To Seek a Master

by Monica Belle

  Laura froze, her hand still on the mouse as she reread the message, and again, taking in the implications of each and every word. He’d seen. He knew, and whoever ‘he’ was, it could not possibly be Brian, because the message had been sent pretty much at the exact moment she’d been hauling him from his chair by his tie. She glanced at Mr Henderson, but if he was responsible then he was a superb actor, his brow furrowed as he tracked a pen down a column of figures.

  A lump had risen in her throat, forcing her to swallow before she read the message yet again. There was something horribly compelling about the way it was worded, filling her with angry resentment, but also a sense of weakness and need. It was not ‘you should wear suspenders’, not even ‘you must wear suspenders’, but ‘you will wear suspenders’, a statement that went beyond mere confidence to an arrogant certainty that she would obey.

  Her immediate instinct was to defy him, perhaps to send back a curt note telling him that he was a filthy pervert and that she would never obey his commands. It would have been a lie. She desperately wanted to obey, despite her resentment, despite knowing that it would be utterly inappropriate to submit herself to a man’s will. In truth, none of that was important or, at least, not important enough to make her submerge her desire. What was important was to know who had sent the message. If it was Mr Drake, perhaps Darcy, Mr Henderson even, then she would wear suspenders, and anything else he thought right, but if Brian had somehow managed to trick her, or if it was Hovis Boy, then they were going to get their faces slapped.

  Mr Henderson was still hard at work, and paying no attention to her whatsoever. Laura pretended to be busy, while desperately trying to decide on the identity of her lover, or tormentor. It had to be somebody who knew she’d worn stockings that day, and specifically stay-ups. How could he have known; from the tension in the material, because he’d expected the see the lines of her suspender straps under her skirt, because he’d seen far enough up to be sure?

  In any case it couldn’t have been Mr Drake, and was almost certainly somebody at the office, somebody she’d seen that day, or who had seen her. She thought of where she’d been, to accounts, to the canteen, to the loos, to production, which had meant taking the walkway above the factory floor. That had always made her feel uncomfortable. Some of the cruder men tended to ogle the girls, some openly, some not, some even wolf-whistling or making cheeky remarks. She had quickly realised that if she walked near the edge she’d be giving the men a view up all but the tightest skirts, and had always stayed close to the wall if possible. Nevertheless, somebody might have seen, most likely one of the machinists.

  She had never had much to do with the men on the factory floor. A few were attractive, but it was very hard to imagine them as the sort of calm, arrogant alpha male she pictured as sending the emails. Some of them certainly qualified as alpha males, it was true, but in a much cruder way, all rough power and self-certainty, which had its appeal but came a very poor second to what she really liked.

  Yet they couldn’t be ruled out, making the situation more confusing than ever. Once again she felt a little frightened, adding to the muddle of her emotions as she finished up her work. Still Mr Henderson behaved as he always did, and she found herself starting for the station more puzzled and anxious than she had been that morning, only to reach a decision before she was halfway. She would reply to the email, promising to obey if the sender revealed himself.

  She felt an immediate sense of disappointment, knowing that however sensible the idea seemed it was pointless. By trying to take control she would either drive him away or make him more determined to exert his authority, if he was the type of man she wanted. If he did as he was told then he wasn’t the type of man she wanted and the thrill would be gone.

  Still she told herself that she would not be going to work in suspenders the next day, even though there was no harm in taking a detour to look in the window of Pretty Things. Nor was there any harm in going inside, as she needed some new stockings anyway if she was going to be wearing them regularly. They had some beautiful designs, and there was a sale on, so it was only sensible to buy a couple of packs of plain knickers, and some pretty ones just in case. Having spent so much, and while she was in there, it seemed silly not to buy one of the rather tempting suspender belts they had on display, or maybe two, although obviously she wouldn’t wear them the next day, or if she did, it wouldn’t be for him.

