By Downing Street
Thanks to the vanishing Mystery Girl, whose suggestion that the victim should show a little more resistance provided inspiration for the following bit of trifle. Comments and suggestions always welcome: [email protected]
The nerve of that man! The pure, unadulterated gall. Carol paced back and forth in the back office, seething. How dare he tell her how to dress! “No more pants in the office please, Ms Dexler,” he said, in that annoyingly proper voice. So bloody self-righteous. “I do not consider pants to be appropriate office attire for a professional woman. Skirts only, please, from now on.” Carol threw back her long black hair and made a face. Skirts only? Forgodsake, which millennium did he thinks this was? She almost never wore skirts. Outside of the office she lived in blue jeans. Was she supposed to abandon a closet-full of pants for some patronizing, outmoded dress code?
Carol had almost told him off right then and there. She didn’t like the man, or this job, very much. “Office Administrator” for a psychologist sounded impressive, but Carol knew she was just a glorified receptionist. So she got to manage the files. Big deal. She should have told him where to put it.
There was something in the way he looked at her when he spoke. Dr. Rapport was an imposing figure. His square, movie-star face had the deepest, darkest eyes she had ever seen. When he scowled at her, his black brows frowned over those eyes, as if they had been scorched by the fire that smouldered inside them. She found herself looking directly into his eyes when he did that, drawn downward into their unplumbable depths.
He told her briefly, civilly, that pants were not permitted, all the while fixing her with that relentless gaze. It had thrown Carol off kilter. She couldn’t think of anything to say, she was so taken aback. Instead she just grumbled something and stalked out. Now she was pacing about the back office behind the waiting room, trying to decide whether she should just quit.
She took a deep breath to calm herself. Let’s not over-react. She’d only had this job for three weeks. New in the city, the last thing she needed was to go through the stress of job hunting all over again. She had moved here to be as far away from her controlling ex-boyfriend as possible. For all his show of love and support, he had constantly pushed her into doing things she didn’t care for, especially in bed. He was always on her to dress sexy. She suspected now that he had only been interested in her show-girl looks and not in her mind at all.
OK, the black-haired beauty reasoned, I’ll be logical about this. I’ll let it go for now. I’m too upset to deal with this. Tomorrow morning I’ll talk this over with Dr. Rapport. I’m sure he is, after all, a reasonable man.
“This is quite enough!” Carol said out loud, three days later. She was in the back office again, stomping about among the file racks and expensive furniture. “Who does he think he is? He thinks he can just order me to wear make-up? Gimme a break!” Abruptly, she dropped into a chair. The back office doubled as a lounge. I mean, I am making a concession here, she went on silently. She looked down at her long grey skirt. Now all of a sudden I’m not “projecting a professional image” without lipstick?
She should have told him off, she decided. She should have just quit, right then and there. Why hadn’t she? Maybe it was those eyes of his. They always threw her off guard. She could almost feel his eyes, like precision-guided lasers, boring into her. She could never think straight when he was staring at her like that.
Was it worth putting up with this? she wondered. OK, the man might be eccentric, but the salary was good. Very good, in fact; she certainly had no complaints there. And she had to concede he was a successful therapist. He had innumerable clients, it seemed, and mostly women. They all had nothing but good things to say about him. She sighed and got to her feet. She studied herself in a wall mirror. Maybe a bit of color wouldn’t hurt.
A few days later, in the middle of the morning, the door to Dr. Rapport’s office snapped shut. Carol stood in the hallway for a moment, dumbfounded. She made her way past the waiting room, ignoring the several sharply dressed young women there, and disappeared into the back office.
This time he had gone too far. Imagine telling her that she couldn’t wear black. What kind of dress code was that? Talk about arbitrary! Carol dropped onto a sofa, then bounced back onto her feet, too agitated to sit. Come on, she told herself, he can’t be serious. Black was the only colour most women wore these days. It was basic, it was attractive, it was versatile. Black was the foundation of her entire wardrobe. Now Dr. Rapport tells her she’s to wear nothing black except shoes. Who was he trying to kid?
She caught sight of herself in one of the gilt-edged mirrors around the room. OK, she conceded privately, maybe this outfit was a bit dark: black sweater over ankle-length black skirt, black nylons and chunky black shoes. A little heavy, perhaps, given her raven-black hair, but nothing to go all ballistic about. Yet Dr. Rapport had seen fit to reprimand her about it. “Miss Dexler you are not contributing the proper mood for a therapeutic setting. Black clothing is entirely inappropriate for an environment where we deal with troubled people. It is drab and depressing. Please do away with it. Completely. From here in I expect you to be in bright, cheerful colours at all times. You will wear nothing black except footwear. Do you understand me? Nothing black.”
