The Innocent

by John Argus

  Throughout her teens, Zoe had been taught again and again that ‘good girls’ were modest about their body and never let anyone see their private parts, except perhaps their doctors and later, of course, their husbands. But the skirt and top she was currently wearing more than covered her essential naughty parts, so she did not see a problem with them.

  She remembered being smacked soundly by her mother at a very young age after lifting her skirt to show a boy her pretty new pink panties. She knew men ought not to be permitted to see her undergarments, that only a ‘bad girl’ would permit such a thing, and although not altogether certain as to the reason for such determined modesty, it had been drummed sufficiently deep into her psyche that she seldom questioned the doctrine. Yet the truth was she rather liked being looked at by men, and took a girlish pleasure in being found attractive. And she had a reasonably strong suspicion that when men looked at her they were not merely admiring her loveliness, or the way her long hair flowed down her back. She suspected they often had wicked thoughts and ideas about doing sexual things to her. This both embarrassed and confused her, for though she was twenty years old, her parents had taken considerable care to ensure she retained as much of her innocence as was possible for as long as possible. They had sent her to elite boarding schools in Switzerland and Wales populated with the daughters of likeminded parents, and staffed by people to whom a kiss with anyone but family was tantamount to adultery and punished accordingly.

  Consequently, Zoe, whilst having the same confusion of hormones and urges as most other young women, was totally inexperienced sexually. Nor had she even been exposed to the sort of movies, books and television shows that helped enlighten most modern girls much younger than her.

  It was only quite recently, when in the midst of their divorce, that her parents had permitted a sulking, rebellious Zoe to finally get her own flat. Prior to that time she lived surrounded by family and trusted servants, or at all-girl boarding schools completely isolated from the lustful gazes of men. And so she thought little of bending over her desk at work, never imagining the politely smiling Mr Miller would lock his eyes on her buttocks, his manhood growing to full erection as he fantasised about thrusting into the soft depths of her virginal flesh.

  Nor, as she walked down the twisting corridor leading to the office of Mr Erasmus, did Zoe really understand why she got such a fluttery feeling in her tummy whenever Mr Erasmus turned his dark eyes on her, or why those eyes made her feel both uncomfortable and breathless, or why her tongue seemed to stick to the roof of her mouth in his presence. It was true that Mr Erasmus was quite a handsome man – tall, square-jawed, with broad shoulders and a charming smile – but he was ancient; well over forty years old. Her teachers and guardians had prepared her for the lewdness and lechery of the young men they warned would pursue her ‘with only one thing on their mind’, but she had never made the mental leap which would apply such warnings to older, more sophisticated and civilised men.

  ‘Close the door, would you, Zoe?’ Steven Erasmus asked, his voice and manner of casual indifference. She paused in mid-step, then turned and closed the heavy polished door behind her. ‘Thank you, my dear.’

  Her tummy felt oddly tight, and she swallowed the strange nervousness that came over her as she walked up to his enormous antique desk. ‘These, um, forms have already been completed, Mr Erasmus,’ she said, explaining the reason for her intrusion upon his very important time.

  ‘Well, so they have,’ he concurred, and as he looked up his eyes seemed to pierce right through into her very soul. ‘Then file them over there, if you please, and you can get the proper forms in their stead.’

  ‘Where?’ she asked, looking about in confusion.

  ‘The chest, my dear.’ He pointed to a waist-high oak coffer, which stood against one wall to the side of his desk.

  She walked over to it, opened the top, and the entire lid rose up to reveal a hollow interior lined with rows of files. ‘Oh, how interesting,’ she remarked.

  ‘An antique,’ he informed her with a condescending smile. ‘File those properly, dear girl, and then you can get the others.’

  Steven Erasmus would have been haughtily offended had anyone made the slightest comparison between him and Normand Miller. Indeed, he did not even know the name of the clerk at the far end of the corridor and was, in fact, only very hazily aware of his existence. However, he and Normand had a similar appreciation of the visual appeal of young Zoe Quincanon, and not dissimilar fantasies. The difference was that Steven Erasmus had a far higher opinion of himself, and a far lower set of moral values and ethics than even Normand Miller possessed. He also rather loathed Sir John Quincanon, the stuffy old puritan, and the idea of getting into the skirt of his precious daughter was appealing all on its own, quite aside from the attractiveness of the body within the garment in question.

