The Innocent

by John Argus

  They headed along the corridor, Zoe in Ms Beacher’s slipstream, and into the woman’s office. ‘Close the door,’ the stern woman ordered.

  Zoe felt a wave of anxiety sweep over her and wondered what she had done wrong now. She closed the door and turned to look anxiously at her scowling supervisor, whose arms were folded forebodingly across her chest.

  ‘Are you aware that Mr Erasmus has a certain reputation, Zoe?’ she asked tersely.

  ‘Well… well yes, I suppose so,’ Zoe replied.

  ‘You are?’ the woman sounded shocked, causing Zoe to nod uncertainly. ‘And this reputation does not alarm or concern you?’

  ‘Um, no,’ she answered hesitantly, wondering what the woman was driving at.

  ‘Are you aware the reputation of which I speak has to do with his determined efforts to draw impressionable young ladies into intimate encounters?’ Ms Beacher elaborated.

  ‘Intimate encounters?’ Zoe looked at her in confusion, and then blushed deeply. ‘No,’ she exclaimed defensively, ‘I’m certainly not aware of that!’

  ‘And did no one ever tell you that when you climb ladders people can see up your skirt?’ Ms Beacher snapped.

  Zoe shook her head meekly, but then ventured a protest. ‘Surely Mr Erasmus would not do something so ungentlemanly,’ she said.

  Beacher snorted derisively, and stepped behind her desk. ‘It’s clear he has his eye on you, and I’m not merely referring to when you climb ladders and show him your panties. Be polite but keep your distance from him. I want no relationships between Erasmus and my staff.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘That is all.’

  Zoe bobbed her head again, still blushing. She felt the woman was being unfair. Perhaps she was merely jealous, or something like that.

  She returned to her desk, eyeing Mr Erasmus’s door as she passed it. Could he really be ‘keeping his eye on her’? Could it be he found her attractive? She took a girlish delight and pride in such a notion, for Mr Erasmus was a sophisticated older gentleman, and the thought that he might be attracted to her was quite pleasing, in a funny sort of way. Of course it was absurd, but what if he had been looking up her skirt while she was on the ladder? The idea was both embarrassing and uncomfortably exciting. It was quite naughty for her to let him see her like that, but she had not suspected what he was doing. It would be very ungentlemanly of him to take advantage of her in that way and yet, oddly enough, she did not totally disapprove of the possibility.

  It was time to go home, so once she returned to her desk she turned off her computer, locked her desk, and said goodbye to Normand Miller. He seemed rather lost in thought as he responded, and she smiled to herself wondering what he was thinking. He was such a nice man.

  There was simply nowhere to park in the city, so Zoe always took the tube to and from her flat, a lovely little converted loft in what had once been the attic of an old Victorian brick mansion. Consequently, the roof sloped in on one side. There were two small dormer windows, and the one in the lounge had a padded seat just beneath the sill. Neither window had curtains yet; she had specially ordered a set of very sweet blue ones with tiny rosebuds running along the hems, but they had not yet been delivered. On the opposite wall of the lounge was a small brick fireplace with two miniature built-in bookcases framing it. The tiny kitchen was divided from the rest of the flat by a Japanese screen and a tall cabinet. She had a nice little blue suite facing the fireplace, and a lovely oriental rug that had been a gift from her father.

  And then there was her bed. She sighed looking at it. She had wanted something modern, perhaps teak or light oak, and instead she was stuck with an enormous four-poster antique complete with canopy and curtains. Her mother had been so delighted to give her something after learning she had accepted the Oriental rug from her father that she did not have the heart to refuse it. The bedroom as such did not look all that bad, though it was rather fusty for her tastes, and the old bed was big enough to get lost in sometimes.

  Charles Weatherby noted the time on his watch, rose from his recliner, and went upstairs to the attic. In a corner he removed the tarp from an old telescope, and gently eased it out on its tripod up against his shoulder. He hurried over to the window, and set it down carefully. Noting the time again he turned the mechanism far to the right, angling it towards the old Victorian house a block away.

  He had first noticed the girl the week before whilst engaged in scanning all the windows that were illuminated in the dark. She was breathtakingly beautiful, and his eye had pressed more tightly against the eyepiece as he studied her. Unfortunately, he had been able to catch only brief glimpses of her. The window was obviously in her bedroom, for he could see a tall bedpost and the lower part of a large bed. Behind that was a doorway leading out into a hallway.

  He focussed in on the room now with a grunt of satisfaction, noting the strong sunlight streaming through the window to light up the space beyond it. Night was not, despite what most people thought, the best time for viewing, for the light of a room was often behind the inhabitants, thus making it difficult to pick out fine details. However, in the late afternoon, if the sun was at the correct angle, certain rooms became brilliantly lit, and if one got lucky…

  Charles Weatherby gasped when he spotted movement. She was there!

  He licked his lips, watching as she moved to and fro. He could see only a small part of the room, and he could see her only when she passed into that section. She did so now, and he greedily observed that her blouse was completely unbuttoned down the front, hanging loosely from her shoulders as she moved with a deliciously easy grace, the breeze of her motion wafting it open to reveal tantalising glimpses of her toned tummy and the skimpy white bra encasing what appeared to be beautifully shaped breasts.

