The Pantyhose Paradox

It's been a dream of mine to work at this bank, this global financial institution, because my great grandfather actually co-founded this place. My father used to work here, as did two of my aunts. I remember coming here as a child and being in complete awe of this downtown building.

No one knows about my family connections. To make a long story short, a hostile takeover decades ago diminished my family's interest in the bank, and because of other financial circumstances, we had to sell most of our shares. But that's not important right now. All in the past, though it's become a personal mission of mine to reclaim at least some of this bank to my family, however small.

I'm having my final meeting today to become a quantitative analyst. What's a quantitative analyst, you ask? Trust me, you don't want to know. But if you're curious, it has to do with analyzing financial and investment data.

Today I'm headed to a different floor, meeting someone I've never met before. I've already signed the NDA's and other security measures to ensure that I can keep a secret. When the elevator door opens, I'm struck by the sight of dozens of impeccably dressed women in office skirts and pantyhose. The workplace is filled with sounds of typing, rustling papers, and the hum of office machines. The walls are adorned with abstract art and the space is flooded with natural light from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

This is different from anything I saw when I was a kid. This place, dare I say, is more feminine. I can almost smell the perfume.

As I take a moment to look around, a voice calls my name.

"You must be Leighton."

I turn around to see an Asian woman, mid-30s, and I'm impressed by how she blends professionalism with casualness. Her blouse must be worth a fortune, yet her office skirt and flats look affordable. And then there are her pantyhose. For some reason, her pantyhose stands out. Maybe because her office skirt is short which exposes more of her legs.

"And you must be Amanda Chen, the person I'm here to meet," I say.

"Please, call me Amanda, right this way."

We head to her office and all I can think about is how much I want to work here. I catch glimpses of computer screens with complex data analysis and financial models. The atmosphere is intense, yet there is a sense of camaraderie among the women.

Amanda's office is simple and stylish. We sit down and the conversation is more personable than expected. I get the sense that she's trying to lower my guard, to disarm me, but my guard was never up in the first place. Not with those pantyhose.

"Let's not waste time," she says. "My schedule is packed. I know you've gone through a lengthy interview process already, but mine is a little harder. Do you mind doing something for me? I need to know what you're capable of."

"By all means, I'm happy to prove myself."

"Excellent."

Amanda Chen spins a laptop on the desk so that it's in front of me. I take a look. On the top of the screen it says, "FOR LEIGHTON GREENE" and there's a financial question below with a set of numbers, and below that there's a space to type an answer. Amanda checks her phone to track the time.

I get to work. The question is regarding risk management in the face of high inflation and high interest rates. Very relevant to today's market. I do my best, as fast as I can, and type my reasoning below. All together it takes me 18 minutes.

When I finish, I spin the laptop back to Amanda and she takes a look. Her face is stoic as she reads, then she smiles. She's back to her friendly self again.

"Pretty good," she says. "Now I can see why certain people were so hot to hire you. Now let's talk about discretion. Are you someone who can be trusted with sensitive information?"

"I can keep a secret. I've already signed the non-disclosure agreements."

"Then I'll be more direct. You applied for a job as a quantitative analyst. However, there might be a better opening for you. You'll have more responsibilities and you'll be better compensated. Does this interest you?"

"Yes, absolutely. I've always been adaptable. I welcome any opportunity to prove my worth here."

Amanda lifts her eyebrow, her eyes scrutinizing me. It's a silent challenge, a test of trust, as she questions my ability to keep confidential matters within the corporate realm.

"For your ears only," she says. "We have reason to suspect that an individual within the Investment Research Department is engaging in activities detrimental to the bank. This person may be stealing sensitive data and investment strategies. Are you following me so far?"

She further explains that they're offering me a great paying job if I can find out who is responsible. She wants me to do this because I'm young and unassuming, no one will suspect me, but I'm smart enough for the task. My body language weakens and she encourages me to hold my chin high.

"Be more assertive," she says. "Let your confidence shine. You should fit right in with these women. You're intelligent, energetic, and you look fantastic. All you have to do is keep your eyes and ears open. I'll also give you the passwords to their computers."

