirror I see myself as desirable and feel that I want a man, a real man, who will appreciate the reflection looking back at me. Once that was Reshad. Now…

I think of the spell that Mary and all of us worked into the knickers. I can feel myself dampening the crutch with desire. All of us? What did that remind me about? I don't know.

I sit down and start to cry silently. Then I undress from my finery and carefully replace it in my suitcase leaving the flaming red knickers on. I feel more naked with them on than I would in a totally bare body. Naked... That was it. I remember now. One of the women had told us about a news story from India. Apparently the women of a small village had become tired of their men just drinking themselves silly and never working. They had ambushed the men one by one, stripped them naked and beat them up. They did it night after night until the men began to change. If only those women were here to do that to Reshad? They weren’t. They were in a small village in Southern India, not in a grimy part of an English city. 

Even my finery brings me no pleasure. I owe it all to Mr. Jones. I hadn’t lied to Mary. I just hadn’t told her that he gives me an appraisal, which is what he calls his secretive sex sessions, as well as all the other staff. Apart from money he has given me this blouse, this waist slip, this silken sari and the few other clothes in my suitcase. What I really need is ordinary clothes but Mr. Jones doesn’t understand that. Any extra money I get from him goes to reduce the debts. For the other women Mr. Jones’ hush money buys extras. For me it defers the eventual day of reckoning when the debts become too much. All the women know about Reshad. Most of their husbands go to the drinking club sometimes. Reshad is always there. The factory is like a village. Everybody knows everything about each other.

Then it sinks in. The factory is like a village. We all live close to each other. We know  everything about each other. They all know about Reshad and how difficult life is for me. All I have to do is ask. They could say no but would they? Reshad is the worst offender but there are many other lazy drunken husbands. If Reshad was made the example it might persuade the others to change as well. If not, they could get the same treatment, couldn’t they? I stroke the red silk of these knickers. Is the spell helping me? Will my friends, colleagues, co-workers help me even though I’m the forewoman?

That is enough for tonight. I strip off the knickers and add them to the other finery in my suitcase. I put my shabby nightdress on and carry the suitcase back to its hiding place. I will ask my friends tomorrow. In the morning, if he is awake I will have one last try to persuade Reshad to cut down his drinking and look for work. If he doesn’t...

The next morning I knew I had wasted my time worrying about giving Reshad one last chance. He had returned home hours after I had gone to bed, drunk and staggering. I had to help him up the stairs after he had woken me with his crashes against the furniture. When I left for work he was still snoring, still dressed in his beer stained clothing.

At lunchtime I was nervous. I asked for quiet and then told them all about Reshad. I told them how drunk he was every night, how much of my money he spent, how much in debt I was, and how I couldn’t continue. Then I told them about the women of the Indian village. I didn’t have to go into detail because they volunteered to teach Reshad a lesson that night. I didn’t know how many friends I had. I broke down and cried my heart out surrounded by sympathetic faces and caressing hands.

Reshad left the club late that night. A few yards from our home a sari-veiled woman approached him and stopped in front of him. He peered drunkenly at her. She pushed him backwards and he fell over the woman crouching behind him. It is an old trick but it still works. Many hands that grasped fiercely at him caught his fall. He was gagged and blindfolded, stripped and tied. Then he was punched and kicked. None of the punches or kicks were very hard but there were hundreds of punches and kicks. He became unconscious. His gag had been removed to let him vomit the expensive beer into the road. The women left him in the recovery position but still blindfolded and tied. A soft knock on my door was my cue. I didn’t need it. I had watched everything round a corner of curtain.

I rushed out to my husband.

“Reshad! Husband! What has happened? Who were the villains who did this to you? Where are they? Are you injured?”

I kept this up while I removed his blindfold and untied him. I found some of his clothes to cover him while I half-carried him to our house, still bewailing the attack on him.

Once inside I pushed him upstairs and onto the bed. I stripped him again and examined him. His skin was reddened almost everywhere and would certainly show many bruises tomorrow. I kept up my pretence of being the concerned wife as I smoothed baby oil all over him and rubbed it in despite his winces. He gradually relaxed and slept.

By the morning his bruises were beautiful and everywhere. He couldn’t get out of bed so I brought him breakfast and the anonymous letter that I had found on the doormat. It hadn’t been difficult to find because I had dropped it there a few seconds earlier.

He opened the letter and peered at it. Then he swore loudly two or three times.

“The bitches!” he shouted or would have shouted except that he found it too difficult because of his bruising. He thrust the letter at me.

“What do you know about this?” he asked.

“Me?” I said innocently. “I found it on the doormat this morning, addressed to you. That’s all.”

I was lying, of course. Mary and I had drafted it yesterday and she had typed it for me. She used a font we never use and cheap paper totally unlike the firm’s paper. I read it aloud.

“Reshad.

You are a drunken lazy slob who is breaking your wife’s heart.

This night was a warning. 

If you do not start supporting your wife and family you will get more of the same. 

You are barred from your drinking club and any other place where you can get drink. If you disobey you will suffer.

We are watching you. If you punish your wife you will be punished much harder. If you drink you will suffer. 

If, within a month, you have not found paid work, any work, you will suffer.

If you commit any offence against your wife, she can signal us by wearing red panties at work. If she does, you will suffer.

We mean what we say. Your bruises should be a reminder.

The angry women.

PS. You are the first. You will not be the last.” 

“So? What do you know about this?” Reshad insisted.

“I know nothing except that I found you trussed up like a chicken and naked. I brought you in, looked after you, cared for you and you accuse me?”

I was playing the injured innocent to the life. Reshad seemed convinced.

“What is that about you wearing red panties to work?”

“Have you ever seen me wear red panties?” I asked. “Do I own any red panties?”

He didn’t know about the spell-ridden silk French knickers nestling under the sink.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I should go to the police...”

“...but,” I prompted.

“I don’t want to admit I was beaten up by veiled women. I can’t identify any of them. I only saw one...”

“...and you were drunk?” I suggested gently.

“I had drunk a few,” Reshad admitted.

I left it at that and went to work. I was greeted with glee. They had enjoyed themselves with Reshad and wanted to try others on the hit list.

“Well,” one asked. “Is he going to change?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “He can’t get out of bed this morning. Tonight will tell. If he goes to his drinking club...”

“We will meet him and sort him out,” said someone.

“Be careful, please.” I asked. “If he tells his friends you may have several men to deal with.”

“He won’t do that,” said Asmita. “He will be too ashamed to admit that women beat him up.”

As I opened my locker a brown paper bag fell out, spilling its contents. I picked up a Marks and Spencer bag and opened it. Inside was a pack of three red cotton panties with a note from Mary, which read “Just in case you need to signal”.

They were ordinary cotton panties, not sexy, nor high cut. They would be comfortable to wear and practical. Wearing them I wouldn’t feel as I did with the silk French knickers but I knew that I’d feel confident and contented. I picked up the brown paper bag. There was something else inside. I looked. Another M&S bag this time with pale blue panties in the same style and two sets of three. How did Mary know that my panties were so worn I was ashamed of them? She is a witch but this is uncanny. I almost run into the ladies and change into a pale blue pair of panties. As I pull them on I am happy. Whatever Reshad does, I know that I have many friends who are willing to help me. The new panties are a present, with love, that express care and consideration. I feel as if a load has been lifted from me. I’m still afraid of the debt, still afraid that Reshad won’t change but now I feel like my own woman. I giggle to myself. How much can I read into a new pair of M&S panties?

When I go to see Mr. Jones I set off a couple of minutes early so that I can say thank you to Mary. It is just as well that I allowed time. I had barely started to say thank you when I broke down in tears and ended up cuddled in her arms being comforted. Mary is a big girl compared to me. I suppose she isn’t large by English standards but she makes me feel like a china doll. She would tower over Reshad and probably weighs as much as my husband and I do together. She is wonderfully comforting as my head rests against her breasts and her hand strokes my hair.

I try to thank her again but she puts a finger across my lips.

“I know that you are grateful, Serena. Shall we tidy you up before we go in to Mr. Jones?”

She held up a small mirror. My eyeshadow had run. I know modern eyeshadow shouldn’t but I bought mine from a market trader because I couldn’t really afford makeup. Mary pushed me into the washroom, cleaned my face and applied some of her eyeshadow. It wasn’t quite the right shade for my darker skin but it felt much smoother. I looked at myself in the mirror and at Mary’s reflection.

“Feeling better?” Mary asked.

I swung round to hug her.

“Yes, thank you. Today feels like the first day of another life.”

“Take it carefully, then, Serena. Babies have to learn to walk slowly.”

The rest of that day was a happy blur. I felt love from every one of the women and excitement. Reshad had showed them that they had power. All they had to do was use it and they were waiting for the night to find the next victim. By the end of lunchtime they had a list of eight men who needed “attention” with another ten who would get a warning. They would pick on one victim a week until all the offending men showed signs of improvement. They would monitor Reshad until the next man on the list was attended to, unless I signalled that Reshad hadn’t changed.

When I arrived home Reshad was up. He was obviously in pain but moving about. I hoped that he hadn’t been really injured. I don’t think he had been.

“How are you, Reshad?” I asked.

“I hurt all over but I think I’ll be OK in a few days. Your mother says the meal will be ready in a few minutes but I don’t think I can eat much.”

I gave him a gentle hug and went into the kitchen.

“Hello, Mother. How has Reshad been today?”

“At first he just stayed in bed. He got up about eleven o’clock, washed and shaved and then had a couple of cups of black coffee. I thought that he would go out to his club. He usually goes there by twelve noon. Today he didn’t. He brought me his dirty clothes from last night and he sat down on the stairs. He polished his shoes, your shoes and the children’s shoes. I heard him in the bathroom running water for half an hour. I went up there later. He had cleaned it from top to bottom. He had used the towels as cleaning cloths but at least he had done some cleaning.”

“He didn’t!” 

“That’s not all. He found the vacuum cleaner and cleaned all the carpets upstairs. He only finished a few minutes before you came in.”

“I can’t believe that he has changed so much in a day.”

“He is trying. He is in pain and I think his system is reacting to lack of alcohol. He has been pale and sweating most of the times I have seen him.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he had withdrawal symptoms because he drank so much.”

I stopped talking. I’d said “drank” as if his drinking was in the past. That was a big assumption to make from half a day of good behaviour. Even so he needed a reward for that much.

“Mother, can you put the children to bed this evening?”

“Of course I can. Why?”

“I think Reshad needs a reward for being good and encouragement to keep it up. Do you agree?”

“Perhaps. But it is only half a day that he has seemed like the good husband I chose for you.”

“...And I want to keep him like that. If he gets rewarded and there is still the threat that he will suffer if he lapses...”

“It might work. He is really hurting.”

“So I’ll put him to bed early and put lotion on his hurt body and perhaps some reward as well.”

My mother laughed. 

“You will have to be very gentle with the reward. If you try to make love I think he will scream in pain.”

“I’ll treat him like a new-born baby with delicate skin.”

“His skin is delicate enough. His bruises are a beautiful yellow.”

We brought the food through to the dining room. For the first time in months the whole family sat down to an evening meal. Reshad ate very little and it was obviously an effort. After the meal he offered to wash up. Our eldest child nearly fell off the chair in astonishment. We declined his offer and suggested that he could play with the children. He agreed.

As mother and I washed up we could hear happy noises from the dining room. Despite myself I smiled with relief.

When it was time for the children’s bedtime mother took over. When I heard them in their bedrooms I held out my hand to Reshad.

“It has been a long day for you too. Time for you to go to bed.”

He looked puzzled but he took my hand and followed. I told him to wash and shave. He did. I washed myself in the bedroom washbasin and I was ready for him when he returned.

I turned back the bed.

“In you get,” I ordered.

He got in.

“Turn your back to me, with your hands by your sides.”

He did. I wrapped one of my long scarves once round his waist and tied his wrists by his sides. I gently lowered him to the bed and covered him with the bedclothes. I got into the bed, turned out the light and positioned myself with his head resting against my shoulder.

“Reshad” I said.

“Yes?”

“You have been a good husband today but you have many bruises.”

I felt him nod.

“So I am going to treat you gently, as gently as a baby.”

I unfastened the top of my nightdress and pulled his head to my breast. My erect nipple sought his mouth and pushed between his lips. He opened his mouth and began to suck. I wrapped an arm round him and settled him comfortably. We stayed like that for a long time before his head fell back asleep. I snuggled next to him and went to sleep as well.

The next morning my alarm woke me. I was stiff from holding Reshad all night. I clambered out of bed gingerly so as not to wake him. When I was ready to go downstairs I kissed him, lightly at first and then with more passion. He woke, returned my kisses and then realised his hands were still tied.

“Are you going to leave me like this?” he asked.

“Not if you promise to be good.”

He thought for a few seconds.

“I promise to try.”

I untied him, kissed him again and went downstairs. 

Reshad was at the door to kiss me goodbye when I left for work. He was shaved and fully dressed. I hugged him too firmly and he winced.

“Careful!” he exclaimed. “I’m still delicate.”

I was almost singing as I went too work. I was even happier when I heard that what had happened to Reshad had been spread around the drinking club. Several of the men on the hit list were worried and were beginning to be more moderate in their drinking and behaviour. Not all of them. That would be too much to expect. The hardened drinkers, some of whom were nearly as bad as Reshad, hadn’t changed. One would be ambushed soon.

I enjoyed my day until Mr. Jones chose his victim for appraisal. He chose me. I suppose I looked more attractive now I was happier. Well, if it had to be anyone, I suppose I can bear it. The extra money will be useful. Mary commiserated with me as soon as we had left his office.




Flawed Red Silk Ch. 03



She’s no Angel

I have worshipped Angela for months, ever since she joined us as a Senior Buyer. I am a Senior Buyer too but most of us are colourless individuals, good at negotiating with salespeople and unimpressed by their sales technique. We know they want to seduce us into buying the lines they can’t shift elsewhere. Our job is to buy what our chain of stores can sell and nothing else.

When Angela arrived she made an immediate impact. She has a very strong personality and made it obvious on the first day. Apart from her elegant power dressing and great figure she cannot be ignored in any gathering. She is an in-your-face person. I fell in love.

I watched her furtively whenever I could. Even brushing her gleaming black tresses back from her face she made a sexual movement. She was sex personified and I was transfixed. I tried to sit close to her on every occasion. If she had noticed me I would have probably blushed and retreated back into my shell but she ignored me. To her I was part of the office décor. I wasn’t a threat or a challenge so I wasn’t worth considering. She wanted to be a Chief Buyer and soon. Anyone who wasn’t in her way was useless.

Even her indifference aroused me. I wanted to be appreciated by her. I would have been a doormat for her to walk on if it would give her pleasure and if she would show something of herself to me. My infatuation was obvious to everyone else except her.

My colleague Michelle tried to distract me. She tried to convince me that Angela wasn’t an angel or a goddess but a power-hungry bitch. I listened to Michelle because I liked her but I couldn’t believe that Angela was as shallow as Michelle said she was. I put it down to jealousy.

Michelle was a very different person. She was quiet, almost as self-effacing as I was yet with talent and brains. I suppose I have some too or I wouldn’t be a Senior Buyer. My boss seems to appreciate what I do, at least that is what he says when I have my monthly reviews with him. I don’t make mistakes. I do what I am supposed to do and although I may not have the spark and flair that Angela waves around like a flag I am competent and efficient. My boss does have to fight me. If he wants something done his way and I disagree, we discuss it. Sometimes he is right, sometimes I am right. It doesn’t matter who is right as long as the buying gets done correctly. 

With Angela it is different. Her disagreements with the boss are public and loud. If she is overruled she makes it plain that she is unsatisfied. She thinks she knows it all. She is good but not as good as she thinks she is. That was a flaw that I ignored while I worshipped her. No. That’s not fair to her. While I worshipped her I couldn’t see any flaws at all. 

In January we had a meeting to discuss what we should buy for the Autumn. Angela was in full flow. She wanted to change the world, to change all our buying methods, to seek out small manufacturers with unique designs – that sort of thing. I watched in awe as she verbally demolished all the principles I had been taught. The rest of us didn’t get much chance to contribute because Angela was throwing down a challenge to the boss. Eventually he agreed to let her have her own way on a small part of our range of stock. She could try her methods but it was obvious that she had told to prove her case or leave.

I was frightened for her. I thought my beloved Angela had pushed too far and if she couldn’t deliver she would lose her job. If she went, who could I worship? A large part of my life and dreams would leave with her.

At the end of the meeting the boss asked me to stay behind for a few minutes. That might seem ominous but I was unafraid because I knew that I was on top of my job and performing satisfactorily.

“Trevor,” he said, “I have a small problem.”

“Yes, Mr. Graham, can I help?”

“I think so. It is a very silly thing. You buy from Christopher Jones of Silk Designs 4 U sometimes, don’t you?”

“I think all the buyers will have some dealings with that firm, Mr. Graham.”

