AUSTRIAN HOLIDAY: Part One
Last summer I had a very
stressful couple of months and was glad when September finally arrived. In the
final week of August I felt so tired that I turned up late for work every day
and walked around the office like a zombie. Everyone said I looked terrible but
I just shrugged it off as pre-menstrual syndrome and tried to look cheerful. My
bosses sent me to the company doctor, who told me I was too exhausted to do my
job and that I should take a vacation. He�s new to the company and inquired if
I was pregnant, to which I smiled politely and said: �I�m a lesbian�. He seemed
genuinely surprised and said something like: �Well, Kate, you don�t look the
type�, a comment that still amuses me. He signed me off for a month and advised
me to take it easy.
I expected my boss to be
angry about my departure at such a crucial time but he was incredibly
sympathetic and thanked me for putting in a ten-hour day for the past seven
weeks. He even offered to extend my vacation by a further month, but I knew we
had a massive pipeline project in October so I promised to be back at my desk
before the end of September.
Another big problem that
summer was my personal life, which took a nosedive in mid-July, just as my job
was starting to get out of control. My girlfriend Laura, with whom I�d shared
an apartment for two years, suddenly announced she was leaving me for another
woman. After she left I felt completely devastated and became inconsolable for
several weeks, seeking comfort in vodka bottles and a couple of soulless one
night stands. At the office I paced the floor like a caged tigress and tried to
spend as much time as possible at the company�s main construction site on the
coast.�
So, when the doctor signed
me off, I found it really hard to unwind, despite my immense fatigue. Hanging
around the apartment for a whole month seemed like a crazy option, especially
as I still had Laura�s photograph on the bedroom wall. I resolved instead to go
abroad, to Austria, as a solo traveller, knowing that a change of environment
would probably cure my stress better than anything else. Besides, I�d spent a
year in Vienna during my university course and spoke German fluently, so I knew
I�d be OK on my own.
On my last day at the office
I phoned a few people and booked myself a two week sojourn in Vienna, followed
by a week in eastern Austria to revisit the places where I�d spent time as a
student. I began to get pretty excited as I drew up an itinerary for the
three-week trip.� Even planning the
journey helped me to feel less stressed and, on the morning of my flight, I was
nearly dancing in the airport lounge.
In Vienna I took things very
easy, sightseeing by day and spending most evenings at the hotel with a cold
beer in my hand and a book in my lap. At the end of the second week I felt
ready for something more adventurous and headed east towards the Hungarian
border, intending to visit the company who had given me a student placement
during my third year at university. As things turned out, I never got further
than Graz, a fine city that I hadn�t seen for seven years.
Arriving in the city in the
late afternoon, I made me way from the rail station to a hotel not far away and
dumped my suitcase at reception, telling the staff I urgently needed a beer
from the bar across the street. There, in one of those bizarre twists of
destiny that make everything else worthwhile, I encountered an old man called
Oskar Ritter, who turned all my vacation plans upside down.
I guess he just needed
someone to talk to while he drank his beer and groaned about his problems. At
first he tried to hit on me, telling me he found me attractive and claiming to
have a passion for British girls, but I politely brushed aside his advances and
offered instead to listen to his complaints. He spoke a little English but it
was easier for both of us to converse in German.
Oskar told me about his
small factory on the edge of town, from where he ran a lucrative business
importing expensive gold watches that he sold on at a high profit. He employed six
women, five of whom packaged the merchandise in gift boxes in return for a
paltry wage. The sixth employee, his middle-aged secretary, was the source of
his problems.
�It�s her daughter,� he
explained. �A very silly girl who always has trouble with the police. Now she
gets arrested for using drugs, and so her mother has to look after the
children, leaving my business with no secretary for a whole day. Tomorrow, in
fact. But I have to go and meet important customers, so who looks after the
factory while I�m gone?�
I expressed my sympathy, of
course, but the situation was beyond my experience and I felt that I could give
no useful advice. But advice was not what Oskar wanted at all. He desperately
needed practical help, and that�s where he figured I could fit into the
equation.
At first I couldn�t
understand why he wanted me, a foreign tourist, to solve the crisis. Surely the
local employment agency could supply a temporary secretary?� But then Oskar informed me in a hushed voice
that his business was black market, while his workers were illegal immigrants
from the Balkans, so he needed to be very discreet and extremely careful.