  Back in King’s Lynn, Laura went though her evening routine feeling even more nervous than she had the day before. It had been a long and trying day, and on the way back from walking Smudge she bought a bottle of red wine, telling herself that a single glass wouldn’t hurt and that the rest would keep well enough for Friday night when she normally allowed herself some.

  The wine was smooth and strong, very easy to drink and very soothing. After washing her dinner down with the first glass she decided that she needed a second, just to help her sleep and dispel the doubts crowding her mind. It didn’t work, but the third did, leaving her feeling mellow and tired as she kicked off her shoes and put her feet up on the sofa.

  As she poured the fourth glass she was wondering why men made such a fuss over women’s underwear. It was pretty, yes, and then there was the thrill of seeing something secret or forbidden, but that didn’t explain their obsession with detail. Tommy Fuller had liked her to wear knickers that tied up at either hip, but that at least made sense. He’d enjoyed tugging the bows open to make her knickers fall down so that he could get at her more easily. But then Tommy had always been very practical, and an unashamed pervert.

  She’d read somewhere that men got fixated on the sexual imagery of their youth, so that a young man who’d got used to girls in suspenders might come to associate them with sex for the rest of his life. That raised an uncomfortable possibility, because suspenders hadn’t been normal wear since the 1960s, the 1950s even, which meant that her man might not only be older than her, which was good, but positively ancient, which was not.

  None of her suspects were over fifty, and she dismissed the idea, concentrating on the idea of him being fixated with the way she dressed instead. The idea was both weird and exciting, to think of herself a doll, for him to dress as he pleased, and to undress. Maybe he would treat her the way she had once treated her dolls, none of which had ever kept any clothes for long, while her youthful attempts at fashion design and hair styling had quickly left them looking as if they’d just escaped a war zone.

  He would be rather more gentle, hopefully, but he would also be fixated on sex. He would cut her skirts down, preferably while she was wearing them, so short that her knickers showed, also the stockings and suspenders he’d have put her in. It would be the same with her tops, the buttons snipped off her blouses so that she was unable to close them properly, and, with no bra, unable to prevent herself from showing off her breasts. He’d cut her T-shirts up too, so high that the underside of her breasts showed and that the slightest movement would risk baring them completely.

  She imagined herself in her ruined clothes, walking around the house as his doll, her body displayed for his entertainment as he sat and watched, coolly sipping a drink she’d served to him. The thought made her shiver, and only the curious look in Smudge’s large brown eyes prevented her from tugging up her skirt and slipping one hand down the front of her knickers. Instead she poured out the rest of the bottle into her glass, filling it almost to the brim, and went upstairs.

  Her purchases were on the bed, thrown casually down when she first came in. Now too drunk and horny for reservations, she quickly pulled open one of the suspender belt packages. Her fingers were shaking as she tugged her skirt high, but the little shocked voice in her head only served to increase her excitement. The long mirror on her wardrobe showed her in reflection, the exposure of her stocking tops and knickers in striking contrast to her neat office suit, and deliciously naughty.

  On sudden instinct she put her hands on her head and made a slow turn, imagining him ordering her to
display herself. Who he was no longer mattered. In her head he was male, tall, attractive, commanding, sitting at his ease as she tugged up her skirt to show off her stockings tops and her knickers, front and back, tight against her flesh to leave her with only a minimum of modesty.

  He would order her to put the suspender belt on, which she did, fastening it behind her back and clipping each of the four straps to her stockings. It felt snug around her hips and she could feel the tension in her straps, while in the mirror they seemed to make the V between her legs and her bottom look fuller, more prominent. Maybe that was what he wanted, to make her show off, to make her feel sexual, for him.

  Already she wanted to throw herself down on the bed and bring herself to orgasm under her fingers, but she held back, deliberately teasing herself. Once he’d got her skirt up he would want more, she was sure of that. First she’d be made to go without her bra, to let the shape of her breasts show beneath the thin silk of her blouse and betray the stiffness of her nipples. Then he’d order her to undo her buttons, one by one, with her excitement and sense of exposure rising as her blouse came wide, to show the sides of her breasts, and then everything, bare in front of him as his cool, knowing gaze took in the contours of her body.

