The Perfect Applicant

"Excellent." This just kept getting better. "Quickly now, strip her fully and proceed."

Giggling, one girl moved slightly aside, and, withdrawing a transparent packet and metallic instruments from her purse, began to fiddle with the various lacy articles that were being handed her as Jennifer’s violation progressed. Allison, hands folded behind her back, began to circle the scene, taking it all in. At this point, Ms. Grey’s thinly cut skirt was being worked down her long, grey-hosed legs, and Allison relished the lack of panties under the hose. Allison knew that said something about a woman. "You, my pretty pet, will be such a willful slut when I am done with you." The stripee said nothing, of course, and the stripper, eager to please, quickly began to roll the hosiery from her legs.

Allison stopped, fixing her with a frigid glance: "Be careful not to run them, bitch. Ms. Grey must never be compelled to consider the circumstances of these senseless moments. She will wake, and all will be well with her world." Allison renewed her pace, noting the dampening condition of her own hose, white today, with a sheer, high-cut panty. "She will not know, for instance, that three of her own co-workers here at HSA," Allison ran her hands across the kneeling girls’ hair as she passed, "have seen her tits and pussy. She will not know that one of those three," she hovered a bit about the girl with the instruments, slipping a stocking foot in and out of her black shoe, "has meticulously placed tiny, remote, sensory inducers, within specific articles of her clothing. She will not know that, despite their size, each is capable of soliciting a bodily reaction equal to a vibrator in the cunt." A cruel chuckle. "She will not know that these little wonders are, in fact, nearly transparent, especially against darker clothing. . ." She placed index and middle fingers together, and began to lightly massage circles across her own crotch, over her skirt and hose. "Which, she will know, is what we require in our dress code."

She practically purred then, and continued to stroke, ceasing her pace about the room. Allison knew that she was distracting herself, that she should be focusing, but every time her eyes wandered across the nude woman below, she became more and more aware of the ache between her legs, the pulsing, moistening need.

Her servants though, worked on regardless. 3 minutes had passed, and more than anything in the world, they feared their mistress’ wrath should 3 more transpire before the job’s consummation. The tiny plastic slivers were placed quickly but accurately, wherever in Jennifer’s clothing an erogenous zone might find itself. Three were in each cup of the black, lacy bra: one on each underside, where the breasts’ weight would be borne, one along the top of the cup, where a lover’s gentle kiss might be planted, and the last along the centers, where Jennifer’s soft brown nipples would likely rest. Additionally, several were placed with rapid precision in Jennifer’s silken gray hosiery: one in each reinforced toe and in each sole, one along the back of where each calf would be delicately encased, and two in the darker gray panty itself, one in front panel, along the seam, and one opposite it, in the back. "We’re ready, Mistress," said the girl making the placements.

"Hold for just a moment." Allison was a creature of control, but even she could be beguiled under the right conditions. Still applying pressure to her womanhood, she knelt over her naked, dozing prey, and with all the restraint she could summon, limited herself to a brief kiss on each of Jennifer’s erect nipples.

The moan took them all aback. Allison shot up, her eyes wide. The powder. . .the powder was supposed to keep the victim utterly unconscious of all stimuli. All stimuli for the allotted time. It had never failed. Unless. . .it had not all been transferred. Caroline Holcomb. Allison smiled appreciatively. Did YOU disobey me? The prospect of it delighted her; she’d imagined that Caroline had lost all use as an entertainment piece months ago.

Two minutes left now, if we are lucky. She snapped her fingers quickly, and the girls rushed to dress the unconscious Jennifer, pulling on pantyhose, shoes, bra, etc. Everything must be perfect, every fold and tuck needed to match the condition of the apparel before it was removed. The girls knew this, and satisfied the requirement as quickly as possible. Still, the seconds ticked on.

Finally it was done. Again hoisting Jennifer by ankles and wrists, they rushed her to the elevator doors, which had been held ajar. Jennifer gave little whimpers and stirrings during this time, but remained blessedly asleep. Allison followed, her nerve unchallenged.

Jennifer was propped up in a lean against the elevator rail, and one of her shoes, which had fallen off during the transit, was replaced upon her stocking foot by Allison, as the two little whores who had aided scampered away to less public corners. Allison then made one final evaluation of her victim, and, noting that everything was in place, stepped back behind the closing doors.

