Velvet A Story Of Obsession Ch 01

3. Instructions and a Revelation

I prepared carefully that morning in accordance with the instructions I'd received from Ebb and Flo the previous evening ... or rather, to be accurate, early that same morning.

I met Ebb and Flo in an internet chat room and they became my mentors; awaking in me an unsuspected submissive desire to be dominated. I think it was their absolute and more-or-less immediate assumption of authority, coupled with their equally unquestionable presumption of my obedience that led me to submit myself to them - quite alien to my forceful 'workaday life' personality where I was the one in control, and ensured that all my staff members were well aware of it.

In accordance with their desire ... command I had sat myself at my computer between midnight and one am, as I did each night, with my live video link camera trained on me, clad as instructed only in lace trimmed corselet, stockings and court shoes, legs parted and camera carefully placed to ensure that my bare breasts and my shaven vagina were clearly visible, awaiting their convenience. As I waited their notice, again at their instruction, my live image was available to anyone interested enough to sign in - but I was not allowed to communicate with any casual visitor except at their express instruction. So far, until that last contact, their instructions had all been restricted to activities confined within my own flat accessible to live video link with my computer - masturbation, use of sex toys, eating my own saturated panties, etc. - and to displaying myself outside among strangers. This time it was different.

[The history of Velvet's introduction to Ebb and Flo and of her early schooling, can be found in 'Velvet: a Story of Obedience - 1. Beginnings' and '2. Early Training' fp]

This morning I was not allowed to empty my bladder before leaving for work. Additionally, under a semi transparent blouse and equally flimsy bra', my nipples were rouged and clearly visible beneath my open jacket - purposely open sufficiently at all times to uncover the points of my breasts to facilitate notice. Much as I tried to maintain an air of total unconcern as I walked to Maida Vale station, on my tube journey to Holborn and my walk to my offices, the pressure on my bladder alone was enough to keep me shifting my posture, discreet as I might try to be. At least that pressure kept my mind off my clearly discernable nipples - for the most part. By the time I reached my office I was bursting, as the saying goes, but I was still under strict instruction not to visit the toilet but to let nature take its course; as publicly as possible.

It was nearing mid-morning before the inevitable happened, when I was standing talking to three of my staff in the foreground of the general office. Suddenly I became aware of a warm trickle against the inside of my thigh, a trickle that quickly became a flow, a flow that became a deluge that resounded on the carpet below and between my feet as my bladder could withstand the pressure no more. My panties, my stockings, my underskirt and skirt, my shoes, my legs and my feet were all inundated in the flood that poured out of me into the rapidly increasing pool on the floor of the office. The relief of 'letting go' at last outweighed my own embarrassment, at least initially, but the shock and embarrassment that showed on the faces of my staff members, two male and one female, already struggling to appear not to be looking at the imprint of my rouge enhanced nipples on the tight fabric of my blouse, told its own story.

Still acting as instructed, I turned and hurried down the stairs to the cleaner's room to return to the general office bearing a wash-bucket and mop and, still attired in my saturated and by now rather smelly clothes, began to attack the waterlogged carpet fending off all offers of help on the basis that 'I did it, I'd better clean it up'. Only after I'd made some attempt at dissipating the soggy patch did I return to the cleaner's cupboard to replace the bucket and mop and take a light nylon overall off the back of the door and retire to the ladies room.

A sudden hush greeted me as I entered. The three girls stood there had obviously been 'discussing' my disgrace; I gave them a somewhat baleful glance but said nothing. Without waiting for their departure I stripped off up to the waist and threw my clothes into the janitor's sink in the corner. Then, crossing to the row of wash basins, I gave myself a thorough wash - managing to display my shaven condition as I did so. Finally, I buttoned the overall around me and re-crossed the floor to the sink to wash out my clothes as well as could, leaving them hanging on a 'make shift' line I managed to rig up between a vertical water pipe and the top of one of the toilet cubicles. The overall gave me some measure of protection, but it was only semi-opaque at best, and I was aware that my nakedness was reasonably easily discernable through and beneath its inadequate veil.

Back at my desk I became gradually but increasingly aware of the arousal building up in me. Heretofore, the pressure on my bladder had subdued most other feelings, but now the pulses in the pit of my stomach, the swelling and hardening of my clitty, echoed in the throb and thrust of my breasts and nipples, and the involuntary tightening and relaxing of the muscles in the wall of my vagina, began to advertise my reaction. But I was forbidden self-relief!

