Part One, in which Faith can’t help but take a growing interest in a new wardrobe.
“What a clothes horse!”
“You have a package for me?” Faith asked.
The office manager looked up. “Apartment?” she asked in an annoyed tone. Janice was off Mondays; this older woman apparently covered the office for her.
The older woman shuffled off to the back room, out of sight. “What’s the name?” she called out.
“Matthews,” Faith called back. She heard boxes being stacked and restacked. After too-few moments of looking, the annoyed voice reasserted itself. “I don’t see it here. How big is it?”
Faith looked at the slip that had been left stuck to her door, looking for the parcel weight or some other clue. “I’m not sure. It came UPS.”
The level of annoyance increased. “Well, what did you order?” it asked. More stacking and unstacking, then it stopped. “Here it is,” the office manager said as she reappeared, carrying something a little larger than a shirt box.
“Thank you,” Faith nodded as she backed out of the office.
Ten minutes later, Faith was sitting, silent and motionless on her couch, still in her work clothes. On a normal day she’d start peeling out of them before the front door shut, eager as much for mental as physical comfort to get into jeans and a T-shirt; but the unexpected package had intrigued her, so after slitting the packing tape on one end with her key, she’d slid the contents out onto the coffee table. The contents surprised her.
It was after checking both the delivery slip and packing list several times that she’d had to sit down on the couch, as a mixture of shock, anger, and fear flooded her. And just a little excitement.
Several minutes of spinning her mental wheels had gotten her nowhere. A dozen suspects had been added to and crossed off her list, leaving her with no more clue than before. Who would have sent her lingerie?
She picked through the bits of cloth on the table, looking at the tags for a manufacturer, but they only indicated the size. Stranger still, letters were inked over the size… T, F, another T, W, TH… days of the week! What the hell? Faith dropped the scrap of cloth in her hand and sat bolt upright. This was getting freaky. She snapped her head to the left, looking out her patio window, but the blinds were angled so that no one could see in.
Faith began examining the items themselves, laying them out carefully according to the letters on their tags. They all seemed to be the same basic style — satin bra and matching panties, all white save two pieces in black — but the bras were in different sizes and the panties varied in cut. “It’s like they just pulled everything off one rack at Macy’s,” Faith mused. And they were all too big for her, though she could make Tuesday’s 34A work if she added pads. Wednesday and Thursday’s 34Bs and Friday’s 34Cs were useless. This must be somebody’s sick joke making fun of my boobs, Faith thought. Or her lack thereof; although a slim and graceful 5’5″, Faith was basically flat-chested. Angry, she balled all the bras up and shoved them back into the box. Her hand hovered over the panties, hesitating. She could always use more underwear, and all but Friday were Small, her size. But this was a “gift” best not accepted; she shoved them into the box as well, and stormed off to get changed.
Comfortable in her torn jeans and half-shirt — her “laundry night” outfit — Faith ordered her usual Dinner For One from the chinese place down the street and hurried down to the laundry room to get her loads started before the food showed up. One machine with her cotton underwear and weekend jeans and T-shirts, another with her blouses and nylons, the last with her vests and pants. She was lucky to get all three machines going before Scowling Man from upstairs could tie up all four machines. Like clockwork, he’d rumble down the stairs at 5:55 arms loaded with a pair of duffel bags and a box of Cheer hanging from his right hand, load up all the machines, and then forget his laundry until 9:00, when he’d stomp down the stairs again to throw everything into the four dryers, and stomp down one last time at 11:00 to haul his stuff away. Faith avoided doing laundry on Mondays when she could — Scowling Man intimidated her almost as much as he irritated her for the way he’d monopolize the laundry room — but she’d been busy on the weekend and didn’t have any office clothes left to wear tomorrow.
She’d just taken delivery of her weekly chinese indulgence when she heard Scowling Man make his way downstairs. She turned the volume down on the stereo and listened with bated breath. A few muffled exclamations, then a heavy stomp back up to the third floor. Faith resolved to keep as quiet as possible when she picked up her things later; she didn’t need a run-in with him tonight.
As always, the chicken-and-brocolli over rice was good, if a little too spicy this time. Faith finished her third glass of water before getting up to pee. When she sat back down and began flipping channels for something interesting to watch, she noticed the time. Her laundry should be ready for the dryer…
“Look, I didn’t do it, all right? Now leave me alone!” Scowling Man’s face was red, his bulky frame filling his doorway. Faith shook as the adrenaline rushed through her, but she wasn’t backing down.
“All’s I know is, I happened to get my laundry in before you could go down there and hog all the machines like you always do, and I come back and everything’s ruined! If you didn’t do it, who did?” Faith’s grammar and vocabulary usually reverted to high-school girlishness when she got flustered.
“Sure I was mad that you intentionally disrupted my schedule,” Scowling Man replied, “but I’m not gonna wreck all your stuff, even if it isn’t much to look at.” He obviously didn’t intend it as a slight, but it was hard to take it any other way; this was not a man who often considered the feelings or opinions of others.
Faith was taken aback. “You god-damned…” but she ran out of steam as she looked up at this mountain of a man. No, he was a jerk, but in that self-absorbed way that told her playing dirty tricks was too much effort and too indirect for him. He confirmed it: “If I was gonna do something, I woulda pulled your stuff out and piled it on the floor until I finished. You know, you should really think about how your actions affect other people,” he finished with an ironic twist that settled the young woman.
