Exposed at the Office - Sex Stories

Exposed at the Office

... options, but then clicks the lock button on her phone, and reaches out, taking my panties from my outstretched hand between her fingertip and thumb, her nose wrinkling in disgust. She looks me up and down. "Get dressed," she says. "You're late." And she stalks out of the bathroom, my panties dangling from her fingertips, and my humiliation stored in the slim smartphone in her other hand.

*****

I emerge from the bathroom, ten minutes late for work but with my wardrobe rearranged. My sore, lacerated feet are back in my stockings, and I am balancing again on my five inch heels. My hair is tucked back, my blouse rearranged. I feel the prickle of self-consciousness as I enter the office, acutely conscious of my nakedness under my skirt. I try to control my breathing, try to affect an air of unruffled calm, but I know that I'm not doing a very good job. Did Sophie send that first message? Who to? Am I safe? Or am I already exposed?

I walk past desks and keep my eyes forward, using my peripheral vision to try and see if anyone is reacting. People are looking up...but is that just a normal reaction to someone walking in, late? They are staring...but is that because of my new look? Or are they picturing me in my bra, legs spread in the bathroom, with liquid track marks running down my thigh? I feel the burn of self-consciousness, and the prickle of shame down my spine, but force myself not to rush, to focus on walking confidently in my new heels. Nobody knows I don't have my ...

... panties on. They haven't seen the pictures. I'm safe. Come on. I can do this. Nobody knows...except Sophie.

I shudder as I reach my desk and ease into my chair, careful to tuck my skirt around my thighs so I don't show any stocking top...or anything else. I click my mouse and log on to the workstation, opening up my email, and risking a glance around the office as the system loads. I can't detect anything unusual; no surreptitious sidelong glances, no gossiping. Everyone appears to be working away, focused on their screens. I can see the door to Conference Room 1 is open, the table laid out with water glasses, refreshments and neatly bound files of documents. The clients haven't arrived yet. I begin to breathe more easily.

I glance back at my screen. There's about a dozen unread emails, the usual stuff, but right at the top a new message sent just one minute ago, with the subject line "Slut." From Sophie.

My heart stops. I look around nervously. There's nobody around. Blood pounds in my ears as I will my trembling hand on the mouse to move the cursor to the email, and double click to open.

The message is three words long, punctuated with full stops:

"YOU. ARE. MINE."

There are three photos attached at the bottom of the message. I feel a lump rising in my throat, unable to draw my eyes away, as I click the first.

There I am. It's worse than I imagined. My legs splayed wide, one bare foot in the basin, the other tiptoe on the floor, my skirt pulled up, and ...