“OK. Mr. Jones has sent us a present.”

“We’re not supposed to accept presents, are we?”

That is what the firm’s rules for buyers said. We ignored token things like desk diaries, pens etc. but we had to declare any gift that had a value.

“I don’t think the rules cover this. He has sent us a Valentine’s Day present. Do you see my dilemma?”

I thought. Most of the Senior Buyers were married. I wasn’t. The other unmarried ones were ladies.

“I think so,” I said cautiously.

“I can’t give a Valentine’s present to the married buyers. If I chose a woman I could be accused of bias and perhaps sexual harassment.”

I knew he was thinking of Angela at that point. She could be prickly.

“So that leaves you. You can’t use the present yourself but you could give it to a young lady of your acquaintance.” 

He pushed a padded envelope across his desk to me. I peered inside and then pulled out a pair of bright red silk French knickers. They were magnificent. I held them up. Mr. Graham laughed.

“You can see my problem, Trevor. I could be faced with a Judgement of Paris if I gave them to one lady on the staff. I am their boss and a gift like those panties could be misconstrued.”

“Yes Sir, they could.”

I folded them gingerly and slid them back in the envelope.

“Please be discreet with them, Trevor.” Mr. Graham added.

I nodded. Then he told me that he was pleased with my work “as always”. Then I left.

Back in the main office I pushed the envelope into my briefcase. 

Nothing else happened until Valentine’s Day. I continued to worship Angela from afar. She ignored me. Michelle treated me as a human being and I reciprocated. We worked well together in our quiet way while watching Angela’s dramatic approach.

I came to work very early on Valentine’s Day, well before anyone else. I laid a neatly wrapped parcel on Angela’s desk before returning to my desk and clearing some outstanding paperwork. Michelle was the next to arrive. She came straight over to my desk. I looked up at her. She bent down and kissed me on the cheek.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Trevor,” she said as she stroked her hand over my head.

“Thank you, Michelle. Happy Valentine’s Day to you too.”

She looked expectant. She stood waiting and then said:

“You should at least return my kiss.”

I turned my head up towards her, reaching out an arm to pull her closer. She kissed me full on the lips. I enjoyed it and responded.

“That’s better,” Michelle said. “See you later.”

She went off towards the Ladies washroom. I looked furtively in a small mirror I kept in my desk drawer. Michelle hadn’t left lipstick on me.

I waited expectantly until Angela arrived. As usual she made an entrance expecting everyone to be looking at her. We were. I hadn’t noticed but a couple of Valentine cards had been left on her desk as well. She opened the cards ostentatiously and pinned them to the notice board behind her desk. Then she picked up my present. It wasn’t my imagination. The whole room, about thirty people were waiting for her to open whatever it was. Angela wouldn’t be Angela if she had opened the present discreetly.

She tore at the wrapping paper with her long red nails. My card fell out. She glanced inside it and continued to unwrap the parcel. The French knickers fell on to her desk with a slither. The bright red shone and shimmered. Angela held them up between her hands. Everyone could see them and what a magnificent pair of panties they were. Then Angela stood up and started shouting.

“OK! Fellow worker, whoever you are. I don’t appreciate this! I don’t mind getting cards or presents but these…” She waved the panties in one hand like a banner. “…are too much! I don’t like the implication that I would wear anything some cowardly anonymous worker has sent. If anyone thinks they have the right to buy me underwear then I hope they would do it quietly, not advertise the relationship. And none of you FELLOW WORKERS have that right. I don’t want them. I won’t wear them. I will leave them here until tomorrow and I hope that the spineless worm who sent them will take them away and give them to some floes who will like them.”

Angela threw the panties over the edge of the filing cabinet next to her desk. They were very conspicuous. I tried to melt into the background but several people were looking my way. I knew they had guessed that I had sent them. I hoped Angela didn’t know.

How I had misjudged her. In that shouted speech all the mist of illusions I had built around her had been blown away as if by a strong gale. I know saw Angela as she really was, a self-centred selfish posturing bitch who would jump on anybody who got in her way. It was a shattering experience that shook me.

Suddenly Michelle stood in front of me.

“Coming for a coffee, Trevor?” she asked.

“Er, yes. That would be nice,” I said automatically. She held out her hand. I took it. She pulled me from my chair and through the office to the tearoom. I followed her like a child holding its mother’s hand.

“Sit down, Trevor,” she told me. I sat.

She started to make the coffee. I watched in a daze.

“You have been silly, haven’t you, Trevor?” Michelle said in a conversational tone.

“Yes.” I admitted. “Although silly isn’t a strong enough word for it.”

Michelle stopped making coffee. She took my head between her hands and kissed me. Then she held my head to her breasts and rocked me. I realised that this was a nice place to be. I slid an arm behind her back and squeezed. She kissed me again before returning me to her breasts.

“Never mind, Trevor. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t make occasional mistakes. This was a big one but you’ll get over it. I’ll help you if you want me to.”

What could I say? I was being hugged by a real woman who seemed to want me. Angela had never wanted me or anyone who couldn’t help her rise. Michelle had always been there as a friend. These breasts were very friendly. I started to cry against them. Michelle clutched me closer and squashed my face into her cleavage. I felt an erection beginning. Michelle’s breasts, that I had hardly noticed, were now the most desirable in the world. I looked up at her through my tears.

“Why couldn’t I see you, Michelle?”

She understood what I meant.

“Because you had a crush on someone who didn’t exist, at least not as you imagined her. Angela is what she is. Everyone else could see it. You couldn’t because you were imagining her to be a goddess, an angel perhaps. She would reject any such idea. She KNOWS what she is. She knew that you were infatuated and it amused her until today.”

“I’m sorry, Michelle. Will you forgive me?”

She shoved my head back into her cleavage.

“Of course I will, Trevor. Will you do one thing for me?”

“Anything.” I said.

“Don’t be too rash. It’s quite simple. Just get those panties back and give them to me. Will you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Trevor.”

“Michelle?”

“Yes, Trevor.”

“Will you come out to dinner with me tonight?”

“Yes, Trevor. How about that coffee now?”

“Yes, please. You make it for me. I’ll be back in a minute.”

I walked out of the tearoom back into the office. I walked up to Angela’s desk, picked up the red panties, nodded at her and walked back to the tea room leaving Angela speechless for once.

“Here you are, Michelle,” I said, handing her the panties. “They are a present for Valentine’s Day with all my love.”

“You just took them from Angela’s desk?”

“I did. Everyone else was watching.”

“And you brought them straight to me?”

“Yes. By now everyone knows that I have given them to you.”

Michelle kissed me again, over and over.

“I think that was very brave of you. Are we engaged?”

“Probably. The whole office knows that I have chosen you and defied Angela to do it. Would you like a formal proposal?”

Michelle nodded.

I dropped to one knee, lifted her hand and said:

“Michelle, will you marry me, please?”

“Yes, Trevor, I will.”

Angela didn’t speak to me for a week. Within a month she had joined another company. By that time I had seen Michelle in the red silk panties and from then on I never regretted snatching them from Angela’s desk.

NaNoWriMo 2003



Flawed Red Silk Ch. 04



Who’s the Boss?

We were surprised to receive a present from Christopher Jones’ company. We don’t buy in quantity from him because we are UK agents for several US stores. We buy bespoke dresses and suits to the US customer’s measurements and often to her own designs or for a designer employed by her. I suppose we pay for the quality of their products. Bespoke dresses in silk are not cheap.

As usual, I opened the post. I do most things for the company. I’m the secretary and the Company Secretary. The Managing Director, Edwin Miller, is also the Chief (and only) Salesman. Apart from the two of us there are only three other employees. Between them they cover the roles of Chief Accountant, Personnel Director, Despatch Manager and everything else including cleaning the office and building the website. Any of us can and will do anything. It works well because we are a close knit team.

As I opened the padded envelope Edwin walked in behind me.

“Hello, Sandra, what have we here?” he asked.

“Apparently a Valentine’s Day present from Christopher Jones. At least that’s what he says it is.”

“So what is it?”

I pulled out the enclosure and dropped it like a hot potato. The filmy silk panties splayed across the desk. Their redness was brilliant. The hem was delicately worked in matching silk embroidery. They were a real work of art.

Edwin reached across me and touched them reverentially.

“They are fantastic. I didn’t know they did underwear.”

“They don’t. Or they didn’t.”

“If they can produce underwear like this, we could sell it. These would blow the minds of some of our contacts in the States. The detail…”

He gently touched the embroidery.

“…is beautifully done with that touch of imperfection that shows it is hand-made. I wish.” He stopped suddenly.

“What do you wish?” I asked.

Edwin seemed embarrassed. I pressed him.

“What is it?” I asked again.

He looked at me, gulped and said:

“I wish I could see them on you.” He blurted out.

“On me? In your dreams, Edwin! I’m part of the company, not the company tart. If you want to see these on me…”

I stopped speaking as well. I’d had an idea. Maybe it was the effect of the panties, I don’t know, but the idea was wicked.

“I do want to see them on you,” Edwin retorted.

“Then you will have to earn the right to see them. The earning will be hard and difficult. Are you prepared to go that far to see me wearing a pair of French knickers, no matter how beautiful?”

He gulped again. He was thinking things he had never spoken about.

“I think anything might be worth it if you would wear them.”

That was a declaration for me. I knew Edwin fancied me but I hadn’t thought it was any more than a passing attraction. This was serious.

“OK. If you want me to wear them you are going to suffer. Are you sure?”

He nodded.

“Then we’ll start now. Down on your hands and knees, Edwin, and beg."

I didn’t believe he’d do it. He dropped to his hands and knees, raised his head, and said: “Please.”

“I told you it would be difficult.”

I kicked off one shoe. I pushed a sweaty nylon-covered foot in his face.

“Suck this!” I ordered.

He opened his mouth, moved forward and sucked my sweaty toes.

“Roll on your back.”

He rolled on his back. I stood up and placed my foot on his face. I moved it around, covering his mouth, then his nose and his eyes. I was pleased that I’d worn a trouser suit to work today or he would be looking up my skirt.

This was amazing. My boss was on his back with my foot on his face. How much further could I go? I decided to try.

“Strip down to your waist.”

He stripped. One of the other staff could walk in at any time. That would be really humiliating.

“Pick up your clothes and crawl on your hands and knees into your office. Wait for me there.”

Off he went, crawling into his office. 

I looked in my handbag. There was nothing obviously useful in there. I looked at the coat rack for inspiration. I walked over and took my headscarf that I wore round my neck under the trench coat. I pulled the belt out of the coat’s belt loops. Then I remembered the spare tights in my desk. I checked. There were two unopened packs and the wad of laddered tights that I should have thrown away. I gathered up the laddered tights and stuffed them in my handbag.

I carried the panties in one hand with the belt and scarf. In the other hand I held my bag. I walked confidently into Edwin’s office. I didn’t feel confident. If this went wrong I would lose my job and I liked it. The pay was good but the conditions were great. I was risking the works on Edwin’s fetish for me in red silk panties.

As I entered his office I switched on the “Do Not Disturb” light and locked the door behind me. Edwin was waiting for me, still on his hands and knees. He had hung his jacket on the coat rack. His shirt and vest were on a spare chair.

I crossed to the window and shut the curtains. Then I turned round to face him. I was very nervous but dared not show it.

“Stand up, Edwin! Turn your back to me, hands behind your back.”

“Yes, Sandra.”

I tied his hands with one leg of a pair of laddered tights, wrapping the other leg around his waist before tying it to his bound wrists.

“Kneel!”

He knelt. I pulled his head back and gagged him with tights in his mouth and the headscarf holding them in.

“On the floor.”

He lowered himself awkwardly to the floor. I rolled him to his back with my foot. I dropped beside him and reached for his trousers. He shook his head violently. I slapped his cheek.

“You can’t say no, Edwin.”

I unzipped his trousers then remembered he was still wearing his shoes. I removed his shoes, then pulled his trousers off with a flourish revealing blue boxer shorts with an interesting bulge in them.

I bound his knees together with the trenchcoat’s belt and tied the end to the leg of his desk. Then I sat in his leather swivel chair and looked down at him. I dangled the red panties from one hand. He looked at them as if mesmerised.

“Now, Edwin, this is just the beginning of your quest for the red silk knickers. You will have to repeat this several times before you even get a glimpse of them on me. Are you prepared to endure that?”

He nodded.

“Right. I’m leaving you to contemplate your predicament. See you soon.”

As I walked out of his office he was staring at me. I locked the door behind me. Just in time. Danny walked in.

“Is the boss free?” he asked.

I had difficulty in keeping my face straight.

“He’s tied up at the moment, Danny. He should be free in about twenty minutes if you could come back.”

“OK, Sandra. I’ll be back.” He gave me an odd look as he left. Then I realised why. I was holding the knickers in my hand. I dropped them hurriedly. Then I had another idea. I picked them up again, walked back into Edwin’s office and dropped them on his face.

“Danny was asking for you. I told him you were tied up.”

I left him struggling with his face covered by red silk.

Ten minutes later I went back to release him. He dressed quickly but not before I’d noticed a wet patch on his boxer shorts. I retrieved the knickers and put them in my handbag.

Edwin came into my office.

“You really intend to make me work for this, don’t you, Sandra?”

“Of course. You want me to wear them. I might because they are such beautiful things but what you really want is for me to wear them for you. That has implications about our relationship with each other. If our relationship is going to change, it will change by my terms, not yours. You have no choice in the matter. I do.”

“All this for a pair of French knickers?” he protested.

“You know it isn’t about the knickers, Edwin. What you want is me. I don’t come cheap, wearing red knickers or not. If you want me, you have to prove that I am more important to you than anything else, including knickers.”

“So what happens now?” he asked.

“Today, nothing else. Tomorrow I will come prepared. I hadn’t expected your declaration. However you could take me out for a meal tonight. If our relationship is changing then we need to establish ourselves away from the office.”

As if to prove my point, Danny walked in. Edwin took him into his office for ten minutes. When Danny left Edwin waited about thirty seconds before coming to me.

“Would you like to go out for a meal tonight, Sandra?” he asked politely.

“Yes Edwin. I would be delighted. Will you collect me?”

He nodded.

“About eight o’clock?” he suggested.

“I will be ready then,” I replied.

I was. He was on time. We went to a French restaurant and enjoyed a well-prepared meal. He made himself as agreeable as he could. I had to keep reminding myself that this charming suave man had been sucking my stocking foot a few hours ago and had let me tie him up with my old tights.

He saw me home. I allowed him a goodnight peck on the cheek. Once indoors I completed my preparations for the encounter tomorrow. In bed I found myself dreaming of red silk knickers. In one dream I was walking down the church aisle on my father’s arm as a bride. I was a bride wearing nothing but red silk knickers yet no one seemed to notice.

The next morning I dressed myself carefully. I wore calf length boots and a long flared denim skirt just above my ankles. I had a tiered cotton petticoat under the skirt. My handbag was heavier than usual and dragged on my shoulder.

At the office I wrote a fictitious eleven o’clock appointment in Edwin’s diary. That was the usual time for me to bring him his morning coffee and to review progress but normally it was understood that urgent matters could interrupt or defer it.

Ten minutes before eleven o’clock I walked into his office carrying his coffee but with my handbag slung on my shoulder. By eleven all the outstanding matters had been cleared. I turned on the Do Not Disturb sign, locked the door, drew the curtains and turned on Edwin.

“Time for another ordeal, Edwin.” I said.

“Strip for me, please. All the way.”

He stripped. His tool sprung to attention as soon as he dropped his shorts.

“Now crawl backwards under your desk.”

He blinked at that but obeyed. I rounded the desk, hauled up my skirt, and dropped to my knees. From my handbag I pulled two pairs of handcuffs. I fixed them to his ankles and then to the foot rail on the desk. I crossed to the other side of the desk and handcuffed his wrists to the legs either side of the centre opening. He was secured hand and foot with only his head protruding from under his desk. I sat down in his executive chair leaned back and crossed my ankles with my heavy skirt decorously draped to conceal my legs.

“Now, Edwin, you want to see me wearing the red silk knickers?”

“Yes, Sandra, I do.”

“I could continue humiliating you for months before allowing that, couldn’t I?”

“You wouldn’t be so cruel, Sandra, surely?”

“Perhaps not. What I do need is a declaration from you. I want commitment from you, not increasing degradation. Will you commit?”

I saw understanding finally dawn on him. All he had asked me for was to wear a pair of panties for him. He had said nothing about our relationship. I had laid it on the line.

He raised his head awkwardly to look into my face.

“Sandra, I love you. I want you, with or without red silk panties. Will you marry me?”

I looked down at him.

“What about red silk panties?”

“Blast the panties! I want you!” he shouted.

“OK. You have me. Now what?”

He was non-plussed. What did I mean?

“I’m yours. We are engaged. Now what are you going to do?”

“Kiss you?” he said plaintively.

“You can’t, can you? You can’t do anything. You can’t even touch the soles of my boots.”