  She had suited action to thought, slowly undressing herself with her eyes fixed to the mirror. With her breasts bare she had begun to look like the dishevelled doll of her imagination, and her need to masturbate was close to desperation. Still she held back, knowing that he would want to inflict one final, delicious indignity on her, and make her take her knickers down. That she knew how to do, the way Tommy Fuller had taught her, and which had always left her feeling exquisitely rude. First, to thumb down the front, far enough to let him see the crease of her sex, then the back, with her bottom pushed out to make her cheeks as full as round and she could.

  Tommy had never been in the least bit reticent. He’d have had his cock out by then, pulling at the shaft while he mumbled obscenities, telling her that she had a ‘pretty cunt’ and that he could see her bottom hole. Her man, the Man, would be less crude, but he would be admiring the same view, stripping her of both her clothes and her modesty.

  Now bare in all the places that mattered, Laura climbed onto the bed, crawling over the cover and twisting her head around to admire the view in the mirror as she finally put her hand back between her thighs. She looked impossibly rude, her smart office suit rearranged to show off every intimate detail of her body, while the busy fingers between her sex lips betrayed her excitement as no amount of exposure could ever have done.

  In her imagination the Man was watching. He’d have made her strip, enjoying the view and enjoying her helpless arousal at being dirty, as if she were his doll, his rude little sex doll to be adjusted as he pleased, made to dress how he pleased, made to show herself for his pleasure and, lastly, used as he pleased. With that thought she came, imagining him climbing up behind her to thrust himself deep into her body and hold her in place until he’d satisfied himself inside her.

  5

  IN THE MORNING Laura found her enthusiasm dampened by a slight headache, which made the thought of dressing for sex less than appealing. Whereas the evening before arousal had been her dominant emotion, now it was resentment. Deliberately ignoring not just her new suspender belts but also her stockings, she put on a pair of tights under her most reserved skirt suit, with sensible shoes in place of her normal heels.

  The wind had swung around to the north and east, bringing a cold drizzle in from the sea, which made her walk to the station distinctly unpleasant. She was still not entirely sure that the Man wasn’t one of her fellow commuters, so broke the habit of four years by taking the front carriage instead of the first she came to, at the rear. The fresh air had begun to clear her head, and in the warm, dry interior of the carriage, looking out across rain swept fields her mood slowly softened.

  She began to consider whether she should respond to the last message and, if not with a demand, then how? Possibly her answer could help work out who he was without challenging him directly, just as Dr Faulkner had eliminated the suspects in Steel Trap, by a series of carefully planned acts each designed to reduce the total. In fact she had already started, by disobeying and by avoiding her usual group of commuters, so that if she arrived at work dressed as she had been instructed the next message she received would very probably allow her to eliminate one group or the other.

  Feeling rather pleased with herself, Laura made a quick detour to Pretty Things on her way to EAS, risking Mr Henderson’s displeasure, to buy another suspender belt and a pair of seamed stockings, which she put on in the shop changing room. She was only a few minutes late, and he showed no great surprise when she blamed the train. Nor did he show any unusual interest in her, immediately launching into the day’s work.

  ‘Something rather tricky has come up, Laura. Drake over at Maxwell-Boyce is considering an additional five 36,000 volt units on their order. It should be straightforward, but he is one of those clients who appreciate the personal touch, while as you know I have to be here this afternoon. I’d like you to take Drake to lunch, if you wouldn’t mind? On expenses, of course.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  His response carried just the note of condescension and affection she’d come to imagine from the Man, and instantly brought her the familiar prickle of resentment and arousal. Telling herself to be businesslike, she quickly gathered together the things she’d need as Mr Henderson explained what she was to do and that she was to meet Mr Drake at the Horseshoes in Abbots Ripton.