  Then she was gone, and he cursed savagely at being unable to see through the brick walls protecting her. She was removing her blouse, he was certain of it. What else would she remove? The little skirt she had been wearing? He groaned at the teasing thought, desperately praying she would walk back into view.

  He gasped again as the blouse flew onto the bed right at the centre of his vision. A moment later the skirt joined it, and he cursed even more vilely. ‘Come on,’ he hissed, ‘walk back to the bed. Walk back to the fucking bed…’

  The gorgeous girl obeyed him, yet her back was to him now. He could see her lovely neat bottom clutched in a pair of small white panties, and the smooth expanse of her pale back, but nothing more.

  ‘Turn… turn!’ he begged desperately.

  The girl moved away out of sight, and he snarled in frustration.

  He waited, clutching the telescope, begging her to return, but nothing more happened. He knew she was still there; the entrance to the room was on the other side of the bed and she had to pass before the window to… she appeared again.

  He moaned in disappointment, because she was no longer topless. She was wearing a tight little camisole, and the outline of her breasts was deliciously clear to him, as was a strip of pale flesh above the waistband of her panties just below the camisole.

  She scooped the blouse up off the bed, disappeared, returned to pick up the skirt, and again disappeared. She returned a third time, right in the centre of his sight. He stared, jamming his eye into the telescope eyepiece. If he looked hard enough – which he did – he could just discern the faint outline of her nipples through the thin camisole, and cursed again as his cock grew to dimensions he could not remember it last achieving.

  Then she turned around, displaying her panty-clad bottom, swaying in invitation as she disappeared from view through the bedroom door. He sighed, waited for long, desperate minutes, but this time she did not come back.

  Zoe padded barefoot over the Oriental rug, enjoying the softness against her feet. She wore no robe, for the main fault of her new home thus far was how hot it was in the afternoon. Even
so, were she at home she would have had to wear something more modest, so she found it quite pleasant to be able to defy her parents’ stern strictures and go around in only her undergarments. She felt a little daring, and even slightly wanton.

  The camisole was a thin garment providing no real support for her breasts, but she needed none anyway, and it covered her modestly enough in an empty flat.

  She opened her mail; an offer for a new credit card, and an odd envelope with her name and address written in golden italics. It looked like an invitation, and she sighed wondering which of her acquaintances was getting married now. As expected it contained a card, but her eyes widened in intrigued consternation as she examined it.

  The card showed a naked woman sitting on the floor, her legs tucked beneath her and her back to the viewer, her head turned away as she leaned forward. Her arms were drawn up and back, and bound with a thick rope around her wrists. The rope extended over her shoulders and also around her ribs. It was a finely detailed and delicately wrought drawing, but there were no words accompanying it, and the reverse side of the card was blank.

  Zoe stared at the strange missive in profound confusion, and then examined the envelope again. Like the card, it was of good quality, the gold italic lettering large and fine. There was no return address and she could only stare at it wondering where it came from, and what it meant. Finally, she dropped the card, scowling. It was a dirty picture, the kind she should not be looking at. Most of the girl was invisible, even her buttocks were out of sight, but she was quite certain neither of her parents would want her examining such a depraved image.

  She could not stop wondering, however, why the girl was bound in such a way. Was she being punished? Was it a message that Zoe had been bad and would be punished as well? Yet who did she know who could possibly send her such a thing, or would even want to?

  She picked the card up again despite herself. The bonds seemed more than ample, for the drawing depicted a slim young woman. Why were her wrists forced up in such a way… perhaps to hold them away from her bottom so that if she were spanked she could not defend herself? Zoe had some knowledge of corporal punishment, for the school where she spent much of her youth believed CP was the most suitable means of disciplining young ladies. She had been switched on a number of occasions, no matter how good she tried to be, and several times the matron had even brought the switch down across her bottom.

  Yes, binding the girl’s wrists in the fashion illustrated would clearly expose her to the punishment someone had apparently determined she was to be subjected to. She was to be switched, or perhaps spanked. The girl looked quite helpless, and yet there was an indisputable hint of sexuality to the picture. Zoe had never been naked when she was punished, but twice when she was younger her panties had been pulled down to reveal her bottom as she bent over to be disciplined, which had made her feel deeply embarrassed and exposed.

  For a moment she imagined herself naked, with her wrists bound up high behind her back and bent over as someone switched her. She would certainly be at the mercy of whoever was punishing her if she was tied up like that, and she allowed her mind to toy idly with a rather naughty image of someone chastising her… perhaps it would be Mr Erasmus standing behind her wielding a long switch, and gazing at her vulnerably proffered bottom…

  Zoe shook herself out of the wicked thought, dropped the card on her coffee table and went to the kitchen to prepare her dinner.

  She thought of Mr Erasmus as she cooked. He had been rather brusque and indifferent towards her that afternoon, making no attempt to get close again like he had before. Was he no longer interested in her? Had he ever been interested in her? Ms Beacher claimed he was, but Zoe found that difficult to believe. It had been two days now since she took dictation from him, and he had taken scant notice of her since, so she was coming to the conclusion that she had imagined something out of nothing. And she was relieved – but strangely disappointed as well. It had felt quite flattering to think a man of his stature was in some way interested in her.

