Nexus Confessions

by Various

  So that was the sum sexual catalogue of the first three months at the new office; it was a crunching gear change from weekly anal sex with, erm, whoever. I think I could have kept it going for at least another three months too, if it weren’t for the announcement.

  The Customer Service Manager (to give him his full title) Douglas Kennedy sent a brief and innocuous email to us all telling us that from now on, payday would be a dress-down day – wear what you like, in other words, no need for smart office attire.

  Now most people would immediately think jeans, or sportswear. But my mind works a little differently, and, whether my forgotten pussy was thinking for me, or whether its because I think on a whole different level to everyone else, I thought of it as a licence to dress provocatively.

  I wore a tight low-cut top, dark purple in colour, with a neckline that allowed my cleavage to peek out. I liked it because the contours of my nipples could be seen through it, perfect for impressing an audience. I matched it with an extremely short black skirt that showed the lower half of my thighs, and shiny black high-heeled shoes with a fully covered toe and a T-bar ankle strap. I got up early to give me enough time to apply some rich milky moisturiser to my legs, which made my skin glisten as it sank into my smooth flesh. I was intending to go bare-legged, knowing well that the contrast between the black clothing and my creamy flesh would catch eyes, especially the way the essential oils brought out the vein on top of my foot, the cut of my calf muscles, and the turn of my ankle.

  Boy, was I out of place in comparison with the casual clothing my colleagues wore that day. I was drawing looks from everyone, male and female alike: a mixture of jealousy, admiration, lust, disgust and awe, I imagine.

  It was great to break the rules of engagement. I felt totally wicked inflicting all this frustration on the boys in the office, and equally wicked at having thrown all the other females into the shade.

  Word must have got round, probably during tea breaks and lunch hours, in the form of nudges and winks indicating that it might be worth swinging by my desk to take a look, because, at around half past two, Douglas Kennedy, in his casual slacks (of a drab stone colour), open shirt (not a good style for a man of his age), and rather outdated slip-on shoes (trying too hard to be casual I think) came by and started loitering around talking to nearby staff members and trying to steal glances at me. I smirked to myself at first, but, after a while, it got to be a little too much like being leered at. Finally, he decided he wanted a closer look and walked right past me for a closer inspection.

  ‘Naughty girl, Linda,’ he said with a raised eyebrow and half-smile.

  Not what I expected. And it was pretty ambiguous. Did he mean to give me an official warning about inappropriate clothing? Was he just making a joke? Or was this a deliberately sexual suggestive comment? Perhaps a bit of all three, I thought.

  My friends tell me I was the talk of the office over the next few days, which rather pleased me, even if some of the talk was derisive. I didn’t care; it was great to get back to the super-sexy-charged me for a day. But I did not want to undo all the good work I had done behaving myself in the past three months, so it was a return to the respectable retiring self again the very next day.

  It came to the day before payday again, and a similar email was sent round the office from Douglas to remind us of the relaxation in the dress code. A few comments were made to me in jest, including one from that Troy character who said he was looking forward to seeing me tomorrow. I just tutted and ignored him.

  However, it was harder to ignore the email I received about five minutes later, which came to me personally, direct from Douglas Kennedy: ‘I hope I won’t have to discipline you over your dress tomorrow. Douglas.’

  I fought back a blush and looked around nervously to see if anyone else had read it over my shoulder (no one had, thank goodness). Now I may have given his previous comment the benefit of the doubt, but this one was dodgy, distinctly dodgy. To be frank, I felt harassed. I was not in the least bit interested in an older man with no sense of modern style.

  You see, I prefer them in their prime, between 25 and 35, and with a bit of energy and masculinity about them. It helps the performance if they’ve got that get-up-and-go, especially considering that I like it a bit rougher than most. I like being grabbed, manhandled, bitten, having my hair pulled. Nothing I had experienced up to then had turned me on more than giving one of those ‘rag-doll’ performances for a guy while he swings me around humping my pussy from whatever position he feels like posing me and holding me in next. Douglas just did not look like he had that in him.