This is ridiculous, Carol decided. I am not going to rework my entire wardrobe just to suit that man’s childish color preferences. Did he expect her to die her hair too? She leaned forward a little, frowning at her reflection. She opened her purse and freshened her lipstick a little.
Carol had already put on her lipstick the next morning when she found herself going through her closet, nude, trying to find clothes that would conform to Dr. Rapport’s directives. “Bright and cheerful” excluded most of her wardrobe. She frowned, irritated as much at herself as at her employer.
Why should she tolerate this sexist nonsense? What difference did it make what colors she chose to wear? Abruptly, she realized that under Dr. Rapport’s rules she wouldn’t even be allowed to wear black nylons. She groaned out loud. There went most of her hosiery.
She paused for a moment, considering. He hadn’t said anything about underwear. Feeling rebellious, she marched over to a dresser and extracted a simple black bra and matching panties. She put them on and examined herself in the full-length mirror. There, she could wear something black. Dr. Rapport would never know.
After a few moments her smug smile began to fade. Black might show through her blouse. He said nothing black. Nothing except shoes.
She fidgeted for a moment, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She studied her reflection. She could imagine Dr. Rapport’s stern frown. Nothing black. She unhooked the bra swiftly and tore it off, then stepped out of the panties. She swore under her breath. Yet she felt relieved.
Nude again, she stopped to examine her reflection. She generally liked what she saw. Men always liked what they saw. Her slender figure emphasized the smooth roundness of her bum and made her generous chest look even bigger. She had always schooled herself to keep her back straight and tall, not hiding her shape like so many full-figured women did. Her breasts were just big enough to jut out proudly, the tips upturned. Right now her nipples were swollen for some reason. She touched one tentatively and felt a tickle of sexual energy, unexpectedly strong.
She stopped then, although she wanted to continue. This was no time to be in the mood. She returned to the closet and continued her quest for suitable officewear. At length she settled on a simple beige suit with light nylons. Still scowling, she headed out the door.
There is something going on here, Carol decided, late Monday afternoon. She was sitting behind her big desk on one side of the plush waiting room, where two of Dr. Rapport’s clients were waiting patiently for their sessions. One of the women, an office executive of some sort, spent most of her time on her cellular phone. Carol looked at her, sitting poised and confident in her long business suit. She frowned; the executive got to wear black, why couldn’t she?
Carol fussed with the fabric of her flowing, floral dress. She had bought it on the weekend when it became obvious that her wardrobe just wasn’t up to meeting Dr. Rapport’s unique requirements. In fact she had bought a number of dresses and things, rather more than she intended. She had got a little carried away.
The dress was calf-length. It had taken Carol some time to find one that didn’t have a black background. I look like a walking rose garden, she thought sourly. Nevertheless, Dr. Rapport had complained about it. He had told her — what was the phrase — to “adopt a more feminine outlook”. Carol had just looked at him blankly. “Do away with these long, drab skirts,” he said airily, dismissing her dress, and her, with a wave of his hand. “I’m surprised you don’t trip on them. Ms Dexler, I have tried to impress on you that in this office I expect an upbeat, stylish attitude. Have you no heels at all? Think of the clients, Ms Dexler. It is important that we present a cheerful, welcoming ambience.”
There was definitely something wrong here. Why didn’t she tell him to go jump in a lake? He as much as told her to wear shorter skirts. What did he think she was, some sort of decoration? Something wasn’t right.
It’s those eyes, she decided. Something about his eyes. They’re so intense. She could almost see them in her mind’s eye: blazing, burning, drawing her endlessly down and down and down and… She shook her head. This was going to stop right here. There was no way she was going to go shopping again after what she did to her charge cards on the weekend. Certainly not just to show off her legs for the titillation of her sexist boss. No way.
Still, she couldn’t get it off her mind. The thought of buying more feminine clothing was oddly appealing. Maybe she wanted that feeling again, the strange exhilaration she had felt when she was shopping on Saturday, from knowing she was making a fresh start, establishing a new wardrobe, one that would make her look feminine and attractive. It was that feeling that kept her trying on things when she knew it was time to stop, that made her nipples tingly and her panties wet, and that drove her to dump all her bags and boxes in the livingroom when she got home so she could dash to the shower and play with herself until she collapsed in a groaning orgasm under the spray. As she had done every morning since.
She shifted in her seat. She wasn’t going to give in to this bizarre urge. She would stay here all day. She glanced up at the clock: it was almost twelve. She could go shopping at lunch; maybe make a few quick purchases. But she wasn’t going to do that. She wasn’t. She clenched her fists. “Dammit!” she said out loud. The other women looked up at her in surprise. Carol grabbed her purse and dashed out the door.