He looked at his handcuffs.

“No. I can’t.”

“OK, Edwin. I’ll stop teasing you.”

I rolled the chair forward until his head was in my lap. I rolled up the hem of my skirt and petticoat. I pushed his face down between my legs hard against the red silk knickers, which were damp from my excitement.

“There you are Edwin,” I said, caressing his head. “You have got me wearing the red silk knickers and I have got you just where I want you. That is the right place for a future husband to be.”

I dropped my petticoat and skirt around him. I enjoyed the next few minutes as he showed that tongues could express devotion in much more obvious ways that in speech.

When we married Edwin remained less than eloquent about our love, except when his face was buried between my legs either in red silk or just naked.

Who is the boss in our marriage? I am.

Who is the boss at work? He thinks he is but it is difficult to maintain his authority when he has his head hidden under my skirt.

NaNoWriMo part 4



Flawed Red Silk Ch. 05



Half the Woman

The Valentine present from Christopher Jones was far too large. He must have remembered Sophia from the days shortly after our marriage. She was large. Actually she was more than large, she was obese. She had been eating badly for years.

Five years later it was a joke between us. I complained that she was only half the woman I’d married. Then she was twice my weight. Now she’s lighter than me, and I admit it, more attractive than she was as my bride. Even all the wiles of the dressmaker couldn’t make her appear much slimmer than her vast size.

I married Sophia the woman, not Sophia the fat lady. I liked her long before we fell in love. Once married and settled into a domestic routine she started losing pounds a week. I went on the diet as well. Even I lost several kilos. Within two years Sophia had stopped wearing tent-like dresses. After three years she reached her ideal weight and has stayed there ever since.

There had been nothing fundamentally wrong with Sophia’s metabolism. She had lost her mother and stopped smoking in the same month but compensated by comfort eating. Once she had settled into our marriage she started eating sensibly. OK, I helped. I encouraged her without nagging, I supported her through the bad times when things went wrong at work or she had a disappointment. We replaced comfort eating with comfort lovemaking, which helped to burn off the calories. I let her do the work of making love even when I was flattened like a pancake under her heavy body.

As she shed her weight we started walking for exercise. She became fitter and the walks got longer. We started riding our bicycles around a couple of blocks, then a few miles until we rode twenty miles every evening around a network of cycle paths near our house.

Now we don’t need to do as much exercise but we still keep reasonably fit.

When the parcel arrived it was addressed to me. I opened it in our office. I was delighted with the workmanship on the red silk French knickers but disappointed when I opened them out. They would have fitted the Sophia I married but would fall off her now.

“What have you got there, Ken?” Sophia asked. “A present from a large lover? Are you missing the larger sized woman?”

“No, Sophia, you know there is only one woman in my life and she is you. This is a Valentine’s Day present from Christopher Jones of Silk Designs whatever. I think I am supposed to give them to you on the fourteenth of February but they don’t fit the slimline Sophia.”

“Toss them over here. Let me have a look, please.”

I threw them across to her desk. They ballooned out in the air covering both her hands as she caught them. She felt them reverently passing her hands around them.

“These are wonderful, Ken. If they were the right size I would be very pleased to get them on Valentine’s Day. They look and feel expensive.”

An odd look came over her face. My heart sank. That look usually means trouble for me. Sophia has some weird ideas from time to time.

“Take them back, Ken,” she said, rolling them into a ball and throwing them at me. They opened out again and ended their trajectory spread across my face to Sophia’s giggling delight.

“Suits you, Ken. Seriously, will you give them to me on Valentine’s Day? I would like to have them.”

“If you say so. You shall have them on Valentine’s Day with my love.”

“Thank you, Ken.” She walked across to me and gave me a lingering kiss.

“I had intended to take you out to dinner that evening. Do you want your present before or after dinner?”

“Afterwards, Ken, when we get home. Don’t eat or drink too much. You will need some energy for the late night entertainment.”

That thrilled me. An evening out with my wife who I still loved madly and needing energy afterwards seemed an ideal way to spend Valentine’s Day. It was a shame that we had to work during the day, but we did have a company to run. We had to live.

That was a few weeks ago. Now we were on the way back from the restaurant after our evening meal. It hadn’t been as great as we’d expected because too many other couples had the same idea. The restaurant had been crowded and the service staff were overwhelmed by the workload. It would have been better on any other evening. I made a mental note to take Sophia out for another meal in about a fortnight’s time when the restaurants would be less busy.

Even so we had enjoyed the break. We walked back to our house through the frost glistening park holding hands. It was too cold for most people to be out. Inside the front door we appreciated the central heating as we stripped off the layers of outer clothing.

I opened a drawer and took out the neatly wrapped parcel.

“This is my Valentine’s Day present to you, Sophia.”

She passed me her present. While she was struggling with her present I had opened mine to find a pair of cufflinks. I knew that they had been made by a local artist and were unique. I kissed her and said thank you. She was finding her parcel difficult. I had asked the packing room staff to make a good job of it. I passed her a pair of scissors.

“I didn’t expect to have to play ‘pass the parcel’,” she complained.

“I thought your present should be properly protected,” I lied. “Be careful, please. Some of the contents are fragile."”

That made her pause. She had been expecting only the French Knickers. She looked at me, one of those looks, before carefully cutting the parcel tape. Inside was a decorated cardboard box. She lifted off the lid. She touched the panties and felt the other present that I had put inside them. She unwrapped the panties and pulled out a large bottle of her favourite French perfume. It had cost me more money than I had thought reasonable even in the duty-free shop at the airport. The perfume seemed to be acceptable. She flung herself on me, kissing me fiercely. I soon forgot the price of the perfume.

She didn’t say thank you. Her kisses and cuddles were thanks enough. I couldn’t think of anything but her as her body squirmed delightedly against mine. She ended by sitting on my lap with my head buried in the hair trailing across her shoulder. I turned to kiss the half-hidden ear but met her lips again.

“I didn’t expect the perfume,” she said. “I had and have plans for the knickers but the perfume is a bonus. I had only a few drops left. That amount will keep me sweet-smelling for at least a year.”

“What about the knickers?” I was curious. They were far too large for the current Sophia.

“Wait until later. You’ll see.” 

Sophia sat on my lap again as we drank coffee, which was unusual for that late in the evening. Sophia was talking about how much better she felt at her present weight. She wanted to know what I had seen in the larger version. At the time most people identified her by her size. From our first meeting I had treated her as a person. Why?

I explained about my great-aunt Lucy. She had been wheelchair-bound and massive but as a small child I had been able to talk to her for hours. She had been intelligent and funny. As I became older she had been a sounding board for all my teenage worries. She had never underestimated or dismissed my fleeting problems but had always listened carefully and given me advice that I could follow. 

She had taught me that it is futile to judge people by appearance. Genetics, accident or illness, not personality could have caused someone’s build or face. Once she showed me before and after pictures of Battle of Britain pilots who had been burned. The contrast between the confident young men and the scarred masks that were left of their faces was horrific. Even after extensive plastic surgery their faces were still difficult to understand. Later on I actually met such a man. Underneath the scars he was full of life and humour yet people turned away from him, unable to bear the sight of his face. That hurt him even while he understood.

By the time I had met Sophia, great-aunt Lucy’s lesson had been well learned. I never judged by appearance so I listened to Sophia, talked to her, and fell in love with the person she is, not the ‘fat girl’ she appeared to be. Then my ‘fat girl’ turned from an ugly duckling into a swan. I had married the person and I ended up with the person in a shape that she was happy to be in. What more could I want?

This explanation took a long time because Sophia kept stopping my mouth with kisses.

“Now, Ken,” Sophia interrupted, “I want you to think back to our Wedding Day. What was I wearing?”

“Is this an inquisition? You know that men don’t remember clothes as well as women.”

“No, it’s not an inquisition. I’ll remind you if you can’t remember. Can you remember?”

“You were wearing a straight ivory silk sheath with a train. The neckline was scooped fairly low in front,” I pointed to her torso, “down to there, with wide shoulder straps ending in capped sleeves. You had a veil that came down to your waist in front but was slightly longer than your train behind you. The dress zipped up to just below the nape of your neck behind.”

I stopped and thought further.

“You were wearing white low-heeled shoes, and white tights. That’s about it, I think.”

“For a man that’s amazing. Let’s make it more difficult. What was I wearing as underwear? You took it off. You should know.”

“Immediately under the dress you had a full length slip with wide shoulder straps looped to the shoulder straps of your dress and a stiff waist slip that gave some body to the skirt. You had a foundation garment that held you together…”

“That’s hardly a gallant way of putting it!” Sophia protested.

“Sorry. It was moulding your figure, if you like that better. It zipped up at the front and had short legs under your tights. I remember that it was difficult for me to peel off you. Underneath that you had a small pair of white cotton panties.”

“That’s brilliant. No wonder you’re in the rag trade. Only one thing wrong. The small pair of white cotton panties were the largest size available.”

“Why this discussion of what you were wearing?” I asked.

“Because we are going to have a romantic dressing-up session and these,” Sophia waved the red silk knickers, “will play their part.”

I couldn’t follow that. The knickers were far too large.

Sophia dragged me off upstairs.

On our bed I was surprised to see her wedding dress. I thought it had gone years ago when she lost so much weight but there it was splayed across the bed. All the clothing I’d just described was there too.

“Now we strip,” Sophia announced.

We stripped. She turned off the overhead light leaving the dim light from two small lamps by the curtained window.

Now what? I thought to myself. What is she going to do?

She pulled the red silk knickers up to her knees and stopped.

“Come here, Ken.”

I came to her.

“Put your legs into the knickers, facing me.”

“What!”

“You heard. Do it, please.”

I obeyed. She pulled the knickers up and settled them around us. We were pulled together. My tool began to take an interest in the proceedings.

Sophia picked up the white tights. Surely we couldn’t put those on?

We could. She had cut them off at the ankles. It was an undignified struggle which aroused me even more but she pulled the tights up over the French Knickers. I am sure the knickers should have been over the tights but I wasn’t complaining. The silk felt very smooth and sensuous against my skin.

She reached for the foundation garment, corselette, whatever it was that I had said held her together. That was a real struggle to put on. I felt like a contortionist when we had finished. She had asked me to pull up the legs from the inside. I should have known there was an ulterior motive. I couldn’t pull my hands out once she had settled the shoulder straps and swiftly zipped up the front that was now hugging my back. 

I still wasn’t objecting. I was now fully erect and sheathed inside her pussy. This foundation garment was pulling me deep inside her. She wriggled her shoulders and tightened the shoulder straps. Now I was fixed to her and fixed in her. Her naked breasts were pressing into my chest and her erect nipples were digging holes in my skin.

She pulled the long slip down over us. My arms were tightly held by the corselette. The slip brushed against my calves with a cool slither that made me jump.

The waist petticoat came down from above. She tied it around our waists. Even though she tied the drawstring tight it didn’t make much difference because we were held firmly already.

The wedding dress followed. She zipped up the back. My head was forced beside hers. The long veil covered her head and mine.

“There!” Sophia said triumphantly. I knew I was half the woman I was when you married me. Here we are bride and groom both in the wedding dress. That’s how much weight I have lost.”

She pulled her head back and looked into my eyes.

“How do you feel?” Her muscles contracted around my full erection.

“I feel closer to you and further inside you than I have ever been. I’m not sure how long I can hold back.”

“Keep holding. We have to move.”

She shuffled us towards the bed and lowered herself on to it. I had to follow. We rolled on the bed until I was underneath, the train wrapping around our legs. She pulled my face in front of hers and lowered her lips to mine. Her tongue slid between my lips. Slowly she started humping her hips. On each of her down strokes I was thrust deeper into her. As she raised up I had to follow firmly gripped by the clinging corselette.

I was hanging on as hard as I could. I was trying to hold back the eruption that was almost there. I was trying to move with her, to reduce the tremendous strain as she lifted both of our bodies.

She started groaning into my mouth. I felt her body flush against mine and her legs tense inside the tights. Her tongue lashed around as she panted against my mouth. I would have gritted my teeth except that her tongue was between them forcing my tongue back.

She sighed and relaxed. I relaxed too, too soon. My tool shot everything deep into her.

“Mmm, Ken, that was nice,” she said.

Nice? I thought, it was more than nice, it was fantastic.

“I think I’ll lie here for a while and enjoy myself. You aren’t going anywhere, are you Ken?”

“No, Sophia, I’m not going anywhere.”

I couldn’t. I was held as close to her as if we were stuck together with glue. Her arms were free. Mine weren’t. Even at her present weight she was holding me down.

We lay together for a while enjoying the contact of skin to skin. It didn’t take long for my erection to return. This second time I could hold back until she had reached a peak over and over again. She finally caused me to come into her by squeezing hard on each downstroke.

We spent the whole night wrapped inside her wedding gown waking in the morning for one last mutual orgasm.

Getting out of the dress and that corselette was nearly as hard as getting in. The red silk knickers were soaked with our efforts and peeled off like cling-film.

“I think these knickers are the right size for us, Ken. They made a Valentine’s night to remember for your bride who is half the woman you married. What do you think?”

“I think that half the woman has become twice as sexy.”

That earned me a kiss. I’m very happy with half the woman.

NaNoWriMo 2003



Flawed Red Silk Ch. 06



Worth More Than This

Josephine tied her small white apron around her clinging black dress. Today’s apron had a pointed lower hem trimmed with lace. Most of her black dresses were similar with small variations in depth of neckline and flare of skirt. She personalised them with the aprons. She had a collection of over a dozen some of which had been presented to her by the customers in the hotel bar. All the aprons had long waist ties that she arranged in a floppy bow to relieve the black of her dresses.

This evening Peter would be coming to stay at the hotel. He was a travelling salesman who covered this area once a fortnight and had done for a couple of years. Somehow Josephine and Peter had become an item. On each visit she spent some of the night in his room and what happened there was now as routine as if they were a married couple who made love the same way every time.

Tonight Josephine felt restless. She had been a barmaid for three years and she didn’t want to be a barmaid forever. She had started working part-time while she was a student to help pay her way but had flunked the end of her first year. The hectic social life and the strain of working as well had impeded her studies. She had failed her end of year examination with a spectacular crash.

Instead of thinking what she should do next the easiest option had been to take on more hours at the hotel and now she was the mainstay of this bar with two other girls working for her. The pay was reasonable and she had her own room rent-free so she could live adequately if not well.

Josephine couldn’t think of a career she really wanted. She didn’t want to return to University. Apart from the distractions that she now thought were childish, she hadn’t enjoyed the study as much as she had expected. It seemed just like school in a different setting when she had wanted the excitement of new discoveries.

But tonight the future stretched ahead as a boring routine. Josephine wouldn’t stay young and pretty for ever. She knew she had a good figure, a standard dress size, flawless skin and an attractive face if not conventionally pretty. Those assets had got her the bar job originally. She didn’t intend to end up as raddled harridan working in a bar pretending to be the attractive beauty she had been once. Even her bed antics with Peter had become a routine. He expected the same actions every time.

Recently she had become friendly with Denise who was a mature student working as a Chambermaid. Denise was only a few years older but had worked after school until she could afford to go to University to study Sociology in the evenings. The hotel work fitted with Denise’s studies. Her room, next to Josephine’s, was in the attics that were too antiquated for paying customers. Josephine and Denise used to talk for hours during the afternoons when they were both free. Talk was cheaper than any other entertainment.

Talking to Denise, who had a clear idea what she wanted to do and how to get there, had unsettled Josephine. She thought that a crisis was approaching in her life that would change her future.

But now she was on duty. Entering the bar she swiftly took in everything. The tables and chairs were neatly arranged, everything was clean, the fire was burning brightly in the grate, and the bar surface gleamed. All was as it should be. Greeting Monica and Sally as they arrived, later than she did as usual but still before their appointed start times, she was pleased that her domain was well organised. Even if she was unsettled she took a pride in her work.

The evening in the bar followed the same pattern as most evenings. The regulars took their places, exchanged the usual banter with the staff, and sipped their drinks to make their money last. Those people staying at the hotel provided the interest. Tonight there was a couple from New Zealand who were on a tour of the UK. Their travellers’ tales of disastrous mishaps were amusing and provoked a general discussion about hotel standards in remote places.

Peter arrived in the bar about ten o’clock. He tried to monopolise Josephine but tonight she was too busy to respond. He would have to wait until the night staff relieved her at midnight.

He waited. He claimed her as if it was his right. Perhaps it was, but only because she had consented so many times before. He hurried her off to his room. Once there he shed his clothes and looked surprised when she didn’t.

“What’s wrong, Josephine?” he asked.

“I don’t feel like it tonight,” she replied.

“Please,” he begged. “I only see you once a fortnight and I look forward to these times with you.”

He rummaged in his suitcase.

“I’ve brought you a special present.”

