by Bridy McAvoy
I gulped, swallowing hard, knowing I couldn’t get the job. As I’d suspected, my lack of experience would relegate me to the also-rans—but at least he’d given me an interview. Simone had coached me on making a dignified exit too. I uncrossed my legs and, rising from my chair, leaned across the desk, offering my hand, trying hard to maintain as much dignity as possible. “Thank you for seeing me, Mister Bryant, I won’t waste any more of your time.”
He looked surprised, then his gaze dropped and I guessed I was flashing him again. He even licked his lips, which made me blush at the connotation. He surprised me then, waving me back to my chair. “Not so hasty, Samantha. Not so hasty. Please sit down again.”
I did as he said, crossing my legs again, then sat quietly while he studied me—I mean, really studied me—his eyes raking over me from my face down to my ankles and then back up. I twisted my hands in my lap under the scrutiny as he stared at me for several minutes. I guess the way he looked at me should have clued me in, but it didn’t. I was still far too innocent—too innocent for my own good.
“Well, young lady, you have been impressive today, very impressive. The library board is meeting on Friday to discuss Barbara’s replacement and they expect me to give them my recommendation.”
“I see.” I thought he was letting me down gently. I was wrong, of course.
“Now, I am prepared to give you that recommendation, to sponsor you for your ALA membership and ask the board to pay your tuition fees for the first year while you get yourself established.” He chuckled. I guess my mouth had dropped open. “I will also offer you my help in studying for the exam, although I doubt a bright girl like you will need that much help.” Before I could say anything he continued. “However, there is a price you will have to pay.”
“Which is?”
“As you know, the library closes early on Thursdays, at two o’clock.”
“Yes.”
“My assistant and I work through till four—cleaning up, tidying the shelves, sorting out all the little admin tasks.”
“I see.”
“During that two hour period, you will not be wearing your normal uniform.”
“I won’t?”
“You will wear what I say.”
I was so naïve. With hindsight it was obvious he was setting me up to show him more and more flesh, until I was naked in his presence. But I didn’t see it, not then, nor for a couple of months—if then—by which time I was already in too deep. I’m sorry, honey, you weren’t the first man to see me naked, although I know that’s what I told you.
You know I agreed. I wanted the job, and that was it. I went home happier than I’d been for months, and he recommended me to the board at the end of the week. They took his recommendation at face value and two weeks later I started working alongside Barbara learning the ropes. I had four weeks of that, and I can honestly say, up until that point, it was the best time in my life. You came along, and our life together has trumped that, but at the time, I was happy, really, really happy.
Barbara retired and the board took the three of us out for a meal and gave her a beautiful engraved bookcase as a leaving present. The poor old bird was really sad to go but go she did, and that was it, I was now alone with Mr. Bryant in the library. The next week flew past—we were busy, and I was enjoying the work. He’d made good on his promise, and I was now officially a member of the ALA, an unqualified one, but enrolled on a Masters program with the tuition paid. I wasn’t dating, had no social life, and I was studying every night, harder than I had at school. I showed the last library user out of the door at two o’clock on the Thursday and locked and bolted the door, drawing the blinds down, as Mr. Bryant had insisted.
By now it was high summer—the old building didn’t have very good air-conditioning, and it got quite hot. As the temperature increased, I’d taken to wearing thinner blouses, and shorter skirts, even, on the hottest days, going in bare-legged rather than wearing pantyhose—as I was that day. My jacket adorned the back of the chair rather than my back. I didn’t wear much make-up to work, and I kept my hair pulled back away from my face in a pony-tail. I’d thought the ringlets I’d styled for the interview had been cute, but they’d irritated the life out of me the first time I’d worn my hair like that for a whole day, so I’d dispensed with that. I’d also started wearing glasses rather than contacts for work. It seemed to suit the look much better—although I did have my contacts in my purse, in case I decided to swap.