Carol’s heels clicked on the tile floor as she ambled down the grocery store aisle, tossing tins and food into her cart without paying much attention. What is wrong with me? she demanded silently. Why can’t I stop doing this? She caught her reflection in the glass of a display case and automatically began primping. Stop that! she told herself.
She did look good, she had to admit. Her navy blue stretch top matched the hip-skimming mini and flashed her navel whenever she lifted an arm. Suntan nylons graced her shapely legs, topped off with deep blue, sling-back pumps. Nothing black, of course. Why was she dressed like this to buy groceries? Even worse, why was she enjoying it so much?
She had been drawing admiring looks from every man in the store since the moment she strolled through the revolving door. She watched them watching her. She walked slowly, deliberately, giving everyone plenty of time to get a good look. She enjoyed the attention far too much. This wasn’t right, she scolded herself. Dr. Rapport was doing something to her head.
In the canned soup aisle she noticed a stock boy putting tins on the shelf. He was a youngster, still in his teens. His eyes devoured her legs. Impulsively, Carol turned her back on him, then bent over to choose something off the bottom shelf. She spent a long time studying competing brands. When she straightened and turned around the stockboy’s eyes were wide. Carol knew her miniskirt could not have preserved modesty. She smiled warmly at the boy as she strutted by.
She stopped when he was out of sight and bit her lip. She couldn’t understand why she kept doing that. Nor why it felt so good. Her face was flushed.
A young woman walked by, sporting flared jeans and a T-shirt, athletic shoes. Carol should have been dressed like that, she knew, just to go grocery shopping. She never wore jeans any more, not even around the house. In the two weeks since her last admonishment from Dr. Rapport, she had been spending more and more time on her appearance, concentrating on a bright, cheerful look. Then testing it to see if men approved. The night before she had spent almost an hour getting ready for a five-minute walk to the corner store.
Dr. Rapport was doing this to her, she was sure of it. She had to fight it. A few days earlier she had taken all her skirts and dresses into a seamstress to have the hems taken up. Way up.
Carol arrived at the check-out line and began unloading groceries. The rack of magazines beside the clerk carried the latest issue of Soap Opera Weekly. “No!” Carol said, louder than she intended. “I will not.”
She had been sitting in the back lounge one lunch hour, watching the news on the little television there, when Dr. Rapport walked in. Acceding to his preferences, she had been wearing a rather short peach jumper over a white sweater. “What’s this now?” Dr. Rapport said, looking at the screen. “Hardly relevant to your workday, is it?” As always, he was impeccably turned out in an expensive tailored suit.
Carol put down her salad. “The news? Not relevant? Excuse me, but I hardly see–”
He turned toward her, fixing her with that scowl. “Ms Dexler, there is no real information about the world to be had from a collection of six-second sound bites, accompanied by fuzzy visuals of places you’ve never been. If you want to watch the box, I’d far rather you spent your time keeping up with the daytime serials.”
Her mouth gaped open. “The soaps! You expect me to watch soap operas? What on earth–”
“Come now, let’s not be judgemental,” he said evenly. “Many of my clients are stay-at-home wives and homemakers. They watch these serials, and enjoy them. You should too, so you can make conversation with the clients and help put them at ease.”
He was using those eyes again. Carol felt her skin prickle. She wasn’t going to let him get the best of her. Not this time. “I think I can choose what to watch on television,” she said icily. He turned around and left without saying anything more. Carol savoured a small victory.
Now she stood in the grocery store, dressed to kill, glaring at a trashy magazine like it was a personal affront. She picked up the display copy. I will not do this! she snarled inwardly. No. She clenched her fists, crumpling the magazine in her hands. She would not be treated this way.
She looked down at the magazine again. “Will Amanda finally marry Josh?” read the cover. Carol swore quietly. She tossed the magazine on the check-out counter, along with the rest of her groceries. Ashamed, she felt her face turn red. Her panties were wet, again.
There were clients waiting in the outer office but Carol was ignoring them. She was in the lounge in the back, pacing back and forth as fast as she could in her high heels. Which wasn’t very fast at all. One of her soaps was playing on the big new television beside the sofa.
She had to put a stop to this. Today, now, before it went any further. She had to confront Dr. Rapport. She had to tell him she wasn’t going to put up with this — this whatever he was doing to her. Maybe she should quit completely. She sat down for a moment. The hem of her minidress slipped up to the tops of her thighs. The dress was tight fitting and bright neon pink. She had coupled it with gold fishnet pantyhose and white platform sandals with transparent plastic tops.