I gulp so loud that Amanda looks at my throat.

"And if I find the person, or people? What are you going to do with them?"

She looks amused. "We're not killers, if that's what you're afraid of. We'll discreetly get rid of them. We just need to make this stop."

The ease in which she explains this is unnerving. I try to remain cool. I've always dreamed of working alongside powerful and influential women. This takes me a step closer, although not in a way I could have expected.

I also think of my family, as if I'm somehow defending our legacy, even though this bank has zero clue who I am. They see me as just another employee. Inside I feel a strong drive to prove myself and leave my mark. I think of all the stories I've heard about my great grandfather, the sense of pride in their voices, the family photo albums with old pictures taken inside this building.

"This is doable," I say.

"Is that all you have to say? This is the opportunity of a lifetime. You're potentially being fast tracked to work for upper-management if you can pull this off."

Her gaze becomes piercing, more corporate. In the last few minutes of this meeting, I've witnessed the full spectrum of Amanda Chen, from sweet and lovable, to a serious operator who does whatever it takes to safeguard corporate interests.

"Fucking right I'm going to get the job done?"

My voice nearly cracked when saying that. Not the desired effect, though it pleases Amanda.

"Another thing," she says. "Have you heard about the unofficial dress code?"

That sounded more like a critique than an actual question.

"I've never heard anything about a dress code, but I can assure you that my wardrobe is tasteful."

"Read the room. Women tend to wear office skirts. Do you have any of those?"

"I mostly have dress pants and slacks, but I have a few skirts."

"Well get some more. And pantyhose. Do you have those?"

"I'll be sure to swing by the mall."

"Here, let me give you a present. Since we're friends now."

Behind her desk, she bends over and does something with her heels. Then she walks over and stands in front of me. Her heels are gone and she's standing in her pantyhose, which she starts to remove, rolling them off her feet. She's fine stepping barefoot on the floor as if she's done this before. There's a certain comfort as her toes dig into the carpet's fibers.

Amanda smiles as she hands me her pantyhose. She's done this before. I smile and accept her pantyhose with grace despite how odd this is. They feel warm in my hand, freshly worn.

*

It's early Tuesday morning when I'm assigned a desk in the open workspace. The trading department is a bustling hub of activity. The lively atmosphere is almost like a college dormitory, but with smart bankers and financial analysts. People introduce themselves and we shake hands. No one suspects why I'm really here.

Do I feel guilty for spying on my new colleagues? Sure, but that's the game we're playing. I was told to keep a watchful eye on three women in particular.

Marta Gonzalez is the oldest of the group, at age 52 with a strong stature and confident persona. She's busty and always wears form-fitting blouses and office skirts. The woman is smart and she was happy to be a mentor when I first arrived.

Sophia Patel is a petite woman in her mid-thirties with a quiet demeanor that hides her sharp intellect. Her long, straight hair is always pulled into a low ponytail, and she prefers wearing modest knee-length skirts and blouses.

Cathy Harkrider is the youngest of the group, at age 25 with a fresh-faced appearance and a quiet confidence. She always wears modest office skirts that fall just above the knee, paired with a blouse that's buttoned up to the collar.

The reason I mention their manner of dress is because they have this seductive energy. Something that borders on sexual. I watch the women work as the days go by. I notice the subtle gestures, the fleeting glances amongst themselves, and the occasional brush of hands.

As I'm scanning the bustling trading floor, Cathy Harkrider catches my eye. She's wearing a fitted blazer that accentuates her curves, along with a modest office skirt. Her legs are encased in sheer pantyhose, giving them a nice shimmer. As she approaches me with a file in hand, I can't help but notice the way her heels click on the floor.

"Good morning," she says.

Her smile is bright and her voice is low and confident.

"Morning."

She leans over my desk and I catch a glimpse of her cleavage peeking out from her blouse. The sight makes my heart race. She catches me looking and gives a knowing smile.

"Like what you see?"

I clear my throat. "It's a beautiful top."

"Relax, I'm just messing with you. I know why you're here."

"You do?"

"I notice the way you look at some of the other ladies. You know, the ones who've been here for a long time. I'm kind of new here myself, so I'm also learning the rules of office politics."

