The Red Panties Test Pt. 02

THE RED PANTIES TEST - PART 2

Dani Sweets

As I watched the car drive away, waved goodbye to Jillian and walked slowly into the foyer of the well-appointed tower block, I wasn't sure which emotion had the upper hand.

I was worried, fearful even, about what this meeting with my stepfather-in-law might bring. But I was also angry. With Warren, over whatever game he thought he was playing with my battered self-respect. But much more with myself, for not standing up to him.

I could have refused to come and meet him at all. It probably would have meant a blazing row with my wife, who believed (probably with good reason) that it would do me good to get out of the house.

Since my brief and inglorious stay in prison I had been spiralling downwards. She thought the idea of me doing a little light administrative work for her stepfather was the perfect way of lifting me out of my funk. But if I'd put my foot down and said no, and pursued some other kind of job, it would have been okay.

Or, I could have played it straight, and turned up to Warren's city apartment wearing nothing but my normal clothes. And if he asked why I wasn't wearing the same item of clothing I'd been tricked into wearing in prison, I could tell him to stop being such a pervert. I mean really, what could he do to me? Tell my wife? About what exactly?

The trouble was that I lacked the courage. It was partly his intimidating size and manner. I was no match for him physically and who knew what kind of hurt he might put on me while we were alone?

But I was also terrified he would say enough to induce Jillian to ask me about what had happened at prison. I didn't want to reveal that I'd been targeted as the sexual relief for a couple of violent criminals, or how my body had reacted to being lewdly fondled

Yet here I was, riding up to what seemed to be the top floor, wearing a jacket, shirt and slacks - and red, lace-trimmed boyshorts.

Acquiring the underwear had not been easy. Unable to face the idea of shopping in a department store, I had finally opted to try a lingerie shop in a little shopping centre well away from my usual haunts, at an early time that I hoped would be their quietest. And so it was - but that meant I had the full and undivided attention of the sales staff.

Initially at least, I tried to brush away the cheerful assistance offered by a bubbly young blonde whose name tag identified her as Trudie. But as it became clear that I had no idea either what I was looking for or what size to get, I was forced to ask for her help, explaining I was after "something nice but not too showy" for my wife.

Trudie quickly settled on the boyshorts and didn't show even a flicker of disbelief when I said that I thought my wife was about the same size as me.

In the end, she made the purchase a lot easier than I would have thought. Her constant chatter could easily have been irritating. But it did keep me distracted and she even managed to make me smile once or twice when bemoaning the shortcomings of a football team that we both supported. Or rather, the team that she followed passionately, and to which found it socially convenient to claim some allegiance towards.

Still, I couldn't help blushing my way through the transaction and by the time I got back to the car my stomach was still churning.

Worse was to follow when I got home. Now I had to find somewhere to store my purchase. And for every location I could think of, my fevered imagination conjured a reason for Jillian to find the panties. After nearly a full hour of worrying, I settled for tucking them away behind and underneath the bottom drawer inside my side of the wardrobe.

I found it hard to sleep the night before the trip to see Warren. And then, after frantically changing into the boyshorts while Jillian was in the shower, I had to endure the drive into the city with her, wondering whether she would at any minute glance sideways and ask why I was wearing women's underwear.

I had wanted to drive myself. But with her office only a few blocks away from the apartment, it made sense for her to drop me off.

The relief I felt at escaping Jillian's imagined scrutiny quickly vanished as I rode up to face her stepfather-in-law. My trepidation momentarily abated, however, as I rang the buzzer and the door opened automatically to admit me into the most luxurious and spacious penthouse I had ever seen.

Clearly, Warren was far richer than I'd imagined. Which made it even stranger that he somehow knew about the trick used at a prison to con gullible weaklings into wearing panties - and falling prey to sexual predators desperate for fresh young meat.

"In here."

The deep, powerful voice sent shivers through me, interrupting my awed inspection of the apartment. I found its owner in a large kitchen that gleamed with the latest appliances.