“Well I’m sorry,” she said, fire still in her tone, “but somebody destroyed basically my entire wardrobe by pouring some kind of greasy solvent in the machines, and I can’t exactly afford to go out and replace it all.”
“I’m sorry too, um, ma’am, but I didn’t do it, and I can’t help you. Are the machines okay to use, or am I going to have to go to the other building?”
“I don’t know; probably not,” Faith mumbled, the adrenaline subsiding and the helplessness of the situation washing over her. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she said and turned to go.
Scowling Man watched her go, simultaneously trying to figure out whether she meant the machines couldn’t be used or he wouldn’t have to go to the other building, and contemplating the shape of her butt in her faded jeans as she made her way down the hall to the stairs.
Back in the laundry room, Faith’s dark mood grew. How was she going to get her clothes cleaned? She’d tried running the machines again, but that only made it worse. What looked like dirty, oily grease from the underside of a car was all over everything, even more of it than after the first cycle. She started pulling items out one by one, looking for anything that was salvagable, but it was hopeless. It looked thoroughly ground-and-soaked-in. And aside from a couple of things she wore when she used to go out, which she couldn’t exactly wear to work, her closet was empty.
“Okay, I’ll be in tomorrow. Thanks, Jim. No, I’m sure I don’t need an advance, but I appreciate the offer. All right. Bye.” Truth was, she could use the advance, but she didn’t feel comfortable accepting one when she’d only been working there for six months. The office rumor mill guaranteed that everyone would know about it, confidentiality policy be damned, and that combined with all new clothes wouldn’t improve office relations with her peers any. She’d just have to do what everyone else did and join the ranks of the credit-card debtors. She had plenty of room on her new ProMedian Visa — with the interest rate being what it was they’d be tickled to see her rack it up to the $5,000 limit.
Going commando around the house on laundry night was one thing; going shopping was another. Faith sat on the bed; after dumping out her dresser drawer, she was presented with just two pairs of little-girl frilly ankle socks and a ridiculous lace-front g-string, the other half of a Frederick’s of Hollywood babydoll she’d received as a misguided valentines-day gift in her senior year of high school. Poor Johnnie; he’d apparently had a crush on her since they were freshmen, but had never screwed up the courage to even approach her. Finally, seeing his time was running out, he’d written an embarrassing (and at the time, scary) seven page letter professing his undying love for her. He wasn’t a spaz or anything; actually, he was kinda cute and she would have gone out with him, but his feelings had reached such epic and twisted proportions that all she could do to save face was crush him. (Well, it isn’t called a crush for nothing.)
The g-string was worse than nothing at all; it had never been worn or washed, so the lace felt scratchy on her sensitive skin. She stepped out of it, and was about to step into her jeans when she remembered the package.
“What am I, an idiot?” Faith said out loud to no one. “Whoever sent me this must have wrecked my clothes.” She pulled the underwear out of the box. Tuesday turned out to be a thong; Wednesday and Thursday’s high-cut bikinis would show through her worn, tight jeans. She often went without a bra, but neither her half-shirt or her cotton camisole top could conceal her completely without one. Especially today… it wasn’t time, but they felt a little puffy. She picked up the Tuesday bra. It fit perfectly. “Okay then, no pads.”
Faith was proud of herself. She’d managed to leverage a “buy one get one free” sale into four complete pantsuits. They weren’t of the highest quality, but they’d do for a couple of months. A few conservative blouses, and some grabs from the discount bin at Victoria’s Secret and she was set. She’d even found a pair of low-heeled pumps on sale.
“I’ve gotta cut out the chinese food; it’s making me fat.” Faith looked with a frown in the mirror; her new bra didn’t fit, and her slacks felt tight in the seat. At least they didn’t pinch at the waist. She went back to the bra she’d worn the day before, thinking it was cut a little bigger, but it was tight too, her flesh bulging slightly at the top of the cups. “I’m too old to be growing; what gives?”
Faith returned to the box of bras, digging for Wednesday’s 34B. “Well, it worked yesterday; let’s see if we can repeat.” Sure enough, the bigger bra fit comfortably. It must be made a little small, Faith rationalized. The matching bikini panties were a foregone conclusion; she’d had a thing about matching tops to bottoms ever since she began wearing a training bra.
Faith received a few lingering looks from the male passers-by as she typed away at her console. A few made comments: “nice blouse!” “You look cheerful today!” She couldn’t help but enjoy the attention; she’d accepted being invisible at work but she didn’t like it. It wasn’t until she stopped in the ladies’ room on the way to lunch that she saw the cause of the change. Her blouse was quite a bit more sheer than she’d thought when she bought it, and a little too snug, too. The lines of her white satin bra were quite evident underneath. “Show’s over, boys; the jacket goes back on this afternoon.”
The headache had started right after lunch, but by four o’clock it was hard to concentrate — and she’d already taken two Advil from the supply cabinet. “You look like you got hit by a truck,” Jim said in a concerned tone.
“I… I’m sorry, Jim, I just have a splitting headache.”
“Well, I saw you hitting the Advil an hour ago; not helping huh? Why don’t you knock off early today. Maybe tomorrow you’ll feel better and you’ll show us all a little more of the happy Faith, eh?”