Five minutes after I’d locked the door, Mr. Bryant—I never ever called him Frank, not once in all the time I knew him—poked his head round the corner.
“All locked up?”
“Yes, Mister Bryant.”
“Good. Come through into my office, will you, please.”
I stepped through the doorway, wondering if I’d done something wrong. It was just like I’d been called down to the principal’s office at school when you don’t know why. He gestured for me to take a seat, and I did, sitting facing him across the broad expanse of his desk. He sat there looking at me, his fingers steepled in front of his face.
“How are you getting on, Samantha? Happy?”
“Oh, yes, Mister Bryant, definitely.”
“Good. Now, tell me, Samantha, do you remember our deal, our private deal, the one that got you the recommendation?”
I swallowed hard, the air between the two of us suddenly crystal clear, tension whipping around the room. Wear whatever I tell you to wear. I nodded.
“Good girl. So tell me, should I be pleased or displeased with what you’re wearing today.”
I was taken aback. I couldn’t think what was wrong with what I was wearing. Not knowing what to say, I shrugged and shook my head, dumbstruck by his odd question.
Mr. Bryant rolled his eyes. “Your legs, Samantha, your legs. Bare legs are not a good look for a librarian.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”
“I’m not worried about tomorrow, Samantha, I’m talking about today.” Suddenly he pulled open a drawer on his side of the desk and reached in, then threw across a small ball of nylon. “Put these on.”
“Oh, thank you, Mister Bryant.” I’d caught what I thought was a pair of pantyhose, and I rose to go to the ladies room to put them on, resolving to never enter the library bare-legged again.
He let me get halfway to the door before he spoke again. “Stop.”
I stopped still, confusion filling my mind.
“Turn round.”
I followed his orders like a puppet, totally at sea with what he wanted.
“I didn’t say go and put them on. I just said, ‘put them on’.”
I guess my mouth had dropped open—he was expecting me to put a pair of pantyhose on in front of him. That was too much, too embarrassing. I didn’t quite make the full sexual connection there and then, but it was embarrassing, sure enough.
Mr. Bryant sighed. “Sit down, slip your shoes off, roll them out and pull them on one leg at a time, right where you are. Remember, you agreed to this, and your probationary period is just about up.”
The implied threat had me sitting down in seconds while I thought about my options. I didn’t actually have any, but I didn’t know that. Once I’d done as he asked, the next time he could push me further.
“You want to watch me…”
“Correct, young lady. I want to watch you.”
My face must have been bright red at that point—it was hot enough. I tried to justify to myself that it could have been worse, and I guess, deep down, I knew it could easily get worse, but I persuaded myself it wouldn’t. My two-inch heeled court shoes hit the floor and I started to unroll the pantyhose. It came apart in my hands and I gasped. I’d never worn stockings, although I knew my mother had had several pairs—as had my father’s mistresses, given what I’d found in the condo. I knew what they were, but I’d never had them in my hands ready to wear, let alone worn them.
“Take your time, I want to enjoy the show.”
I shuddered at his words. Knowing he was watching me put them on was like some form of torture. Then I brightened—stockings only came up to my thighs, if I did it right, I wouldn’t be showing him my underwear.
Two minutes later—at least they didn’t have seams that needed adjusting—the stockings were in place and I smoothed my skirt down before putting my shoes back on. He waved me to stand again, which I did, then, on his instruction, walked backward and forward across his office. He motioned for me to walk out the door and, following me into the main library, he had me parade up and down the main aisle for five minutes or so.
I guessed they were hold-ups, because they didn’t slip.
“I take it you’ve never worn stockings before?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Get used to them. From now on, they are an obligatory part of your Thursday wardrobe. I expect you to present yourself in my office at two o’clock with them on. Understood?”
I nodded this time, unable to speak.
“Good. Up to you what you wear the rest of the week, but I expect you to wear natural, taupe, nude or light brown stockings on Thursdays. Preferably on garters rather than like those hold-ups. Make sure your underwear matches, and never wear black, white or fishnet stockings. Clear?”
