Two things I beg of you, loving Mistress: Please forgive me for keeping a secret. Please Mistress, will you fist me?
– Lola, Vancouver, Canada
‘Have you got that in a size 16?’
The trouble started when I was transferred from kitchenware to ladies’ fashions. I tried to reason with Tubby Tordoff in Human Resources when he gave me the news, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t come up with a plausible excuse. It was a done deal.
There’s nothing much to get you into trouble in house wares. Jamie Oliver might have helped men like me who love to cook to come out of our closets, but even I find it difficult to get worked up about saucepans and measuring spoons. No matter how sleek or ergonomic the design, essentially they are just objects; mute, inanimate and meaningless.
But ladies’ clothes couldn’t be more different. They’re not practical, mundane or predictable; each seam, fold and dart seems to hold a secret. They’re mysterious, magical and potent.
Women’s clothes even sound different: the soft susurration of stockings sliding against each other and the clip-clop of stiletto heels against the pavement. They don’t have simple, comfortable convenient garments like us, but complex layers of clothing designed to enhance and disguise. Bras that can transform a modest frontage into a spectacular cleavage, panties as insubstantial as a dragonfly’s wing and suspender belts with their echoes of bondage and old-fashioned naughtiness.
It’s the underwear that gets to me most, I think. Even the word they use – lingerie – with its elongated first syllable and the soft, foreign and slightly lascivious ‘g’ seems exotic and somehow languid.
There’s nothing I enjoy more than looking at a woman and trying to imagine what kind of underpinnings she’s wearing. The suited businesswoman whose tailored exterior conceals fishnet tights and a basque. The middle-aged wife whose Laura Ashley covers cheeky Agent Provocateur. Or the punky teenager in manly boxers, tits too small to even need a bra.
There’s such variety, from the barely-there thong to the matronly roll-on. And, until she undresses for you, there’s no telling if a woman prefers her smalls to be M&S or S&M.
Most of us blokes nurse a secret fondness for nice undies. I bet, if we’re honest, we might even admit to having picked up our girlfriend’s discarded knickers and given them a quick sniff and rubbing the sheer fabric against our faces, marvelling at their softness and the sheer alien otherness of them. So how can it be so wrong to go that little bit further and slide them over your hips and feel the silky material’s snug embrace, like a warm hand cupping your crotch?
I love the way they feel against the skin, the way the gusset’s always too small to accommodate a manly crotch. High heels alter your centre of gravity so that when you walk your hips sway like a catwalk model and skirts make you feel half naked and vulnerable.
No matter how you looked at it, anyone with my specialised tastes was bound to run into problems in ladies’ fashions. Like putting kleptomaniacs in charge of the bank and still expecting to make a profit, or asking ex-alcoholics to run the brewery without falling off the wagon. I knew it would only be a matter of time before I would be taking more than a professional interest in the stock.
On my first day in the department, Tubby Tordoff introduced me to Ms Walker, the manager. The moment I saw her, my heart flipped over in my chest and my cock grew an inch. She was a statuesque woman, at least an inch taller than my 5’9”. And that was before you took her high heels into account.
Her hair was long and dark. Her skin was porcelain pale and her full lips had been glossed a deep red, giving her the look of a healthy vampire which – ever since my childhood obsession with Morticia Addams – I’d always found strangely appealing.
She was wearing a tailored dress of purple-printed Georgette over a black lining and, while it was perfectly respectable and chaste, there was a hint of the bedroom about it that seemed both erotic and wicked.
I allowed my gaze to slip down to her legs just to see if she was wearing stockings or tights, hoping that I looked casual rather than pervy. Fine black hosiery, definitely stockings, with what’s called a harmony point at the heel, tapering into a point that becomes the seam and black suede shoes with a slender stiletto heel. Beneath the stocking, she wore a fine gold ankle chain. The detail seemed exotic and out of place and somehow slutty. My cock was tingling in my pants.