Faith thought she heard the makings of a double meaning, but Jim’s innocent smile brushed such thoughts away. “Oh… Okay. Thanks, Jim. I really appreciate it. I’ll make up the hour tomorrow.”
Getting into her car, Faith heard — and felt — the rip right up her backside. Her fingers confirmed what the breeze told her; her slacks had split right up the center seam from waist to crotch. “Lovely… I better return the other pairs before I split those, too.”
“I’m sorry, miss, but those are all sold out. You got the last of them.”
Faith’s expression turned grim. This was getting ridiculous. “I’ll just take a refund, then.”
“I’m sorry, but you bought these on clearance. I can only give you a store credit.” The thirty-something sales droid was just trying to make her cry…
“Fine.” Faith was determined not to be beaten. “Do you have anything similar?”
“Slacks just aren’t popular for business-wear this season. But we do have skirts in the same fabric. Or were you planning to bring back the jackets, too?” The saleswoman’s tone was condescending.
Well, Faith, it’s either skirts, bust the budget wide-open at Macy’s, or sink to… K-Mart. “Show me.”
Thursday morning found Faith angry. “Someone is fucking with me and I DON’T LIKE IT!” she screamed in frustration. She liked the changes — her boobs were definitely bigger, and she could swear her curvy hips were more than just the cut of the skirt — but it bothered her that she was being manipulated. Again, the only bra that fit her was the one marked for the day; she’d resigned that Friday would likely bring more of the same and stuffed that day’s marked underwear in her bureau drawer in preparation. Thursday’s coordinating satin thong left no panty lines on her snug but conservative knee-length skirt. Buttons matching those on her jacket held closed the slit that ran up her right thigh. A long-sleeved white satin blouse with a V-shaped lace panel in front and high collar and cuffs complemented the black skirt and jacket nicely; two-inch black suede pumps capped cheap-but-serviceable white stay-up stockings. As she retouched her makeup — a little more eyeshadow and deeper-red lipstick was appropriate with such a conservative dark outfit, she told herself — Faith’s anger faded.
At work, Faith was her usual efficient self — but she couldn’t help smiling at everyone who passed by her desk. As they did the day before, everyone commented how nice she looked. She was even asked to lunch by Cliff from outside sales. Until now, she’d always thought he was an egotistical jerk, but today he radiated warmth and gentle confidence…
Checking herself in the bathroom mirror after lunch, Faith was somewhat dismayed to find that again her attire was slightly more provocative than she’d intended — but this time due to poor construction. The seams of her blouse were unraveling fast; when she took her jacket off the sleeves went with them; she made deft repairs by neatly pulling out the remaining loose threads — if one didn’t look too closely it simply looked like it was sleeveless all along. She noticed a loose thread at the edge of the front lace panel and tugged it sharply to break it off, but instead of snapping it simply pulled, unraveling halfway to the other shoulder. The lace now gapped obviously; she couldn’t leave it as is. Faith carefully pulled the thread the rest of the way out and the lace panel fell away, wafting to the floor. “Hmm, a bit much in the cleavage department, but not out of the realm of professional dress,” she mused. “Two days ago I didn’t have any cleavage to show!”
It wasn’t until late that afternoon that she noticed that five of the eight buttons that held her skirt closed were missing. The tight skirt parted halfway up her thigh, and the outside refused to remain in place on her knee; the slightest movement sent it draping downward. She slipped into the bathroom in an attempt to make adjustments, but her new & improved derriere prevented twisting the skirt to either side; Faith feared a repeat rump-splitting performance when she sat down. Worse, on her way back to her desk she’d nearly been run over by Jim as he came barreling around the corner; while she managed to avoid a collision, she’d nearly lost her balance and grazed a partition wall. This dislodged two more of the skirt’s buttons, and bending to retrieve them pried loose the last of them, opening the slit to just eight inches from her waist. “One more nightclub-only skirt,” she frowned. She’d planned to hide behind her desk and ride out the day, but Jim had given her “emergency filing” to do.
Her embarassment intensified as she worked, moving from one filing cabinet to another in the aisles between desks and low-walled cubicles. The office was basically an open floor, so she was generally within the field of vision of a half-dozen employees. Though she turned bright red whenever she caught someone checking her out, at least they weren’t being rude about it — they were all polite smiles and sweet compliments. It must have been a record-breaking day for trips to the restroom, the break room, the literature table, filing cabinets — the men sought any excuse to walk by and get a better look. Faith knew they couldn’t help but look her up and down — from her four-inch patent pumps to the inches of exposed soft bare thigh above the lace of her sheer white stocking-top on up to her tightly-held breasts — any more than she could help being so exposed. Still, to be on display was embarassing, if a little bit exciting at the same time.
“If I can just get through tomorrow, I’ll be able to buy some more clothes on Saturday — preferably stuff that won’t disintigrate.” As she walked through the lobby at the end of the day, her heels clicked seductively on the polished granite. She caught her reflection in the glass door; the four-inch heels added a sway to her new hips… four-inch heels!? “I’ve never worn these heels to work… am I going crazy?” When she got to her car, she took a closer look. These weren’t her shoes, were they? Did she buy them and not remember? That wasn’t possible; she wouldn’t have bought shoes that were so… sexy, with their glossy patent finish, pointed toes, stiletto heels, and a dramatic low-cut shape. They seriously weirded her out; but they were surprisingly comfortable, as if custom made for her. She slipped them back on; impossibly, they shaped and caressed her feet. “Feels better than barefoot,” she said out loud to no one. She resolved to dig up the receipt — she hoped they weren’t too expensive; maybe she could get another pair, perhaps in different styles and colors…
Part Two, in which Faith is redressed and comes to meet her benefactor.