�One day,� he said. �Just
for tomorrow. One day is all I ask, before Ilsa comes back and you continue
your vacation. But I will pay you for five days, and then you go back to
England with money in your pocket. What do you say to that?�
Working as a secretary in an
illegal sweatshop is not how I had envisaged spending my holiday, but I figured
that it might be an interesting interlude and the money was certainly an
incentive. So I agreed to turn up at the factory the next day. Oskar was
totally overjoyed and thanked me profusely, kissing my hand and calling me an
angel.
The following morning I
arrived at the factory and found it to be half-derelict and in very bad shape.
Inside, a tiny office offered access to the main packaging room, where the five
illegals worked a ten hour day in appalling conditions. Oskar showed me the
office and the surprisingly pristine restroom, but not the packaging area. Then
he departed in haste, leaving me for a rapid training session with Ilsa the
departing secretary.
Ilsa was a short, plump
woman in her mid-fifties who seemed eager to be on her way as soon as possible.
When I told her that I needed no instruction in how to work the computer she
asked me if I had any other secretarial skills, a question which made me
chuckle.
�What job do you do in
London?� she inquired.
�Project management,� I
replied. �Construction and design, plus some freelance consultancy.�
Ilsa nodded and grinned,
apparently misunderstanding my words. �Freelance is good and is what Oskar
likes best,� she said. �No names, no insurance, no contracts. Just a handful of
euros at the end of the day.�
I smiled politely, but
Ilsa�s next remark nearly knocked me sideways. Her eyes narrowed and she gave
me a strange look, as if trying to anticipate my reaction.
�Something else happens here
at the end of the day,� she continued, her chubby cheeks blushing at the edges.
�Something that you might not be happy to do.�
I shrugged, trying to seem
unconcerned but knowing that I�d be out of the door in three seconds if Oskar
turned out to be involved in anything really bad. But my intuition proved to be
way off the mark.
�This is how things are,�
Ilsa continued after an awkward pause. �Oskar insists that the workers must be
searched before they go home, so that they do not steal the gold watches. He
used to lose quite a few items until he realised that the women who pack the
boxes were stealing things by hiding them under their clothes. So, before the
women go home, they must come to the office and take off their factory dresses.
Then I search them before giving them their own clothes and allowing them to
leave.� She paused, clearing her throat with a cough. �Today these searches
must be performed by you.�
For a few moments I stood in
a kind of bewildered trance, unable to speak. Ilsa mistakenly assumed that I
was showing reluctance to undertake the task.
�It�s not so bad,� she said.
�The women are not naked, so do not be too anxious about searching them. Most
of them are very clean, and they keep their underwear on during the search.�
�Where do I search?� I
inquired.
Ilsa placed her hands under
her ample bosom and took a deep breath. Her breasts swelled, heaving beneath
her shirt like ripe melons.
�Here,� she replied, running
her thumbs along the outline of her bra. �This is where they might hide a
slender gold watch. Inside the cups of their brassieres.� She lowered her arms
and with her left hand tapped her crotch through the material of her skirt. �Or
here,� she added. �Inside their panties, at the front or at the back. Maybe
this is a type of search you are unhappy to perform?�
�No problem,� I answered
nonchalantly.
Ilsa seemed disappointed
that I showed so little concern about an issue which clearly made her feel
uncomfortable. She frowned, muttering something inaudible while staring at me
intently.
�I must warn you, Kate,� she
said solemnly. �These searches need to be thorough, which means your fingers
must probe to the limits of decency and modesty.�
�Please explain,� I replied.
With a sigh, Ilsa shook her
head and walked over to her cluttered desk, from where she lifted a wired
microphone to her lips. It appeared to be linked to a speaker in the packaging
room.
In a businesslike voice she
spoke into the microphone: �Maria Stanic to the office!�
A wave of her hand signalled
that I should sit on a chair near the desk, but Ilsa walked back to the centre
of the office and began rubbing her hands together vigorously.
�What are you doing?� I
inquired.