Ms Walker introduced me to Gemma and Kim, the juniors, but one quick glance told me there was nothing to interest me there. The only other male member of staff was Gavin, a spotty, greasy-haired twenty-something who gave me a shrug and a grin when we shook hands as if in solidarity at our misfortune.
The first few weeks were uneventful enough. I was so busy learning the stock and the different routines that there wasn’t enough time to misbehave. The store prided itself on old-fashioned service. We wrapped each garment carefully in crackly tissue paper. Handling the flimsy silky items and wrapping them before handing them over seemed like a sacred ritual, as if the ceremony somehow acknowledged the garment’s significance and potency. As I slipped them into the store’s stiff paper carrier bags and held them out to the customer by the twisted cord handles I’d often notice that my hand was trembling and my heart thumping.
Ms Walker was an ever-present force. Though she never raised her voice or even issued direct orders, she ran the department with the efficiency and organisation of a front-line army unit. When she set you a task, she’d lower her voice and lean close as if she didn’t want to be overheard and say, ‘I wonder if you’d mind …’ in a tone so soft and intimate it felt like a caress; as if you’d be doing her an enormous personal favour and hinting that she’d be forever in your debt.
The technique somehow made even the most onerous job seem like an honour. I’d be halfway up a ladder, counting dusty boxes of directoire knickers that had probably been in the storeroom since before I was born, before I even realised I’d been thoroughly manipulated. Yet, somehow, I didn’t even resent it. There was something about her manner and the calm, direct and conspiratorial way she spoke that made us all desperate to please her. The department met more of its targets than any other section in the store and it was all down to the magnificent Ms Walker: the heart of Mussolini in the body of Nigella Lawson.
Working with the clothes was both a torture and a delight and I went home most days excited and frustrated in equal measure. In the shower I’d close my eyes and lean against the wall under the steaming water and picture the mysterious garments while my hand expertly provided relief. But the next day it all started again – more titillation, more torment. A never-ending cycle. I began to feel like Tantalus: temptation all around me but eternally denied satisfaction.
Once I got used to the job the days dragged a bit, so I began to concoct little stories about the customers. A bus driver in her mannish, militaristic uniform bought a Lycra mini-dress so tight and clinging that she’d have needed a shoehorn to get into it. I imagined her putting it on for a staff party at the depot, intending to lure a handsome fellow driver she’d had her eye on. She’d totter across the dance floor, her feet aching from the unaccustomed high heels and her heart pounding in trepidation. And, if I closed my eyes, I could imagine the tight dress clinging to my own body as tightly as the embrace of a lover.
An office worker in a smart suit and sensible shoes came in every Friday lunchtime to buy tights, plain cotton briefs and a sports bra. In my fantasies she was a career girl, ambitious and ruthless; a woman competing in a man’s world. She worked such long hours that she couldn’t even find the time to do her laundry, so once a week she bought new underwear and simply threw the dirty ones away.
A well-heeled wife in her fifties came in to buy an outfit for a wedding, a vivid green affair with a flower-trimmed hat so ornate she ran the risk of being mistaken for one of the floral displays. I imagined she was the mother of the groom, a cherished son she didn’t want to lose, marrying a woman she didn’t approve of and the outfit was her s
ilent protest.
My favourite customer came in every few weeks to buy underwear. She was beautiful in a wholesome, Women’s Institute sort of way; the sort who owned an Aga and drove the kids to ballet in her Range Rover. She bought camiknickers, seamed stockings, French knickers and long-line bras, the kind of thing you associate with 1940s pin-ups or Dita Von Teese. In my mind she was a bored housewife meeting a younger man for illicit assignations.
Occasionally, I allowed myself to imagine myself as her lover, sitting on a bed in some anonymous hotel room as she disrobed, peeling off each garment slowly until she was standing there in her complicated underwear.