  I suppose the wise thing to do would have been to tone things down and avoid encouraging the little pervert. Perhaps I should have turned up the next day in a sweatshirt and a pair of baggy jogging bottoms.

  Unfortunately, I’m not the sort to be intimidated or deterred, and so I rebelled. Next day, I chose an outfit in direct defiance of my lecherous boss: a short red tartan skirt even higher than the skirt I had worn before, some Oxford pumps, and a white low-cut top with no bra.

  The reception as I walked in was unique, and very hard to describe. There was a kind of buzz about the place, even though nobody was saying anything. Is that possible? I don’t know, it’s the best I can do. Once again I felt delightfully wicked, very naughty and horribly self-serving. Strutting around the place gave me a lovely moist feeling in my white knickers and I found myself seriously thinking about breaking my sexual fast (it would have been easy to lure someone in for a quickie after work, the way some of the office talent were feasting their eyes on me).

  Soon enough, though, Douglas came sharking around the place. This time he perched himself on my desk while I was working. I glanced at him, and then back at my screen.

  ‘Hello, Linda,’ he said.

  ‘Hi there,’ I replied.

  I noticed him glancing down at my legs. They were hardly going to be missed; even tucked under the desk the sight of bare flesh would have caught and drawn the eye.

  ‘Nice to see you making the effort on our dress-down days, Linda, you look very smart,’ he commented, and then stood up and continued his rounds.

  I thought it very strange, I must say, and totally at odds with the tenor of his email the previous day; the safe language, the lack of suggestion, the briefness of the encounter, were all most unexpected.

  Ten minutes later, I was snapped back like a rubber band when I received another email. It came from Douglas, and was obviously written the moment he had wended his way back to his desk. It read: ‘You really are a most disobedient girl, and this is your last official warning. If you dress inappropriately again I will take disciplinary measures. Douglas.’

  What a psycho. One minute he comes round all sweetness and light, the next he starts harassing me and talking to me like a schoolgirl. I really didn’t know what to make of it and I spent much of the afternoon scouring the personnel manual for details of the disciplinary procedure. There wasn’t an awful lot about dress code, but what there was seemed to indicate that a casual warning was considered sufficient and that official procedures should only be invoked in extreme, long-term cases. I printed the relevant page for possible future reference, but was rather puzzled that he would not know that. Did he perhaps have some other meaning? Pervert.

  I had rebelled once and Douglas’s attitude had left me wanting to rebel again. I get this way when people start on me; I deliberately press their buttons to show them I’m not scared. If he was leering at me and making lewd comments at me I felt the best way forward was to make him jealous.

  That’s when Troy’s luck changed.

  He chose that moment to come by my desk on some work-related pretence, and spent the whole time waving a bit of paper and yapping about some customer’s direct debit payment, and all the while he was just looking at my legs under the table and glancing at my cleavage. Never once did he look me in the eye.

  Like I say, he got lucky. I would not normally have been in the mood to tolerate th
at level of ogling but, on this occasion, I let it pass; I had uses for him.

  ‘I need your help, Troy. You want to go for a drink after work?’ I asked.

  He looked a little stunned.

  ‘Erm, yeah, sure,’ he agreed nervously.

  I smiled and then leaned in towards him to whisper more quietly so that no colleague would hear. ‘I’ll be honest, I need your help to make someone jealous . . . but I’ll make it worth your while.’

  I winked at him and, rather surprisingly, he beamed like he had just won the Lottery. Troy was clearly so pleased to get some time with a sexy girl, he didn’t care about the motive.

  ‘See you at five,’ I said as he drifted, trancelike, back to his desk. Poor lad must’ve had a semi for the rest of the afternoon.

  The plan, to put you in the picture, was based on the knowledge that, as the senior manager, Douglas would be working a little later; he would therefore be leaving the office at around dusk while the streets were a little quieter, and certainly while none of our co-workers were about. The idea was, accidentally-on-purpose (as they say), to let Douglas see me snogging the face off Troy in the alleyway down the side of our building, thereby cocking a snook (or whatever the phrase is) at Douglas for his lecherous behaviour. The pathway is fenced off, has bushes along one side, a wall on the other, and runs parallel to the driveway into and out of the car park, and then around the back edge of the lot.