  It was an unexpected treat, and not only because she would be out and about instead of stuck in the office all day. By the time she’d secured a car from the pool the weather had begun to break, with patches of blue showing among fast moving clouds and a wonderfully fresh feel to the air. It was also the first time Mr Henderson had ever trusted her to act on her own with a client, while there was no denying that the identity of that client made a lot of difference.

  Even if Mr Drake wasn’t the Man, he was very definitely a man, and just the sort to make her melt. It was even possible that he’d leave Miss Manston-Jones in Peterborough, which opened up all sorts of possibilities. They’d be alone in a country pub on what was turning into a beautiful spring day. A little wine, and she might be able to suggest a walk to make sure they were safe to drive back to their offices, a walk on which he might very well try to take advantage of her.

  She’d be made to squat down in some lonely copse, to take his cock in her mouth, all the while risking being seen by some walker or farmhand, very possibly with her blouse open and pulled back to show off her breasts as she sucked. Maybe he’d even take her all the way, kneeling in the grass, her suit dishevelled to show her off in the same rude way she’d been the night before, or stark naked, without a stitch to cover her modesty.

  On the other hand it was still a bit chilly, while the grass was sure to be full of ants, spiders and other small creatures guaranteed to have much the same effect on her ardour as a bucket of cold water. It would be more practical to take a room at the pub, if less romantic. That way they could really indulge themselves, and with luck he would prove forceful and open-minded enough to want to tie her to the bed or, better still, to smack her bottom.

  Only by jamming her foot on the brake did she prevent herself from running into the car ahead as it slowed for a red light. Telling herself that if he did spank her she would deserve it for not paying attention to the road, she forced herself to concentrate. The traffic was light, and she quickly realised she had made a mistake in setting off as soon as the car had been cleared, as she arrived only minutes after the pub opened, with over an hour to go before Mr Drake arrived.

  She bought an orange juice and went outside, sipping her drink in the pale spring sunlight and letting her thoughts drift. The events of the last few days had opened up the possibility of exploring her sexuality in some exciting way, taking her back to the way Tommy Fuller
had made her feel: rude, sometimes even dirty, occasionally a little scared, but every bit a woman. Mr Drake at least had the potential to do the same.

  After a quick glance to make sure that nobody was looking, Laura quickly undid the second button of her blouse, then the third, only to do the third back up, open it again and close it again. She knew from bitter experience that a lot of men would be put off by too overt a display, while there was every chance that Miss Manston-Jones would be along as well. Miss Manston-Jones, Laura was sure, would never have to suggest that she was available.

  A silver Mercedes was pulling into the car park, and Laura stopped fiddling with her blouse, watching as the driver eased himself into a parking space. He got out, a typical young businessman, alone and with no obvious reason for the guilty glance he cast in Laura’s general direction before going inside. Moments later a second car arrived, small and red. This time it was a woman; petite, with dyed blonde hair cut in a bob and the sort of chest that made men talk down. Like the man, she went into the pub.

  Laura could see in through the windows, to the bar, where the man and woman greeted each other with a kiss. They drank wine, chinking their glasses together and gulping the contents in an obvious hurry. Five minutes and they’d finished. The man came out, got into his car and reversed a little way, allowing the woman to nip quickly into the passenger seat as she emerged. Laura smiled.

  Obviously the couple were having an affair, and presumably a clandestine one. It was hard to disapprove, when she didn’t know who else might be involved, and easy to enjoy a vicarious thrill as she imaged the couple driving off for a bout of hurried, illicit sex. There would be no time for anything fancy, as both were presumably on their lunch hours. They’d kiss, clinging urgently to each other in a passion made hot by anticipation. He looked the type to take the lead and would unzip himself, pulling his cock and balls out from the fly of his suit and guiding her hand to them. As she began to stroke him erect he would fumble her breasts out of her clothes, enjoying their size and weight, running his thumbs over her nipples to make them pop out. As soon as he was stiff she’d get into his lap, her skirt pulled up, her tights and knickers pushed down, and the full length of his erection eased into her. They’d do it like that, with her bouncing on his cock and him with one big breast in either hand, to reach their satisfaction in just minutes.