I’d drink in every detail. The ruched fabric and the little bow decorating the suspender strap. The tiny, yet perfect silk rose where the bra cups meet and the delicate lace at the hems of knickers. Maybe there would be slight creases at the ankles of her stockings. I’d follow the seam up the back of her leg to where it joined the welt in an ‘O’ like a surprised human mouth.
Then I’d close my eyes and imagine it was me standing there, displaying myself in all that old-fashioned underwear. What would it feel like against my skin? Would the bra’s boning compress my ribs and restrict my breathing? Would the stockings rub together when I moved and would the silk of the knickers feel warm and soft against my crotch?
It might just be a fantasy, but it was all I had and at least it was harmless. Maybe there were women who didn’t mind you trying on their knickers and prancing about in their high heels. Perhaps there were even women who got off on it but, in my neighbourhood at least, they were as rare as unicorns. My forays into cross-dressing had always been solo expeditions and, while I’d have loved an understanding woman to share my foible with, I wasn’t holding my breath.
Naturally, I made sure that my colleagues never suspected a thing, but it was Ms Walker I worried about most. Somehow she seemed to know every tiny thing that went on in the department, even if she hadn’t been there at the time. Though she was never bossy or authoritative, she wasn’t a woman you’d want to get on the wrong side of. She left us in no doubt of what was expected of us and she regarded any failure as a personal disappointment. I’d once heard her admonishing Gemma for chewing gum on duty. She’d sounded so hurt and disappointed that the unfortunate girl had burst into tears and promised never to do it again.
Disappointing Ms Walker was unthinkable and I was pretty certain that my unnatural interest in the stock would be just that. I was professional and polite and I handled the garments as briefly as possible and only when strictly necessary. I didn’t even look at the stuff unless I had to. I was determined to keep my dirty little secret to myself. And I nearly got away with it.
One lunchtime, I was on the cash desk when Ms Walker was on her break. Instead of heading for the lift as she normally did, she started to wander around the racks. I’d just finished bagging up a customer’s purchases and taking her money when I noticed that Ms Walker was next in line. I finished my transaction and smiled at her.
‘Can I help you?’ We were taught to be polite and just because the customer was a colleague was no reason to let standards slip.
‘I’ll take these, please, David.’ She laid her purchases on the counter. It was all underwear and, as I’d suspected, she favoured the traditional. Half a dozen pairs of fine denier stockings and a suspender belt, three pairs of silk French knickers and two sheer lacy bras. I examined the labels, as we were taught to do to make sure the customer has selected the correct sizes. Though it was part of my job and something I did every day, the intimacy of the act made my heart beat a frantic tattoo in my chest. I had to use every ounce of concentration to prevent my hands from shaking.
‘38D, is that right?’ I hoped my voice sounded firmer to her ears than it did to mine.
‘Yes, thank you.’ She was rummaging in her purse and spoke without looking up so at least I was spared the embarrassment of trying to meet her gaze when all I could think of was the size of her boobs.
I wrapped and bagged the items and punched them into the till. The total seemed a small fortune to me but then the knickers were real silk and she probably earned a lot more than I did.
When I handed her the change she leant across the desk and put her face close to mine. I could smell the citrus scent of her shampoo and, beneath it, the hint of a natural, womanly scent that was all her own. I could feel her body heat.
‘Thank you, David.’ When she turned to leave I realised I’d been holding my breath.
The rest of the afternoon, I could think of nothing else. Something about the intimacy of handling her underwear then the thrilling, private moment when her face was so close to mine that I could easily have kissed her, seemed to have got under my skin.
I found myself wondering if she’d bought the things for a special occasion. Maybe she’d put them on for an evening with a lover knowing that, before the night was over, she’d be undressing for him. Would she allow him the honour of undoing the bra himself and slipping the straps down over her creamy shoulders and then bringing his hands round to cup her breasts?
Would he unclasp her suspenders and then slide her stockings down her legs, rolling them as he pushed them down, then pull them off over her feet as she delicately pointed her toe? And when he pulled down those fluid silk knickers would it reveal a plumply perfect heart-shaped arse with just a glimpse of pussy peeking out underneath?