�Warming my fingers,� came
the reply. �I intend to present a demonstration of how to conduct a search.�
At that moment, the door opened
and a young woman entered the room. She was tall and slim, hazel-eyed and
blonde, her hair a tousled mane of golden curls that tumbled to the base of her
spine. I guessed her age to be around twenty-two, but her eyes bore the tired
expression of someone who has endured years of hardship. She was quite
attractive, despite the unflattering grey dress that she was forced to wear at
the factory.
Ilsa introduced me and
explained that I would be looking after the office for a day. The blonde gave
me a lovely warm smile, introducing herself as Maria and saying that she came
from Slovenia. She spoke no English but was nearly fluent in German, so we were
able to converse with ease. I asked her a little about herself and learned that
she had fled her homeland because of a failed marriage.
�Is Herr Ritter waiting for
me?� she inquired, turning to Ilsa.
IIlsa nodded, explaining to
me that Maria had an errand outside the factory. �She is going with Oskar to
the warehouse for the rest of the day, to help him with his customers. So she
must be searched now, before she leaves. The timing is perfect for a
demonstration.�
Maria gave a heavy sigh and
checked her watch. �We need to be quick, for the boss is a very impatient man.�
�Take off your dress,� said
Ilsa.
I felt a twinge of
humiliation on Maria�s behalf when she unbuttoned the front of her dress, but
she seemed unabashed by the situation and clearly regarded it as part of the
daily routine. No doubt she would have been anxious about stripping in front of
two men, but perhaps she felt comfortable when the onlookers were female. I
wondered if her concern would have been greater had she been aware of my
lesbianism. Her soft brown eyes showed no emotion as she peeled off the dress
and let it fall to the floor.
A thrill of delight shivered
through my veins and I struggled to contain my excitement. The sight of an
attractive young blonde undressing for my delectation at our first meeting was
a rare and extremely sensual image. Unable to restrain my arousal, I allowed my
gaze to roam over her pale slender body as she stood before me, my leering
stare admiring the contrast between her smooth white skin and her black
underwear. At first I assumed that the shapely thrust of her bosom was due to
an uplift bra, until I realised that her breasts were naturally firm and pert.
Her panties were plain black cotton briefs in a high-cut style that emphasised
the length of her legs. My heartbeat quickened and for a moment I felt dizzy,
but neither Maria nor Ilsa sensed the lust that simmered behind my eyes.
I inhaled sharply when Ilsa
reached out to touch the black lacy bra. With her left hand she gently squeezed
both cups three or four times, each squeeze bringing a soft sigh from Maria.
�This is sufficient for the
search,� Ilsa explained. �A few grasps of each breast will reveal if a gold
watch is hidden in the brassiere.�
I nodded, swallowing hard
and trying to return Maria�s friendly smile. To my amazement, Ilsa knelt on the
floor in front of Maria and placed both hands on the black panties, tucking her
thumbs into the narrow sides where the sewn trim curved over the girl�s hips.
She ran her thumbs back and forth beneath the stretchy cotton, from hip to
crotch, repeating the movement twice more until she felt satisfied that no valuables
were lurking there.
�A favourite trick of the
thieves,� she explained. �I remember one Hungarian gipsy who stuffed some small
sections of silver chain down the side of her underwear. They fell out, of
course, as soon as I began the search.�
I nodded solemnly, trying to
appear not only serious about the situation but also disinterested in the
gorgeous half-naked blonde standing less than a yard from my chair.
�Another hiding-place is the
vagina,� Ilsa continued, using her forefinger to tap Maria�s crotch. �For many
reasons we cannot conduct a full internal examination, not least because I
would not wish to do it.� She deliberately emphasised the I and gave me
a strange sidelong glance. �But a careful probing through panties is usually
sufficient,� she added.
Still transfixed, I watched
in awe as she ran her fingers slowly around Maria�s pubic area, gently pressing
the black cotton and feeling along the gusset. She pushed her thumb quite
firmly against the girl�s cunt and rubbed back and forth, her indelicate touch
inviting a murmur of protest. The movement revealed the shape of Maria�s slit
beneath the panties, prompting me to whisper an involuntary oh fuck!
under my breath.
Ilsa ordered Maria to turn
around and the girl obeyed, presenting me with a fine view of her neat ass, its
roundness deliciously defined by the sweeping curve of her panties. The black
cotton was stretched so tightly across her buttocks that the material seemed to
have been sprayed onto her flesh. I sat staring like a rabbit in a trance, my
blank gaze bringing a knowing smile to Ilsa�s lips. The expression in her eyes
left me in no doubt that her shrewd mind had at last figured out my sexual
orientation.
