The Red Panties Test Pt. 03

But he also had his finger in many other pies, none of which had anything like the same degree of visibility or substance. I occasionally heard him talking about unspecified products being shipped, disposals arranged, obstacles being removed, and so on - all on matters for which there were no files or records.

Where I was expected to make, filter or organise a great many calls and conferences on the construction work, discussions about these "side projects" (as he called them) were invariably conducted on one of two mobile phones he possessed. Names were never used, but words were employed in strange contexts that suggested some kind of code.

The longer I worked for him, the more I became convinced that some of his business ventures were of dubious legality - or possibly even downright criminal. There was talk of payments being made and received, with nothing to show in his regular accounts, in ways that would plainly be of interest to the tax authorities.

It didn't take long for me to come to the conclusion that he had likely known about the red panties test I had failed in prison, because he had at some point been incarcerated in the same institution. Or at least knew someone who had.

He certainly looked the part, whenever stripping out of his business clothes for a workout at the well-stocked gym that his luxurious apartment included. Tattoos had become all the rage, I knew, even with the wealthier classes. But even so, the fact that every inch of his heavily-muscled torso, arms and legs was covered in ink suggested an upbringing very different to my own, or that of the wealthy woman - Gillian's mother, Debra - he had recently wed.

When Warren was out of sight, I could relax and enjoy my work. But if he was anywhere nearby, his physical presence was intimidating and overpowering. He rarely touched me. But when he did - a hand on my cheek or a bare arm here, a light squeeze of my bottom there - it felt electric, like the precursor to a storm that never quite arrived.

He acted like he owned me - and I was letting him do that, I knew. But it wasn't just that possessiveness that so disconcerted me. It was the coiled violence that I sensed in every movement, every word, every calculating look that he directed at me.

I had only experienced that violence once - but that was more than enough. It was on the first day that I did secretarial work for him. I had finished some filing, working at the desk he had allocated to me, then walked into what I thought was his empty office to find him talking on the phone.

I had heard nothing, despite being nearby. It was only later I realised that the door and walls to his inner sanctum were soundproofed.

He paused in mid-sentence, eyed me coldly and held up a finger to stop me in my tracks. "Sorry Jeff," he said, interrupting the voice coming out of his phone, "I'm going to have to call you back about that. There's a message I need to send... Yeah, will do."

Warren ended the call, looked at the files in my hand, then jerked his head towards the filing cabinets. I hurried over and did what I had come to do, although my hands were shaking so badly it was a wonder I didn't spill the papers everywhere. When I was done, he beckoned me to stand in front of his desk.

"You understand," he said conversationally, "that everything you hear and see while you're working for me is to be treated with the strictest confidentiality. You got that, right?"

I nodded, then recovered myself and hastily added: "Yes sir. I understand completely."

"Completely, right. So, you also understand - completely - that if I'm having a private conversation, with the door closed, I may not want to be interrupted? Not without some kind of knock first? Right?"

I opened my mouth to protest that I hadn't even known he was in his office. But the stillness that had come over his face warned me that this was not the time for excuses. "Yes sir," I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

He nodded. "All right then. Well, you can leave right now and not come back, if you like. But if you choose to stay, then I need to make sure that your understanding stays as complete as you say it is. So, I'm going to have to give you something to help you remember."

He stared at me. So here it was again. The chance to get out of this ridiculous situation. But then I'd need to tell Jillian I'd lost my job. And even if I could explain why and how, I could never know what Warren might say to her about the type of man she had for a husband. So really, it wasn't a choice at all.

When I didn't make a move of any kind, Warren nodded. He'd known I wouldn't have the courage to quit. He looked down at the desk, then back up at me. "Bend over. And pull down your panties."

I froze. I knew I should obey. Just as I also knew I should run away as fast as my ridiculous heels would allow. Or plead for mercy.

When I did none of those things, he raised an eyebrow, then stood up slowly and walked around behind me. As if positioning a model in a stop-motion animation, he bent me forward until my elbows were propped on the desk. Then he flipped up my short grey woollen skirt and pulled my lavender panties down, past the tops of my flesh-coloured stockings, and all the way to my ankles.

I could no more have resisted him than I could have stopped the tide coming in.