I spent the rest of the day pressed up against the cash desk, doing my best to control an erection and, while it did go down from time to time, all it took was a glimpse of Ms Walker to resurrect it.
Unfortunately, it was Thursday when the store stayed open until 8 p.m., so my torment was prolonged and painful. At closing time I hung back in the staff room hoping that my obvious arousal would abate sufficiently for me to get on the tube without causing undue attention. By the time I’d composed myself Gavin and the girls had already left and Ms Walker was putting on her coat. I hung about busying myself with taking off my tie and changing my shoes.
I was taking more time than was strictly necessary, fastening my laces in a double bow and then folding my tie carefully and putting it into my locker because just being in her presence was exquisite torture. All I could think of was her exotic lingerie and that all too brief, yet utterly perfect moment when her face was beside mine and I could smell the scent of her skin.
Just thinking about it made my cock throb in response and soon I couldn’t have left if I’d wanted to. My erection was painful and obvious, tenting the front of my trousers like a guilty secret. I sat down and fiddled with my shoes, concealing my crotch.
‘Goodnight, David. See you tomorrow.’ Her voice was soft and sort of slow, as if she was tired or aroused. In all probability, she was exhausted after a hard day in the store, but that didn’t stop me imagining that she was secretly wound up with tension and excitement because of me. Well, I could dream, couldn’t I? The thought caused an immediate reaction in my already cramped trousers and I let out an involuntary moan of alarm and arousal.
‘Are you all right?’ She walked over to look at me, her brow creased in concern.
‘I’m fine.’ My voice came out in a sort of strangled whisper. I bent double to conceal the evidence.
‘You don’t look fine.’ She sat down beside me and laid a hand on my back. I could feel her body heat through the thin material of my shirt. My crotch instantly responded and I bent even lower to cover it.
‘I’ve got a bit of a tummy ache. It happens sometimes. It’ll pass in a minute.’ In my head I repeated over and over again a mantra I’d developed as a teenager to cope with unwanted erections; the saddest thing to have happened to me in my young life and guaranteed to deflate any hard-on. My dog is dead, my dog is dead …
‘Can I help? I’ve got some Paracetamol in my bag.’ She rubbed my back through my shirt.
‘I’ll be fine, thank you. Really.’ My dog is dead, my dog is dead.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, yes …
it’s passing off already.’ It was working at last. I straightened up.
‘That’s good. Don’t come in tomorrow if you still feel ill.’ She moved her hand away and I felt bereft.
‘Thanks, I’ll just sit here quietly then make my way home.’
‘OK then. I’ll get off. Take care, David.’ She treated me to one of her heart-stopping smiles then got up and left.
I must have sat there for five minutes after that. My erection might have subsided but I was still a wreck. My heart was thumping, I was dizzy and weak and I honestly didn’t trust my legs to hold me up.
When I finally managed to compose myself I was just about to leave when I noticed one of the store’s carrier bags on the bench. I walked over and peeped inside; half a dozen tissue-wrapped packages and a receipt. A hot wave of shock and excitement crashed over me like a tsunami. Ms Walker had left her shopping behind. In her concern about me, she’d forgotten to pick up the bag.
How ironic, I thought as I stood gazing at it, that she should leave behind the very thing that had been responsible for my discomfort. I sat down beside the bag. For a long time I just sat there looking at it. I didn’t move a muscle. If anyone had seen me they might have mistaken me for one of the mannequins, dressed in my clothes and posed as a joke for colleagues to find in the morning. But on the inside I was a bubbling ferment of conflicting emotions.
Would she come back to retrieve it? I knew that, as a creature of habit, she always caught the same train. I looked at my watch; she’d be long gone by now. Did I dare to unwrap the parcels and touch the flimsy garments? I couldn’t risk leaving any evidence behind; I daren’t open the stockings, but if I unwrapped a pair of the French knickers who would even know?
Nexus Confessions: Volume Three Page 5