My computer screen, always live, flashed the arrival of a new message.

"Okay! Press the link button. Ebb."

Dutifully, I pressed the link button displayed in the bottom corner and the screen cleared to display a picture of me stood on Piccadilly Circus underground platform clad in a short-waisted blouse, stockings, suspender-belt and shoes, and nothing else, my shaven pudenda and the tip of my labia clearly on view, clutching the bag that I knew had contained two pairs of shoes and a vibrator; the culmination of the instructions I'd had to comply with the previous Saturday.

"Press the link again." I was instructed.

Again I complied. This time to watch a video of the highlights of my Saturday escapades: from leaving my flat with my wrap around skirt flapping about my thighs and revealing glimpses of my knickerless buttocks; visiting a shoe shop in Oxford Street where, clearly through the shop window, I could be seen with my parted skirt front falling away from my thighs and my foot and leg raised to allow the young male assistant to fit shoes; visiting the three branches of Next and, again through the window of each, buying and putting on three separate pairs of knickers; losing my knickers pair by pair at various London locations; visiting a sex shop in Lisle Street; and, finally losing my skirt on the station platform. Well, I'd been informed that same night that I had been filmed. I just wasn't expecting to view the result on my own office computer - maybe my own private screen at home, but definitely not in my office!

"Press the link again." I was told.

This time I was greeted by a picture of Ebb, dressed in his familiar corselet, stockings, shoes and lacy panties. As I watched the picture gradually resolved itself into a picture of my IT expert; a man a couple of years younger, and two or three inches shorter, than me - slender, blond haired, fresh faced. Ebb's image on my computer screen, during the small hours of the mornings had always puzzled me. Recognition had always hovered in the back of my mind but I'd never made the connection. And I knew that Ebb [not the name I knew him by professionally, of course] lived with his sister in a large house in Holland Park they'd jointly inherited from their parents, both of whom had been Harley Street specialists. I knew now that Flo must be his sister; to whom I had refused the PA post for which she'd applied, some nine months previously, on the grounds of 'inadequate experience'.

The dangers of my strange compulsion suddenly hit home - a compulsion that had led me to agree to submitting myself to their domination 'for adventures and experiments of a sexual nature', as their initial approach had openly stated. It had all seemed nothing but harmless fun, appealing to a subconscious desire somewhere within me that needed to experience a role reversal, and be dominated instead of dominant for once and maybe even to assure myself that, at 37 years old, I wasn't yet beyond novel sexual experiences. Rapidly coming to the conclusion that I should and must end it immediately, and sack Ebb to boot, I started to compose a message that would bring the whole thing to an abrupt end. But, even as my decision was made and initiated, a new message appeared.

"Clear your screen."

In a humour of anger mixed with a fair degree of trepidation I did so, only to find that my wall paper was now the picture of me stood, exposed, on the station platform.

"You can't erase this" the next message read, even as I started to try do so. "Should you try, this background will immediately be transposed, eradicably, onto the rest of our computers. Tonight you'll leave with me and come home to meet Flo. Remain dressed as you are until we leave - you can change back for the journey. Flo is expecting us. Should you decide not to cooperate, in addition to the general distribution of this picture, copies of the video will be circulated amongst the staff and to all of our favoured clients. Ebb."

I didn't get much work done for the rest of the day, spending the time vacillating between: contemplation of my own foolishness at having succumbed so readily to being coerced into such flagrant exhibitionism and, finally, humiliating myself in front of my staff by wetting myself so sensationally in public; and trying to discover a way out of my situation before it became 'to late'. My endeavours in that last respect came to nothing although, had I been prepared to endure a period of personal humiliation amongst my employees and for the adverse reaction of some of my clients, I might still have carried out my immediate resolve. But I wasn't, it wasn't in my nature to accept the humiliating admission of my own foolishness, it wasn't part of the image I had of myself or of the image I'd taken pains to impress upon my staff. Stupidly, I'd assumed from the beginning of this strange entanglement that, although ostensibly submissive, I was really the one in control of the situation, and could terminate it at will. Now I was only too painfully aware that I wasn't ... either in control, or in a position to terminate anything!