*****

Jennifer shook her head from side to side. Elevator rides up that many floors always made her disoriented. Nervously, she checked her watch. God, I didn’t think I was THAT late. As the elevator bounced to a stop, a small chime rang, and the doors slid open to reveal Ms. Allison Taxton, dressed immaculately, and tapping a foot with impatience.

"Ms. Taxton, I’m sorry. I just got caught up in things and lost track of time."

Ms. Taxton seemed to consider her excuse, a pretty weak on admittedly. Then she smiled pleasantly and approached the new hire with an extended hand. "Things happen, Ms. Grey. Welcome to HSA."

Part 4 (Ff, hosiery, mc)

Caroline Holcomb’s situation was unenviable, to say the least.

She stood silently in the hidden sanctum of the HSA, hands at her sides, feet slightly apart, blinking rapidly, and sweating profusely. The blinking could be attributed to the brilliantly white light that was highlighting her form, setting it off against the haze of the office. The sweating, however, was due to something else entirely.

From her position atop the dais, Allison Taxton scrutinized her pretty pet. Caroline wore one of her trademark skirt-suits, a navy ensemble that fit her beautifully, and cut well against her roundish breasts. Where it ended, about two inches above the knee, shimmered a pair of almost glittery beige stockings, semi-sheer and elegantly caressing the muscles of her legs. The outfit was completed at top and bottom by a black choker (partly covered by her long, black hair) and a pair of three inch pumps, respectively. Allison knew her bitch to look delicious on any occasion, but it was moments like these, when she stood nervously at attention, that she was most vulnerable, and thus, most appealing.

The silence was worsening (it was a favorite tactic) and Caroline could feel her peril, almost as though it was a tangible thing. Beyond the light’s touch moved the servants: all female, Caroline knew, as was their mistress’ wont. Once in a while, their heels would click across the cold concrete floor, and the echo, sometime near in origin, sometimes far, rattled her nerves. Finally, she could take it no longer.

"Mistress," Caroline began hesitantly, her soft Hispanic lips barely parting for the word, "do you have need of me?"

Allison bolted from her seat, and took the stairs between them two at a time. Caroline stepped back in fright from the assault, but her cheek was grabbed, pinched, and held. The pain was fierce, the nails sharp, and she heard herself cry out girlishly. Shame overcame her. The woman she had been was gone. But she had little time to contemplate that, as Allison pulled their faces very close together, and then said something, not to Caroline, but to the room: "This cow has spoken too much already. Bind her." With that, she gave Caroline a hardy shove, sending her teetering on her high heels before collapsing to the floor in a heap. She lay there for a moment, dignity abandoned, skirt climbing to her panties and stocking legs awkwardly spread.

But the moment was all she had. Responding to their mistress, four servant girls converged on her from the shadows, and, each grabbing a limb, hefted her aloft. Caroline had learned long ago that struggling was useless, but she couldn’t help herself. She tried to hit and wiggle and kick her way free, a sight that Allison took in with delight, but the girls’ hold was firm. Quickly, they carted her to a darkened room behind the dais, where she knew she would be first drugged and then "prepared" to her mistress’ tastes. Silently, she ceased her wriggling, bit her lower lip, and prayed that Jennifer Grey was worth what was coming next.

*******

Agent Grey stifled a yawn behind her perfectly manicured fingers. All around her sounded the typical beeps, keystrokes, and rings of an office on the go, but the noise was doing little to rouse her.

After a year with the Agency, a year filled with kicked-down doors, drug dealers, and the mafia, this undercover bit seemed kind of tame. Especially if the days ahead held up to this one, then she would be sure that nothing was going on. She sighed, and sipped from her coffee mug. Perhaps she was just too impatient. After all, this was, what?, her second time in the building? Nevertheless, she’d expected more action than arguments at the water cooler could satisfy.

A lovely red-haired head popped over the wall of her cubicle. "Hey, Jen. I heard you yawn from over here. I told you this place was dull."

Jennifer smiled. Tristen had been so friendly that night, taking Jennifer by the hand, showing her the in’s and out’s of the office, the computer network, basically everything Ms. Taxton hadn’t covered before rushing off to take care of some business. "No," she replied politely, "of course it’s not dull. I just have to adjust to these hours." She held her cup aloft. "This helps."

