Melissa Smith-Jones Ch. 04

I.Melissa at her Workplace

I was in a mild state of shock. I knew I was doing a good job at the company I worked for, Bigsby Inc. I had modernized some of their software and had contributed to making the whole system more efficient. I was the go-to person, and it quickly evolved to whenever someone needed some help with their computers I was sent to help them, even if it slowed down my primary tasks. As a consequence, I got in the habit of working after hours a bit, even if I did not get paid for it. That way I did not fall behind.

I have a nice, curvaceous body and am 23 years old (almost 24) with a pretty face. The company's employees are mostly male, so we women working there tend to stand out. I had the impression that sometimes men called me to come and help them when they did not really need the help.

They called on my help just so that they could be near an attractive woman. They liked perhaps the smell of my perfume, or my constant smiles. Mostly though I suspect what they enjoyed the most were the opportunities to leer at my body. I gave them plenty of such opportunities since I found their leering both harmless and enjoyable.

When I got such a call I would play along. Before I left my tiny office I would undo a couple of buttons, you know? They all took the look down my blouse, every one of them and every time, as I bent over their computers. I pretended not to see them doing it.

Remembering my memorable times at summer camp I also began to go to work without panties. I would wear leggings and that way there would be no ugly panty lines. The only thing marring the smooth curves of the leggings would be my camel toe which was reasonably prominent in my leggings if I let my legs separate. I only allowed them to separate for some of the men I kind of liked.

The real danger was the occasional mini skirt with no panties and bare legs. One time as I was helping a man with his computer he slipped his hand under my skirt and was surprised to find no barriers to entry. Feeling randy and a bit like taking a risk, I ignored his hand for a while and waited patiently to see how much he would try to get away with as I bent over his computer.

After all, when a woman simply ignores the invasion of a man's hand under her skirt it signals a certain willingness to let said man get away with some liberties. The fun for me is that the man has no idea just how much he can get away with.

If his exploring hands go on to find an absence of panties it sends another kind of signal. The man could get carried away. In my case the man in question got away with a lot but when his fingers tried to enter my pussy I abruptly stood and gave him the 'bad boy' stare. He laughed and I giggled.

"Your computer works fine now. I suggest you wash your hands before using it," I said.

I was wearing my mini skirt with no panties when I was called into Mr. Sarrasin's office. I was scared he had somehow found out about the man's hand up my skirt and at my pussy while I was fixing his computer. The old-fashioned thinking at my company would be not to blame the man for molesting me, but to blame me for having provoked him with my provocative dress and behavior.

I silently cursed myself for not thinking to bring a pair of panties in my purse to slip into for such occasions such as being convened to meet with my boss. Men talk, I know, and I suspected every man at the office knew the story of their colleague's hand up my skirt not finding any panties and getting to personally verify my camel toe using his sense of touch. As a consequence, I had not again worn a miniskirt to work until today.

I must have looked horribly nervous entering Mr. Sarrasin's office. I was expecting to be reprimanded, fired, or asked to give him the same treatment and to let his hand too explore under my skirt. None of these options seemed good. I ended up being happily surprised.

"I'm very pleased with your work, Ms. Smith-Jones. I've discussed it with upper management and we would like to send you to our branch in London where you can coordinate ideas with your equivalent person in our offices there, a Ms. Williams. We expect you'll be gone about a week. Do you have a passport?" Mr. Sarrasin said.

I just stood there. I was in shock. I had been to France with my old and very much former lover Mike, but never to England or to anywhere else, for that matter. I was frozen to the spot where I was standing, unable to speak or even to move.

"I said, do you have a passport, and will you agree to go?" Mr. Sarrasin repeated.

"Yes sir," I managed to say. "I do have a passport. I've been to France once, although never to England. I think this is a great opportunity. I'd love to go. Thank you, thank you!"

"You might want to dress more formally in London, Ms. Smith-Jones. It's just advice, and perhaps it's a bit inappropriate for me to give it to you, but I think the English are not as casual as we Americans are. For example, perhaps a longer skirt with panties underneath would be appropriate," he said.

I blushed bright red. He knew about my antics. "Yes, sir!" I said.

