The first branch of Next was only a few steps down the road, entering I chose a flimsy, lacy thong in pale pink, decorated with tiny crimson flowers, and a line of tiny crimson bows down the front panel. I took them to the girl on the cash desk and after paying for them, in the hearing of a couple of other women lining up to pay for their choices, I asked her if she would mind removing the price tag as I'd come out in such a rush that morning that I'd forgotten to put any knickers on and needed 'to wear them now'. Startled, and nearly as red faced as the young man who'd served me in the shoe shop, she hastily complied and watched in even greater amazement as I took them from her, bent to step into them and pull them up around me – disrupting my skirt as I did so. As my skirt fell more or less back into place I turned and left the shop, and walked down the street to the second branch of Next to repeat the performance – this time choosing a pair of panties of the same pattern, with added bows at the hip. At the third branch, I purchased a pair of matching French knickers; this time I managed to line up at a till serviced by a young male assistant and, like his male predecessor, managed to kindle a quite promising erection in addition to his blushes. I was now wearing three pairs of knickers, as ordered. I anticipated that the penultimate part of my task was going to prove rather more difficult but, first, there was another stage.
I walked the length of Oxford Street to Charing Cross Road, down Charing Cross Road until I found Lisle Street and there, as promised, was a sex shop. It took me a little while to screw up my courage and enter. I suppose I expected a seedy 'hole-in-the-corner' atmosphere. What I encountered was a mixture of Ann Summers, a thriving magazine outlet and a retailer of small electrical goods – almost clinically clean, with a thriving clientele and courteous staff. After I got my bearings I approached a young man at the counter and, as instructed, informed him that I wanted to 'buy a dildo, a vibrating dildo'. Nonchalantly, as though this was any every-day occurrence, which it probably was, he drew me to a display cabinet and proceeded to explain the differing merits of the various products he had available; and I eventually settled for a particular model to which, on his advice, I added a pot of lubricant. The rest of the customers seemed not to find anything strange about my purchase or the exchanges that lead up to it. Leaving the shop after some twenty minutes, I boarded a tube at Leicester Square and made my way back to Bond Street. The problem of fulfilling my next assignment returned. An idea struck me.
After ordering and consuming a Starbucks coffee and Danish, I paid a visit to their toilet – barely being able to resist the temptation to 'bring myself off', as I had been instructed not to do. Instead, after relieving myself, I took my nail scissors out of my shoulder bag and almost severed the waist bands of my three pairs of knickers. As an after thought, I also split both the side seams of my panties almost to the top.
Walking westwards, I threaded my way through the subways at Marble Arch and set out across Hide Park. On that glorious, if somewhat breezy day, the park was pretty crowded with visitors and locals alike. At the bridge over the Serpentine, I stopped to look over the parapet into the water below. Taking a deep breath to inflate my diaphragm I managed to slip my hand under my skirt between my body and the parapet, and wrench the waist band of my French knickers snapping it to allow my knickers to fall around my ankles. Ostensibly absorbed in whatever I was studying, even glancing back over the parapet as I began to move away, I managed to carefully step out of my knickers and leave them discarded in the side of the path, apparently totally unaware. Continuing my journey southward, I managed to shed my second pair of knickers by the Albert Memorial where a group of Japanese tourist watched amazed and amused, as I continued my walk seemingly unaware that my panties had fallen to the ground and I'd left them there. I was glad that I'd had the after thought that made me split the side seams, I'm not sure they'd have slipped off with anything like the ease they did, otherwise. I left my third pair of knickers in Brompton Road, outside Harrods where, again, an appreciative audience of tourists and locals watched me walk on seemingly unaware that my thong had slipped off and was left lying on the pavement behind me. Before completing the final part of my instructions, I treated myself to one of Harrods 'afternoon teas', again completely knickerless under my flowing summer skirt with my rigid nipples now thrusting hard against the confines of my blouse, itself confined and pulled tight by the waist band of my skirt.
Leaving Harrods I joined the tube at Knightsbridge to make my way back to Maida Vale via a change at Piccadilly Circus. My body ached for the release of my own fingers. My breasts and nipples felt near to explosion and my labia and clitty craved attention – but self relief was forbidden me. Feigning absorption in a magazine I'd picked up at the station, I continued to sit on the tube as the train stopped at Piccadilly until I judged the doors were about to close. At the last moment I leapt up and lunged for the opening; as I'd already released the fastening of my wrap around skirt I expected to leave my skirt behind me as I dashed for the platform. Somehow, the material clung around me but, as I barely cleared the narrowing gap without the doors touching me and rebounding open, the closing doors fastened on the now trailing material and my skirt was whipped away from me as the train gathered speed away from the platform – leaving me stood on a busy Piccadilly Circus platform dressed only in shoes, stockings, a suspender-belt and a blouse that reached only a couple of inches below my navel, my shaven pubis, by bare bottom and the slit and engorged lips of my shaven quim displayed to all the people around me.
After what seemed an age but was probably in reality less than a minute, as I stood on the platform counterfeiting bewilderment and panic, but in truth stimulated beyond belief by the experience, a woman in her early fifty's wrapped her light summer coat around me and hastily bid me to 'take it and get home as quickly as you can'.
That night, or rather early the next morning, I reported the outcome of my adventures to Ebb and Flo; only to be told that they were already aware of my compliance to their instructions 'you were filmed' I was told.
"You may now take out your dildo and use it to bring yourself off," I was told.
Of course, I regarded this as a command not a warrant to please myself – although in obeying it I was pleasing myself as my body, as tightly aroused as a bow string, cried out for the relief it had been craving in increasing measure since I'd left my flat knickerless and braless that morning. Applying the lubricant I switched on and, as advised, began to tease my labia with the softly vibrating instrument. The sensation was beyond anything I'd encountered before. No mere man, however proficient his masculinity, had ever been able to raise the delirium that suffused my body; and none of my female lovers and I had ever used any such toy before. In no time I had the apparatus vibrating and buzzing at its maximum speed, and I was plunging it in and out of my font – my vaginal wall muscles and my exultant clitty snatching and contracting on and around its pulsating rigidity. I'd never before had such an extended orgasm. I came and came and came and came again, my honey-musk flooding and flooding out. And all on camera of course, for the benefit of my controllers and any one else to whom they'd cared to grant access. Eventually, I recovered and, as directed, used my fingers to milk as much of my outpourings as I could and licked and sucked my vibrator clean.
"You will, of course, keep your pudenda shaved," was their final text, before they signed off.