He showed her the padded envelope and pulled out a beautiful pair of embroidered red silk French Knickers. He held them out for her inspection. Despite herself she was fascinated. They were better than any item of lingerie she had ever seen, even at prices she could never afford. She touched them gently.

“Thank you, Peter, they are lovely, but…”

“But what?”

She thought frantically before using the old excuse she’d never used before.

“It’s the wrong time of the month. I can’t.”

Peter’s face fell. He couldn’t ignore her cycle even if he wanted to.

“Could you do things even if we can’t make love fully?”

“Like what?”

“You could give me a blow-job,” he said bluntly.

Josephine wasn’t keen. She had kissed him down there but had never taken his prick in her mouth, nor had she done that for anyone.

Her reluctance was obvious even to Peter who was sitting on the edge of the bed with an erection. He threw his arms around her and pulled her to him. She resisted but he pulled harder and threw her on to the bed. He rolled her face down and pulled at her apron. The bow untied itself. He knotted it and grabbed at one of her flailing arms. Josephine struggled vainly as he tied first one wrist then the other to the small of her back before finishing with a knot and a bow much smaller than it had been.

Josephine was aroused by his sudden attack. She felt warmth between her legs, as she knew how helpless he had made her. He sat her on his bare legs and kissed her ears, the cheeks, the nape of her neck. She wriggled sensuously as his expert tongue aroused her and began to respond, returning his kisses.

One of Peter’s hands slid down her neckline to her breasts. She moaned gently as he stroked and cupped inside her bra. The other hand went to the back of her head and held her while he kissed. He moved her off his legs to the bed.

The hand at her head began to push her down towards his erection. That broke her enjoyment.

“No, Peter! I won’t!” she cried loudly.

“You will,” he insisted. “I’ll make you. You’ll enjoy it.”

“You won’t,” she retorted. “I’ll bite it off. Stop. Now!”

“OK, OK,” Peter said resignedly. “If you won’t, you won’t.”

Josephine struggled to stand up, unbalanced by her tied arms.

“Undo them,” she ordered.

“No. If you won’t oblige me, I won’t help you.”

Peter sounded very annoyed.

“You can leave as you are.”

He strode over and opened the door.

“Go! Now, or I’ll forget that I’m supposed to be a gentleman.”

Josephine walked towards the door reluctant to leave with her hands tied.

“Wait.” Peter said. “You’ve forgotten something.”

Josephine turned to face him, hoping that he would relent and release her.

“Here,” he said, crushing the French Knickers into the padded bag, “Don’t forget to take your present. It is the last thing you’ll get from me.”

Roughly, he stuffed the bag down the front of her dress. He spun her round and pushed her out of the door, slamming it shut behind her.

Josephine stood in the corridor with tears streaming down her face. She felt rejected and humiliated. How could Peter treat her like this?

She struggled to free her hands but the knots tightened on her wrists. She needed help and a friend. Denise was the only person she could turn to. She walked along the corridor to the lift. Pressing the button to call the lift was impossible until she thought of using her nose. That worked inside the lift as well.

Once in the staff area she was afraid that she would be seen. She crept along until she reached Denise’s door. No light shone through the transom so Denise was probably asleep in bed. There was no one else to help so Josephine kicked gently against the door. After a couple of minutes she kicked harder and was rewarded by a sleepy “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Josephine. I need your help, please.”

“OK, I’m coming.”

The door opened. Denise was wearing pyjamas and only half awake. 

“Come in if you must,” she said.

Josephine sighed with relief as she entered Denise’s room.

“Can you untie me, please?”

“What? How? Who?” Denise wasn’t really with it yet.

Josephine turned to show her tied hands.

“Untie me please?”

Denise put a hand on Josephine’s wrists.

“You have got yourself in a pickle, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have.”

“I think I want an explanation.” Stated Denise.

Josephine pushed her bound wrists impatiently at Denise.

“Untie me and I’ll tell you about it.”

“No, Josephine, I don’t think I will. Tell me first and then I’ll think about it. You owe me something for waking me up.”

“Denise!”

“Don’t ‘Denise’ me. You got yourself in this mess. You are helpless. I could take advantage of you, couldn’t I?”

Denise stroked Josephine’s cheek and then kissed her full on the lips. Josephine was startled but didn’t pull back. She returned the kiss, shyly at first, and then with more enthusiasm. Denise responded by throwing her arms around Josephine. She caressed her back then a hand moved to Josephine’s breast.

“What’s this?” she said as she felt the envelope that Peter had thrust into Josephine’s cleavage.

“That’s a present from Peter. He did this to me.”

“Did he? And then he let you go through the hotel like this?”

“I’ve finished with him. He wanted a blowjob tonight and I wouldn’t. I’ve never done one and I didn’t feel like doing one on him. He tied me like this and tried to force me to go down on him. I threatened to bite it off so he stopped and pushed me out.”

“I’m not surprised he pushed you out. Threatening the family jewels is a good way to annoy any man. You’ve been quite a spitfire tonight, haven’t you?”

Josephine laughed.

“I suppose I have. I was bored with Peter. I want to make something of my life and Peter wasn’t part of my future. I didn’t intend to break with him but I couldn’t pretend.”

“What is this present? Can I look?”

Josephine nodded. Denise’s hand went down between her breasts, stroked both of them, and then withdrew holding the padded envelope. Josephine wriggled seductively brushing her breasts against Denise’s hand.

“It’s a pair of French Knickers. Have a look.”

Denise pulled out the knickers. They brightened up the drab room with their fiery shimmering red.

“Wow! These are some present.”

“I know. I almost thought that Peter was worth it if he could give me presents like that.”

“Hang on. There’s a letter inside.” Denise unfolded the letter on headed paper.

“The cheapskate! Look. It was a free gift to him. He didn’t buy them.”

Josephine read the letter Denise was holding.

“I feel better about Peter now. He tried to buy me with a present someone else had given him. I’m worth more than that.”

“Yes you are, Josephine. Lets get you untied.”

Denise struggled with the apron for several minutes before Josephine’s hands were released. Then she rubbed her friend’s bruised wrists until the blood was flowing freely again.

“Josephine, it’s late, you woke me up but I think you need to talk. Do you?”

“Yes, Denise, I do.”

“Then come and share my bed.”

Josephine raised her eyebrows.

“You know I like your body, Josephine. You don’t object when I kiss or cuddle you, do you?”

“No. It’s a big step from that to going to bed with you. Am I ready for that? I’m not sure.”

“How about this then? I’ll talk if you wear the French Knickers and you let me go down on them. That’s much better than going down on a man. Have you ever had someone do it to you?”

“No. I haven’t.”

“Try it. I think you will enjoy it.”

Josephine’s response was to reach for the silk panties and start undressing. Once naked she put her legs in the knickers. She couldn’t avoid a shiver as the cool silk rose up her legs.

“Wow! They feel great. I could get used to this.”

Denise dropped to her knees. Her hands reached out for the red silk and stroked between Josephine’s legs. Josephine responded by throwing her head back and biting her lip. The fingers stroking the silk against her were rousing sensations she hadn’t thought possible. When Denise’s lips pressed the silk into the warm slit Josephine’s hands reached to cradle the head that was giving her so much pleasure.

After a few seconds Josephine pushed the waistband of the knickers down. The red silk slid to her ankles and Denise’s tongue slipped into the depths. Josephine stifled a cry of delight.

They moved to the bed leaving the knickers lying on the floor. Josephine stuffed her mouth with a corner of pillow to stop betraying sounds waking the other staff.

Later, much later, the two friends lay in each other’s arms.

“Well, Jo, what do you want to talk about?”

“Thank you, Denise, for showing me so much.” Josephine replied.

“That wasn’t what you wanted to talk about, was it. We can do that again. You can do it to me.”

“I think I’d like to. But what I wanted to talk about was me, what I should do with my life. I don’t want to be a barmaid forever. It seems like selling my body to get the customers to buy drinks. If I’m selling myself I want a better reward than the sort of pay I’m getting now. My body won’t always be attractive. I’d like to make money from it while it is. I don’t mean being a prostitute. That is what I felt like tonight with Peter. The knickers weren’t an adequate reward for that. No. I’m being unfair. They would have been if he had bought them. I will treasure them for what they are but he didn’t pay for them. He tried to buy me with something that cost him nothing and he couldn’t use. That hurt.”

“That’s a long speech for two o’clock in the morning, Jo.”

“It was, wasn’t it. I want to benefit from my body.”

“Have you ever thought of modelling?”

“No. How could I? There are so many dubious ‘models’ that aren’t really models.”

“I have an idea. One of the women on my course is a photographer. She does shoots for clothing catalogues. The money isn’t great but the work is honest. I could ask her for advice.”

“Would you? That might be a start.”

“I will. Tomorrow, oops no, today. I think we had better get some sleep if we are going to be fit for work. OK?”

“Yes, Denise,” said Josephine, snuggling closer. “good night.”

And so it was that Josephine became a model. At first it was an additional income, then her face was noticed by an agency, and she was able to work as a model full-time. She studied the business and became an agent for other models, helped by Denise who mothered the girls, advised them, guided them, dealt with their spats and tempers and supported Josephine throughout.

Josephine and Denise never made a secret of their relationship, which wasn’t exclusive. They liked men as well but on their own terms. Would they eventually settle down together? I don’t know; neither do they. They just enjoy life as it comes.

The French Knickers are framed on the wall of Josephine’s office as a reminder of the night they changed her life.

NaNoWriMo 2003



Flawed Red Silk Ch. 07



Chapter 07: The Raffle Controversy

Dear Maria,

You asked me to tell you about the row recently happening in our office, so here is the low down.

The office was holding a raffle to raise money for Children in Need. No one knew who had started the raffle but the gifts of prizes and been pouring in for a couple of weeks and had spread beyond the original filing cabinet top to a dedicated table.

Most of the prizes were the usual rubbish that people give for raffles such as cheap deodorant gift packs, unusable kitchen aids that sound good in the adverts but are obviously worthless when they arrive, and packets of biscuits or chocolates with names no one has heard before.

Some prizes were attractive. Someone had given a bottle of single malt whisky. There were several bottles of good French wine mixed in with the supermarket bargain bin plonk. The general office staff were startled when the Managing Director's Secretary, a most superior lady, brought in a padded envelope and laid it on the raffle table before turning and leaving a hint of her expensive perfume to tantalise the men.

There was a rush to see what she had left. Marjorie got to the table first and opened the unsealed envelope. She blushed as she peered inside and dropped the envelope as if it had stung her. That increased everyone's inquisitiveness. Penelope had her hands on the envelope almost before it hit the table. She looked in, turned pale but inserted her hand to pull out a dramatic pair of French Knickers. She held them up, giggling nervously. The red silk glistened like the fairy on a Christmas tree as she showed them to her colleagues. The intake of breath from both males and females was audible. These were panties to covet if not to die for.

During the day the sales of raffle tickets doubled because so many people wanted to win those panties even if few would admit that was what they were spending their money on. We could all hope, couldn't we?

By general agreement the French Knickers would be the first prize and would be awarded to the holder of the first ticket drawn. After their fate was known the rest of the prizes would be less eagerly awaited.

On the day of the draw the general office was very crowded. The chief buyer's youngest daughter Charlotte who was visiting the office on a "Bring your child to work day" was persuaded to do the draw. She was rather embarrassed by all the attention. Unlike the rest of the young "children" who had refused to come to a boring office on a sunny day she was twenty-three years old and starting her Ph.D. She gritted her teeth and prepared to do her duty.

She plunged her hand into the wastepaper bucket that was filled with the ticket stubs, closed her eyes, wriggled her hand around and pulled out one ticket. Even before she announced the number many people knew that they were unlucky. So many tickets had been sold that different coloured books had been used. This ticket was yellow. 

She smoothed the stub out.

"The winner is the holder of yellow ticket number 273," she announced in a clear soprano voice reminding some that her Daddy had paid for singing lessons. "Yellow ticket 273? Is the holder here?"

There was a scuffle at the back of the crowd.

"Yes!" announced a male voice. "I have it."

The murmur running through the crowd was almost angry. Of all the people to win these wonderful panties it had to be, just had to be, the company nerd Maurice. He pushed his way through the crowd that wasn't pleased to part for him to collect his prize.

Charlotte was rather startled by his crew cut, his bright blue three brass-buttoned blazer, and yellow spotted bow tie. She pushed the padded envelope in his direction as if warding off an unpleasant apparition. She dismissed him from her thoughts as she plunged her hand back into the bucket to proceed with the draw that now seemed interminable.

Once the draw had been completed and the fantastic amount raised for Children in Need had been announced everyone drifted back to their work. We all felt cheated as if someone had stolen the fairy off the Christmas tree. What could Maurice do with those panties? He had never been seen with anyone who could be even vaguely described as female. The general response to Maurice's advent nearby was an unaccustomed interest in paperwork or unnecessary phone calls or any tactic that might persuade him to pick some other victim.

Maurice was so enthusiastic about trifles. He had even waxed lyrical about the new plastic paper clips! He was hopeless.

The day ended with despondent staff huddling in corners discussing the unfairness of the draw. Not that we accused Charlotte. Her reaction to Maurice had been the same as any of us who met him for the first time. But Maurice had those wonderful panties in his possession. It seemed like sacrilege. All of us who had looked at them appreciated the texture, the workmanship, and the sublime redness. The person least likely to appreciate them had won them. 

If that had been the end of it the affair would have blown over. But some of the women actually started making advances towards Maurice to try to get the knickers from him. He couldn't go into the stationery room without being followed by some predatory female anxious to try out her wiles. The dress code went out the window as they competed to show Maurice more cleavage, more leg, more bare midriff. The other males appreciated the display but Maurice was getting hot and bothered everywhere he went.

Then the competition got nasty. Accusations about taking unfair advantage of opportunities to seduce Maurice were flying around. Women who were normally friends were reduced to spitting wildcats. Even I was affected by an overwhelming desire to wrest those knickers from Maurice's hands.

The office was a battlefield with the men cowering behind their desks as the combatants worked themselves up to a fury. What would have happened I don't know but the most unlikely person, Evangeline, brought it to a sudden end.

One morning she and Maurice calmly walked into the General Office and she announced that they were engaged. After a stunned silence everyone congratulated them. The congratulations were not really for the happy if unconventional couple but with a sense of relief that hostilities had ended. Evangeline had won the knickers. I mean, Evangeline? Who would have thought of her? She was the most nerd-like female around. If a female could be a nerd and most can't, Evangeline comes closest to being one.

Then Maurice spoke, thanking everyone for the congratulations. Then he said:

"Evangeline and I have made a decision. She doesn't want the raffle prize I won. We have decided that the prize should be raffled again to raise more money for Children in Need. This time only women can buy tickets."

He and Evangeline started selling tickets within the hour. By the end of the day two hundred tickets had been sold at one pound each. By midday Friday five hundred and thirty two pounds had been raised. Evangeline performed the draw. I won.

That night Reggie proposed. I'm sure it was the sight of those knickers under my skirt as I accidentally flashed them that brought him to do it at last. We are getting married next March.

Please, Maria, will you be my chief bridesmaid? I need your support. Getting Reggie to propose was difficult enough. Getting him to the altar will take work and I'm sure you can advise me.

All my love, your friend and Mrs. Reggie-to-be,

Andrea.



Flawed Red Silk Ch. 08



Chapter 08: Unwashed is Better

I'm a crewman on a cruise liner. That is an easier description to understand than the exact title the company gives me which is in Greek and virtually untranslatable. 

I'm on a year out after finishing my degree. In September I will go back to university on a sponsored Master's but I wanted a break after years of school and university. Working on a cruise liner seemed an ideal way to see some of the world and get paid for it. I am the younger son of a younger son. Grandfather has lands and title. My father and I have to work for our living even if we live in a small corner of a stately home.

The job hasn't turned out to be as wonderful as I thought it would. Whenever we are in port I have work to do and can only manage a couple of hours ashore. That doesn't get me much further than outside the port gates for a few drinks before I'm back on duty. Bars near ports seem the same anywhere in the world, smoky, noisy, dirty and depressing.

What makes it worse is that my mind is elsewhere. Just before I started this job I met a fantastic woman, Gemma. We had just started to develop our relationship when I flew out to join the ship at Naples. She drove me to the airport. That was more than I expected because the flight left at five in the morning. She waited until I had to board. I waited nearly too long to ask.

Ask what? I took my courage in both hands and as we were standing in the airport concourse with only a couple of minutes left I said:

"Gemma, I'm going to be away for a couple of months. I'd like something really personal that is yours to focus my thoughts of you."

"What sort of personal do you mean, Dan?"

"Something that has your scent on it. A scarf, a handkerchief, something like that."

She looked at me with the sort of look women have when they see right through you.

"I don't have a scarf with me. I have one handkerchief and that is clean. It won't smell of anything. I think you want something of mine that you can jack off holding, don't you?"

I blushed. Sometimes I think I still behave like a teenager.

"I would like to dream about you, Gemma." I replied nervously.