  I met Troy at the door, to some raised eyebrows from colleagues, especially those still with bulges in their trousers from looking at me and wishing all day. We made our way to a nearby pub and I explained my intentions to Troy. I was afraid he might not like the idea of being my pawn, but as it happens he seemed to like the idea of kissing me so much that he didn’t even question my weird behaviour.

  I took a drink with him, and listened dutifully as he made his pitch to me (he obviously saw this as an opportunity to win me over), telling me how I was his sexual ideal, how I dressed with class and held myself with a respectable but sexual poise and that he could not keep his mind off me, etcetera, etcetera. I thanked him for his compliments and put an accepting hand on his forearm for comfort (it’s not easy to confess your undying lust for a girl), but was careful not to offer him any hope beyond this evening’s antics.

  It was about time for Douglas to leave the office and I made Troy drain his beer before taking him by the hand down the alley. He followed, his eyes fixed on my tartan skirt and toned bare legs.

  Peering through the wire fence and the patchy bushes, I could see Douglas’s big silver car, so I knew we were on time. We stopped where a gap in the bushes provided a little alcove of privacy from the footpath, but which allowed full view of us, through the diamond mesh, from the car park. There was no sign of Douglas yet. There was no harm in getting started, so I put my arms around Troy’s neck and kissed him.

  His kiss was nervous at first, and his hands shaky, but soon he became warmer and more passionate. He drew me nearer to him, squeezing me into the bulge in his trousers. I glanced over Troy’s shoulder as we kissed, hoping for a sign of the boss.

  I had tried to tell myself this was simply a professional kiss, but my desperately hungry fanny had other ideas: she was juicing like a water melon. I don’t think, given her four-month run of complete emptiness, that she had quite got the message about me not really fancying Troy. She can be like that sometimes. Often I’ve had to wait patiently while she fucks the cock of a guy who I didn’t really fancy. The pity is that I’m attached to her and, when she gets an idea, sometimes I just have to follow.

  My skimpy white panties were now drenched through and probably completely see-through. Perhaps Troy sensed the pheromones on the air, wafting up from my moisture-heavy underwear, but his hands began to wander – now his fingers were caressing the backs of my thighs just under the hem of my skirt.

  I glanced over again, but no sign of Douglas. I should have pulled back with Troy at this point; it was only supposed to be nipping him, not giving him a feel, but my pussy pulled me forwards to rub herself, and her clitoris, on his thigh and by then I kind of forgot myself. We kissed and writhed like this for a little while. Troy was far too polite to go any further without prompting (he clearly wasn’t the sort to just take me like I wanted), so rolling my eyes I reached back and guided his hands up onto the succulent flesh of my buttocks. I glanced over his shoulder again but there was no sign of Douglas.

  I wiggled my arse against Troy’s hands and continued to rub myself on his leg, but he still needed encouragement. I reached back again and directed his fingers to hook under the back of my knickers.

  He took the hint, pulling them to one side and tickling my sensitive anus with his middle finger. I arched my back to give access to my sopping pussy lips and thankfully he followed his cue, dipping his finger in the moistness and pressing into my hole with increasing circles until my entrance was opened.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I whispered, as I reached down to his belt and fly. By now I had forgotten Douglas and even the possibility of being seen by passers-by.

  His well-proportioned, circumcised penis was tenting his underpants and I reached in to liberate it, wanking it slowly. He nearly bent double from the sudden wave of pleasure.

  I bent myself over, clawing the mesh of the fence for support and pointing my arse into the air. To my pleasure he took the hint this time, throwing my skirt up and pushing his cock-head against the soft wet entrance, knocking at the door. At last, some initiative from the far-too-gentlemanly Troy. He pressed his cock a couple of times to the slick inside part of my labia, until the well-defined, circumcised head popped inside. Finally, after four months, I was being fucked again, and my pussy gave a ripple of approbation to the concept, making my fingers tremble as they held onto the fence.