  And so he watched the young lady as she repeatedly bent over the deep, old-fashioned filing cabinet. Like Normand, he appreciated the stimulating view of her perfect buttocks as the thin fabric of her skirt was drawn tautly across them, and the occasional glimpse of white panties at the joining of her thighs as her skirt was pulled high.

  ‘Take your time,’ he urged suavely. ‘You don’t want to hurt your back.’ He rose and moved smoothly around the desk to step close behind her… very close behind her. ‘Here, let me help you, my dear.’ He bent over just as she did, and pressed his groin firmly against her bottom, slyly grinding against her as he reached to grip the thick batch of files she was about to lift.

  ‘Oh, thank… thank you, Mr Erasmus,’ she stuttered. She was somewhat embarrassed by the intimate contact even while not fully understanding its sexual nature. She also felt a deepening of that fluttering sensation in her tummy, and a strange liquid tingle moving between her thighs.

  ‘I’m always glad to be of assistance to lovely young ladies,’ he replied, smiling down at her.

  Looking over her shoulder she returned his smile uncertainly, then bent again and gripped another batch of files. Once again he reached past her, pushing his groin in tightly against her upraised bottom in a way that made her pulse race and her face flush prettily.

  ‘There,’ he said, sounding satisfied. ‘We shouldn’t have a beautiful young thing like you doing hard physical labour like that.’

  ‘It’s… it’s all right,’ she insisted valiantly. ‘I mean, I’m quite strong really…’

  ‘And you’ll muss up your hair, too.’ His fingers gently caressed a few loose strands away from her hot cheek.

  ‘Yes, well, I… that is…’

  ‘Tell me, Zoe, would you do me an enormous favour?’ he suddenly pressed.

  ‘Um, well, of course, Mr Erasmus.’ Her father had told her what an important man Mr Erasmus was, and she had read some articles about the government that confirmed he was a figure of immense stature and brilliance. He also behaved like a true gentleman, with perfect manners and diction; he was clearly a well-educated man of means, and worthy of respect.

  ‘My secretary is away for a time,’ he said. ‘Would you be a dear and take a letter for me?’

  ‘Me?’ she squeaked. ‘Well, I mean, I’m not a… err, I don’t know shorthand.’

  ‘I’ll talk slowly for you.’ He smiled down at her patiently.

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind me being a little slow, then of course I will,’ she agreed breathlessly.

  He took her hand in his, led her around the desk, and sat down in his chair. Then he looked around and frowned. ‘Dear me, there doesn’t seem to be anywhere for you to sit,’ he observed.

  ‘Um, I can move those files off that chair,’ she suggested.

  ‘Oh, don’t bother yourself, my dear, you can sit right here,’ he said urbanely, patting his thighs.

  She blinked in surprise, again blushing profusely. ‘But I don’t think—’

  ‘Come,’ he said,
smiling benignly, his hand still patting his knee.

  ‘I’m sure I couldn’t,’ she protested. ‘I mean, I’m sure it would be quite uncomfortable for you.’

  ‘For me?’ he laughed. ‘You’re such a considerate thing, my dear.’

  Zoe felt an intense sense of unease at what he was suggesting, but then suddenly he grabbed her wrist and gently but firmly pulled her forward, and before she could do more than shake her head and mumble a futile protestation, she was sitting on his lap and his left arm was around her waist as he smiled at her in a most friendly, paternal fashion.

  ‘There,’ he said, sounding immensely gratified, ‘are we comfy?’

  ‘Well, actually…’

  ‘Good. Here you are, pencil and paper, everything you need to take some dictation for me.’

  She accepted the proffered implements instinctively, and glanced at the door hoping no one would walk in and see her in such a position.

  ‘To the Right Honourable Prime Minister, twenty-four Downing Street,’ he began.