"Dreaming? Is that what you call it? Dan, sometimes you are impossible. Why didn't you ask me last night? I could have brought something that would help you dream. Now I have to improvise."

She caught hold of my arm, kicked her shoes off, and before I knew what she intended to do, she reached under her skirt, pulled her panties down and off and shoved them into my trouser pocket.

She had done that for me in the middle of the concourse, surrounded by dozens of people and watched by security cameras. I blushed even brighter. She put her feet back in her shoes, kissed me on the cheek and whispered in my ear.

"Those might help you dream of me, Dan. The scent won't last long because I put them on clean this morning. If you are good and write as you say you will I might, only might, send you more to help you dream."

Then my departure was called. We had a last lingering kiss and I had to leave her. I pushed her panties as far down in the pocket as they would go. I didn't want to risk losing them. They were precious to me.

Once on board I found to my amazement that I had a cabin to myself because of my duties. As an English speaker I had to be on call during the night to deal with emergencies with the passenger cabins. If I had been sharing a cabin the others would have been disturbed every time I was called out by a buzzer above my bunk. 

The cabin was tiny. Once the bunk was folded down I had enough room to climb on to it but no more. The advantage was that I could "dream" of Gemma. Her panties across my nose gave me her scent and my imagination did the rest. Many nights I spent with my nose in Gemma's pussy – in dreams of course.

However her scent faded by the end of the first week and my imagination had to work harder without the perfume. Her panties were a tangible reminder of her. I could see her casually slipping out of them in that airport concourse. I loved Gemma for that.

I wrote to her every night and posted the letters every time we were in port. The postage was expensive because I wrote so much. I told her how much I was dreaming about her and I was much more explicit than I want to be in this account.

At the end of the second month we had a free day in Marseilles. I went shopping to buy a present for Gemma. Eventually I found a silver bracelet and arranged for the shop to send it to her.

When I returned to the ship the mail had come. Gemma had sent me a small package that I had to sign for and have scanned by the ship's security X-ray machine. The X-ray showed nothing suspicious so I was allowed to take it to my cabin.

I was impatient to open it. I had just changed from my civvies to my working uniform when the buzzer went and I was off to sort out a blocked washbasin.

The package was still there. I opened it very carefully and inside, in a sealed plastic bag, was another pair of Gemma's panties, which looked identical to the ones I already had. On the plastic was a sticker:

"Do not open until you have read the letter. Gemma."

I reached for the letter and opened the single sheet. It wasn't a letter, not like the ones I had been writing to her, nor like the two I had received from her. It was a short note.

"Darling Dan,

You have been dreaming of me. You tell me so in your letters. I have been "dreaming" of you and your body. I know that the scent has worn off the panties I gave you at the airport so I have "scented" another pair.

The scent is not from a bottle. I wore these panties when I was dreaming about you. I used them and my fingers to try to imagine you inside me. The best I could do was push the panties inside with my fingers. My imagination made the dream "you" cause me to have several orgasms. These panties were soaked with me and I sealed them in the plastic bag as soon as I could.

If you keep the plastic bag sealed when you are not "dreaming", the scent of your Gemma will last longer. Tell me if it works.

I love you.

Gemma."

I daren't open the plastic bag without thinking that Gemma had really declared herself. Who else would have gone so far for a man she won't see for another two months? The silver bracelet, expensive as it was, seemed an inadequate present for so much love. 

I was just about to open a corner of the plastic and take a sniff when that bloody buzzer went again. This time it was important. I was summoned to "The Owner's Suite" that is the most expensive accommodation on the ship. The crew had been told to be very careful with the occupiers, Mr. and Mrs. Rubens, who were very important VIPs. We were to leave contact with them to the ship's officers whenever possible and to be on our best behaviour whenever near that suite.

It was a simple but long-winded job. A steward had split some red wine on the carpet. I removed the wine and then the stain. While I was working Mrs. Rubens, the lady occupying the suite, talked to me. Why not? She asked how I liked working on the ship. I answered as I would to anyone else.

"When I first joined I was lonely because most of the crew are Greek and like a close-knit family or a group of friends who have known each other for some time. Although I speak Greek, my Greek is too precise, literate and pedantic. Some of the crew thought I was a company spy."

"Were you?"

I laughed.

"No. I was just an English intruder in a mainly Greek community. After the first few ports they became really suspicious of me. As well as Greek I can speak fluent French, German and Italian. I thought I might be ostracised until I was able to help a fellow crewman who got into trouble in Naples. He had just heard that his wife had given birth to twin boys and celebrated too well. I happened to be passing when the police arrested him. His friends had left him and run for it when they saw the police. They thought he was following but he was too drunk."

"What did you do?"

"I explained to the Italian Police why he was celebrating. They congratulated him and told me to get him back on the ship. I had to support him most of the way until we met his friends coming back to find him. They had seen him being arrested and now he was free again. They asked me how it had happened. I told them. I also told them off for leaving their friend. They were ashamed of their actions but pleased with me. From then on I had friends on board and life became much better."

"What do you think of the crew?"

I hesitated. She was asking an awkward question and I remembered the warning advice we had been given. Eventually, because she seemed a pleasant enough lady, I decided to answer honestly.

"As far as I can tell as an unskilled foreigner they seem very experienced and competent. Until a week ago they worked together very happily. During the last week they have been unsettled for some reason that I can't understand. They seem worried. Apart from that I like them and they way they work. If a job needs doing, the nearest person will do it willingly."

"What about the officers?"

"I'm sorry, I can't talk about the officers. It would be unethical for a junior crewman to comment on them. I rarely see the officers."

She persisted which I thought rather rude.

"Do the crew like their officers? I'm not asking you about the officers' competence, just what the crew think of them."

I had nearly finished my work. I didn't think of the implications of any answer I might give.

"All workers grumble about their bosses. All I can say is that the crew trust their officers. They don't seem to hide things from them or do things in a different way when the officers aren't looking."

"Thank you for cleaning the carpet. Thank you also for chatting to me."

She pressed a banknote into my hand as I left. I crumpled into my pocket with a muttered "Thank you." I hadn't expected to be tipped for doing the job I was paid to do.

Back in my tiny cabin I prepared to open Gemma's plastic bag. As I sat in the bunk I heard the banknote rustle in my pocket. I pulled it out and stared at it. It was a hundred-dollar bill. Cleaning the carpet wasn't worth that. What had I said? Had I said something I shouldn't? That worried me so much that I left my cabin and went to the Purser's Office. He was just coming out.

"Can I have a word, Sir?" I asked.

"Yes? What is it?"

I told him about the tip and the exact words of my conversation as far as I could remember them.

"I hope I didn't do anything wrong, Sir," I said. "I only told the truth."

"Thank you for telling me. You can keep your tip. I appreciate that you told me this."

He left; heading for the bridge which was an unusual place for the Purser to go.

Five minutes later I too was on the bridge repeating the conversation, translated into Greek, to the Captain himself. He seemed pleased with me when I had finished.

I went back to my cabin. Now I didn't feel like smelling Gemma's scent. Was I in trouble? What had I done? I went to sleep with my brain still churning the conversation around.

The next morning I woke early and sniffed Gemma's panties. Her scent was strong and eminently female. I only cracked the plastic bag open before sealing it again. In my "dream" my nose was against her pussy and sinking deep into it. That was a great start to the day.

That afternoon we docked at Piraeus. We hadn't been scheduled to stop there. I had some free time to go to see Athens. I left the ship dressed in my civvies. Just outside the docks I heard a female voice talking loudly in English and being answered in slightly irritated Greek. I recognised the voice of Mrs. Rubens. I listened as I walked towards the taxi rank.

I soon understood that this was a classic case of misunderstanding between people who only speak their own language. I owed Mrs. Rubens something for that hundred-dollar bill so I decided to mediate.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Rubens. Can I help? What seems to be the problem?"

"I want to take a taxi to Athens. This is the only one here but he won't take me. I can't understand what he is saying."

I turned to the taxi driver. We spoke in Greek for a few seconds.

"What he is saying, Mrs. Rubens, is that he is here to collect someone by appointment. He can't take you because he is already engaged. However he has summoned another taxi for you with his radio. That taxi should arrive in a couple of minutes."

"He has ordered a taxi for me? And I have been shouting at the poor man. Will you tell him I'm sorry for being so rude and thank him for ordering the taxi, please?"

I translated this to the taxi driver. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. His smile grew much wider when Mrs. Rubens pressed a banknote into his hand.

"Thank you, Dan, isn't it? Are you going to Athens too? Would you like to share my taxi? There don't seem to be any others about."

I agreed. It made sense and I would get to Athens quickly.

When the other taxi arrived, Mrs. Rubens asked me to tell the driver to take her to a specific hotel. I relayed this. He nodded and set off.

"What are you going to do in Athens, Dan?" she asked.

"I want to find a present for my girlfriend," I replied. "It should be a special present but I'm not sure what to get. I will look around the shops for inspiration."

"You will have to wait for some time. The shops are shut until tomorrow. It is some sort of holiday here."

"Do you mind if I ask the taxi driver what is open, if anything?"

"Of course not, Dan, go ahead."

The taxi driver confirmed my suspicions. Everything was shut, shops, businesses, tourist sites – the lot. That was why there had been no taxis at Piraeus. Our ship hadn't been expected today.

I told Mrs. Rubens.

"Oh dear, Dan. What are you going to do?"

"I could walk around looking at buildings, I suppose, then go back to the ship."

"Why not join me for tea at my hotel. I would be pleased to have someone to talk to. My husband is busy until about four. Then you could share our taxi back to the ship."

I was reluctant but she persuaded me. The gathering rain-clouds were another inducement. I think the real reason was because I and the crew had been told not to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Rubens. I didn't like being told who I could and could not talk to.

At the hotel she was obviously expected and a great fuss was made of her. We had a private room for the "tea" which came with the best cakes the chef could provide. Who were the Rubens? I had vaguely heard the name before. I soon found out.

I asked why she had come into Athens. She told me that her husband was meeting a government minister and after the meeting they, husband and wife, would decide what to do about a business deal. They were the majority shareholders of their company. Whatever they agreed the company would do.

Curious, I asked why today, on a public holiday when everything was shut? The reply staggered me. She told me that the minister didn't want the possible deal made public so he had asked them yesterday to come to Athens. They told the ship's captain who diverted the ship to Athens.

Who were these people who could make a ship carrying a thousand paying passengers divert for their business? Then I connected where I had heard the name before. They were a branch of an old established banking family. I had met their son at a society ball a couple of years ago.

I asked a couple more questions which established that they knew my grandfather. That gave me away. Mrs. Rubens put two and two together and worked out who I was. No, not Dan the crewman, but Daniel the younger son. We had acquaintances in common but in different generations. Once she had established that I was a friend of a friend so to speak she explained more about their proposed business deal, in confidence.

They were negotiating to buy the cruise liner. It was the only one the shipping company had. All the rest were freighters or tankers and the company had lost money during troubles in the Middle East. They needed some working capital so might sell the cruise liner at a price.

The ship had been built with loan guarantees from the Greek government. If it became foreign owned the Greek company might have to pay back those loans immediately. If that happened they wouldn't get the capital they needed even though they had sold the ship. Mr. Rubens had gone to talk to the minister to see if there was some way out of the dilemma. Perhaps he could guarantee the loans so that the Greek company wouldn't have to repay them? Or could some "Greek" company be created to "own" the ship to satisfy national pride.

Now I knew why the Greek crew were so unsettled and why they wanted Mr. and Mrs. Rubens treated so carefully. They might buy the ship. If they did the crew might be replaced by another crew, not necessarily Greek. If they didn't buy the ship it might have to be laid up until a buyer was found. No wonder the Captain and officers were worried.

Mr. Rubens arrived an hour earlier than his wife expected. He was surprised to find me there but became affable when I was introduced as my grandfather's grandson. Apparently he and my grandfather were golfing buddies. He was even more delighted when his wife explained that I was a crewman on the ship, you know, the one I spoke to you about.

"So it was you my wife was pumping for information, was it? You were very diplomatic in your answers, weren't you?"

"Well, Sir," I replied thinking that I should be polite to him as he might be my employer soon and even if he didn't, he might discuss me with my grandfather, "I couldn't say anything derogatory about the people who employ me, could I?"

"No, I suppose not," he said. "But what you did say, diplomatic as it was, was it true?"

"Yes Sir,"

"So the crew are good workers in a happy ship and respect their officers?"

"Yes Sir, but they are all worried sick."

"I'll bet they are. Do you know that their company might not be able to pay the crew at the end of the month?"

"Is it that bad?"

"Yes, and the officers know it."

I couldn't reply to that.

"Daniel, what do you think I should do?"

"I have no idea, Sir. I don't know whether buying the ship would be good or bad – for you that is."

"Let me put it to you another way, Daniel. Assume that I think I can make a profit from the ship, more than sufficient to cover the interest on the money I use. In that case would it be better for me to take the ship AND crew, or the bare ship and find another crew who would cost say ten per cent less?"

"Ouch! Ten per cent of the crew's wages is a lot of money. Even so I think you would do better to stick with the existing officers and crew. They work well together; they know the ship inside out; they are willing and hard working. Would you get all that for your ten per cent saving? Would that ten per cent be lost by an inefficient crew who had to learn the ship?"

"OK, Daniel. That is a good point. Now let's turn to you, personally."

"Me? I'm just a graduate on a year out working my passage."

"You are a graduate of business management sponsored to do a Masters who just happens to speak fluent Greek, French, German and Italian and is related to a very good friend of mine. That good friend told me some time ago that he thought you have the best brains of the younger generation. From him, and you know how hard he can be in his judgements..."

I did, only too well. My elder brother had been summoned and told to pull himself together after having to re-sit one part of his degree. He worked like mad to avoid another such talk from grandfather.

"...then that means he thinks you will go far. How about working for me for the rest of your year out. You'll still be on the ship..."

He looked at his wife, who nodded. That nod meant they had just agreed to buy the ship with the current crew. It was such a casual gesture for a major decision that would affect so many people.




Flawed Red Silk Ch. 09



Every Friday evening I visit Veronica, our local lady of the night, for some mild bondage and discipline. At six o’clock I knock on her door. She opens it herself, which she doesn’t do for most of her customers. As soon as it is closed behind me I am her slave for the next half-hour. When I leave I am ready to face the wife and kids for an interminable weekend.

I suppose I loved my wife once. Now I live and work in London from Monday to Friday, going back home on Friday evenings, returning to London late on Sunday. I still call the country house home but it isn’t, for me. Neither is my pied-a-terre in London. It is just somewhere to sleep.

If I feel at home anywhere it is in Veronica’s house with her boot on my neck. She seems to care about me. No one else does care, not my family, nor my fellow directors at work. They all want something from me but there is no personal warmth about it.

Veronica gives me what I ask for, a sense of security and usefulness, even if I pay her for her services. It seems odd somehow. She treats me as her personal servant. She humiliates me but I do meaningful things for her such as cleaning her bathroom, doing the washing up, or fixing minor faults around the house.

She tells me that some of her other customers like to lick her boots or to dress up as maids and clean her toilet with their tongues. I suppose it turns them on. What I do for her is more practical. If there is nothing specific for me to do I am tied in a bundle on the floor with her feet resting on me. If I peek up her skirt I get slapped.

My session ends with Veronica mounting me and wringing me dry. Then I pay her maid and leave; returning next Friday evening. During the weekend and sometimes during the week I flee from my mundane life to a daydream of Veronica. 

My sessions with Veronica aren’t expensive considering that they keep me sane. Sessions with a psychiatrist would cost more both in money and commitment. I appreciate her more than I should. She is a professional doing her job well and getting paid for it. I shouldn’t expect more than that.

However, when Christopher Jones sent me a pair of exquisite French Knickers, it was Veronica I thought of, not my wife. On Friday evening I gave the wrapped parcel to her as she opened the door. She took it without a word until she had shut the door behind me.

Normally she would order me to drop to my hands and knees by saying “Down” as she would to a dog. This time she didn’t.

“What is this, Ralph?” she asked. She didn’t look or sound pleased.

“It’s a present for you, Veronica.”

“Ralph. We have a commercial relationship. I do things for you; you pay me. That is it. That is all we have between us. That doesn’t leave room for you to give me presents, does it?”

“No, but…”

She thrust the parcel at me.

“No buts. I don’t take presents from my customers. It changes the contract between us. I do not, and do not want to, get involved personally with you or any other customer. I have my own life away from these working premises. That life is my own affair. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Veronica. I thought…”

Her hand pressed over my mouth and stifled my words.

“Don’t think. Now leave whatever it is on the table. Collect it when you go. Back to what you want. Down!”

I put the parcel on the table and dropped to all fours. As she walked from the hall into the living room I crawled after her. I didn’t stay on my knees for long. She had a drip from the cistern in the loft so I climbed up there and replaced the washer. By the time I had cleaned myself up my half-hour was nearly over. 