Faith dragged herself out of bed. She felt like shit; didn’t sleep well at all. As soon as her head hit the pillow it seemed, a series of nightmares gripped her — and excited her. Images flashed across her consciousness — her body ballooning to freakshow-stripper proportions, her clothes shrinking and changing, being surrounded by faceless men who bumped up against her, stroked and grabbed her, seeing herself at work dressed in various slutty outfits, being taken advantage of by her co-workers in unspeakable ways… they were equally horrifying and erotic. More than once she awoke in a sweat with one hand in her panties and the other clamped to her enlarged breasts. What was happening to her? Who was behind it?
Faith regarded her reflection in the mirror with befuddlement. After her fitful night’s sleep, she didn’t look much better than she felt. At the same time she had to admit she looked fantastic. Her confusion and fear gave way to curiosity as she posed in front of the mirror, turning this way and that, admiring her new and improved shape.
The “Friday” bra confirmed it — a bountiful C-cup. Not that she really needed a bra — they jutted out from her chest proudly like twin globes, appearing to defy gravity with their firmness. They jiggled just enough to disprove surgical enhancement. They complemented the twin globes of her ass nicely. Faith ran her hands over her ass cheeks, smacking them in disbelief and making herself cry out in surprise. They looked particularly perky in the daringly-cut ruffled black bikini panties; only the waistband was elasticized, so they gave tantalizing glimpses of her perfect derriere as she moved. Almost as good as her new tits looked in the front-hook demi-bra, her nipples just covered by the smooth black satin.
Faith shook herself out of her reverie — she had to get to work! Her makeup already done (a shade saucier than Thursday) she returned to her closet to consider her options.
She was determined not to repeat yesterday’s disaster — even if it did give her a bit of an exhibitionist thrill, she didn’t want any more of a ruckus than she knew she’d already caused so far this week. Besides, whoever it was that was doing this to her wasn’t going to get the satisfaction of seeing his handiwork any more than necessary. As much as she loved the physical changes, she was still her own woman and she wasn’t going to reduce herself to an object in some dork’s twisted fantasy.
Despite the foreshadowing of the gifted underwear, Faith hadn’t shopped for this contingency — at the time, she hadn’t wanted to believe what was coming. (Faith smiled at the unintended double entendre.) Her options were therefore reduced to just one — a baggy pale yellow sweater that buttoned up in back and a white rayon wraparound skirt that hung loosely from her hips to graze her knees. Faith was afraid her black lingerie would show through, but fortunately her outfit was opaque enough that she couldn’t see anything underneath. Faith tried on a pair of nude stay-ups, but for some reason they didn’t seem right; she settled on a pair of sheer pale yellow ones she’d forgotten she had. As much as she wanted to wear her new super-comfortable black pumps, she had to admit that they pushed her ensemble over the edge into best-forgotten New Wave territory, so she slipped on her old white flats. But she took her black pumps with her — she wanted to be sure to find the store where she bought them when she went shopping that evening.
Faith arrived at work to find two surprises. First was the new receptionist’s workstation. The foreboding onyx monolith was gone in favor of a clear lexan counter cantilevered from a single clear lexan cube near the wall. Even the chair was made from the stuff, except for small angled cushions on the seat and backrest that were made of inflated clear plastic. From several feet back it almost looked as if the receptionist’s phone was hanging in mid-air. “I bet Gwen’s going to like that,” Faith thought of the receptionist, who liked to flirt with the cute sales reps and couriers as they came and went.
“Ms. Matthews?” Jim called to her from the door to the main office floor. “Can I see you in my office?”
The second surprise was that Gwen was out sick — and Jim had volunteered Faith to handle reception in her absence. She tried to beg off, memories of her previous two days at work mingling with the nightmares of last night. “I’ll feel naked out there sitting at Wonder Woman’s Invisible Desk,” she said, realizing after she said it how surrealistically true her choice of phrasing was. But Jim insisted, adding with a subtle glare that her being the last of the admin assistants to show up for work hardly gave her room to argue.
By the time she left Jim’s office to assume her position, the coveralled men from maintenance were gone, and huge mirrored panels covered the wall behind the desk. Could it get any worse? She was literally on display — from the front and the back!
Resigned to her fate, Faith settled herself on the invisible chair. It was the strangest chair she’d ever experienced — the seat was angled like those new-age knee-rest contraptions from the eighties, only without the knees. It put her in a half-sitting, half-standing position. And the backrest was leaned way back. After a few minutes, interrupted twice by phone calls, she managed to figure out the chair’s adjustments well enough to raise the backrest, but the seat’s mechanics were impenetrable. Poor Faith felt stupid trying to figure it out, and gave up after what turned out to be more than an hour. Her calves and thighs were sore from squatting on the floor all morning. The seat was high off the ground — the chair was better called a stool — but at least it had an angled block of a footrest; if she pointed her toes she could just reach it. After sitting in it for a while, Faith had to admit that it was actually quite comfortable. She could cross her legs and shift positions, and although her leaning-on-a-cloud appearance looked odd to her, the two couriers that came in both remarked how cool she looked suspended in mid-air.