"You know," he said, his tone still perfectly normal, with no hint of anger, "not doing what you're told, when you're told, is going to double the length of the lesson."

I couldn't repress a shiver as his big, callused hand rested on my naked bottom. Whatever else he'd done in his youth, he'd worked with those hands. And I knew with a sick certainty that they were about to work on me.

"Count your lesson for me, princess. And thank me for each one."

There was a pause, just long enough for me to hope that he might have changed his mind. But then I felt his hand lift and, in what felt like only a micro-second later, crash back down.

It was my ears that hurt first, the sound of the slap was so loud in the confined space of the office. But then the pain exploded through my thin behind. Months of poor eating had removed what little padding I had on my rump, and the blow almost felt like it was delivered straight onto my tailbone.

I had been bracing for it, but nothing could have prepared me for the shock. I gave a high-pitched squeal, but then somehow morphed it into what I'd been instructed to say.

"Aaaaooowwwone! That's one! Th- thank you sir..."

He chuckled. "Oh, I don't think you need to call me sir right now. This is - what's that phrase? Oh yeah. A teachable moment. 'Daddy' will do just fine."

He stroked flesh that I could tell was already reddening, then brought his hand down once more, with even greater force.

"Aaaaarghhhh! T- two. Th- th- thankyou s-... I mean, Daddy. Ohhhh..."

The blows continued, and with each one my howls grew quieter. Not because they hurt less. I simply lacked the breath in my lungs to do any more than gasp out my litany.

By the time I got to 40, my buttocks felt like they were on fire, and I was whimpering continuously, barely able to frame coherent words.

"Stay there," Warren commanded and walked off. Through the haze of pain, I realised the punishment had ended. That's when the sobbing started. I was still crying uncontrollably when he returned.

I couldn't help but flinch as I felt something cool and moist being applied to my tortured flesh. I cried out as the sting intensified just for a second, but then gradually felt the lotion - or whatever it was - start to do its work. Little by little the heat began to leach out of the skin on my buttocks and a blessed numbness started to spread.

And that's when it happened. As Warren gently massaged my poor sore buttocks, tracing wider circles and smoothing the lotion down to the top of my thighs, slipping his fingers into the crack between my cheeks, I began to get hard. Very hard

I had not experienced any sexual arousal for months, bar a brief flicker here or there - including on my first visit to Warren's apartment, when he had also touched my bottom. I had escaped a spanking that time, but not now. So why on earth then was my previously quiescent member now throbbing and straining, after I had taken such a beating?

On that last occasion, I had been bent over Warren's lap and it would have been easy for him to feel the kind of response I was now exhibiting to his treatment. This time, he couldn't do that unless he reached up through my legs to grab my stiff cock... Oh god! He wouldn't, would he?

And then a worse question still. Did I want him to touch me there?

An involuntary moan spilled from my lips. Fortunately, with all the noise I'd been making, it wouldn't have been easy to determine that this one was born of a very different kind of distress.

If my tormentor was able to detect the difference, he didn't show it. When he had finished administering the treatment, he told me to pull my panties up and get back to work. His matter-of-fact tone gave no hint of what had just transpired. Nor was there any suggestion that he had at all exerted himself.

"Yes Daddy," I sniffled. Keeping my back to him, I tried to tuck my cock away. But it was too stiff to slide between my legs. Even pressed up against my belly and held in place by the waistband of my panties, it still produced a bulge that was visible under the tight skirt.

Mercifully, i was able to shuffle out of the office and pull the door closed behind me without Warren being any the wiser. Or so I hoped, anyway. Then I escaped to the toilet. It took a good ten minutes of resolutely planning ways I could vacuum the large living room without having to use more than one power point, before my erection subsided.

What I couldn't do then, or for days afterward, was to sit down on the toilet with any comfort - or anywhere else, for that matter. I excused myself at home by pleading saddle soreness from a lengthy bike ride.

If Jillian thought my behaviour was at all odd, she didn't show it. Indeed, she was happy that I seemed to be out of my funk, as she put it.

I actually felt that I was a bundle of nerves, what with the accumulating list of secrets I was hoarding, quite apart from the stresses of being around Warren. But at least I was being more responsive.