I walked downstairs for the usual perfunctory milking. Veronica was sitting on the settee and showed no signs of moving. She patted the seat beside her. I sat down.

“Ralph,” she said in a normal voice, not the mistress’s voice she usually put on. “I’m concerned about you. You come here every week, do things for me. I give you a quick fuck and you pay. I think these sessions mean a lot to you than they should. Why?”

I explained about my life commuting between a bored wife and family and my office. I told her that my visits to her were like a safety valve, a chance to be me without having to pretend to be a loving husband or father or a work-dedicated director. With Veronica I could relax. She was in charge; she made the decisions; I didn’t have to think, I just did what I she told me to do. I even told Veronica that I had daydreams about these sessions when work or family became too stressful.

She was worried about me. She told me that most of her customers wanted their scenarios just as a way of getting a sexual excitement before the sex. For some it was the only way they could get an erection. For me it was different. The sex wasn’t important. I agreed. She thought that I was emotionally dependent on her and what was she? Just the friendly neighbourhood whore.

My dependence on her was real unlike the play dependence of the others. She thought that without these sessions I might have real problems with my life. 

I replied that I already had real problems with my life that were not Veronica’s fault. Neither she nor I could change them but with her I could escape them for half an hour a week.

The present had really bothered her. She knew my needs were different and so far had been willing to accept them and be paid for providing a service. The present suggested that I regarded her as an individual person, not a service provider who could be replaced by another provider if Veronica wasn’t available. She had no illusions about most of her customers. If she was ill, or went on holiday, they would find someone else. Could I do that?

When I thought about it, I realised that I couldn’t. It was Veronica I needed, not the whore. If we didn’t have sex I’d still need to come to her. I admitted that to Veronica.

“If that is so,” she said, “we have a problem. I can’t be any more to you than a whore. I might like you as a person, and I do, but it doesn’t change our situation. I don’t want it to. This is a job for me, a well paid job I admit, but I do it for the money and to support my real life that you are not part of and never will be. You know nothing about me. That is as it should be. I couldn’t do this job if my customers knew the real me. Everything I do here is an act. I could be the whore with the heart of gold who could be redeemed by a real man but it would be just that – another act. You have to understand.”

I nodded. I had followed her so far and in my heart I knew that she was telling me the truth. I was nothing to her and could not be except as part of another fantasy scenario.

“So what am I going to do about you? What I should do is tell you to go away and never come back. I don’t want to do that abruptly because I think you would react badly. Would you?”

“Yes. I am as addicted to you as I might be to any other person or thing that gives me pleasure in an unbearable life. I don’t think I could stop suddenly and keep up the pretence of the other parts of my life.”

“This is my suggestion,” she started to say before breaking off. “Oh, sod it! I need a drink first.”

She pressed the intercom to speak to her maid.

“Maria! Please bring two cups of coffee to the living room.”

She put her hand over the mouthpiece.

“Do you take sugar?”

“No thank you.”

She spoke to Maria again.

“One without sugar.”

Veronica picked up my hand and held it as if she was seeing it for the first time.

“While we wait for Maria I won’t tell you my suggestion but what I will ask is why me? I’m not a young girl. I’m probably as old as your wife...”

I nodded. Veronica was possibly a few years older.

“...and I’m no raving beauty. I never was which is why I went in for the ‘stern mistress’ act. So why?”

I thought back to the first time I came to Veronica. It could easily have been the last time because she was more demanding and dominating than I had expected. What changed my mind was the way she worked out what I liked.

“I think it is because you are a good actress. You give the customers exactly what they want and change your act and apparent personality to fit their need. You soon found the right act for me. You had become what I wanted you to be by the end of my first visit.”

“Perhaps I should have been an actress. I intended to train to be one but there is no money in it except for those very few who make it. Most actors spend their lives doing other jobs waiting for a part. I didn’t want to do that so I chose to be a whore and earn real money.”

Maria arrived with the coffee. Veronica let my hand go as the door opened. We sat side by side drinking the coffee. My scheduled half-hour had passed but Veronica didn’t seem in a hurry.

“I can’t restrain my curiosity,” she said, “what is this present that I shouldn’t accept?”

I spluttered into my coffee.

“It is a pair of silk French Knickers. They were sent to me from a manufacturer my company buys from. I couldn’t stand the idea of giving them to my wife. She wouldn’t appreciate them and they do need appreciation. They are pure silk and hand embroidered. They are a work of art and shouldn’t be wasted. I wanted you to have them, not because I wanted to change our relationship. I didn’t. I wanted to continue as we were. I thought you were the only woman that I knew who could value them for their beauty if for nothing else.”

“You think they are that good?”

“They are unique. They may have made others but the hand embroidery cannot be exactly the same.”

“You have convinced me, Ralph. Can I accept them without changing our roles?”

“I think our roles have already changed just by talking to each other as people. We can’t put that genie back in the bottle. You have seen me as I am. I have seen some of you without the actress’ mask. I don’t think the knickers will make a difference except that I am sure you have the artistic sense to understand someone else’s talent.”

“Ralph! Get them before I change my mind.”

I retrieved the parcel from the hall. I sat back beside her and handed the parcel to her.

“Here you are, Veronica. No strings attached. Just enjoy them.”

She opened the parcel as if she was a small girl opening a Christmas present. When the knickers came out she was delighted. She even kissed me. She had never kissed me before. This kiss was on my cheek and could have been from the little girl to a favourite uncle. It expressed thanks and nothing more.

“Oh dear, Ralph. They are all you said. I am proud to own them. Tonight they will go home with me and stay there. I don’t want them associated with my work. They are too good to be here. I will keep them for special occasions if you know what I mean.”

“I do, Veronica. Now you see why I couldn’t give them to someone who couldn’t see them as a work of art.”

“I understand, Ralph. Thank you.”

Her hand caressed my cheek.

“Now to your problems. These...” Veronica stroked the red silk, “...don’t make things easier. I’m no psychiatrist or counsellor but I suppose I could be described as a parody of a social worker. I understand men, at least the men that need me. I am a refuge from your problems. That cannot continue forever. You have to find a solution to your problems or some more permanent way of living with them. What you need is something to live for. You have made me your sole purpose in life. That is ridiculous because I’m just a whore.”

I tried to interrupt but she held up her hand, motioning me to silence.

“Let me finish, Ralph. You live, if it can be called living, for half an hour a week. You just endure the rest of the week. That is unhealthy and almost insane. If you won’t or can’t divorce your wife then you should do something about your work so that you can enjoy that. Now you hate your work and you hate your wife. Not because she is your wife or that she does things that are hateful but because you two have grown apart and have nothing left in common. You are alienated from your children. That is unnatural and is perhaps a reflection of your estrangement from your wife.”

Veronica shifted her position so that she was facing me directly.

“When did you last take a holiday?”

“Five years ago. We went to Disneyland.”

“With the wife and children?”

“Of course, why else would I go there?”

“So it wasn’t a break for you, was it? You spent all the time with them and didn’t enjoy yourself, did you?”

“Well, no. We went for the children.”

“Have they been on holiday since?”

“Yes. My wife went off with her sister last year for a month while the children went to a youth camp. The year before was similar.”

“What did you do while they were away?”

“I stayed in London.”

“And went to work every day?”

“Yes.”

“So when is the last time that you went on holiday to do something you wanted to do?”

“Before I was married.”

“OK. Would you wife know the difference if you went away for two weeks on a trip that you called ‘business’ but was actually a holiday? Would she find out?”

“Probably not. I would have to phone her once or twice a week but I could phone from anywhere. If I was staying at a hotel that I might use for business and she could phone me there I don’t think she’d know.”

“Who would have to know?”

“My fellow directors and my secretary.”

“Would they tell your wife?”

“If I asked them not to they wouldn’t. She rarely rings the office and if she does, it is only to speak to me. If she knows I am away and she has a contact telephone number she could ring me there.”

“Then you should take a holiday, alone, and soon. Go somewhere YOU want to go. Tell your wife you will be away on business and give her the name of your hotel. Take your mobile phone if you must but tell her that you will only switch it on during the evenings from say seven until eight. Take another mobile phone so that your fellow directors can contact you if you are needed urgently. Don’t give your wife that number. Follow that?”

“Yes, Veronica, but...”

“No buts. Do it!” This was an order and I was used to obeying orders from Veronica.

“I want you to arrange all that by next Friday so you are on holiday from next weekend for two weeks. Don’t come here on Friday. Go wherever go are going. Come back to see me at the end of your first week back at work – if you want to. I won’t accept an appointment from you before then. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Then go now, with my thanks for your present. I will see you on the Friday four weeks from now and NOT before.”

“OK, Veronica. Thank you.”

I left, paying Maria as I usually did.

I followed Veronica’s instructions. The next Friday evening I was driving in the opposite direction from my home, down the M2 heading towards Dover. I kept going at the end of the M2 and arrived at my hotel in Sandwich by seven p.m. I had booked my evening meal in advance. After being shown to my room I changed for dinner. 

I walked into the nearly deserted bar and ordered a Glenfiddich. I savoured every drop. It had been years since I had taken a drink before my evening meal. In the dining room there were a scattering of diners. I don’t know why. The food was passably good if not exceptional. The prices were very reasonable compared with London or near my home.

After the meal I put my overcoat on and strolled down to the riverside. The river seemed very small to be called the “Great” Stour. Perhaps tomorrow I would walk along its bank towards the sea that was now far from this former Cinque Port.

That night I slept better than I had for years. Even if my problems still existed I was far from them. I should have done this before. Why did it take a concerned whore to tell me I needed a holiday?

The next morning after breakfast and a couple of hours on the internet tiding up work things that were outstanding I asked the receptionist for advice on any walks nearby. She consulted a tide table. Living inland I had forgotten how significant tides are in a low-lying coastal area.

She suggested that I might drive to Sandwich Bay, a private estate. I would have to pay a toll to enter but once there I would have miles of nearly deserted beach with the tide ebbing as I walked. If I walked North from the car park to the Bird Sanctuary I would see the shoreline birds busy feeding as the tide ebbed. On my return the tide would be almost at its lowest so there would be many varieties of birds to see.

She gave me one last piece of advice. I should walk just above the waterline because as the sand dried out it became heavier to walk in. If I didn’t want to walk on the sand there was a track at the edge of the golf course that ran parallel to the sea. 

I thanked her and changed my shoes for brown casuals before driving the few miles to Sandwich Bay. The warden stopped me to demand the entrance fee without leaving his car. He explained what I could and could not do within the private estate. His advice for a walk matched the receptionist’s almost word for word except that he added:

“Please help me by making sure that you leave the estate before dark. At this time of year there are very few people around except the residents walking their dogs. They don’t go more than a mile or so. If your car is still here after dark I will have to organise a search party to find you. That is a major undertaking because there is so much open space.”

The car park was large but empty. As I walked away from the car I felt totally alone. That seems ridiculous in England but apart from the view of Ramsgate miles away across a white-capped sea there were no houses in sight.

I climbed the grassed dune and the illusion was gone. Behind me I could see the golf course. To the South I could see the houses of the private estate. To the East, out to sea, I could see the busy shipping lane protected by a lightship on the Goodwin Sands. Even so, there was only one person in sight about half a mile away on the inland path. From the swirl of the coat I assumed that the person was female. She was walking briskly with a cane. As I clambered down to the beach she and the houses were out of sight.

I started to walk along the sand, sinking deep with every step before I remembered the advice to walk just above the retreating tide. I moved down the beach and found the walking much easier. Despite the white horses further out the waves reaching the beach idled up the sand before retreating. The effect was calming and I just enjoyed the sound and sight of the sea. I walked on ignoring time.

I stopped at an interesting shell, picked it up, examined it and then put it back. What would I do with a shell if I took it back to the hotel? I couldn’t take it home because I was supposed to be on business. I could put it in the London flat but it might be a painful reminder, not a happy memory. As I stood up I was facing the way I had come. The beach stretched away for apparent miles with the curve of the coast hiding the estate’s houses.

I would have a long walk back. It must have been years since I had walked so far. I clambered up the dune to get my bearings. Once on top I could see the houses. The track led straight to them ignoring the bulge in the coastline. Halfway between where I was and the houses in the far distance there was a bundle on the path. It looked vaguely like a heap of old clothes and seemed out of place.

I decided that I had walked enough today. I was on holiday and I didn’t want to wear myself out on the first full day, even if the hours of daylight were short. I set off down the path. The bundle was still about two hundred yards away when I realised that it was a person, or perhaps a body. I started to run then stopped. Whoever it was had been within sight for at least ten minutes and had not moved. If I ran I would arrive out of breath and not able to do anything useful. It was a salutary lesson on just how unfit I had let myself become.




Flawed Red Silk Ch. 10



(Many of the conversations in this chapter should be in colloquial French but are shown in English. They are not a translation but a re-telling in English.)  I had my hysterectomy exactly a year ago today. Physically I have recovered from the operation. Mentally, I haven’t. I don’t think I’m a woman any more now the important bits have been removed.

I know I’m being silly. I still have a vagina. I still have the breasts that my husband Simon loves. I still look like a woman and my body is in good shape for my age. I wouldn’t have wanted any more children but now I can’t.

Simon has been very patient and understanding but I know he is frustrated and occasionally irritated with me. We used to be active sexually. Since the operation I have rejected him. I can’t even hold hands with him. I can’t stand his verbal expressions of love.

I know Simon loves me. I know he wants my body. I don’t love my body or myself. I’m not female. I’m not male. I’ve been neutered.

I tried psychotherapy on the National Health Service but it was a disaster. Sitting around in a hospital waiting room made me feel that I was ill. I’m not. Physically I am fit. I walk, cycle, do all the things I used to do except anything remotely sexual. The conventions tell me that I should dress as a woman but I don’t feel like it. I rarely wear skirts or dresses now. I live in slacks and T-shirts with sensible shoes. My face is devoid of cosmetics; my hair is cut short so all I need to do in the morning is run a comb through it.

I’m not wholly depressed. I can laugh, cry, enjoy a good book or film and even have a meaningful conversation with Simon. I just can’t pretend to be the woman I’m not.

***

When I wrote that on the end pages of my diary that is how I felt. It wasn’t wholly true because I had left out the important bit. I was screaming desperately inside to find the desire to be a woman. I needed to find my essential female nature. I knew I did. I had lost it and couldn’t find it. I was afraid I never would.

The trigger that started my search back was ridiculous. I woke up on the fourteenth of February, St.Valentine’s Day, with a sense of foreboding. I knew that Simon would declare his love for me in some way or other and I just couldn’t face it. The twin bed he slept in was empty. I remembered that he had to go to a breakfast conference that always seems as if the employer just wants more from the staff than the hours that are paid for.

Simon wouldn’t return until seven o’clock in the evening so my worries were deferred until then. They came back with a rush when I saw that he had left a packet for me on the breakfast table. I didn’t dare to open it until after the second cup of coffee. Inside was a large padded envelope with a letter addressed to me. It wasn’t from Simon. The handwriting was vaguely familiar. I opened it gingerly as if it might be a bomb. I relaxed as I saw the address. It was from my university friend Joyce. She had married a Frenchman and lived in Pas de Calais where she practised as a doctor.

“Dear Hazel,

I am writing to you with an invitation to visit me in France for a few days. I have discussed it with Simon. He has agreed to look after himself and the children while you are with me so you can’t use them as an excuse.

I want you to come on Friday evening. The tickets are inside the packet, as is your up-to-date passport and travellers cheques. Simon arranged that with me.

Also inside is a smaller padded envelope. I want you to bring that to me UNOPENED. It isn’t dangerous or illegal. If the customs want to open it they can but if possible I want it to arrive with you as it is.

Please come. I haven’t seen you for years and I would like to speak some English again. I would like you to see my daughters and I hope you will enjoy some good French cooking, not mine! If you remember from University I was always a bad cook and you saved me from culinary disasters. I have a lady who cooks, and a Ukrainian Au Pair who helps with the daughters.

I will have time for your visit because I have a few days holiday from the doctor’s practice.

I will see you in Calais just beyond the customs hall on Friday evening. Be there.

Love from Joyce.”

I sat down on my chair with a thump. This was a surprise. A nice surprise and there was nothing from Simon that I could be worried about, no sickly Valentine Card, no expression of the love I knew he had for me, no present except an arranged trip to see an old friend. While I was in France I could forget Simon for a few days and relax my prickly guard against him.

Friday evening? This was Thursday morning. If I were going to be in Calais tomorrow evening I’d have to work fast. There was washing to do, meals to prepare, things to cancel – the whole works.

The rest of the day was a blur as I rushed around. I was actually enjoying myself and I gave Simon a peck on the cheek as he arrived home. He seemed surprised but didn’t over react as I’d feared he might as soon as I’d given him that kiss. I was the first one I given him for over a year.