"I'm glad I'm not the only one who's noticed," I say.

"Have you been approached?"

Cathy's smile is open to interpretation. My smile is the same.

"No, I guess I'm too new to be invited to the club. But what if I was interested?"

"You could try asking. Or try flirting. That's what worked for me. Have a great day."

She winks, then leaves, her skirt swishing against her pantyhose-clad legs. I can't shake the feeling that there's more to her than meets the eye and I wonder if I'm ready for it.

A woman's sexual nature is ruthless. Working here for nearly a decade has shown me that it knows no bounds, defying societal norms and expectations. Behind closed doors, desires are unleashed, and inhibitions are shed like a second skin.

Leighton Green comes to my office wearing a short skirt and the pantyhose I had given her three weeks ago. Her confidence is more assertive these days, her shoulders more broad, she fits right in. I knew I made the right choice selecting her.

We sit on the couch for this informal meeting. My legs are crossed, exuding a sense of control, while her legs are pressed together, displaying a hint of anticipation. She's taken my words to heart and now wears office skirts everyday and I always enjoy looking at her legs first thing in the morning.

"I'm 90% sure I've got the information you want," she says.

"Oh?"

Leighton fidgets as she sits there, her nervous energy evident in the way her fingers continuously and unconsciously toys with the delicate hem of her skirt.

"Before I answer, did you know what I was getting into?"

"Yes, of course."

"Why didn't you warn me?"

"I wanted to see what you'd do. Sometimes it's better to let a young woman discover things on her own."

Leighton doesn't say anything. Perhaps she'll leave and never speak to me again.

"It was Harkrider and Gonzalez, just the two of them. I'm 90% sure it was only them."

The names make sense. Gonzalez has connections around the city and has worked at different places, lacking any type of loyalty except to herself. Harkrider is young, energetic and ambitious, and from the moment she started working here, she was infatuated by the Latina pussy Gonzalez had to offer.

A match made in heaven. Latina mature pussy pairs well with a white girl's mouth.

"What did you find?" I ask.

"They'd been accessing confidential reports and private communications from their computers. I mean, a lot more than they'd need. I cross-referenced what they'd been looking at against the bank's losses. Plus they were close, like really close."

"Did you see anything?"

She pauses for a moment. "I think you know."

"Tell me. So I can be sure."

"Neither of them wore panties. Eventually I realized that most women in that department, if not all, had forgone wearing panties. I could tell from the smooth shapes of their skirts."

"And?"

"They give oral," she says. "Like oral, oral. That kind. I caught glimpses of Cathy Harkrider on her knees, in the office, between Marta Gonzalez's legs. They were too busy to realize that I was spying on their malfeasance."

"Yet you're still here. You haven't quit. Or will you?"

"I don't plan on quitting."

"Why not?"

"Because I've worked too fucking hard to get here."

The confidence with which Leighton professes her intentions brings joy to my heart, mainly because I was once like her. I see myself in Leighton, and perhaps she sees herself in me.

"Did you lick anyone?" I ask.

"That was the only way I could get close enough to their social circle."

"Tell me about that, if you're comfortable."

"It's obscene."

"Life is obscene. The trick is to embrace that obscenity, to have fun with it."

Leighton gets the hint and she starts to blush, before composing herself.

"Okay, if you really want to know," she says. "I kept my eyes on them after my suspicions were raised. I was subtle, they were friendly. Harkrider kept making sexual innuendos at me and a few older women wanted to become friends. Looking back, it was so obvious what they wanted.

She continues, "I accepted an invitation from a woman, who was in her early 50's or so, to join them in the employees lounge for refreshments. Women were coming and going from that room, coffee and pastries in their hands, wry expressions on their faces. When I got there, I saw a woman sitting down with her skirt lifted, her legs spread. No panties. It took me about two seconds to realize that women were giving each other oral sex, in between the pastries and coffee, and it made my heart stop. Someone suggested it was my turn because I was the new girl. I froze. Literally froze. But I didn't want to turn them down.