"It's a pity. I like your skirt. You look nice in it," Mr. Sarrasin said. I knew he wanted to say I have great legs, but he was my boss and such remarks are not appropriate. He paused as I again wondered what was going on. "Are the rumors true?"

I thought quickly. I could feign innocence as if I had no idea what he was talking about and ask what rumors, etc. but I decided just to be forthright and honest. He clearly knew they were true, anyway. The way he was looking at me was beginning to get me aroused.

"Yes, they are, I'm embarrassed to admit," I said, looking down at my feet and my blouse with too many buttons not buttoned.

"I see. Today, right now, as well?" he asked.

"Yes," I said in a voice that was barely audible.

"Show me," he said.

"Sir?"

"Show me. Lift your skirt and do a 360, slowly. I want to see for myself," my boss Mr. Sarrasin said.

I suddenly felt I was getting wet. Mr. Sarrasin had so much power over me that being ordered to expose myself to him was a real turn on for my fucked-up personality. I was a bit worried that he might want more, however. He was not at all like the nerds needing computer help whom I could always control.

I did as he said, blushing bright red. I wondered if he could tell my pussy was wet? I even bent over so that he could see my pussy from behind.

"Is that enough, or do you want to see more?" I asked in my sweetest innocent voice. I do a good innocent voice.

"I could discipline you for violating the company's dress code, but what I'm really worried about is your behavior in England. If you behave in this way over there you could greatly embarrass our company. Can I have your solemn promise that you will dress and behave appropriately?"

"Yes, sir!" I said, smiling brightly, and still holding up my skirt, exposing myself to him.

"I'm glad because your work is really excellent. Okay, you can go now. Put down your skirt! Martha, my secretary, will provide you with details and travel documents," Mr. Sarrasin said, and I left his office a little ashamed of myself but nevertheless on cloud nine.

Back at my desk I texted my best friend Jane right away but decided to tell Nigel in person when I got home after work. We were living together now and I wanted to see his face.

Earlier Nigel had found my 'gift' to him, which were my memories of a wild time I had as a counselor at summer camp back when I was barely 18 years old. I performed the script Jane had written for me I performed it to great effect, yelling at him for having invaded my privacy.

"Is this story all true?" he had asked me.

"That's none of your business," I had said, trying to be all huffy.

"You fucked two men back to back in the woods and blew another one?" he said incredulously.

"I was young and wild back then. It was five years before you met me," I said. "I'm now a mature woman, and those days are long gone."

"You think so? When I met you six months ago, you were a kept woman and yet nevertheless we had sex within 24 hours of meeting each other," he said. "That seems pretty wild to me."

"You also fucked me within 24 hours of meeting me. You're not a slut though, oh no, you're just a rake, or a ladies' man, I guess? You also gave me to your own brother, tied up and naked, don't forget!" I exclaimed. I added in a soft voice, "Not that I minded. Geoff is something else."

That was when Nigel threw me on the bed and fucked me with record breaking passion. Nobody had ever fucked me like that before, not even Nigel himself. All of that typing and effort had made it more than worthwhile if just for that one wondrous fuck.

That history of my time at summer camp gave many a spark to our love making sessions, which just got better and better. I had never before felt so sexually fulfilled. I fell ever more hopelessly in love with Nigel, and I hoped he felt the same way about me. Doubts gnawed at my consciousness, nevertheless.

The very next day I accepted his invitation and I moved in with him. He still had not proposed, but this was 2018, not 1950. My metaphorical chain would wrap around his ankles eventually and he would be mine, all mine, forever and ever. Nigel's bachelor days as a freewheeling stud were doomed.

I was all smiles when I got home. Nigel was not home yet. He often kept long hours at work. I prepared a glorious supper and set out two candles. I stayed in my work clothes, except that I removed my bra and unbuttoned even more buttons so that I looked a bit obscene. Sometimes a girl looks sexier in clothes than she does naked. At least that's my theory. I put Bolero on the sound system to get him in the mood. I giggled about that. Nigel was always in the mood, Bolero or no Bolero.

Unfortunately, Nigel finally arrived home but with his brother Geoff in tow, he of the monster cock I once sampled in Juan-les-Pins when I was giddy after learning he was not a stalker who was going to rape me. Geoff is now the beau of my best friend Jane and off limits for two reasons: Jane and Nigel. A girl can secretly fantasize though, right?