He reassured me about the arrangements while I would be away. Only one daughter was still living with us but she wasn’t in often. She was studying at the local university and often came home late. She’d need less looking after than Simon. She might even help by ensuring that he ate proper meals. I’d rung her mobile phone at lunchtime and told her I’d be away. I don’t think she was surprised. I think she knew even if she didn’t say she did.

In bed that night I had difficulty going to sleep. My brain was whirling with all the things I still had to do. One thing in Joyce’s letter puzzled me. She had an Au Pair to help with the daughters? Surely they were as old as our youngest so why did Joyce need an Au Pair? Never mind, I told myself, I’ll find out tomorrow evening.

I drifted off to sleep happier than I’d felt for a long time. I even felt some gratitude to Simon. I’d give him a goodbye kiss before he left for work. It would be an effort but he deserved something.

I almost enjoyed that kiss. It had something of a happier past about it. If only I could get back the feelings I had then.

The journey was boring. Train from Victoria to Dover, lugging my suitcase on to the connecting bus, off the bus into the departure lounge and then it was checked in. I’d see it again in Calais. I had a shock when I saw that my return ticket wasn’t valid until after fifteen days in France.

I ate a Danish pastry with my coffee on the ferry. It was passable but didn’t have the real Danish taste. For a while I stood on the upper deck watching the White Cliffs of Dover recede astern and the two Caps getting larger ahead of us. The evening sun was shining on the sands of Calais Plage as we approached the port. 

Another bus took us from the ferry to the terminal. The frontier police didn’t seem interested in my passport. I collected my suitcase and wheeled out into the arrivals area. Joyce and her daughters swamped me with an effusive French welcome kissing me on both cheeks. I had to respond – this welcome was for either sex.

As I had thought Joyce’s daughters were too old to need an Au Pair. I had forgotten that they were twins. These daughters were natural blondes, tall and elegant and very much Frenchwomen. They were female in a way that I had never been even when young. They looked as if they gloried in being young and female. Joyce was elegantly dressed as a mature but still attractive woman. I appreciated the art that went to their appearances. I felt even more asexual and just plain dowdy beside them.

The two daughters were named Jeanne-Marie and Anne-Marie normally called Jeanne and Anne. Anne drove the car from the ferry terminal with a quiet competence that stopped me being the nervous passenger I normally am.

We arrived at Joyce’s house and surgery in about twenty minutes most of it on the motorway. The house was set back from the road with a gated carriage drive. The gates were radio-controlled. To the side of the house, attached to it by a single storey link was a modern purpose built surgery block with a large car park.

The Au Pair came out to meet us. She was introduced as Katarina in a flurry of cheek kissing. Even though they had left her less than an hour ago, all four of us had to be kissed. Katarina was a real contrast to Jeanne and Anne. She was at least six-foot tall, with glossy black hair and an attractive olive complexion. She lifted my case out of the boot of the car as if it was as light as a balloon. I knew how heavy it was from the transfers in England. Katarina looked and moved like an athlete, but there was no doubt that she was a female athlete, with obvious heavy breasts swelling her dress.

I felt a fraud of a female compared with the four of them who were women who obviously delighted in being women.

Raoul, Joyce’s husband, was on duty in Calais in the hospital where he was a surgeon. He would arrive just before dinner, enough time for me to unpack and shower, Joyce told me.

Whether I wanted help or not, Katarina helped me unpack. Her English was very limited and my rusty French had to manage the communication between us. I managed to understand that she was studying in Lille with Joyce’s daughters. She was being an Au Pair to pay for board and lodging that she couldn’t have afforded otherwise. She had been Jeanne’s pen pal for years. In some way that I couldn’t really follow the three girls were working together and intended to start a business together when they qualified.

Joyce enlightened me as we sat around enjoying a sherry. The three girls were studying to be beauticians, each of them concentrating on a different aspect although they were all on the same course. Katarina’s speciality was massage and body tone. Jeanne and Anne were studying external appearance including cosmetics and clothing. The three of them wanted to set up a Salon in Calais. Their target customers were Englishwomen. They wanted to provide makeovers while the Englishmen did the beer supermarkets.

Would I help? Not just with their English although that would be important but as a subject for an extensive makeover?

How could I say no? I was stuck in France with Joyce for at least fifteen days. My brain was screaming “No! Non! Niet!” but my mouth said, “Of course, Joyce, I’ll be delighted to help.” Convention stops us from saying ‘No’ when asked politely.

The weekend showed that I’d been set up from the beginning. The girls needed an Englishwoman to demonstrate their skills on. I was to go with them on Monday to visit their tutor. There would be a photo and video session to record me as I am now. At the end of the two weeks there would be another photo session to show the contrast between the before and after.

It would be the ultimate makeover, lasting a whole two weeks with three women working on me full-time. On Sunday evening I rang Simon and moaned at him for getting me into this. He didn’t quite laugh at me. I think he was startled at the extent of what was proposed but he did tell me to relax and enjoy it. I wish it were that easy.

Late Sunday evening I sat with Raoul and Joyce. I spoke English most of the time. Raoul followed most of the conversation with a few requests to Joyce to translate things he hadn’t quite understood.

We had eaten a delicious meal with superb young wines. I was feeling physically comfortable but stressed by the thought of what would start tomorrow morning. I confessed as much to Joyce.

“Why? What is there to fear? Either the girls do what they hope to do, or they don’t. They should be stressed, not you. They have a lot to lose. If they fail then their business proposal fails as well and they might fail their examinations. Nothing they do can have an adverse effect on you. Their tutor wouldn’t allow them to make that sort of mistake.”

“But...” I started to say and then burst into tears to their dismay. Then it all came out about the hysterectomy and my feelings about my body. I let it all flood over them.

Joyce was horrified. Raoul was very angry with the UK National Health Service and the incompetence of the English medical establishment. Such feelings should never have been allowed to develop. If I had been treated properly... Raoul expressed himself in a torrent of interesting French swearwords that I hadn’t heard before. If nothing else my command of spoken French will be improved by the end of my stay.

Joyce cut him short.

“Hazel, those feelings are unnecessary and are hurting you where it really matters, in your inmost self. Simon tried to convey what was wrong but I thought I had misunderstood him or that he was exaggerating. Now I know what you feel all I can say is that he is in love with you and meant this visit to be a help to you.”

“I know he loves me,” I wailed “but I can’t love myself.”

Joyce hugged me. I think Raoul would have done too but he held back because he understood that I couldn’t bear to be touched by a man while I thought the way I did.

Joyce told me she would go with the girls and I tomorrow morning. She would stay with me, speak to the girls’ tutor and see how I reacted to the day. If it were to be too much for me the programme would stop. She hoped I would see it through because it might help rebuild my personality. She would contact a medical friend and see if she could help as well. I realised that Joyce meant a psychiatrist but if she was also a friend of Joyce’s the idea didn’t seem too worrying.

“What do we tell the girls?” Raoul asked.

“The truth,” I replied even though I was worried by the idea. “They deserve nothing less.”

“I agree,” said Joyce, “they have to know. Can you deal with them knowing, Hazel?”

“I hope so.”

The next morning over breakfast I told the three girls what I felt about my hysterectomy.

Jeanne and Anne were worried and concerned. At first they couldn’t see how I could think of myself that way but they accepted that it is a real problem for me. They had been brought up as most middle-class French girls are, to enjoy being female and to make the most of the assets they were born with.

Katarina’s reaction was very different.

“Simon loves you, he wants to make love to you, and yet he doesn’t because he knows it would hurt you, not in your body, but in your head?”

I nodded.

“And he hasn’t tried to force himself on you?”

My reaction showed that the idea was unthinkable.

“How long has it been like this?”

“Nearly two years,” I admitted.

“Then I want to marry an Englishman,” Katarina announced. “A man who is in love with his wife, who wants her physically and yet does not even attempt to express his love for two years because she wouldn’t like it? That sort of man loves with a passion almost inhuman. He thinks only for the happiness of the person he loves, not of himself. No Ukrainian could do that, nor any Frenchman. They think of their own happiness as well as that of the person who they say they love.”

She turned on Raoul.

“Could you do that?”

He shook his head ruefully.

“When can I go to England? I would like to meet Simon.” Katarina said half teasingly.

We all laughed with her. My laughter nearly turned to tears as I knew that Simon did love me that much.

“Don’t worry, Hazel, even if I met him I couldn’t tempt him,” Katarina said. “Not even if I were the Goddess Venus herself. You aren’t worried that you have left him alone in England, are you? You trust him.”

“With my life,” I answered seriously.

“And the French think that English are cold fish. The French are wrong. Hazel is worried that she is no longer a woman, doesn’t look or dress like a woman, and yet she knows her man will stand by her to the death even if she never allows him to touch her. I wish I were loved like that.”

She hugged me as tears flowed down my face. She had stated Simon’s love much better than he could or would.

Joyce drove us to Lille in the estate car. Now that I had admitted my problem to them I felt relieved of a weight. All my worries for the day were about the adequacy of my spoken French. If Joyce stayed with me she should be able to translate if I got stuck but when she wasn’t around…

Regine, the girls’ tutor, was a classic example of an elegant Frenchwoman. She carried herself with style and wore her beautifully tailored clothes as if she didn’t care what she was wearing. Her every movement was a lesson in deportment.

Joyce introduced herself and me. She launched into a detailed exposition of my problem. I had difficulty following her rapid French but she seemed to explain it with any criticism of me.

Regine’s initial reaction mirrored that of Joyce’s daughters showing that she too was a product of her environment. Katarina interrupted her and showed her own view that Regine accepted with some astonishment and apparent awe for Simon’s forbearance.

Then Regine spoke as the tutor. She spoke slowly and clearly so that I could follow what she said.

“This is an unexpected development. It makes my students’ task much harder than they had expected. Will you, Hazel, co-operate with them despite your misgivings?”

“Yes, Regine, I will even if I am just a mannequin for them to dress up. I will help them as much as I can and keep my emotions concealed.”

“I think that you will find that difficult. Thank you for your offer. I will consider your state of mind when I assess what the students achieve. Are you ready for the photo session?”

I nodded.

“Then we will start as if I had not heard this explanation. Go to it, girls. Record Hazel as she is. Remember that you should record her at her best and not try to cheat by making her stand awkwardly or in bad poses. You should aim to take the poses and camera angles exactly as you will want to do in a fortnight’s time.”

The photo session didn’t start until I had been through a shower, had my short hair dried and styled, and a basic bland make-up applied to cover skin blemishes on my face. The girls also recorded me on video walking, standing and sitting. They interviewed me in French. That was difficult because I didn’t always have the words I wanted to use.

They printed a portfolio of photos from the digital camera and copied the video. We all went back to see Regine after lunch. She looked through everything that had been done and suggested a few extra shots. When those had been taken to her satisfaction she dismissed Joyce and I to look round the campus while she discussed with her students the programme for the fortnight.

I enjoyed that stroll around with Joyce. We talked about the differences between living in England and France, caught up with gossip about mutual friends and relaxed in each other’s company as old friends do when they meet after a break. I was feeling much better about the girls’ project when we met them in the canteen as we had arranged.

They had work to do before they started on me tomorrow. They had to write up their proposals, agree them with Regine, book facilities, that sort of thing. Could we come back to collect them at five o’clock?

We could. Joyce and I went into Lille itself. She showed me the sights. Just before five we were back to collect the girls who were subdued by all the paperwork required. The ‘risk assessment’ had been the final straw because most of it just wasn’t appropriate.

On the way back they chatted to me. Even after only a couple of days in France my spoken French had improved significantly. Jeanne and Anne had visited England, Katarina hadn’t.

I won’t go into detail about the first week. I endured it but didn’t enjoy it. Jeanne and Anne worked on my hair and skin, Katarina worked very hard on my body. I had exercises to do and mud packs to accept. Throughout the whole process I talked with them in English so that they picked up the correct usage for the techniques they were using. I had to dig back more than two years to the time when I read women’s magazines and visited hairdressers and beauty parlours. 




Flawed Red Silk Ch. 11



Chapter 11: Seeing Red

What had I done? I sat in the taxi heading back home with tears running down my face. It was a poor end to what had started as a great evening.

I had met Tony a few weeks ago at a conference. He was good company while we waited for one of the boring speeches to start. We exchanged whispers about the quality of the delivery while the speaker droned on and on. We just stayed together in the interval. By the end of the day we had exchanged office telephone numbers and email addresses. If nothing else we could be useful contacts for each other. We weren’t working for competing companies but our problems, failures and successes could be useful information because we were in similar fields.

One thing led to another and we were conducting an internet flirtation by the end of the week. It was better than previous ones I had tried because we had met and enjoyed each other’s company. I knew Tony wasn’t a nerd pretending to be something he wasn’t. I presume the same applied to him. He knew what I looked like, what I sounded like, how I dressed at least while at work, that sort of thing. It made the flirtation less forced.

He invited me out for lunch the following Wednesday. It fitted with my diary so my acceptance was in his inbox almost as soon as he’d asked. Had I been too quick? Had I seemed too eager? Was that what went wrong?

We went to a pasta restaurant. The food was acceptable. The important thing was that the service was fast. Both of us really didn’t have time to spare for lunches that weren’t working lunches. We talked mainly about work and office politics. He didn’t say anything about me or us. I was disappointed because it was unlike his emails. Apart from that I enjoyed the lunch. We had a similar sense of humour and a healthy disrespect for our bosses. If we had both been female I could have understood but there was none of the intimacy of his emails.

Back at work that afternoon I was so subdued that my colleagues noticed. There were no emails not even a reply to mine thanking him for the lunch. I left work confused and rather sad for what might have been but didn’t seem to be happening.

The next morning there was a long effusive email from him. He’d been caught by his boss on his return and dragged into an unscheduled meeting that lasted late into the evening. He was sorry that he hadn’t replied to me yesterday, but you know how it is? I did. I’d been there. Bosses seem to think that their staff have no homes to go to and no outside interests that could possibly be more interesting than work.

I responded by inviting him to a pub halfway between our offices after work tonight. He accepted and I was happier all afternoon, too happy, because people noticed the contrast with yesterday afternoon and drew the correct conclusion that a man was responsible for both moods.

At the end of the evening I was still not sure about Tony. He had been great company and we spent a lot of time laughing at each other’s jokes. Did he know I was a woman? Did he care? Did he like what he saw? I had changed from my power-dressing suit into a slinky black dress that I kept carefully rolled up in my desk drawer for emergencies but it seemed that I needn’t have bothered. 

I showed him some leg. He seemed disconcerted by a flash of thigh. My thighs are great. I have had experts tell me that they are. I know that rolls of fat or hairy legs couldn’t have repelled Tony because I haven’t got either. I would have risked some cleavage but refrained after the failure of the thighs. That would have been the end of a potential affair until I idly asked him whether he had heard of a sales representative who had visited me that afternoon.

I pulled the rep’s card out of my handbag and handed it to Tony. He looked sheepish then reached inside his jacket to get out his glasses. The thickness of the lenses told me that his unaided eyesight was poor. The poor mutt probably couldn’t see me without his glasses on. When he started to take his glasses off I stopped him.

“Tony,” I said, “You need those glasses. I bet you can’t see me properly without them. I wear contact lenses.”

“Oh,” he said, putting his glasses back on. “I didn’t know you wore contacts, Alison.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. Can you see my face without those glasses?”

“No, Alison. All I see is a blur where your head is.”

“Then don’t be so stupid. Leave your glasses on and tell me what you can see of me.”

He settled the glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“Let me see…”

“You can see now, you idiot. You couldn’t before.”

“Please let me conclude my examination,” he retorted.

“You are good looking, with blonde hair, a slight trace of brown at the roots, that falls either side of your face and curls inwards. You are wearing a black jersey dress with a silver belt and apparently very little underneath. You have normal coloured tights, at least I assume they are tights…”

“They are.”

“…on slim legs with pretty ankles. You are wearing black high heeled court shoes.”

“Could you see any of that before?”

He shook his head.

“So you invited a woman to lunch the first time and you had no idea what she looked like? How did you recognise me?”

“I didn’t. You recognised me. Remember?”

“So I did.”

I’d walked straight up to him and said ‘Hello Tony’.

“So what do you think of me now you can see me?”

“I think I’m very lucky to be with such an attractive lady.”

“Why don’t you wear your glasses?”

“When we met I had been reading the conference papers and my eyes were tired. I’d just put my glasses away when you sat next to me. I had intended to close my eyes during the speech but you spoke to me. I liked the sound of your voice and once I found I liked you as well I didn’t want to put you off by wearing these thick lenses which do nothing for me…”

“…except make it possible for you to see anything at all.”

“Yes. That is true.”

“So if you weren’t wearing your glasses and I did a strip tease you wouldn’t notice?”

“I’m not quite that blind. I’d notice the movement and the colour of your skin but I wouldn’t be able to appreciate the act.”

“I think you had better keep your glasses on while we are together. Can you see this?”

I flashed some thigh under my dress. OK, my tights covered it but they are translucent.

“Yes. That has definite possibilities,” Tony said.