“Yes, Mister Bryant.”
“Good, get back to your duties. I’ll see you in a little while when we break for coffee.” He turned and went back into his office, closing his door. Just like that, the downward spiral had begun.
Chapter Three – The Next Week
I was seriously confused when I went home that night. Not frightened, not really, but confused. Apprehensive, I suppose. On Friday he was, as always, the perfect gentleman at work—even to the point of helping me with a couple of very complex queries.
Over the weekend I convinced myself that nothing more would happen. After all, he’d never touched me, just looked at my legs. I hadn’t shown him as much as I would have at the swimming pool. I did, however, buy a couple of pairs of sheer stockings and a nice black garter and pantie set to wear with the nude stockings. Wednesday night, I made a point of shaving my legs, even trimmed my pubic hair, to make sure it didn’t make my panties bulge.
On Thursday just after two, he called me into his office and simply said, “Stocking inspection.”
“Sorry, what?”
He sighed and shook his head. “Lift the skirt up at the front so I can see the tops of your stockings.”
“Oh.”
I swallowed hard and did as he asked, inching the skirt up until I could feel the air blowing across my naked flesh. It felt wrong to be displaying myself like this to him, very wrong. He was five years older than my father would have been, but I did as he asked. He made a spinning motion with his fingers to get me to turn my back. I guess he expected me to lift my skirt up at the back too, and I did, again as slowly as I could. Once more he asked me to walk the length of the library, but this time I had to hold my skirt up.
Remember, in the old building the windows were high on the wall, and nobody could see in as long as I drew the blinds down on the door. I made sure to never, ever, leave them up after that week. I felt ashamed, especially when, as I walked back toward him, I could feel moisture between my thighs—I realized I was getting turned on by the exposure.
This time he told me to come back into his office and sit down. I let the skirt slip back down as I sat and he frowned but said nothing. I half expected him to get me to pull it up again but he contented himself with getting me to cross my legs. His gaze moved higher, settling on my bust line. I was wearing one of my open-necked blouses again, buttoned as high as it could be, but not all the way to the neck.
He nodded toward my chest. “Undo the top button.”
“Sorry?”
“You heard me, Samantha. Undo the top button, or are you reneging on our deal?”
I shuddered again, but my fingers rose to the top button, trembling as I tried to wrestle it open.
“Good girl.”
The button came undone and I lowered my hands to my lap. It didn’t show much.
“Another button.”
“Yes, Mister Bryant.” This time the button was easier, my fingers not trembling as much.
“Again, very good. Now, stand up.”
I did as he asked, wondering what next ignominy he was planning.
“Step forward to the desk, rest your hands on the edge and lean forward.”
The blouse was unbuttoned down to the same level as my nipples. Obviously he’d be getting a much better view of my cleavage than he’d had before—all the way down to my bra, in fact. Even so, I did as he asked, feeling my legs trembling—from fear this time, raw fear at what might happen next.
As it turned out, that was the end of his demands for that week, and I relaxed when he allowed me to return to work. Once more I breathed a sigh of relief when I got home. I wasn’t stupid—I could see how he’d pushed me more this week than the week before. If I’d had someone to talk to, I’d probably have been persuaded to walk in and quit but, remember, at that time of my life, I had nobody. I didn’t even have a boyfriend. Everyone I knew of my own age had drifted away, and my surviving relatives lived a thousand miles to the west.
All I had was my job, and the boss who was kind to me four days a week.
The next week I wore the stockings and garters again, and once more I had to expose them to him, only this time when I sat down and crossed my legs, he made sure I kept the skirt high. Three buttons on the blouse this week, and it gaped open even when I was sitting there. The next week, it was all the buttons, exposing a swathe of me from my neck to the waistband of my skirt.