Their eyes confirmed that it wasn’t just the workstation they were admiring; the first one complimented her on her “amazing” sweater as his eyes quickly scanned up and down her form. The second one — boy was he cute! — did one better, remarking how her eyes competed with her outfit to outshine each other. “You really light up the room,” he added, “like a bright yellow bolt of lightning!” She glanced down at this, and had to admit that the room’s lighting did make her sweater appear more of a sunshine yellow than the pale lemon she’d thought of it in her closet. It felt tighter, too. She self-consciously tugged down her sweater and her skirt as the courier left with a wink; both garments tended to ride up a bit in this chair. As she turned back to the phone, she caught a glimpse of herself in the wall mirror that didn’t look right. Something on her back… she twisted to get a better look. It wasn’t something on her back, it was her back — several buttons below the neck had disappeared from her sweater. In fact, the sides wouldn’t even meet, her smooth bare back fully exposed from shoulder to shoulder and halfway to her waist. Her black brastraps framed the sides and bottom; one button held the collar that framed the top. “Omigod, it’s happening again!” Faith panicked and hopped off the chair to head for the bathroom, but lost her footing on the slick floor. She collapsed in a heap, limbs flailing about reaching unsuccessfully for anything to stop her fall. The impact stung, knocking the wind out of her.
Faith lay still for a moment, gathering up her wits. Eventually, she used the chair’s seat to pull herself up, hopping on one foot, the other temporarily without its shoe.
“Are you okay?” a concerned voice caught her by surprise; she spun around and nearly fell again; this time, the right sleeve of her sweater caught on the top of the backrest, slowing her descent enough to catch and right herself again. Still standing on one shoe, she looked up and saw her new friend Cliff.
“Yeah,” Faith replied, turning beet red, “I’m just not used to this chair.” Still gripping the chair, she looked down as her foot poked about searching for its lost shoe.
“Or those shoes, I guess,” Cliff answered. Faith found the wayward slingback heel and bent down to slip it on. Hadn’t she worn flats? She felt dizzy… “Yeah, I guess,” she replied meekly. “Excuse me while I go powder my nose.”
Once in the safety of the bathroom, she surveyed the damage. She still couldn’t understand how it was happening, but this wasn’t exactly the sweater she picked out this morning. In addition to the open back, it was quite form-fitting, and stopped several inches short of her waist, just above her navel. “At least this one didn’t turn see-through,” she remarked hopefully. The right sleeve was torn from below her elbow up to the shoulder seam. Faith had experience here; she skillfully picked at and pulled the threads along the shoulder seam until the arm came loose. In a moment of inspiration, she repeated the procedure on the cuff, pulling it cleanly from the arm and placing it on her wrist. Not exactly jewelry, but kinda cool, she decided. Faith did the same to the other arm and cuff.
Moving on to her skirt, she swished it this way and that, looking for damage. The pleated design had apparently ridden up, stopping six inches above the knee. She tugged it down lower on her hips again. This exposed several inches of bare skin at her midriff, but covering her thighs kept it looking somewhat respectable.
Faith stood back and spun around to take in her overall appearance, her long straight blond hair swishing across her bare back, sending chills up and down her spine. The bright yellow sweater, wrist cuffs and matching-bright yellow stockings were certainly electric, especially against the shiny-white polyester skirt and white patent slingbacks, but not quite trashy. Ferris Bueller’s idea of trendy high school nightclub wear, maybe. As embarassing as it might be to have her coworkers see her in such a risque outfit, she did have the figure for it.
But the bra stuck out like a sore thumb. It wasn’t visible from the front, but the exposed straps in back were just plain ugly. On a lark, Faith decided to try going without it — just to see what it would look like, she told herself. She reached up under the sweater and popped the catch, then deftly executed a shrug-out-of-the-bra maneuver, pulling it out behind her. She fondled the sheer mesh cups for a moment before carefully folding it and placing it on the counter.
“Wow! These new tits are amazing!” Faith frowned only for an instant at the unexpected use of the word “tits” before captivation at her image overcame her. She considered leaving the bra off — the way her sweater fit, anyone could see she didn’t need it — but the woven fabric felt itchy on her nipples.
Just then the phone rang; remembering her duty, she quickly shuffled out to the receptionist desk, forgetting her bra on the counter.
It was another hour before she “discovered” the magic switch. A small clear cylinder protruded from one corner of the footrest; when she stepped on it accidentally she felt a push on her backside. Faith leapt out of the chair, gasping in surprise. Just then the phone rang, startling her further; she answered breathlessly.
As she stood next to the chair listening to an irate customer who wouldn’t let her get so much as a word in much less a “let me transfer you,” she observed a subtle movement in the cushions. The left side appeared to inflate for ten seconds, then it deflated as the right side inflated, and the cycle repeated. After transferring the call, she clicked the footswitch and the oscillation stopped. She clicked the footswitch again and the chair resumed its cycle; she could hear the air whooshing through the little tubes hidden along the back of the pedestal, like gentle breathing. Faith eased herself back into the chair; the effect was subtle, but marvelous. It caused her to shift her position subtly, probably to combat fatigue. The longer she sat, the more relaxed she felt…
Lunch came and went. Cliff graciously brought up some of his Thai food when he’d heard that Jim needed her to stay through lunch. Faith ate meticulously, hyper-aware of the visibility even a speck of dropped food would have in such a sterile environment. It tasted very spicy, and more than a little strange.