"Coffee?" Warren asked, holding up a pot. He was casually dressed, in the sort of clothes that looked simple and unassuming, until you checked out the price tag. He flashed an easy smile which set my teeth on edge.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I was waiting to hear what he was going to say, when he was going to tell me what was really going on. Why he had arranged for me to be here and demand that I wear a piece of women's underwear.

But if I thought all was about to revealed, I was mistaken. Instead, I was drawn over the next few minutes into light chit-chat, forcing myself to ignore my racing pulse.

Eventually, the pressure got too much for me. I should have played it cool, just as my host was doing. But I didn't have it in me.

"So, aren't you going to ask me whether I'm wearing the right kind of panties?"

The question was blurted out and I then had to endure the feeling of the now familiar blush spreading across my face.

If Warren was at all surprised, he didn't show it.

"Oh, I don't need to ask," he replied. His smile didn't budge, though his eyes seemed to glitter briefly. "I know you are. Just as I knew you'd be a good girl in prison."

I opened my mouth to deny the slur, but he continued without awaiting my response. "Aren't you going to ask me what work you'll be doing?"

His tone mimicked the one I had just used to pose my own question. I glared at him, but he simply smiled back and waited for my response.

Eventually I muttered: "Alright, what do you want me to do?" He cocked an eyebrow, though the smile remained. I closed my eyes briefly, then added: "Sir."

"That's better," Warren said approvingly. "I'll eventually need some help with some of the arrangements I'm making for my new company, but you can start by giving this place a good clean and doing my laundry."

I gaped at him. "You want me to be a cleaner? Are you fucking serious?"

He stared at me, then beckoned me to approach him. Reluctantly, I put my cup down, then walked over to him, all too conscious of the way he towered over me but doing my best nonetheless to seem unafraid.

He looked down at me appraisingly, then lifted his large hand. I flinched, but he simply ran it over the smooth skin that covered the top of his hairless head, in what I would come to recognise as a characteristic gesture. His eyes bored into mine.

"Don't you ever lose that language with me. Or you will seriously regret it. Got that?" Unnervingly, he was still smiling.

"Yes sir," I said, trying but failing to keep the quaver out of my voice.

"Good," he said, bringing his hand back up, but this time to stroke my cheek. The intimacy of the gesture was chilling, and I had to work hard to stifle a sob.

"Now go and get changed. You'll find what you need in the spare bedroom, just through there." He waved his hand at a nearby door and, without waiting for a response, strode off in the opposite direction.

Sick to my stomach, I shambled off in search of the room to which I'd been directed, opened the door - and stared in shock at what was laid out on the bed inside.

I should have known what to expect. But I'd convinced myself that getting me to wear panties was just the older man's way of having fun at my expense or putting me in my place - making it clear that while I might be family (of a sort), I had better remember who was in charge. Warren, however, turned out to have something very different in mind. The panties were just the start.

With a trembling hand I picked up the dress. It combined rose-pink satin with white lace trims. And I didn't need the apron at the front, the fluffy white petticoat or the pink choker that accompanied it to identify its purpose.

Warren wanted me to be his maid - and to dress the part as well. And it didn't stop with a dress. Not with a flower-patterned bra with padded cups, white fishnet tights and pink Mary Janes to put on as well.

This, I thought, is what would have happened if I'd stayed in prison. Maybe not this particular outfit. But something... girly. To make me more attractive to whoever was going to use me as their fucktoy. Or the several whoevers, if I was really unlucky.

I had a sudden vision of Nicole, or whatever his real name was - the effeminate young man who'd saved me from the prisoners who were ready to start my sexual re-education, not by being tougher than them, but simply by belonging to someone else who was tougher. Someone like Warren, perhaps.

I imagined Nicole stripping off his prison garb until he was wearing nothing but red panties - the same pair I had been given and had so ill-advisedly chosen to keep wearing.

In my mind's eye, I watched as he crawled into a narrow bed in his cell. And as a hairy, muscular arm reached out from the shadows, he looked back at me and smiled. You could fail the red panties test and still come out okay, he had said.

Only... I wasn't feeling okay. And more importantly, I wasn't in prison anymore, much as it had felt like it over the past few months. I was free to go where I wanted, wear what I wanted.