"It’ll be your best friend. Speaking of which, I have to go place a requisition for various supplies. Anything you need, speak up now. It’ll be a while before I’m back."

Jennifer shook her head ‘no’ and thanked her, returning her focus to the task at hand as the girl walked off. Such nice people, Jennifer thought to herself. If there is anything going on here, there’s no way that it has suffused the whole staff.

Stretching her long legs underneath her desk, she slid her stocking feet from her shoes. It felt so good to wiggle her toes for a bit, and hopefully no one would notice her lack of professionalism. Pantyhose certainly made her legs feel indulged, but there was something to be said for lower heels, particularly until she got accustomed to the office grind. She distractedly crossed her legs, bringing one foot up on her knee so she could rub the tension out of it.

God, that feels good, she thought, as she ran her fingers over and over the soft, gray nylon. Soon the other foot was asking for attention, and so she switched. It DID feel good. Better than her foot massages usually felt. Maybe her clumsy boyfriends-of-the-week just hadn’t been doing it right. Slowly and then quickly she glided her hands over her sheer hosiery, even taking a moment to rub her well-muscled calves. She closed her eyes. It was so quiet in the office all of a sudden. Perhaps there was a break. That would be nice. She kept working her hands, assured now that she could relax briefly. God, had her hosiery been this silky before? It was so soft under her fingers, so tight around her calves, her toes, her pussy. . .it caressed her womanhood, her sweet pussy, oh her pussy. . . "Ohhnhh. . ."

Jennifer’s eyes shot open, and she self-consciously ran them around her immediate space. Had she said that out loud? Her face flushed a horrific red. All of the noises so prevalent in the office had resumed their typical volume. Had she just imagined that? God, please let it be so! It would be so humiliating! No, calm down, no one heard. Hurriedly, she slipped her stocking feet back into her shoes, and replaced her fingers at the keyboard. Slowly her heartbeat became more regular. Good, she thought. Relax. But as Jennifer Grey recrossed her stocking legs at the knee, her calmness was again overcome with mortification. Between her thighs, her hosed crotch was warm and soft as always . . . but it was also wet. And that it hadn’t been in a long, long time.

Part 5

Caroline could remember -barely- that she was still kicking and fighting the lingerie-clad girls as they brought her into the preparation chamber. She could remember also that she was not their match, and how easily they deposited her, like a sack of grain, face-down over the table. She vividly recalled the more extreme sensations of the ordeal, wrists pinned by two of the more toned girls as her skirt was unzipped by another and dropped around her ankles. The cold concrete beneath her stocking feet as her shoes were removed. And after her lace panties were moved adequately to one side. . .the syringe in her bottom was particularly memorable.

The rest, naturally, was a haze, though she could surmise much from her present situation. The girls had stripped her of suit and stockings, obviously, and replaced it with this. . .costume that she wore now. Then they had toyed with her some -a bit of play that she most certainly hadn't objected to, given the nature of the HSA's narcotics. And then, likely that when they were required to present her to Mistress Allison Taxton, they did so with slavish devotion and girlish giggles. Afterwards, her drug-wrought malleability fading, the girls bound her into her current position, and scampered pixie-like back into the shadows to watch.

And what a show it would be. Caroline could tell just from the setup.

Atop the dais, observing her plaything, sat Mistress Allison. Her legs, as always, shone prettily in their silken stockings -white this time. She had stripped off her business suit of earlier in the eve, and was wearing only a beige, satin camisole. Her blond hair fell down her shoulders, and with every cock of her head seemed to glide about them as though dancing. Caroline could only survey her mistress for a moment at a time, and had learned the inherent defeat of looking her in the eyes; but God, she was so beautiful.

In sharp contrast to Allison's majesty was Caroline's own position. The chamber was oriented like some sort of modern throneroom, replete with cold stone columns lining the path to the dais. The first time Caroline stirred, she realized that her movements were restricted. It took only a moment after that to discover why: a tiny but invariably sturdy chain ran from one of those columns, the one nearest her Mistress' platform, to the choker that always adorned her lovely neck. With her mistress watching, Caroline would not try her slack, but past experience suggested that she had exactly enough to reach the top of the dais, and her mistress' touch. 'Oh lord,' she thought pleadingly, 'please don't let it be bad.'