  She returned to the living room, turned on the television, and checked her watch. Then she padded to the small bathroom, slipped off her panties and camisole, and turned the water on in the shower cubicle. There was just time for one as dinner cooked.

  She measured the water temperature, adjusted it, and then stepped quickly past the plastic door, drawing it closed behind her. The steaming water cascaded down and she basked in its heat, bowing her head to let it soak her hair. She soaped quickly and determinedly, the way she had done at school. All the girls had showered together with one of the matrons looking on, and woe betide the girl whose hands lingered over her private parts or who seemed to enjoy the touch of slick, warm flesh beneath her fingers.

  Having washed she rinsed off, and just then the phone rang, annoying her with its bad timing. She was not about to answer it with water dripping everywhere, but the phone rang again and again and again.

  Frowning, Zoe looked through the steam drifting around her bathroom towards the open door, wondering if it was something important. Perhaps it was, so hurriedly she shut off the water, snatched one of the fluffy towels from the rail, and ran out to the small table in the hall. As she picked up the receiver she noted the window in her bedroom, and was reminded once again that she had no curtains. But it was daytime, and she was quite sure no one could see her at such a distance, not that anyone would be spying on her anyway. Nevertheless, she held the towel – a smallish hand towel, she realised in exasperation – up against her damp body.

  ‘Hello?’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Ah, Miss Quincanon,’ came the reply.

  It was Mr Erasmus on the line! ‘Yes?’ she asked in excited confusion.

  ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you?’

  ‘Well, err, no, not really…’ She was certainly not about to tell him she had been in the shower. If he did have an eye for her, it would be wicked to give him such an image to ponder. Nonetheless, she suddenly felt rather naughty standing there all but naked with Mr Erasmus on the other end of the line. She clutched the little towel more closely against her, making sure that at least her breasts were covered.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you at home, Quincanon,’ he proceeded, ‘but this is somewhat urgent.’

  ‘Yes sir, how can I help?’ she asked, water trickling slowly down her body.

  ‘I understand you take the tube to work,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she confirmed.

  ‘Good. There is a post office just up Millbank, and a package addressed to me waiting there. Would it be terribly difficult for you to pick it up before coming to work tomorrow morning?’

  ‘I – I suppose I could,’ she said. Wouldn’t he be astonished if he could see her now? Could he even imagine she was almost naked but for the inadequate cover of a hand towel? Would he become aroused if he knew, excited by the thought of her talking to him whilst virtually naked? She felt a little fluttering thrill in her stomach, and her nipple felt hard and sensitive against her hand. She leaned back slightly, propping her bare buttocks against the edge of the table.

  ‘I’ll call ahead to make sure they’ll give it to you,’ he was saying. ‘It’s quite important, so be sure not to forget.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she assured him.

  ‘I realise, Quincanon, that your duties might sometimes appear rather menial,’ he went on, ‘but as you gain experience and the confidence of the staff, we’ll find more intellectually challenging work for you, I promise.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ She had not really felt her work was menial.

  ‘You’re an attractive young lady,’ he remarked suddenly. ‘Perhaps we can find some way in which you are more exposed to the public and able to make better use of your undoubted assets.’

  Zoe thought about how she looked at that precise moment, and suppressed a mischievous giggle.

 
‘The party needs a more youthful appeal,’ his dulcet tones continued in her ear, ‘and I would imagine you’re naturally photogenic.’

  ‘Um, thank you, Mr Erasmus,’ she said, her natural modesty finding his restrained flattery uncomfortable to accept.

  ‘That’s a simple observation, Quincanon,’ he said frankly. ‘In any event, I shall see you tomorrow morning.’

  Zoe hung up pensively, wondering what his words meant. Exposed to the public? Was she to become involved with the people in Communications?

  He was not sure what made him glance at the girl’s window one more time before putting the telescope away. She was obviously in another room, and if true to form, would probably not return until her bedtime at around ten o’clock. He had been looking out of the front window instead, watching people returning home from work, and when that grew boring he carried the telescope back up to the attic to return it to its corner, but some impulse made him try for one last glimpse of his favourite subject.

  Yet he had not even checked her window first, instead focusing on the balcony of a nearby building where a young coloured woman sometimes stood. Then he zoomed in on her window, and gasped as he saw her standing just beyond the bedroom door, her mouth-watering bottom propped against a small telephone table.

  And the little beauty was almost entirely naked!

  Entirely naked except for a damned small towel clutched to her front!

  Charles Weatherby had an unrestricted view of her from her dainty toes up to her throat, where the top of the window cut her off.

  His eyes feasted on the exquisite shape and length of her leg, following it all the way up to her hip. He could see the side of her buttock, and cursed the towel that hid the front of her from his bulging eye. She was clutching it against her with one hand while the other was certainly holding the telephone receiver to her ear. He almost panted as he leaned forward, staring hungrily and groaning low in his throat as he mentally begged her to drop the damned towel.