At two o’clock, a courier came in with a large flat box, awakening Faith from her erotic daydreams encouraged by the massaging motion of the air cushions. “Sign here, please.” Faith stretched back in a relaxed yawn before leaning forward in an exaggerated manner to sign on the courier’s outstretched clipboard. The sweater had stopped itching her nipples long ago as it continued to shrink; in fact, she rather missed the tingly sensation, and had been experimenting with various motions to shift her unfettered tits underneath the constricting and softening fabric when the courier arrived. The yawn and lean achieved the desired result, to the point that her nipples stiffened and poked at the sweater like pencil erasers. The courier’s eyes practically fell out of their sockets, gaping at the luscious vision before him. His look broke Faith of her erotic daydreaming and her cheeks burned crimson as he handed her the package.
She was halfway to the main office door when she looked at the package label. “It’s to me!” she squeaked. Excitement was joined by fear and anger as she recalled the last package she received. Shaking, she returned to her seat and tore the package open, dumping its contents. A pair of shoes clattered loudly onto the invisible desktop, followed by two little socks with fuzzy stuff and a small sweater with more fuzzy stuff. Taped inside the box was a note: “Put these on to signal your acceptance.”
Faith angrily swept the desktop, sending the box and clothing scattering across the floor. “Who the FUCK do you think you are?” she screamed. Her pulse raced and her breathing came in gasps; she was furious!
“Is there a problem?” Jim poked his head around the corner. His eye caught Faith’s, then caught the litter of items on the granite floor.
“Oh, I’m sorry sir. I.. I…” she struggled to come up with an excuse. “They sent me the wrong stuff again,” she smiled weakly.
“Okay, well, keep it down.”
“Yes sir, I will. I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.”
“Oh, and I think you spilled something on your skirt.”
Faith looked down. Christ! Apparently she’d dropped a blob of that Thai sauce right in her lap. “Oh, darn. Thanks for pointing it out; I hadn’t noticed.” Inside she seethed. Of all the luck…
Faith stepped down to retrieve the fallen articles. The sweater was actually a skirt that seemed to match her top perfectly — same soft fuzzy woven fabric, same electric-yellow color, but with maribou trim around the hem. The bootie-socks were electric-yellow fishnet with maribou trim at the ankle. The shoes were clear plastic stiletto mules with what looked like five-inch heels. Fuming, she stuffed everything back in the box. She also picked up the two pens and notepad she’d sent flying.
In the bathroom again, Faith tried blotting out the sauce, but only succeeded in making a small dark-brown stain a larger medium-brown one. The wet area around it was nearly as obvious. Her thoughts went to the skirt in the box, and then the note. “No fucking way,” she grunted through clenched teeth.
Maybe no one would notice the stain if she wore the skirt backwards… Faith returned to her desk moments later, beaming with pride at her ingenuity. In moments she was lost in the relaxing massage of the chair…
Cliff sauntered in again. “How’s the new receptionist?” he grinned. Faith smiled. “Feeling great, considering.”
“Considering what? Oh, that.” His gaze was fixed on the wall. Faith followed it to the mirror, confused. Eventually, she saw her skirt draped down over the back of the seat — and the large hole burned through it.
“Omigod!” Faith bolted up, her hands swiftly covering her exposed backside. Cliff caught a quick glimpse of her black sheer mesh ruffle panties. He raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
“Oh, I guess you hadn’t noticed that.”
Faith remained frozen in place. “It was your damn Thai food — I spilled a little of that brown sauce, and it ate right through my skirt!”
“I can see that,” Cliff grinned. Faith was not amused. “Here,” Cliff said, pulling out his wallet. “Buy yourself a new one. I’m really sorry; I guess I forget how potent I like my Thai.” Faith took the offered bills, one hand still trying (unsuccessfully) to maintain her modesty. “Do you need a sweater or something to cover that up? I’ll go see if anybody in back has something. In the meantime, it might be less obvious if you tucked it in instead of letting it hang out.” He grinned again. Faith could swear she saw a glint beaming from his teeth. She was equally embarassed and excited that he’d seen her so… helpless. Cliff walked past her into the office.
Tucking it under her seat, Faith sat down and twisted round to see her reflection. That was even worse; the burnhole was up high enough that her black panties were plainly visible. She waited ten minutes for Cliff to come to her rescue with something to wrap around her waist, but he never returned. She couldn’t exactly go back there like this, and his phone was on Do Not Disturb. She tried ringing other offices nearby but no one answered.
Finally she gave up waiting and stormed into the bathroom for yet another attempt to recover her virtue. “If backwards worked, maybe sideways will…” Faith’s hopes were dashed as the zipper jammed open. She spun the skirt sideways, but was forced to hold it closed with one hand. That just wasn’t workable. She returned to her desk.
“I know you don’t have anyone to cover reception, but it’s been really slow and my skirt zipper broke! [pause] Please? [pause] Well, yes, but I can’t really- [pause] It’s just that- [pause] Okay.” Faith hung up the phone, broken. Jim had asked her — no, ordered her — to wear the skirt she’d received and stay until the end of the work day.