  Troy lengthened his strokes and it felt good again to receive a penis where God intended. The danger of it all was adding to our excitement and Troy was going at it as fast as his reserved nature would allow him. My first complaint was that he was still politely holding my hips in his hands rather than slapping me or pulling my hair and that he was repeatedly telling me how beautiful I was, instead of telling me how much of a bitch I was for liking cocks up me. I could’ve asked him, I suppose, but if you have to ask it ruins the fantasy.

  Still, despite the etiquette, I was getting it and getting it good and feeling better and better by the second, reaching a wonderful little plateau of delight as I felt the pumping and twitching of an ejaculation followed by the warmth of his spunk. He was one of those squeaky comers who gasp and whine rather than cry out. It was good, very good. It might even be good enough to get me through the next four months of celibacy, I thought.

  I reached down as Troy withdrew, muttering to me how he’d never forget this, the best day of his life and all that usual needy stuff. I reached down to adjust my knickers again, and as I did so, I heard a car door shut and an engine start. I looked up.

  Douglas was pulling away in his car some thirty yards away. I nearly swooned. He must have seen. I shrugged. So what if I had got a wee bit carried away and given slightly more of a demonstration than I had intended? The message to Douglas was the same, just louder.

  ‘Thanks, Troy, you can go now,’ I said to Troy’s stunned face as I walked away. ‘You can put that in your diary,’ I added cruelly.

  There were two emails waiting for me the next day: one from Troy professing undying love, which I deleted without fully reading; another, more distasteful, from Douglas: ‘Last night’s behaviour was sufficient grounds for dismissal, young lass. If there are any further misdemeanours I will take corrective action. Douglas.’

  I just did not know where the old fart was coming from here. If he was wanting to discipline me why not sack me? What’s all this corrective action nonsense? I deleted the message with every intention of pushing his buttons again on the next payday, regardless of his threats.

  As it happened, I did not have to wait that long. I had forgotten that not two weeks
away was the mother of all dress-down days: 31 October. Sure enough, we all received a notice through our inboxes to say that costumed attire was encouraged and there would be prizes for the best outfits.

  Hallowe’en. A licence to wear just about anything you wanted really, especially since the mentality that has recently been seeping across the Atlantic suggests that the ghosts and ghoulies theme was purely optional. I knew exactly the best way to defy Douglas and turn some heads once again.

  The night before, I picked out a little white blouse I had, which was cropped at the tummy to display the navel. I rummaged around in the box in the loft containing my old clothes for my hockey skirt from school – it was navy blue with pleats that flared out, which makes it bounce as you walk, but its most important feature was that it was way too short for me. I also found my old school tie and squeaked with delight as I fished it from the corner of the box.

  I then moved on to my older sister’s old clothes hamper – she had kept all sorts of stuff from younger days claiming it would all come back in one day. I was looking for one item in particular – a pair of the knee stockings that had been so popular back in the mid-90s and with which she had made me insanely jealous every time she went out on the pull in them. I found a black pair (underneath an awful pair of trousers that had a matching skirt attached to them, yuk! Did we really wear these awful things?), and eagerly unrolled them to see if they had retained their shape and elasticity. Thankfully, they had. I came back down the extendable ladder and set about picking a pair of shoes to match the outfit, settling on a pair of very shiny high-heeled courts.

  Before I went to bed I gave the ensemble a dry run and, putting my curly blonde hair into bunches and applying an unsubtle blue eyeshadow and red lipstick, I posed in front of the mirror. I looked a knockout. I had not bothered with knickers so far and enjoyed myself so much flashing my cute bum at the mirror that I decided not to employ any (it would be my little secret joke on Douglas; after all, knickers are not mentioned in the stupid personnel dress code). The teasing band of white flesh between the knee stockings and the skirt hem was the most tantalising piece of seduction ever designed and I could not wait to try it out.