Spurred by my growing confidence with Trudie, I started agreeing to go out again with Jillian, both on our own and more occasionally with our old friends - or at least the ones who hadn't dropped us like a stone after my brief but ignominious brush with the penal system. Those others? Well, they weren't missed.

The darkest cloud on my horizon during this period was the memory of how I had responded to Warren's touch - and more specifically, the concern about what he might do next. I couldn't help my imagination concocting all kinds of ways in which he might seek to use me sexually.

And that in turn led inexorably to what became a fixation on his cock.

Would he want me to touch it? To kiss it, even put it in my mouth? Or would he want it - oh god - somewhere else? What did it look like? How big was it? Could I handle it? (And by "handle," I wasn't just thinking manually...)

When I was at the apartment, it was all I could do not to stare at his package. It certainly made a sizeable lump in his pants. But if he was at all excited, he didn't show it. Which was good, because I didn't want him to be excited. Although if that was true, what possible reason was there for me to keep imagining him being excited? And why did I keep getting erections when I thought about where that excitement might lead?

Now I could have sworn blind that I didn't have a gay bone in my body. I'd never, ever, ever thought about men (or boys) that way. Yet something in the way I'd been roughly fondled by those horrible old men in prison had sparked a reaction.

Even Nicole, the pretty young man who'd rescued me from them had seen it. He (she?) had advised me to find myself a strong man, even if I didn't stay in prison...

Well, now I had one, all right. A strong man who was forcing me to dress like a sexy girl when working for him. Who was ready to spank me for the slightest hint of disobedience. Who had seen what I was - or at least what I could be - and taken control of me without the slightest resistance on my part.

Two weeks after my corporal punishment, when my fears and fantasies had reached fever pitch, I woke one morning to find that I'd had a wet dream.

A wet dream! I couldn't remember the details, but it had definitely involved Daddy's cock, of that much I was sure. That was what I was now calling him all the time - except of course when speaking to Jillian. My real father, who was long deceased, had only ever been Dad to me, so in that sense it wasn't difficult. But the significance of the forced intimacy was not lost on me.

I was able to clean up the mess I'd made on myself and the bedsheets, without my wife noticing. But the incident proved to be a spur.

For the first time since I had come out of prison, I made a proper effort to rebuild my marital sex life. Jillian, who'd been subsisting on orgasms delivered by my tongue and fingers, had fretted over her inability to arouse me in return. Now, she was overjoyed to be "fucking properly" again, as she put it.

It was not all straightforward. I found myself on occasion sustaining my excitement by picturing the sexy lingerie I was purchasing and wearing, which was not exactly ideal. But at least I managed not to think about Daddy or his cock while I was having sex with Gillian, and there were fewer bouts of unhelpful fantasising in between times.

Still, the bizarre sexual tension that had somehow developed between Warren and myself remained, especially when we were in close proximity, and I was doing his bidding. And it ramped up just that little bit further when he made the request that had brought me to the lingerie store today - or rather, the alley behind it.

As Trudie emerged from the back door, and I put up my hand to wave to her, I didn't need to fake the warm smile of recognition. But my words of greeting were stifled when I saw that she wasn't alone.

A tall and elegant brunette was with her, a woman in her late thirties or early forties. I recognised her as another of the shop assistants, though I couldn't recall ever having spoken to her. She was giving me a searching look.

My eyes flicked back to Trudie as she and her companion reached me. "Hey Nikki!" the young blonde exclaimed. "This is Ayla - she works with me, you know?"

"Um, yes," I said guardedly, trying to indicate with eyes that we needed to have a strictly private conversation. "But-"

"Oh, don't worry about Ayla," interjected Trudie, "she knows all about you! Well, as much as you've told me, I suppose. And really, when you asked if I could help, well, I guess I could try, but what you really need is an expert. And that's Ayla!"

"O-kay," I said reluctantly and turned to the brunette. She gave a thin smile.

"So, Dominique." The way she quite deliberately pronounced my full feminine name sent a shiver through me. Or maybe a thrill. It was hard to tell which. "What do you need to know about makeup?" she asked,

I blinked and then answered in a sheepish tone: "Um, everything?"

The two women laughed, and after a brief hesitation I joined in. I guess it was kind of funny. But the thought of working for Warren dressed as I had been these past weeks, but now in full makeup as well? That was a whole other matter...

To be continued