Once the sweater-skirt was on, her anger at being manipulated subsided in the face of the knockout babe looking back at her and the burning insistence of her hard nipples as her tits struggled against her skin-tight sweater. “I should have been wearing this all day!” The skirt was amazing — the perfect complement to the sweater. Low-slung on her hips, it flared out, hanging in loose folds that gave tantalizing glimpses up her thighs. If she stood still, it hung just long enough to conceal her crotch; but if she bent or sat or stood on a podium… The hem was lined with feather-soft maribou, matching the strips around her neck and wrists. Overcome with erotic energy, she couldn’t help but strip off her stockings and put on the fishnet booties and clear-plastic mules. The total package was yellow dynamite. She scanned her reflection hungrily, licking her lips as she drank in the gorgeous slut before her. The high fur-trimmed collar gave her sweater a false sense of modesty; her nipples poked into the sweater wantonly, visible as shadows through the thin cashmere weave. The skirt was similarly thin; if she pressed it down against her skin, she could see the shadow of her gauzy black panties. The fur-trimmed fishnet ankle socks drew attention to her taut calves and thighs, stretched to the limit atop the five-inch clear stilettos. Through her sex-fog she was dimly aware that her cuffs were now fishnet gloves, their maribou wrist trim matching her feet.
The phone was ringing. She tore herself away from the mirror to answer it. She sashayed across the room, her skirt dancing and swirling madly about her ass, which struggled to escape from the fluttering panties. It stopped ringing before she picked it up — dialtone. No matter. She would just sit in this awesome chair and wait. She adjusted the backrest all the way back, so it was nearly aligned with the angled seat, switched on the air massage, and leaned back in the chair; the maribou trim tickled the bottom of her asscheeks. The massage seemed to be on a faster cycle now; its rhythmic rising and falling caused her hips to sway back and forth; she slumped slightly, pulling her panties up into her crotch and grinding her pussy against the front edge of the seat. Her legs shifted back and forth, further stimulating her sensitive lips. Faith arched her back into the chair, thrusting her perfect tits skyward. Her hands rode up her body, fingers working their way to her rock-hard nipples…
“My, my, truly a throne fit for a queen!” The booming voice startled her. She stiffened and shook the fog from her head; it was Johnnie!
“Or perhaps a pedestal to show off a work of art,” he added more quietly as he approached.
In her mind, Faith was instantly transported back to high school. Embarassed at being seen like this, she was nonetheless too far gone to stop writhing.
“Here, let me help you with that.” Johnnie moved quickly behind her, tearing her hands away from her engorged nipples and pulling them down behind her. Faith heard a metallic Click!; her hands were locked together!
Johnnie stood before her, kicking her legs apart with his feet. He grabbed the fur-lined hem of her skirt and flipped it up lewdly, exposing her see-through black ruffled bikini panties to the world. In an instant he was upon her, pawing and licking and pinching and biting her nipples through the thin fabric. As terrified as she was at what was happening, her body would not be denied. She wrapped her leg around his and pulled him closer.
A hand invaded the space between her splayed legs; a fingernail poked at her dainty underwear and tugged. Faith felt them rip slightly. Two fingers forced their way into the hole and stretched; they both heard the fabric tear slowly until there was a ragged four-inch slit. Before she knew it, Faith felt Johnnie enter her in one viscious thrust; she cried out in surprise.
Johnnie pistoned in and out of her, steadily increasing the tempo; Faith matched him thrust for thrust. The maribou trim from the back of her skirt worked its way between her legs and tickled his balls; this unexpected contact drove him on at a frenzied pace. Faith put her other foot up on the desk behind him; her shoe fell to the floor. He reached back and stroked up and down her leg, pausing at her fur-trimmed ankle and then focusing on her arch. The tickling made Faith spasm uncontrollably. Her breasts jumped around under the oppressively-tight sweater; her nipples were on fire. Johnnie was close now; he grabbed one asscheek in each hand, first fingering, then tugging at the ruffled panties. The flimsy material gave way an inch at a time; the sound of each rip egged Johhnie on and finally over the edge. They screamed as they exploded in unison, gripping each other tightly. Finally Faith’s leg unwrapped itself from Johnnie’s as she passed out, spent. The stiletto mule hung loosely from her toes.
Johnnie pulled out and zipped up. “Damn, she’s out cold.” He took a moment to catch his breath, staring at Faith’s prone form; she breathed deeply, her chest heaving. Reaching into a bag on the floor, Johnnie pulled out a camera. “I’m sure she won’t mind if I take a few snapshots to remember the moment,” he sneered. He peered through the lens of the expensive camera, stepping back to frame his shot. “Fuck ME!” he whooped as his eyes drank in the sleeping sextoy before him. “Oh yeah, that’s right… you DID!”
Faith made for quite a sight. One fishnet-clad foot rested on the clear desktop; the other leg hung down loosly, the clear stiletto heel dangling precariously. The chair leaned far back, thrusting her hips and chest forward as her shoulders sagged back, weighed down by her hanging arms, still bound together at the wrists by a metal clasp concealed in her gloves’ maribou trim. Her all-yellow outfit exaggerated her splayed position atop the clear lexan pedestal in the middle of the naked room; it made Johnnie think of a lone sunflower, straining to let fly its seeds.