My dreams of telling Nigel about my forthcoming trip to his home town and then having a celebratory fuck while he told me about things to do in London went out the window with Geoff there. I could not wait any longer, though, so I told both of them about my good fortune.

The two brothers Clark were thrilled on my behalf but Nigel was crushed that he could not go with me. "I wanted to be the first and only man to show you London on your first visit there!" he said. I suspected somehow there was something else troubling him, but I had no idea what.

II.Melissa in London

Remembering Mr. Sarrasin's words as he had stared at my bare pussy back in New York, I wore a skirt that fell to just above my knees and a fully buttoned blouse and of course a full complement of lingerie. I entered Bibgsy Ltd., our London branch of the company, with a bit of trepidation.

The receptionist was expecting me and she greeted me with a warm smile. "Miss Williams will be expecting you," she said, and she gestured to a chair. I sat down the way I imagined a proper British lady does, my knees tightly together and my hands clasped loosely on my lap.

A clearly British woman entered the room. She was wearing a skirt that was seriously shorter than my own, a blouse that had a tad too many buttons open, a shock of blonde hair that was coiffed to look blunt, or even rough, and two-inch heels. Her eye make-up could possibly have weighed more than some of my nephew's toys.

Miss Williams looked like a hybrid of an English professional woman and a tart on the make. I began to wonder if I had mirrored that look in NY with my miniskirts without panties? As for the blouse, we were identical on that score, or at least we were when I had been dressed in my slutty work attire in NY.

Ms. Williams also looked to be around 24 years old, and she had the British version of my body. I am sure we could have exchanged clothes, having the same measurements right down to our bra size. I was looking at the English version of myself! The big difference was that she had blonde hair, although it looked to me to be blonde only due to the wonders of modern chemistry.

Ms. Williams had a smile that could melt a heart of lead. What a wonderful smile she had! "You must be the legendary Miss Smith-Jones?" she asked. I did not want to correct her to Ms. Maybe the moniker 'Ms.' did not exist in England? More importantly, why did she call me 'legendary?' I was too embarrassed to ask.

"Yes, yes I am," I said, holding out my right hand. "I am Melissa Smith-Jones. I am pleased to meet you, Miss Williams."

"Come this way, please," she said, and Miss Williams gave me a tour of the Bigsby London offices, ending at her own tiny office which was lined with computers and looked like a carbon copy of my own NY office. Miss Williams and I then got down to work. She explained to me what she was doing for the London branch, and I explained what I was doing for the NY branch. Remarkably we had the exact same ideas. We had slight differences in how we implemented them but if we could work out those kinks we would have a unified system for the London and NY branches. The efficiency rewards for the company would be impressive.

It took us three hours to realize this. Startled, we looked at each other in silence for a few minutes. We both smiled. We simultaneously gave each other a high five. The similarities between Miss Williams and myself were becoming startling. We worked together amazingly well. When five o'clock rolled around we had achieved the work of an entire week. We both decided nobody needed to know that yet.

"How about an after-work beer in a nice pub I know?" Miss Williams said. I agreed, but just before we were about to leave, Miss Williams' phone buzzed.

"Excuse me Miss Smith-Jones. Can you wait for me? I'll be between fifteen minutes and a half hour. My boss Mr. Rogers needs me for some reason."

"Of course," I said. "Can I help?"

Miss Williams looked me over, up and down, as if she was giving me an appraisal for a photo shoot. "I wish you could. I'll be back as soon as I can. Just make yourself comfortable. There are magazines. You might enjoy British Vogue. The writing is better than it is in American Vogue."

I sat there for a long twenty minutes. When Miss Williams returned her lipstick was smeared a bit, her hair was mussed, and she was wiping her mouth. She gave me that big artificial smile women give when they want to smile but feel awful inside. All women know how to do it and all women do it, too. I noticed yet another button of her blouse was open.

I'm not a rocket scientist but I knew what happened even before Miss Williams said, "Let's get a drink. I need a tall glass of some good stout right about now."

I winked at her and said, "Maybe it's because I'm American, but I find Coca-Cola is the best way to change the taste in my mouth after...you know..."