As she grew more nervous, she began to stir, and the rustle of her costume brought it's details to her attention. It was quite unlike anything that she'd ever been forced to wear, outraegous and gaudy beyond all of her former standards. The first thing to strike her was the glaring pinkness of it all: not a hot pink, but a soft, girlish pink, the sort that might speckle a nursery room. She wore pink tights, though they were more sheer than most tights, almost like the variety worn by ballerinas. There were no shoes, but around her ankles were tiny pink bands, upon which were tied little bells that rang softly when she moved. Her waist, she found, was similarly ringed, but instead of bells there were harnesses on the belt, shiny clasps that stood out as the only non-rosy shade of her garment. It seemed to restrictive and harsh, especially relative to the soft, sheer teddy that cradled her beautiful breasts, midriff, and shoulders. The teddy seemed almost like a body-stocking in it's texture and hugging confines, and about it were sprinkled sequins: a few here and there to give the bodice an even more eye-catching quality, if that was possible. Lastly, her long, dark hair, normally flowing over her shoulders, was bound in a thick braid, tied up at the end (or course) with pink ribbon.

'What is she doing?' Caroline thought. 'This can't be my punishment. . .It's too. . .soft, too feminine. Where are the whips, the paddles, the dildos?' Caroline grimaced as she envisioned the instruments. But a tiny voice in the back of her head whispered, 'But the paddles taught you disciplince, girl. And the dildos made you scream, made you look at her and whimper for more.'

It was at this moment that the mistress stood, and descended the stairs, high heels clicking menacingly, and she whipped her hand behind her and then before her in an arc. When Caroline beheld it, she saw the device.

"Get on all fours, my bitch." And she pressed a button.

A surge of pleasure assailed her pussy. A virtual wave, that eclipsed her crotch and ripped all coherence from her mind. Never had she felt such pleasure there. It rolled over her in a surge, and then ebbed, the aftershocks hitting her cunt like a car hits speedbumps. Caroline fell down flat where she stood, struggled to obey her mistress, to pull herself onto hands and knees, but the cum was too powerful. It put her back down onto the floor like no blow could have.

Ms. Allison continued to advance, placing one beautiful foot daintily in front of the other in her approach. "Bitch? Did I not call you to heel?" Another push of the button.

"Yeeeeeeeeeeuuughhhhhhhhhh. . . unh. . .unh. . .mis. . .mistress. . .oh. . ." She tried again, pushed her pink stockinged knees underneath her. . .but again the button was pushed. It almost hurt this time, so tender was she under her tights. "UNNGHHH!!" And again she sank, groaning, panting prettily, perfect shoulders rising and falling. All the while the bells and harness adorning her uniform tingled quietly. "Mist. . .mistress, please. . ." A moment, a moment to obey was all she needed. Just had to catch her breath.

But now Allison stood over her, the opulent lighting casting an oppressive shadow. "Bitches do not speak. They howl." She held her finger menacingly over the button, and Caroline hefted her weary head in time only to see her smile. The next orgasm brought blackness.

*************

When she awoke, perhaps moments later, perhaps hours, her position had not changed. She was still costumed, still chained. And Allison still stood near, still in stockings and camisole, though this time with another woman, fully attired, a young-ish brunette with more rounded breasts and hips. They were not looking at her; instead they had their heads together, speaking quickly and frankly.

"So," Allison said, with an air of finality, "she suspects nothing?"

"Nothing, Ms. Taxton. In fact, she's more conscious of herself than of the happenings here. When you first wet her, she ran to the restroom so quickly I feared she might trip." There was a pause. "Mistress, I wonder at that hidden potential you perceived. Was the really the most perfect applicant?"

There was warning in Allison's tone. "Do not presume too far. We mustn't underestimate the Agency's presence here. It's the nature of the game, Tristen, that you must keep up appearances." Caroline's heart seized. She knew that name. Her body shifted a bit involuntarily, and the bells at her ankles betrayed her movement.

Allison and Tristen both turned to regard her with raised eyebrows, but the latter spoke first: "And as for her, Mistress?"

Allison stepped forward, withdrew a stocking foot from her shoe, and dragged her toes sensuosly along the outside of Caroline's thigh, the nylons rasping together appealingly. "Her access to Jennifer will be limited, starting tomorrow. But that is tomorrow. For tonight. . .she is yours to play with. Just remember the rules."