That was when he turned up the pressure again. “Next week I want you to wear fully coordinated underwear. Either everything white, or everything black. Even red. And make it lace, too.”
“Yes, Mister Bryant.”
For the first time in my life I went into an upmarket lingerie shop on the Saturday, and came out with three sets—one black, one red, and the final one white. More stockings too, including a pair in white, although I knew I wasn’t supposed to wear those to work. That night I put the white set on, and the white stockings and, wearing my highest heels, I checked my reflection in the mirror. I wasn’t sure what I looked like—a tart or a bride—but I looked incredible. My legs almost buckled and for the first time in my life, or at least since the accident, I masturbated myself. This time, though, I watched myself in the mirror as my fingers dug into my pussy. My back arched and I guess I screamed as I came. Luckily the neighbors didn’t hear me—not that there’s anyone close, but it would have been embarrassing.
The idea of wearing a black or a red bra under a thin blouse was anathema to me, but I knew enough to know Mr. Bryant, or any other man, would prefer it. That thought brought a deep flush to my face, which seemed to last throughout Sunday. I couldn’t concentrate on my studies. Every time I thought about the library, I thought about opening my blouse and showing him my red lace bra. I knew the flush wasn’t just from embarrassment.
I chickened out that Wednesday night, and got the white set out to wear to work on the Thursday. I struggled throughout the morning, unable to sit still—it was an amazing feeling. By the time I’d drawn the blinds after locking the door I was panting. I almost ran to the door of his office and softly knocked.
“Enter.”
When I opened the door, he looked up, holding the phone away from his head, one hand covering the mouthpiece. I hadn’t noticed he’d been on the phone—the red light would have been blinking on mine if I’d bothered to go back to my station.
“Er…the library is closed and locked, sir.”
“Thank you, Samantha.”
I knew he didn’t want to interrupt the call, so I backed out of the room, pulling the door closed, my face flushed with embarrassment, especially when I heard him resume his conversation. “Sorry about that, but she’s very conscientious that one. Does anything I ask.”
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I knew his double meaning, even if the person at the other end of the phone didn’t. My blush deepened, and I was still wearing it when he opened the door a couple of minutes later and beckoned me inside.
“That was naughty of you, Samantha.”
“Sorry, Mister Bryant.”
“Were you in a hurry about something?”
“No, I wasn’t, sir.”
Calling him ‘sir’ had happened naturally the first time—this time it was deliberate. I was finding saying his name took too long each time.
“Well, you know what happens to naughty girls, don’t you, Samantha?”
I gasped. I’d seen enough porn on the internet to know what he meant. I was in imminent danger of him bending me across his desk, or his knee, and spanking me. Since, as yet, he hadn’t laid a finger on me, that was crossing a very big line.
“No, sir.” I laid the innocent line on as thick as I could, hoping that would mollify him. It seemed to, because he went back behind his desk and sat down.
“Did you follow my instructions from last week?”
“Yes, Mister Bryant.” I didn’t want to sound monotonous, so varied it a little.
“Good. Take off the blouse and show me the bra.”
He smiled at me as I shuddered. He wasn’t asking me to open the buttons this time, displaying the center of my chest—he wanted to see the whole thing. At least down to the bra. What would I do if he told me to take that off too? Stand in front of him topless? I shivered again, frozen on the spot.
“Young lady, I told you to take your blouse off, not stand still. Would you rather earn a spanking?”
“No, sir!”
My answer was instantaneous, and my hands flew to the top button on my blouse. I’d been expecting him to tell me to lift my skirt and show him my stockings, but no, not this time. He was going further than before, but he remained sitting behind his desk as I opened each button in turn. I felt hot, my blush spreading down onto the upper slopes of my breast, turning everything a bright pink. I knew the bra was slightly see-through. Translucent lace, rather than transparent, but still he would be able, as I had at the weekend, and again this morning, to see my areola and nipples—nipples that had hardened at the thought.