I nearly ran then. And for a long time afterwards I would wonder both why I didn't, and how different my life would have turned out if I had. As it was, I got as far as the bedroom door, then stopped, gnawing on my lip as I pondered whether I could make it back to the elevator before he could catch me.

In my head I pictured myself scooping up the ridiculous uniform, going back to Warren and defiantly throwing it on the floor. Then watching his face darken and his fists come up...

Trembling, feeling as broken as I had done at any time since that brief visit to prison, I quietly closed the door and stripped down to my panties. After staring for long minutes at the items on the bed, I selected the tights and sat down to put them on.

I had always loved watching Jillian drawing hosiery onto her long, shapely legs and I did my best now to imitate her, bunching the fishnets up, carefully inserting my toes and then unrolling them upwards. There was a line of little flowers on one side, which I guessed were intended to go up the back of my legs like a kind of seam, so I made sure to keep the tights that way round.

It took a fair bit of tugging to get them far enough up to reach my waist and I had to pull one side back down to get the other leg in properly. It also took some effort to keep the seams more or less straight. But eventually I had them on - and what a strange feeling it was, to have them clinging to my legs and lower torso.

Clipping the padded bra behind my back also took a while, but the dress proved easy enough, and with the addition of the choker and shoes my outfit was complete.

I looked at the mirror. Did I dare go over to it and check out my appearance? After several minutes of indecision, I decided I simply couldn't face seeing what I looked like in women's clothing and started to walk back to the kitchen.

But I had only got a few steps in the unfamiliar heels when I stopped again. Could I really go back to Warren looking like this? What would that say to him? Well, that I was under his control, clearly. But what would he do with that power? Was the point here simply to humiliate me? To have some fun at my expense? Or did he have something more in mind?

In the end, it was the loud and rather pointed cough from the far end of the corridor that spurred me into reluctant motion. Conscious of my cheeks burning red with embarrassment, I found Warren in what was clearly a study.

He glanced at me, nodded without any change of expression and said: "Good. Cleaning stuff is in the laundry." He jerked his thumb to indicate where I should go and turned back to his computer.

I stood where I was, feeling obscurely disappointed by his lack of reaction, even as I wished I could be anywhere else. Or at least anywhere else and in the right type of clothes. Surely my shameful submission should count for something more?

"Something else you need to know?" he asked, without looking up.

"No sir," I answered, my voice sounding as feeble as I felt. I hesitated for a few more seconds, but when he said nothing further, I sighed and headed off to find the laundry.

Thus began a strange and unsettling day. After such a dramatic and confidence-sapping start, my imagination had begun to conjure up all manner of horrible things that might happen to me.

The worst involved him unzipping his pants and taking out a cock that would be every bit as large as the one I'd so unwillingly felt in prison, inside the pants of the thug who was menacing me. He would take it out, force me to bend over a chair, lift my skirt and then...

And yet all that actually happened, for the most part, was that I did the cleaning and washing demanded of me. On a couple of occasions, I was ordered to get my new master a hot or cold drink. But otherwise, he left me to get on with my duties.

At lunchtime, I was given half an hour to fix myself a salad, which I ate undisturbed in the kitchen, after declining the invitation to sit out on the balcony.

The view over the city from there would have been spectacular. But I really didn't want anyone in a nearby building spotting me in my ridiculous outfit, and I was relieved my stepfather-in-law did not insist on me going outside. As it was, I stayed as clear of the windows as I could. That way I could also avoid looking at my own reflection.

The really disturbing thing was that from time to time I found myself relaxing and even enjoying the housework. I did little of it at home, since we had a cleaner come in once a week and my wife was still in the habit of doing much of the cooking and laundering, despite now being the breadwinner.

Now, and after so many listless days spent lost in a funk, having a clear job to do actually seemed like an improvement - so long as I didn't stop to think about what I was wearing and why. Each time I did, however, my mood would collapse like a pricked balloon.

