Exposed at the Office - Sex Stories

Exposed at the Office

... worst part. Waiting at the lights, people glancing at my grimy bare feet and exposed legs, making up stories in their heads about me. I am trapped, unable to move anywhere, willing the lights to change. Then walking across the rough, bumpy, gritty road surface like a walk of shame in front of the waiting drivers, all of them looking at me, staring at me, their eyes boring into me, travelling up my body as my skirt dances around my thighs. The shame...

Five minutes pass. Ten. I am breathless now, not just with the shame but with the exertion of my pace. Fifteen. The soles of my feet are raw from the friction with the street surface, and I can feel trickles of sweat running down my back. So much for my expensive perfume. But now I can see it: the office is just ahead. I check the time: I have minutes to spare.

*****

I push through the revolving door and into the lobby. The smooth marble floor is cool and sweet relief to my lacerated soles. I glance down and see I am leaving dirty, slightly bloody footprints behind me and cringe in embarrassment. I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead as I dart past the reception desk, not wanting to meet the disapproving eyes I know I will see there. I am heading straight for the ladies' bathroom. The door is just ahead. I move from the cool marble to the soft carpet and keep to the edge of the corridor, not wanting to soil the pile with my breadcrumb trail of filth and shame.

Thankfully, the ladies bathroom is empty. I drop my ...

... shoes, stockings and bag on the counter top, and survey the damage. My hair has come loose. My face is flushed but my makeup is, thankfully, intact. I raise my arm: there are patches of moisture on the blouse where my perspiration has soaked the material. What to do? I haven't a moment to lose in hesitation. Quickly, I undo the five buttons and shrug out of the blouse, hanging it over the back of a stool and positioning it under the hand dryer. I turn on the blast of air, watching the material ripple in the current and hope that it will dry. I step back, not wanting to get any hotter, and stand with my arms stretched out from my body like I am being crucified, to allow the cooler air of the bathroom to reach my overheated skin and cool it, so my perspiration will dry.

Keeping my arms away from my body, I gingerly lift my left foot and inspect the sole. It's bad: filthy dirty, caked in grime, with some small cuts and scrapes on the heel and ball. I contort my body to get my foot up and into the basin, standing on the tips of my toes on my right foot. I can feel my skirt riding up my thighs and catching under the curve of my butt cheeks, my legs stretched apart as I turn the water on to clean my foot. It comes out in a rush, splashing from the bowl and onto my skirt. Fuck! That's the last thing I need! I do a little hop on my tiptoes, moving away from the water, and lean forward to bathe my toes, my breasts bulging out from the ridiculous push-up bra I'm wearing. What was I ...