  Quite impressed, Zoe took down his words as quickly and neatly as she could. It was quite difficult writing whilst holding the pad in one hand, however, so she shifted her position on his lap in an attempt to brace herself properly. And Mr Erasmus assisted, easing her back somewhat, his right hand gripping her thigh. ‘Dear Paul,’ he went on.

  His hand was lightly squeezing and stroking her thigh, but Zoe thought little of it, concentrating as she was on getting the letter down accurately. Yet she did feel an odd sense of heaviness in her stomach, a tension she had rarely experienced before, and she could feel the heat of his body against hers as she wrote.

  And as she continued to write his hand stroked her higher and higher, to the point where she started to feel quite embarrassed and confused by it. Nevertheless, she could not quite bring herself to object or say anything. To suggest to a man like Steven Erasmus that he would do better to remove his hand was unthinkable. He was not doing any harm, and his idle caressing probably did not mean anything improper anyway. After all, he was a grown man, and married.

  She tried to ease her legs closer together, but his hand was already between them, and as it moved up even further she felt breathless, and a tingling started at the base of her spine that made it difficult to concentrate on his words. Her skirt had ridden up, and now his hand slipped casually beneath it, his fingers ever so gently gliding over the soft flesh of her inner thigh.

  She inhaled sharply, for his hand had moved higher still and was now as far up her thigh as it could possibly go, which meant that the side of it was pressed against her sex through her dainty white panties.

  Yet surely he meant nothing by it… surely?

  He was merely being friendly, and she would be horrified to accuse him falsely of doing something untoward. She would know if he did actually touch her there that her suspicions were correct, for that was strictly forbidden… he was touching her there now, but only accidentally, or at least it could have been accidentally, and it was only the side of his hand, and… and she could not understand why she felt so funny inside with the sharp scent of his aftershave in her nostrils and his soft breath on her throat. Then his fingers were gently stroking her hair back from her flushed cheek and smoothing it behind her ear, and she glanced anxiously from the writing pad to see him smiling at her.

  ‘Your lovely hair isn’t in your face again, is it?’ he asked casually. ‘You need to see what you’re writing.’

  She shook her head dumbly, her emotions in a spin, her eyes wide.

  ‘That’s good,’ he went on. ‘And you really do have lovely hair, Zoe, absolutely lovely. But I’m sure there are times it gets in the way.’ He caressed her cheek. ‘Like when it hides your beautiful face, for example.’ He kissed her chastely on the same cheek, his smile reassuring. Nevertheless, she trembled, and her chest was tight even as a delicious sense of opening doors, of something new and wonderful happening, possessed her.

  He kissed her again, and his hand gently eased her face towards his so his lips pressed tentatively against hers. Her eyes widened even more as she sat utterly motionless. His lips were amazingly soft against hers, not at all like those of the few boys she had kissed over the years, and she felt herself melting strangely against him, her head easing back against his shoulder as his left arm held her firmly in place.

  His tongue danced along her lower lip, and then dipped gently into her mouth. Excited, shocked, she stared up at him, feeling it thrust deeper. She pushed her own tongue awkwardly against his and moaned softly, her eyes closing as she surrendered to a novel and exulting sense of pleasure.

  He drew back, still smiling gently. ‘Shall we continue?’ he asked softly, his head cocking slightly to one side.

  She stared at him in confusion, wondering to what he referred. Then he glanced down at the notebook in her lap, and she blushed as she straightened up a little and scooped it up.

  She blushed even more deeply seeing how high her skirt had risen up her thighs, and awkwardly smoothed it down again with her free hand.

  ‘The new Transient Commerce Bill is every bit as complex as you say,’ he dictated, his voice smooth as he glanced towards the window. ‘That, of course, is the point.’

  ‘As complex as you say,’ Zoe repeated beneath her breath, scribbling furiously.