The shutter snicked more frequently now as Johnnie got down to business; he could stare at the pictures all he wanted later. Or fuck her again, in that outfit on that chair, or anytime & anywhere else wearing anything he wanted, for that matter. Sure, there might be consequences, but Johnnie figured he could afford them. After the remarkable gift his old boss Richard Pearson had bestowed upon him, he could get just about anything he wanted when it came to chicks. And his photography experience turned that into easy money. Which turned into more chicks. And cars and a bitchin’ home entertainment system and computers and shit.
Johnnie reminded himself that he had to be gone before she woke up; the orgasm worked ‘it’ out of their system and they were normal again — until he hit ’em with ‘it’ again, anyway. He still didn’t get how ‘it’ worked; it had sounded like so much geek-fantasy bullshit when Richard had first explained it. But fuck if this wasn’t living proof that the formula worked, sprawled out and leaking fuck-juice right out of her ripped-up skivvies and runnin’ down her leg. Besides, this was his geek-fantasy. And he looked forward to living a lot more of it.
“Just a couple more shots…” Johnnie already had six rolls that he’d taken illictly throughout the day, and he was working on his third post-sex roll, but it would be so much better if… there! “Yeah, baby, that’s it.” Johnnie had lifted her arms up and hooked the clasp between her wrists in the roots of her long blond hair. It made her look like she was caught in mid-stretch. And there were no signs that she was any closer to waking up. He snapped a few more, then caught further inspiration. His camera dangled from its strap around his neck as he reached down, grabbing the bottom of her sweater in both hands. He pulled, and the sweater parted, slowly tearing up the middle all the way to the fur-trimmed collar. The staccatto sound of failing fabric reinvigorated his hard-on; too many lingerie catalogs and Penthouse fantasy layouts in my formative years, Johnnie mused. He carefully arranged the separated halves, then repeated his handiwork on her skirt, ripping it up the middle from hem to waist, neatly framing the still-soaked and shredded panties that covered but did not conceal her shaved pussy.
“Her motor’s not running,” Johnnie rued. Easy enough to fix… he reached up and rudely pinched her nipples; this caused her to stir, a moan escaping her. He bent down and blew gently on her crotch; her lips unfurled, needing little provocation in her still-woundup state. “That’s better.” He finished the roll and grabbed his bag just as she began to wake. “Oh yeah, almost forgot.” Johnnie pulled out a box not unlike the one he’d sent her earlier, this one with the underthings she’d need for her big shopping weekend. He couldn’t believe he was going to wait three whole days before dipping her again, but he had work to do to get the photos developed and the Web site going, and he needed to concentrate.
Faith awoke just in time to hear the front door rattle closed against its electromagnetic security plate. She straightened up slowly as her stiff muscles fed her brain damage reports. When her eyes focused on her image in the wall mirror, she collapsed to her knees in shock. It wasn’t a dream!
She didn’t know how long she lay there; the room just kept spinning; she couldn’t catch her breath. Eventually she settled down and took stock of her situation. It was… ten thirty! according to the phone clock. The lights were still on; how long had she been out of it? She looked out the front doors to the parking lot; her Corolla looked lonely in the distant sodium light.
“No sense hanging around here,” Faith heard her words echo loudly. She pulled herself to her feet — and noticed she was minus one shoe. Her mind flashed back to the last time this happened; she’d fallen over, unaccustomed to the height of her white slingback pumps. The image faded and she returned to the present, looking at her shoed foot; it took her a minute to recognize there was a shoe there, it being clear plastic. An invisible pedestal, just like this desk, Faith mused. She looked about and spotted the other shoe on the desk and slipped it on. The mental fog was lifting; she looked about, gathering up the two boxes next to the chair. As she turned to head for the bathroom to tidy herself up, she was confronted with her reflection in the back wall mirror. It took her breath away. Tidying up was pointless; she’d been Barbied beyond recovery. Electric yellow, translucent, skin tight, torn, maribou-trimmed, matching hands and feet, perched atop two small clear towers and posing next to one large one. It was almost art. “It’s almost too bad nobody took pictures.” This thought sent a chilled-and-thrilled shiver through her.
Faith minced her way out to her car as quickly as she could. The door didn’t open; she needed a key. Where was her key? Right, in the pocket of her skirt… not this one, the one I had on this morning… in the box. Faith frantically dug through the box, feeling around the ruined white skirt in search of the pocket, digging the key out, dropping the box. Door open, boxes thrown in, jumped inside, door closed, car started, tires squealing, finally getting away from that place.
Well, there was no denying that she was dressed like a cheap slut, and she knew she hadn’t dressed that way that morning. But how could she explain her transformation? It didn’t make any sense. It made her brain hurt to think about it. “Well, I can’t report it if I can’t explain it. I don’t want to lose my job.” Report it to whom? The police? Well, it was a rape, wasn’t it? Images flashed through her mind; the way Johnnie took her, the way he looked so handsome and powerful standing over her, the way she pulled him to her…
Bright lights and an angry horn startled her back to the present. If it was rape, why did she remember being so willing, so turned on? There was no violence, no struggle… though she remembered being handcuffed, it only turned her on more. “Drugs. In the Thai food. I don’t know how, but I’m going to get even with Johnnie and Cliff. They think they can just use me like that…” her hands gripped the wheel of her Corolla more tightly; she felt the pattern of the fishnet gloves press into the heels of her hands. She glanced down at herself. “I look ridiculous!” And yet…