I kissed him.

“Do you know that I was thinking that you were a cold fish because you didn’t respond the last time I did that?”

“No. But I couldn’t see it, could I?”

“No, you couldn’t.”

Things seemed to get better between us from then on until tonight, St. Valentine’s Day. I suppose we should have known better. Everyone goes out on that evening. The restaurant was overcrowded, the service was poor, and the food was too.

After the meal I was feeling annoyed with myself. We would have had a better evening just walking down the main street window gazing. It had been expensive and disastrous.

Tony passed me his Valentine’s Day present. I opened it at the table. He had bought me a wonderful pair of French Knickers. Even now as I sit in tears on the back seat of the taxi I regret red silkiness of those knickers.

It was the wrong place, the wrong time and I was in the wrong mood. I was upset and embarrassed because half the restaurant saw what he had given me. I shoved them back in the packaging, pushed them across the table at him, stood up, slapped his face and walked out.

I hailed this taxi which came past just as I reached the street. Now I’m regretting slapping him, wailing for a lost relationship and coveting those knickers. What a mess!

My mobile phone beeped to announce a text message. I peered through my tear-filled eyes at it. Expanded to normal English it read.

“Sorry. Please forgive me. Tony.”

I sat for a few seconds and texted back.

“On my way. Be outside.”

I told the taxi driver to take me back to the restaurant.

“Is he worth it?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “He is. I just didn’t realise that he was.”

“OK, back we go.”

We collected Tony. I had to drag him off the pavement into the cab as he apologised profusely. I told the taxi driver to continue to my flat and stopped Tony’s objections with my lips.

I paid off the taxi driver who winked conspiratorially at me. 

“Good night and good luck, Miss,” he said as he drove away.

I’m modelling the red silk French Knickers for Tony. Soon they and his glasses will be off. He’ll have to rely on his sense of touch for the rest of the night.



Flawed Red Silk Ch. 12



Chapter 28: Red Revolution

The French Knickers had been a success. They had been sent out as Valentine’s Day presents to our major customers, except the pair I gave to Serena. They had been a success in a different way. Now she is in control of her life and her man, which is as it should be.

A few customers had not appreciated the gift. One pair came back with a snooty letter signed by the Managing Director. I hadn’t realised that they only bought formal ecclesiastical clothing from us. I’m sure some Vicar’s wife would have appreciated the knickers but I suppose they weren’t ‘suitable for our business’ as the MD put it.

That pair of knickers I sent to Ralph when he rang up asking if another pair could be made. There must be a story behind his request. Why did he want two pairs? I understood that he and his wife weren’t too close and she didn’t sound like the type to wear silk knickers. I bet she wears thornproof ones. So who did Ralph want two pairs of knickers for? I’ll ask him next time I see him.

When I next spoke to the secretary whose boss had returned the knickers she was furious.

“Stupid old fool,” she’d said, “any of the women in the office would have loved to own them. We were drooling over them. I suppose he returned them to stop us arguing over who should have them. If you get any more…”

We would. We had hundreds of orders for French Knickers and other lingerie. Mr. Jones might have to extend the factory. He had already recruited ten more staff just to produce lingerie. Serena had given them the usual explanation about his ‘appraisals’ but her heart wasn’t in it. On her last appraisal she’d left him tied up for me to release. He had to send me out to buy a new shirt because she left his original one soaked in cum. How did he explain that to his wife?

It was nearly time for me to reveal the real reason I was a temporary secretary to Christopher Jones. I didn’t need the work. I didn’t need the grief that his ‘appraisals’ caused his staff.

However I had gained from the experience. I had been practising my juggling and prestidigitation whenever I had free time. I had been initiated as a witch. I was gaining confidence in my occult abilities although the spell on the French Knickers had been my greatest work and seemed to have been an almost unqualified success.

I had tried to influence Mr. Jones to turn his sexual attentions to his wife instead of his employees. So far that hadn’t worked unless the few days when he hadn’t called some woman for an ‘appraisal’ counted.

The shop floor women and Serena their forewoman looked on me as a ‘wise woman’ who would solve their problem with Mr. Jones. They consulted me on so many things that I felt I was their personal agony aunt. Lunchtimes I had a queue of advice seekers. I used my common sense as much as possible rather than my occult knowledge.

Their husbands had improved their behaviour after Serena’s Reshad and veiled sari-clad women had beaten a few others up. They weren’t perfect; what men are? They were better and most now had employment that helped the families’ budgets. After only a month at the factory the improvement in the staff’s morale was incredible. Mr. Jones’ ‘appraisals’ were the only remaining flaw and it was that flaw that I had come to change.

Jane had hinted to Mrs. Jones that there was a problem. She hadn’t been specific because Mr Jones was her employer, not Mrs. Jones. But Jane had said enough for Mrs. Jones to turn to me in my real job, not as a magician’s assistant, but as an employee in an enquiry agency. She asked the agency to find out and report exactly what her husband was doing. That had been easy. I found that out on day one.

The problem changed as soon as I reported my findings, which Jane could have told her. I also reported Serena’s words to Mrs. Jones. We understood that altering the situation could have dire effects on the workers. She, Mrs. Jones, wanted a solution that left him in charge of the factory, but without treating the workforce as his personal harem. He ran the company at a profit despite paying above average pay and providing fringe benefits for the staff. His skill was essential.

So far my witch’s potions and spells hadn’t worked. He was less enthusiastic about his ‘appraisals’ but still did them. None of the appraisees had dared to tie him up as Serena had done. All allowed him a simple fuck before they returned to work. In exchange they received bonus payments in their pay packets. He was treating them as prostitutes and they accepted it.

One evening I persuaded Serena to meet Mrs. Jones and I after work. Serena wanted a solution as well but was very worried about his reaction. We met in a Chinese restaurant that had very secluded alcoves and piped music. It was impossible to overhear a conversation in the next cubicle, which possibly explained the number of couples who did not act as if they were married.

I introduced Serena, who was very uneasy, to Mrs. Jones.

“Mrs. Jones, this is Christopher’s forewoman, Serena.”

“Serena, this is Mrs. Jones.”

“But please, both of you, call me Nicole. That is my name and I hope we will be working together to benefit all of us. Serena, Mary was working for me before she came to the factory. I sent her there to help you and the other women. Has she helped?”

Serena was embarrassingly effusive in my praise. From her description you would think I was an angel who had transformed the factory into a place of sweetness and light. I protested but the two of them overruled me. They even toasted me in rice wine.

After Serena had finished any awkwardness between her and Nicole had gone. We were three equal conspirators determined to change Christopher.

The plot we hatched was to destroy his power over the women of the factory by making him appear less awe-inspiring. As the manager he had power. We intended to show the workers that he was just another man.

We agreed the details and turned to more interesting matters. Serena told us what she had done to her Reshad and we laughed when she mentioned her mother wiping her arse across his face. 

I knew that Serena was now wholly in charge. She couldn’t have told about her errant husband so delightfully if she thought he might be a threat in future. Without mentioning names she told of some of the other women’s punishment of their husbands. 

One who caused trouble by woman-chasing had been locked in chains and forced to wear his wife’s clothes for a week. She had shown him off to all her female friends, the ones he had been chasing. Most of them teased him by giving him advice on how his sari should be worn or what make-up was best for his complexion. He had objected to the advice about make-up. His head was held between his wife’s knees while her friends applied blusher, lipstick, and eye shadow. The first time he struggled and ruined the effect. They cleaned his face with a dirty sponge, forced it into his mouth and left it there until he agreed to co-operate.

His wife allowed him to resume his male clothing only when he promised to be faithful. The first time he tried to stray his target retorted that perhaps he needed another lesson in make-up. He had forgotten that she had been one of his tormentors. His intended victim told his wife. The next morning he woke up chained to the bed. As he struggled his wife laughed at him. When he swore at her she gagged him and pinned some nappies round his middle. She left him chained up until he wet himself. He threatened to hurt her but she warned him that her friends would repay any injury several times over. He has been good for at least two weeks since then.

The plot was set for the next leaving party. Lalita, one of the workers who had been with the company some years, had finally become pregnant and intended to be a stay at home mother for a few years. Christopher Jones would give a speech as he always did on such occasions. He would present the leaving present and a cheque. Lalita would kiss him to thank him. That was also normal. The next thing to happen would be our script, not his.

Lalita’s baby didn’t read the script. What baby ever does? Lalita had miscalculated her dates and the full-term baby arrived two weeks before her scheduled leaving party. We deferred the party for a month. Lalita would come back, show off her son, and we would have an “Ooh and Ahh” session. We started with the Oohs and Ahhs before Mr. Jones left his office for the formal part. I accompanied him on his progress across the shopfloor to the decorated bench used on such occasions.

He made his usual speech that many had heard before but this time I sensed that he meant his conventional regrets. Lalita had been a popular person with the other workers and also one of Mr. Jones’ favourite appraisees before she became too obviously pregnant.

At the end of his speech and after he had presented his cheque Lalita stammered her thanks in carefully broken English before throwing her arms around him and kissing him more passionately that was usual at such affairs.

That was our signal. While he was embarrassed by Lalita’s kiss, every woman present moved forward. As many as possible laid hands on Mr. Jones. He was lifted off his feet and laid down on the bench. Lalita’s hand stifled any outcry as many deft hands completely removed his clothes and wrapped him inside layers of the flawed red silk that had been unsuitable even for the panties. His private parts were left nakedly exposed.

Lalita stuffed his mouth with a bundle of off-cuts of the silk as another tied a strip around his head to hold the gag firmly in place. More silk was wound around his head in a parody of a sari veil. The last act was to tie the weakly wriggling silk bundle to the bench. All that could be seen for the formerly elegantly suited Mr. Jones were his eyes, nose and wrinkled sex.

Lalita wrapped her hand around his flaccid cock. She bent forward so that her face was in front of his eyes.

“Mr. Jones,” she said, “or should I call you Christopher since we have been so intimate over the years, we have decided that it is time that you stopped given your appraisals, which are demeaning to us, and unworthy of you.”

There was not a trace of broken English. Lalita spoke as if English were her native tongue.

“I will remove your gag shortly but we will not let you speak. If you do speak, you will be sorry. These…” Lalita’s hand squeezed his balls hard, “…are very vulnerable. Do you agree to keep quiet? A nod will suffice.”

The silk-encumbered head nodded as far as his bonds permitted.

“OK. I have been chosen, since you no longer employ me, to start a demonstration of our annoyance at your sexual harassment. We will harass you, gently and with some consideration, but you are unable to resist, as we were unable to resist you because our employment depended on your favour. You treated me, and the others, as a sexual convenience. We will not treat you like that but as a child.”

Lalita untied the silk wrapping Mr. Jones mouth and removed the wad of silk off-cuts. She dropped her sari to her waist and unbuttoned her tight blouse revealing a front-fastening nursing bra. That too she undid allowing an engorged breast to fall free.

She put the nipple to Mr. Jones’ mouth.

“Suck it!” she ordered. “You are no longer my boss. You are my baby.”

It seemed as if he might refuse but she squeezed his balls again. His mouth gradually opened and her nipple entered followed by her aureole. Her eyes closed as he began to suck. Droplets of milk seeped from the unoccupied breast.

After a couple of minutes while the surrounding crowd seemed to hold its breath she removed one breast and stuffed the other one deep into his mouth. She had rammed the breast in as if she wanted to push it through him. The soft globe spread over his face blocking his nostrils. He sucked frantically and vainly tried to struggle. His face was turning red when I intervened. I pulled Lalita back slightly and depressed one of my fingers against her breast to give him an airway. He panted through his nose to replenish his air supply. 

When Lalita lifted her breast out of his mouth tears were rolling down her cheek. She brushed them away with the hem of her sari before putting her breasts back inside her clothing.

“Goodbye, Mr. Jones, and thank you,” she said. “Not just for being a good employer, which you were but for one failing, and for giving me a generous bonus, but for letting me demonstrate that you are nothing but another of my babies. Feeding you has been my revenge and now I can kiss you goodbye as a friend."

Lalita kissed him on the lips, her hand reached out and stroked his penis, and then she moved back from the bench.

“I’ve had my turn. Now it is yours.” She announced.

A woman approached with her head hidden under her sari. She moved to the end of the bench and dropped her clothed breasts across Mr. Jones’ face. She held them there for about twenty seconds before lifting them and walking back into the crowd.

Several women followed her example, then one sat her ample sari sheathed backside on his face. That became a popular variation as woman followed woman to humiliate Mr. Jones. Asmita straddled his chest and buried his face against the folds of cloth covering her pussy. She did not veil herself so that he was aware exactly who she was.

Serena was the last. She stood over him.

“We have expressed our domination over you. I have already done that so I don’t need to demonstrate it now. We have done this with love. We could have done this with hate because you gave us reason to hate you despite all the good you have done us. Your appraisals will stop. If not this will happen again and we might not be so gentle next time. There are two more ladies to come. The first is your temporary secretary and full-time witch, Mary.”

“Hello, Mr. Jones,” I said brightly. “I have been asked to perform a spell. I will, with the assistance of all present. The purpose is to make you completely impotent except with your wife. It can only be reversed IF she agrees.”

I took a pot of ointment from my handbag. I looked around. The women started a mantra that I had taught them. The words seemed meaningless but the effect was strong as all the women chorused them together. I dipped my fingers in the pot and smeared ointment over Mr. Jones prick and balls while I muttered words in an ancient language under my breath.

“Now I will demonstrate the effect.”

I heaved up my skirt to reveal my pair of red silk French knickers. I straddled his body, pulled aside the gusset of the knickers and rubbed myself against his flaccid prick. Although I rubbed hard for a few minutes there was no reaction from his prick. It just lay there.

I climbed off him, stroked his prick with my hand, and said:

“As you can see, the spell works. You are impotent. To demonstrate the other part of the spell we need one more woman.”

The crowd parted to allow Nicole, Mrs. Jones, to approach the bench. She moved into his line of sight.

“Good afternoon, Christopher,” she said bending over to kiss him as his eyes opened wide in shock, “I have been an interested spectator at this afternoon’s ceremony. I enjoyed it. Now it is my turn. Mary’s spell makes you impotent with every woman except me. I’ll prove it.”

He tried to speak but I pressed my hand on his mouth. Nicole stripped off her dress revealing a lacy bra and her pair of French knickers. She sat on his chest and pushed her silk clad bush against his face.

“Remember these?” she asked. “You wanted Mary to put on spell on them so that the wearer would find you irresistible and then you switched them with her pair? She switched them back and she switched the spell as well. The spell she actually put on them was to make the wearer irresistible to you, but only if I, your wife, was wearing them. Cunning little witch, isn’t she?”

I resented the “little” but didn’t interrupt Nicole. Whatever else I am, I’m not little. I was a head taller than everyone else who was present in that crowded workroom.

As I watched Christopher and Nicole I could see that he was getting erect. I winked at Nicole. She winked back.

“Now is the time for the demonstration,” Nicole said as she moved down his body and yanked the knickers to one side. She impaled herself upon him. He arched his back as far as his bonds would allow as he sank deep inside her.

Nicole pumped up and down on him. She was arousing him despite his acute embarrassment at being ridden in front of all his employees. A few more strokes and he came inside his wife. She sat still on him.

I moved forward and untied some of the bonds holding his head so that he could turn it from side to side. He looked around to see that all the women had turned their backs. Only Nicole and I had seen him shoot his load into his wife but the sounds had been enough to confirm the effectiveness of my spell.

“I have finished,” I said distinctly. “My task is done. I came here at Nicole’s request to put an end to the appraisals. That I have done and I have made it impossible for them to start again. From today, Mr. Jones, you have a new temporary secretary until Jane comes back from her maternity leave. Her name is Nicole. She might give YOU an appraisal but you will give none.”

I had intended that speech to be my final act. I would walk out of the door to my car that was already packed with all my personal items from the office. Nicole and Serena changed that. Serena grabbed me to kiss me. Nicole pulled me towards her and kissed me while keeping her balance on her prone husband. The rest of the women surrounded us. I was touched by many hands, heard so many words of thanks, was kissed by so many lips that I was overwhelmed by it all.

A voice was struggling to be heard through the hubbub. Serena shouted for quiet.

Mr. Jones, still buried deep in his wife said:

“I am sorry, ladies, for what I did. I hope you will forgive me. I promise not to repeat my offences against you. With my wife’s help I want to be a model employer from now on.”

He looked straight at me.

“Mary, witch, you cannot leave just like that. You too deserve a bonus and your own leaving party. If everyone agrees, that party will be here, tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock.”

There were murmurs of assent.

“Before then, the ladies of this factory have a special task. I want them to produce some special clothing for Mary to remind her of her time with us. That clothing will be made with the best we have.”

I have a complete wardrobe of silk dresses, suits, and underwear. There is love in every stitch and not a single flaw. Even so, my favourite item is the pair of French knickers made from that length of Flawed Red Silk.