�Bend over, please,� Ilsa
said softly.
Maria bent forward, with her
legs slightly apart and her hands on her knees. Her black underwear was now so
taut over her buttocks that the material became semi-transparent where it
covered the cleft between her ass-cheeks. Against that dark narrow chasm Ilsa
pressed her right hand, using the middle finger to probe deep within the
crevice, pushing the cotton so far inside that her knuckle disappeared from
view. I heard Maria give a few little moans, but otherwise she appeared
unconcerned about the whole thing. To me, as a first-time spectator, it seemed
that Ilsa�s search walked a fine line between legitimate inspection and sexual
molestation, especially when her left hand began to grope along the gusset of
Maria�s panties. The touch ran from back to front and looked like the kind of
slow, sensual caress that I might bestow on a lover. Unsurprisingly, I got
pretty aroused and began to think of myself as a voyeur watching a sleazy sex
show.
�Thank you, Maria,� said Ilsa,
rising to her feet and straightening her skirt. �Please get dressed and go to
Herr Ritter.�
Maria scurried to a line of
metal lockers along the wall and pulled out a pair of jeans and a red T-shirt.
These she quickly put on before saying goodbye to Ilsa and myself. I returned
her friendly wave as she headed out the door, but Ilsa grunted and frowned.
�Be careful of these women,�
she warned. �They may try to fool you with their cunning tricks. Be especially
alert when you deal with Kasha Lukic, who is capable of great mischief.�
��I�ll be fine,� I replied. �Don�t worry about a thing.�
And so, with an anxious
expression on her face, Ilsa said farewell and left me in charge of the office.
I had no intention of letting her down, so I immediately set to work, trawling
through drawers of disordered files and trying to make sense of her bizarre
system of record-keeping. In frustration at the slow and unreliable computer I
forgot about lunch and immersed myself in a heap of obsolete software manuals.
Time passed rapidly and I did not become aware that the factory was closing
until a knock on the door disturbed my thoughts.
A dark-haired woman poked
her head around the doorway and informed me that it was five o�clock. Before I
could reply, she stepped into the office and marched towards the desk, halting
in the centre of the floor like a soldier awaiting orders. For a moment I
stared at her in silence, until I realised that she had come to be
strip-searched.
Clearing my dry throat with
a cough, I walked around from behind the desk and stood in front of her. Like
me, she was small and petite, but her skin was quite swarthy and her brown eyes
were slightly slanted. Her hair was black and tousled, tumbling around her
shoulders in an uncombed mass of tangles. With her high cheekbones she had an
almost Oriental look but I knew from her accent that she, like Maria, hailed
from the Balkans. Her grasp of German was very scanty and was punctuated by
mutterings in Serbo-Croat, but with a little patience we managed a basic level
of communication. Her name was Tereza and she was twenty years old. She told me
a few things about herself as she unbuttoned her dress, and I learned that she
had been smuggled into Austria in the back of a big truck.
�Too hot,� she said. �Two
days with no food and no water. I nearly died of thirst.�
The grey dress fell to the
floor and she stepped out of it, kicking off her tattered trainers at the same
time. I stood before her, my heart pounding with excitement as I feasted my
eyes on her slender olive-skinned body. She was wearing mismatched,
unfashionable underwear: pink floral panties with a threadbare white bra. But
she looked gorgeous and I could barely restrain myself from licking her all
over.
I guess my fingers were
trembling with mingled nervousness and lust as I gently squeezed her left
breast. Her flesh felt soft and warm through the bra and I sensed the firm
nipple against my palm. To my surprise Tereza started chattering about her
social life, describing in patchy German the trouble she was having with an
Austrian man who wanted to marry her.
�He�s nice to me,� she said,
taking a deep breath when my hand closed around her right breast. �But he�s so
old, and he drinks too much beer at night.�
I nodded, trying to appear concerned
about her problems when all I wanted to do was rip off her bra and shower her
nipples with kisses.
I dropped to my knees,
trying to make myself comfortable despite the tingling sensation in my cunt.