She continues, "That's why I did it, I guess. A few people watched. I didn't want to raise suspicions. I wanted to blend in, so I got on my knees, between the legs of an older woman. That was my first time doing anything like that but I managed to play it cool. I wanted to act like I'd done it before. The vagina was like a ripe peach, I touched the woman's skin around her crotch. I licked it. The sweet juices dripped on my tongue, which was strangely delightful. I could feel everyone's eyes on me and it was mortifying."

I look at Leighton differently now, especially her lips. These are lips with newfound experience. Lips that have pressed against labia, with a tongue that tasted.

She's thoroughly embarrassed for having done this. She's equally embarrassed for having to confess. I can tell that her thoughts are far more complex than what she's letting on because women like Leighton are complex creatures. They don't just lick pussy, they have to have a reason. And her reason is obvious, which is that she wants the job, and I respect a girl who does whatever it takes.

"Does this experience make you uncomfortable?" I ask.

"Should it?"

"No. Sexuality exists on a spectrum. You're still discovering where you stand, though it's pretty obvious from the ease with which you fell to your knees and gave service."

My tone is light-hearted and thankfully she isn't offended.

Leighton stays quiet for a moment. "Are you daunted by working here and seeing this stuff? Sorry, I felt the need to ask."

Her eyes are sincere. Her self-doubt is creeping in. Drastic times call for drastic measures.

I unbutton my blouse, taking my sweet time as we look at each other, her eyes filled with wonder and curiosity. When I open the front of my blouse, she sees my red bra. The front of my bra is so sheer that it's almost nonexistent. My nipples are big and dark, very Asian, very distinct.

Leighton doesn't flinch. She just stares.

"Any thoughts?" I ask.

"They're beautiful."

With the tips of my fingers, I pull the front of my bra down so my nipples pop out.

"Working here isn't for everyone," I say. "The hours can be grueling, there's a lot of stress, and it's demanded that everyone performs to the best of their ability. The banking business is the stress business."

"I understand."

"We may have a nice position for you, internal auditor, because you have good eyes and keen instincts. You'll be reporting directly to upper-management."

"Honestly, being an internal auditor wasn't what I had in mind when joining this place. I've always wanted to be important, to make big decisions, to be in the mix of things."

"You'll be reporting to the top. I've already told the CFO about you."

Leighton's eyes light up. "The Chief-Financial-Officer?"

"That's the top and she's looking for talent like you."

Her eyes peer down at my nipples, which helps finalize her decision.

"I'm interested," she says.

"First, type a report about your findings, like you're a police detective who's solved a case."

"I can do that."

"Second, you'll need to lose those panties."

Her legs clench. "Now?"

"You don't have to show me anything, just slip them down and hand it over."

Leighton clears her throat, contemplating a life changing decision, then she stands in front of me and lifts her office skirt. White panties. Leighton makes zero attempt to be sexy about her movements, this is all business, and she slides her panties down and I accidentally get a view of her thin labia.

She hands me her panties. I stand and accept while we're face to face.

"Good, now get started on your report. You're being fast tracked for a promotion."

Leighton walks timidly to the door, feeling a mix of nervousness and exhilaration. It's her first time venturing into public without panties beneath her skirt and it's scary. As she reaches the door, she stops and looks at me.

"Are you going to put your nipples away?" she asks.

"Why bother? We're all friends here."

She's surprised by my response. I walk over and open the door, the sound of employees talking and typing fills my office. Our privacy disappears. She's stunned by my exposure, perhaps mortified of being seen next to me, with my breasts like this. She walks back to her desk, her feet are so close together that she's practically walking on tip toes, savoring her first experience being pantyless.

The sun illuminates my office through tall glass windows. I'm sitting completely naked around the coffee table in the center of the room, flanked by two loyal assistants and a senior executive who's a classic elitist. All women. All dressed in office skirts and blouses. Their eyes would peer at my nipples or my toes since my legs are crossed.

We sometimes do other things besides discussing finances. Kissing and flirting. Pussy licking. Rim jobs. The occasional woman would bring a strap-on if wanting to be screwed. This isn't the life I envisioned for myself, but I embrace it. It's a condition for having this job.