This was not to say that I disliked the way the clothes felt on me. Walking in heels was undeniably strange, although they weren't so high that I was ever in danger of unbalancing. And I positively liked the sensation of my stockinged thighs rubbing together. I even caught myself wondering if they might feel even nicer if I shaved my legs.

The way the satin skirt flounced around on top of the frothy white crinoline underneath was also... well, not exciting, obviously. But... interesting. I wondered how and where it had occurred to someone to make a maid's skirt flare out in that way. It clearly wasn't very practical. But then doubtless it hadn't been designed by anyone who actually intended to wear it. Unless they had some kind of fetish, perhaps.

The day passed surprisingly quickly, and the clock had just struck five pm when Warren called out from behind me, just as I was putting some glasses away in the kitchen. Startled, I dropped one of the glasses, which shattered on the floor. I stared at the fragments open-mouthed, then forced myself to look at my employer.

His gaze shifted to the mess on the floor, then back up to me. Nothing in his expression betrayed any anger, but nor was there any suggestion of forgiveness.

"Look what you made me do?" I said hopefully. When there was no reaction, I tried to smile, with only partial success. "You know, maid?" I gestured vaguely at my uniform.

His eyebrows lifted millimetrically, but all he said was: "In the living room. When you're ready." As he strode out, I sighed and went to find the dustpan.

When I had finished cleaning up, I found him sitting on a sofa. He patted the seat next to him. I approached him warily, but when he made no further move, went to sit down. At the last second, however, as I was lowering myself, he flipped me over, so that I sprawled face down over his lap.

His large hands gripped me, effortlessly restraining my efforts to get off him. "Lie still," he growled. I froze, unable to resist the power of his rough voice.

"Now you've done well today, completed your chores like a good little maid. But I can't overlook your disobedience when I arrived, can I?"

He waited for an answer and with a tremulous voice I supplied it. "N- no sir."

I wasn't sure what I found more frightening just then: what he might do if I sought to contest his authority, or my complete inability to do that.

"No indeed." He flipped up my skirt and yanked down my tights. The red panties followed. I could not prevent myself from trembling as he lightly ran his fingernails over my exposed buttocks, then lifted up his hand. Oh god, he was going to spank me!

I waited for the stinging slap. The seconds stretched out... until he chuckled and brought his hand down much more softly than I'd been expecting. He gave my bottom a squeeze.

"But maybe I should give you another chance to show me what a good little girl you can be. Would you like that?"

"No," every part of me wanted to scream, "because I'm not a girl!" Every part, that is, except the one controlling my voice. "Yes sir," I answered meekly.

"All right then." His hand continued its journey down my leg. He ran it up and down my thighs, softly stroking the patches of bare skin not covered by the nylon mesh. To my horror, I felt a twitch as my cock, pressed down against Warren's sturdy thigh, stirred itself, ever so slightly.

If he had felt my response, he didn't show it, mercifully.

"So, when you come back next week, you might think about wearing a new pair of panties, and some pretty stockings and garters to go with them. You can choose the colour, just make sure they go with your uniform. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir," I answered miserably. How much worse could this get? The answer was not long coming.

Warren's hand lingered on my thigh. Then he tugged hard, and I gave a yelp as he pulled out some of the hairs that were poking through the fishnet. "This hair doesn't look good, does it? Your legs should be nice and smooth. In fact, your whole body. So, you should shave it all off, yes?"

He had gone too far this time and I opened my mouth to tell him so - even though I'd been thinking myself about shaving my legs just a little earlier.

But he must have sensed my resistance, because he grabbed my head and gently twisted it round until I was looking up at his face. There was no sign of anger, just a complete air of assurance. He gave a tight smile.

"If you want to keep working for me, you need to look the part. That means no hair, anywhere on your body. Understood?"

I gulped and nodded. In response, he lifted his hands off me. I started to rise, but then stopped, unsure of whether I had permission. "May I get up, sir?" I asked in a voice as nervous as I felt.

"You may," he said genially, in a tone that signalled his approval of my subservience. "In fact, you can get changed and go home now. Or go and meet the lovely Jillian, whatever. But keep your panties on. Oh, and the tights as well. And be back here next Monday, bright and early."