The whole outfit was outrageous. She practically glowed in the dark. She hated it. Men had been staring at her all day, everywhere she went. It made her hot. She ground her thighs together and fought the urge to finger herself.
She got to her feet again and shuffled over to one of the mirrors. Her earrings were big pink hoops that matched the dress. Her hair and make-up were carefully done. As they were every day, even weekends. She toyed with a strand of long black hair for a moment. She had impulsively cancelled her monthly trim. The thought of shortening her hair was suddenly repulsive to her.
I’ve got to fight this, she told herself yet again. He’s doing something to me, hypnotizing me or something. He’s trying to make me over into some sort of sex doll. She regarded her reflection critically. She looked hot, super sexy, totally unprofessional. She looked like — well, a complete bimbo. It wasn’t going to work, she declared. She was an intelligent woman with a college degree. She was not going to let that evil man bimbo-ize her. Whatever he was doing to her was going to stop.
The past few weeks had been so confusing. She remembered wild shopping sprees, hours spent primping and fussing in front of her mirror, growing disinterest in any television besides soap operas and trashy talk shows. She hadn’t worn sneakers in weeks. Last night she had cleaned her apartment in underwear and a pair of high-heeled platform clogs. Late one night, drunk and over-wrought, she had grabbed all her old black clothes and thrown them into the dumpster behind her apartment building. She had been furious at herself the next morning. At the time, it had bothered her more to be outside without make-up.
It was increasingly difficult to go out in public without dressing sexy first. It was even more difficult to ignore the shocked stares and hungry looks she drew as she wiggled down the street in her bright coloured minis and high heels. It mortified her to be displaying herself this way, yet she was as excited by male attention as the most boy-crazy teenager.
She was getting turned on much too easily. The other day she had stopped to put gas in the car. The attendant kept looking down her very low-cut sweater. Carol smiled at him, then dropped her keys so she would have to bend over to retrieve them. The attendant gawked helplessly. The incident got Carol so turned on she had to pull over somewhere, slip her hands under her shiny nylons and masturbate for a while. She could almost see Dr. Rapport’s eyes looking on approvingly while she brought herself off.
She was still looking at herself in the mirror. She did have great tits, she had to admit. Men were always staring at them. She let out her breath and stopped one hand that was toying with her hem, creeping stealthily toward her crotch. Stop it!
This had to end. Right now, right here. She was going to march into Dr. Rapport’s office and resign. She would not be bimbo-ized!
Twenty minutes later, Carol stumbled out of Dr. Rapport’s office, propping one hand on the wall for support. Dammit, what happened! Why hadn’t she just quit, like she intended? It was those eyes again. She shouldn’t have let him even look at her. Dammit dammit dammit.
Dr. Rapport could see Carol was upset. He looked at her with concern. He told her to stop worrying, everything would be fine. Carol tried to protest, but Dr. Rapport raised a hand and Carol couldn’t bring herself to interrupt. Gentle kindness shone in his dark eyes; those swirling, whirling, bottomless eyes that drew her in and in and down and down until she felt like she was floating, drifting weightlessly downward into those endless pits of warm darkness. “Frankly, my dear, I think you worry too much,” he said. You need to relax more. Learn to take life a little easier.”
“But–” protested Carol, but he shushed her like a child.
“Trust me, Carol. You’ll find it much easier to smile at the world if your head isn’t full of the depressing nonsense you see on the nightly news. You need to develop a more light-hearted attitude. Try reading a comic book instead of the paper. You are a sexy young woman, you should be enjoying life. Take yourself a little less seriously. You’ll feel better about yourself, and the clients will appreciate it too.”
Carol leaned against the hallway wall, trying to get a grip. Take life easier? Stop worrying? Just like that? It made no sense. He was still playing tricks on her mind. She had to get away from here. Quickly, before he could do any more damage. She smoothed down her stretchy dress with both hands. “Oh fuck but I’m horny,” she said out loud, before stumbling off to the lounge to relieve herself.
The waiting room was crowded this morning. Dr. Rapport had double-booked to clear up a backlog of clients. The women all waited patiently. Many of them were watching the soap opera showing on the television conveniently mounted on one wall.
Carol was sitting behind her big desk, watching the show while repainting her long fingernails. She was desperately concerned that Natalia find her lost boyfriend (he was such a hunk!) but she was dividing her attention between the show and a young man who was covertly eyeing her from behind his newspaper. He was cute. She’d bet he was a hot fuck. Maybe she could get his phone number. He was waiting beside his girlfriend, but that didn’t matter. Carol was certain she’d be way better in bed than her anyway.