Miss Williams looked at me. "Call me Sylvia," she said.

"Melissa," I said.

Sylvia's boss Mr. Rogers appeared. Sylvia introduced me. He was around 30 years old, had a hard body and if your taste was that of an English woman, probably he was handsome. I knew Sylvia had just blown him so I must have looked at him strangely.

As Mr. Rogers looked at me I felt as if he were mentally undressing me in such a way that I had never felt undressed before. He was sizing me up for future sexploitation. I got shivers down my spine, and they were not the good kind of shivers.

Mr. Rogers and I exchanged pleasantries. He welcomed me to England, to London, and to the Bigsby London branch. I thanked him and said it was a pleasure working with Miss Williams.

"Yes, we all enjoy her excellent work here at Bigsby," he said, and he winked at Sylvia. "I look forward to getting to know you better." Then he left.

"My boss is a pig," Sylvia said once Mr. Rogers was out of earshot.

"I figured. Just blowjobs then? No, uh, carnal stuff?" I asked.

"Yeah, no fucking. I'm sure that's on his agenda, though. Let's go to the bar; I'll get a beer faster at the bar. I've got to lose the taste of his goddam fucking cum," she said. "He makes me blow him naked, you know."

"Doesn't surprise me. With a body like yours taking a look at it is doubtless a big turn on," I said.

"You should talk," she said, and we both giggled. "He liked what he saw when he mentally undressed you, you know."

The conversation changed after that. We had fun talking for three hours or more. As diplomats would say, our conversations were frank and wide ranging. We explained who we were to each other, giving our histories (and yes, including our sexual histories), and discussed books we liked, movies we liked, music we didn't like and even politics. British politics had always been mysterious to me, and American politics was equally mysterious to Sylvia. In short, in a mere one long day we became girlfriends. We came close to being BFFs for each other by the end of our fifth round of beers at the pub.

At one point, as I recounted my infamous summer camp antics, how I came to become a kept woman, my time on the Riviera replete with my fake stalker there, along with my real stalker back in NY, and Sylvia said, "I think I've finally met a woman whose life is as wild as is mine!"

I nodded, and we hugged each other.

At the end of the evening in the pub I had counted five different men who had come up to us, addressing Sylvia by name and asking to be introduced to me. Sylvia obliged four of them but refused to introduce me to the fifth, telling me later he was "bad news." I did not need to know why. It's not hard for a girl to guess.

His name was Chris H.M.T. Evans. Sylvia referred to him as the HMT Monster. She said the HMT stood for "Her Majesty's Treacle," meaning (as she explained) that he would flatter you in a cloying sort of way until he got you into a compromising situation and then he would take full - "and I do mean full!"- advantage.

"Back in the US, we call that date rape, Sylvia," I said.

"Yes, yes I guess you do," Sylvia said, and she shuddered. "In his case though, at least in my experience, you can drop the 'date' adjective."

When we parted we both knew we'd see each other the next day at work. Almost off the cuff, Sylvia said, "By the way Melissa, I'm having a few friends over tomorrow evening. Want to join? I'll be serving everyone take-out Pakistani food."

"I'd love to. Is Pakistani food similar to Indian food?" I asked.

"Yes. I like them both but the Pakistani place is close to my place and it delivers promptly," she replied.

My hotel was near the pub, so I walked back. Even though the streets were busy with people walking in every possible direction, I noticed one man who seemed to be following me. I took out my tiny Chanel compact and applied some lipstick as a ruse to look in the mirror at the man behind me. No question, he was Chris H.M.T. Evans. Damn. I picked up my pace and made it to the hotel and I saw Mr. Evans give a smirk as he walked by. He now knew where I was staying. A shiver rose up my spine.

I did not mention the proto stalking of Chris H.M.T. Evans to Sylvia. In retrospect I probably should have mentioned it. I did not know how amazing Sylvia was back then and I thought I could handle it by myself.

At work that day Sylvia and I plunged into the task of regularizing our two approaches to the same problem. We had a good day of work. At the end of the day I was tired and more than ready for Sylvia's party. Sylvia had told me to 'dress sexy.' I had not brought sexy clothes to London after the sartorial lecture of my boss, Mr. Sarrasin. Tired though I may have been I still went shopping.