Usually when I�m aroused there�s a willing finger or tongue not far away, but
in that little office I was obliged to ignore my body�s pleading. Tereza
continued babbling in broken German but I barely listened to a word, my
attention being drawn to the faded flower-patterned panties that were now barely
six inches from my face. My vision was filled by a pattern of blue and yellow
petals on a background of stretchy pink cotton. I smiled, recalling that I had
not worn such cute underwear since age nine or ten.
For a moment I stared up at
her, seeing her smile curiously framed by the cups of her bra as she looked
down at me.
�Don�t be afraid to touch,�
she said. �It is necessary for the search.�
�Thanks,� I replied in a
hoarse whisper.
Having never refused an
invitation to grope a sexy girl I was more than happy to perform the task.
Following Ilsa�s example, I placed my hands on the front of Tereza�s panties
and slipped my thumbs beneath them. Moving both hands simultaneously I ran my
thumbs back and forth under the pink cotton, tracing the curving trim from hip
to crotch. Whenever I touched the edge of her pubic hair, Tereza gave a little
sigh and murmured in her native language.
Swallowing hard, I placed my
right hand on her crotch and pressed my thumb against the cotton. Beneath the
material I felt the shape of her slit and the warmth of her flesh, the
sensation almost blowing my mind. The search was already becoming a torment of
frustration, but I knew I would be denied fulfillment. Touching Tereza�s
panties so intimately felt too much like making love, but without any hope of
satisfaction or orgasm. Running my thumb slowly up and down her cunt was an
amazingly erotic experience, but it tested my self-control to the limit,
especially when the gusset became damp. My imagination ran wild, fantasizing that
this lovely girl was being aroused by my touch, though in my heart I knew that
the dampness was probably due to a little dribble of piss.
Without waiting for
instruction Tereza turned around and bent over, even as Maria had done earlier,
with her hands clutching her knees. Tereza�s ass was smaller than Maria�s and
felt like a peach when I placed my hands on it. My fingers roamed all over her
buttocks, searching for hidden valuables but feeling nothing except smooth
cotton stretched across firm flesh. It was like role-playing a hot fantasy or
being inside an erotic daydream.
Removing my left hand, I
pressed my right against the cleft between her ass-cheeks and pushed the middle
finger inward. The pink panties yielded to the pressure, forming a narrow ravine
of cotton around my finger as I probed deeper. When my fingertip touched
Tereza�s rosebud through the thin material she gave a soft sigh and wriggled
her cute ass in my face. I wanted to pretend that I was turning her on, but in
truth I figured that her reaction was instinctive rather than responsive.
Meanwhile, my left hand
began stroking gently along the gusset of her panties, ostensibly searching for
a concealed watch but actually caressing the outlined shape of her vagina. By
then my own slit was oozing and tingling, and my nipples felt painfully
sensitive against my bra. Feeling Tereza�s delicious cunt-lips through a thin
barrier of damp cotton sent me to the brink of orgasm and I knew that the
slightest touch on my crotch would plunge me over the edge. Never in my adult
life have I exercised more self-control than on that strange day at the
factory.
�You�re OK,� I said
eventually, removing both hands and standing up. My knees were like jelly and
my chest felt as tight as a drum. �You�ve not got any hidden valuables in your
underwear.�
Tereza straightened and
turned around, smiling warmly and shaking her head. �Poor Kate!� she said.
�Your face is bright red and your breath is very short. I think you are very
embarrassed, yes?�
I shrugged, feeling content
to play the role she had assigned to me. The pretence of being a shy and
unworldly foreign tourist seemed in any case to provide a useful cloak for my
simmering desires.
Tereza laughed, tapping my
nose with her finger. �No need to be ashamed, English lady. This was your first
search and you did it good, very good. Much better than old Ilsa, and with more
gentleness.�
I returned her smile and
wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead, before leaning on the desk while she fetched
her clothes. From a small locker she produced blue jeans and a denim shirt,
shoving her worker�s outfit in their place. I watched her get dressed and
acknowledged her farewell wave with a nod.
�Oh, fuck!� I hissed, wiping
sweat from my forehead as I leaned against the desk. �I can�t take much more of
this!�
[Story continues in Part Two
... ]
Copyright � 2004 Jenny Kay