She raised one hand, fingers spread, and admired her new polish. The crimson lacquer had little sparkles embedded in it. Cool. The garish red matched her tight red sweater and flippy miniskirt. She admired her legs vainly, displayed to best advantage by ice-blue nylons and shiny red ankle boots. She had promised herself a dozen times she would stop buying more shoes, but she felt naked without the right footwear. Her heels kept getting higher and higher.
Carol shifted in her seat slightly. It was difficult to sit in this mini without showing off the wide lace tops of her stay-ups. Actually, that was kind of the idea.
One day when Carol had wandered into Dr. Rapport’s office, probably to resign or something, he had simply ordered her to wear sexy underwear. All the time. It was important, he explained, for her to look and feel feminine from the ground up. There was nothing like a bit of see-through lycra beneath her clothes to make a woman feel her best.
He was right. Suddenly she couldn’t get enough of this stuff. Sexy lingerie became her new passion. She even slept in it.
Frowning, she shook her head, making her long earrings swing and flash. None of this made any sense. Did it? She wasn’t sure. It was so hard to think any more. No fun. It was so much easier to just go with the flow and spend her time doing what she enjoyed, which was chiefly showing off for men.
She enjoyed that a lot. It was habit-forming. It made her horny. Her boss made her horny too. Everything made her horny. Looking around to be sure nobody would notice, Carol took a few tentative strokes beneath her immodest mini. The nice thing about stockings was they didn’t get in the way.
Carol bit her lip. She decided to spend a few minutes in the lounge again. She needed some relief, and Dr. Rapport didn’t mind. He even let her keep some toys there. Making sure the cute guy was watching, the ravishing, raven-haired receptionist got to her feet and tottered off to the back room. The television was playing there too. She closed the door, dug out her favourite vibrator, lay down on the plush couch, and passed a happy hour watching the soaps and pretending the male characters were doing her. Dr. Rapport had told her that the room was sound-proofed. Good thing.
“Come on, Rappy, you’re, you’re like, doing something to me!” Carol whined in her little-girl voice. She was standing in Dr. Rapport’s big office, her red-painted lips pursed into a melting pout. “It’s like, oh, I don’t know, like I can’t even think any more.”
“Nonsense my dear,” her employer answered off-handedly. “You seem perfectly rational to me. And you run the office splendidly.”
Carol brushed back a lock of perfect permed hair and her bracelets glittered. “Yes, but still, I shouldn’t like, you know, be acting like this. I want you to stop it. Whatever it is, you’re like, doing.” She stamped her foot in exasperation and nearly lost her balance on her sky-high heels.
It was so hard to put into words. She loved this job, she loved her boss, she loved wearing pretty things to the office and coming on to all the men, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. If she could just explain it better.
I shouldn’t be acting like this, she decided. I’ve been — what was that word — bimbo-ized! Yes, that was it. She started to explain what she meant but she caught Rappy looking at her legs and she lost her train of thought. He looked at her legs a lot. It never failed to turn her on.
There was plenty to look at today, between the hem of her tight vinyl minidress and her candy-apple red sandals with narrow platform heels. She had dressed her legs in white stockings with a seam up the back and ornate lace garters barely covered by the indecently short dress, even when she was standing up. Her make-up and jewellery were as gaudy and perfect as her hair.
“I think I understand, sweetmeat,” Dr. Rapport said kindly. His eyes wandered leisurely upward from her silk-encased thighs to where her abundant breasts were presented like an offering by the low-cut dress and a lace demi-bra. “You’re just tense. It’s been a long day for both of us.”
She tried to protest again. “No, Rappy, it’s more than that. You’re trying to turn me into some kind of… of…..ahhh.” He raised his gaze to her face. Carol found herself looking into those eyes again, those warm, wonderful, fascinating eyes that drew her down and down and down into their unimaginable depths until she was floating inside them, surrounded by love and peace and serenity. Her voice trailed away.
“You need some relief, my precious, from all the tension that is building up inside you. As do I. Come here and make yourself feel better.” He unzipped his pants.
It was too much for Carol. Mouth watering, she staggered toward him in her three-inch platforms and sank gracefully to her knees. She gently extracted his already hardening dick and slipped it into her mouth. I’m just a love doll, she thought as she began to bob eagerly up and down his rod. I’ve been totally bimbo-ized. Wow that makes me hot. She wallowed in the delicious sensations of her boss’s prick in her mouth, while one red-nailed hand slipped under her short dress to pleasure her dripping pussy. She knew that if she did a really good job, her boss might give her something better to fill her. She closed her eyes, letting her awareness drift, down and down and down into whirlpools of limpid light to meet the orgasm that was already rising to engulf her.