  Erasmus smiled and repeated his words as his left hand slid down to her hip and patted her gently. His fingers curled in beneath the hem of her skirt, and eased it upwards as she finished writing and he continued speaking. ‘The opposition will have little time to examine this bill, and what time they do have will be focussed on what they consider the more important elements. Those elements will also be the focus of their attacks in the media and the House, and—’

  ‘Just a minute, please,’ she muttered, writing as quickly as she could.

  ‘Take your time,’ he said magnanimously.

  ‘Focus… media… house,’ she whispered, and just then noticed that the tips of his fingers had eased slowly upwards along the outside of her thigh, and that one finger was now hooked under her skirt as it gently caressed the smooth and tender flesh beneath the elastic of her panties.

  ‘We must continue to keep the opposition off guard so that we can carry out the programs… write, my dear, write.’

  Zoe hurriedly applied pencil to paper again, biting her lower lip as she tried to follow his words while his finger continued gently stroking her skin. It was inside her panties, and she was quite flustered and uncertain as to how to react. She awkwardly tried to ease her skirt down in a casual manner with her forearm, while continuing to hold the pad in one hand and to write with the other. He did not appear to notice; his finger continued lightly caressing her. Then as she started a new page he began playing with the thin elastic waistband, gently and casually twisting it around his finger. In the meantime, his other hand dropped lightly to her thigh and began moving slowly upwards until it too was pushing beneath the hem of her skirt.

  She swallowed, blinking rapidly in an effort to see and think straight. She felt a prickly heat coursing up her back and between her breasts. She felt flushed, her mind a whirling storm of fears and desires she could not make sense of. Was Mr Erasmus doing this subconsciously? Surely he did not intend anything by it, and if he did, what should she do? Upbraiding a man like Mr Erasmus seemed a daunting task, and she would feel a terrible fool if her girlish anxieties were simply making too much of a casual display of affection.

  His right hand was stroking her inner thigh again, close to her panties, and she experienced a stab of surprise when she saw that her legs were parted a little, for she was certain she had closed them tightly. As before, the side of his finger brushed lightly against the front of her panties, and she felt a deep, moist heat down there she could not explain, and which presented her with an entirely new source of anxiety. For she was almost posi
tive that Mr Erasmus meant nothing inappropriate, and if he were to somehow detect her improper response to his tactile friendliness, he would understandably think badly of her and be extremely hurt. Perhaps he would even speak to her father about it.

  ‘And so I believe a more complex bill, necessitating the opposition support, what they believe to be minor elements in… Zoe, are you getting all this?’

  She stared at him a trifle dazed, and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ She took a deep breath and tried to calm her racing pulse. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Zoe,’ he said disapprovingly, shaking his head.

  ‘I’m ever so sorry, Mr Erasmus.’

  ‘Read what you have to me.’

  She bent her head, flipped the page back, and began to read. As she did so he eased his left hand away from her hip and she let out a mental sigh of relief, though oddly, the relief was tinged with disappointment. Then he leaned forward to reach for a paper on his desk, angling his body so she almost slid off his lap. He quickly pulled her back into position, and suddenly she found his hand resting on the flat plain of her tensed stomach.

  ‘Very good, let’s continue,’ he said briskly.

  She felt the soft heat of his skin against hers and noted with alarm that two of his fingers had slipped between two of the buttons on her blouse. But of course it was only her stomach he was touching, which was nothing to feel guilty about. He was stroking her lightly and slowly, and however nervous that made her, it was not sufficient reason to be rude or insolent to such a powerful and respected man, since he probably meant nothing by it at all.

  ‘We must be aware of the best means at hand to… Zoe?’

  ‘Yes?’ she gasped.

  ‘You’re not writing.’

  ‘Sorry!’ She put pencil to paper and began scribbling as he continued speaking. For a minute or two she focussed entirely on his words, until with a sudden inhalation of breath she realised his fingers had eased higher; had in fact, without her noticing it, slipped out of her blouse and then back in between two higher buttons. Now they were cupped just below her breasts and gently caressing the lower elastic band of her white bra. His left hand was still stroking her inner thigh, but sideways now rather than up and down, so the edge of his fingers ever so lightly rubbed against the crotch of her white panties.