Towards the evening I went back to retrieve my clothes, now more or less dry if somewhat dishevelled, to find as I suppose I'd already anticipated, that my panties had disappeared. To dispirited and nervous to care much, let alone make any inquiries, I struggled into the rest of my attire and, still knickerless, set out with Ebb to Holland Park.

Ebb opened the door of the Regency House and ushered me in. Inside the period front door I found myself in an almost clinically clean and light passage, sectioned off at about mid-length with a full height, full width glass screen. Between the front door and the screen, set out on both sides of the hall opposite one-an-other, were a regency chair, a matching period wardrobe, a hat and coat stand and an ornate pier glass. Ebb stopped in front of the left hand glass and carefully removed his jacket, shoes, socks, jeans and shirt, to reveal him self clad in a set of luxurious scarlet, lace trimmed satin lingerie - camisole, suspender-belt and panties - and matching stockings. Stooping as he did so he removed his panties. Folding his discarded clothes carefully, he opened the wardrobe door and placed them on a shelf above the main hanging space. Just as carefully, he withdrew a pair of French knickers that matched his bra' and suspender-belt and stooping again, stepped into them to pull them up around his flanks. The helmet and part of the shaft of his cock hung down his right thigh below the lace hem of his loose knicker leg. Next, he added a short, figure hugging, matching slip, a tight 'above the knee' skirt in dog-tooth grey, a white linen, high necked, long sleeved blouse - with a jabot at the throat and a tiny frill of lace at the cuffs, and a pair of scarlet court shoes and a wide scarlet belt. Confronted with his new persona I had to admit to myself, grudgingly in the circumstances, that the femininity of Ebb's image was flawless.

Ebb spoke, almost the first interchange we'd had since leaving the office, "take your clothes off. You'll find suitable replacements in the other wardrobe."

Completely cowed, under Ebb's steady gaze, I removed my bedraggled attire and opened the wardrobe to place it carefully on a shelf as I'd seen him do - as seemed judicious. The 'suitable replacements' proved to be a can-can dancers costume, sans bra' and panties of course and with the skirts and petticoats all carefully tailored to a minimal depth below the waist band, in the front, leaving my shaven pubis uncovered. Additionally, the frill be-decked blouse was scooped below my now naked breasts. The outfit was completed with lace topped stockings, a lacy suspender-belt, almost impossibly high heeled shoes, long lace gloves and a feathered headdress that I had some difficulty fitting over my hair in something like an acceptable style - but again, I thought it judicious to at least try.

Once Ebb had made some adjustment to his hair and applied a touch or two of make-up, increasing still further the illusion of his femininity, he inspected me critically and led me through a door in the glass screen to a side door that opened onto a wash room and instructed me to 'clean that muck off your face and your breasts' and stood at the open door of the room as, under his humiliating gaze, I obeyed a sudden and urgent desire to relieve myself before washing away all traces of my mornings make-up. Once he was satisfied with my ablutions, he led me back up the hall through the glass panel and sat me on one of the chairs to apply powder, rouge and lipstick. The image that finally greeted me from the pier glass was that of a rouged and painted trollop, her breasts spilling out completely from her blouse and her font on display to the world.

Preparation complete, I was taken back along the full length of the hall up a flight of stairs to a first floor landing and into a large lounge that extended to the rear of the house and, through a pair of open French windows, onto a balcony beyond, that had views into, and from, Holland Park itself. And it was there, on that balcony, in the still full daylight of an early summer evening, in view of neighbours sitting on their own balconies and gardens, and with the park below still populated with evening pedestrian traffic, that Ebb led me to his sister.

Flo looked at me critically as I stood on the threshold of the French windows and motioned Ebb to bring me forward.

Her appearance wasn't a surprise after seeing her 'on screen' regularly and, in any case, I now remembered her from her interview. About my own height with a slightly fuller, although trim and healthy figure, her abundant auburn hair tumbled around her pale, slightly freckled but otherwise clear complexion. Flo was dressed in a rich, silken kimono, in different shades of green and russet that complemented her colouring, edged and trimmed in sable. She sat in a long seated cane chair on tapestry cushions that echoed her kimono - but in paler, almost faded shades.

"So, you came then," she said, as though I'd had a choice. "Tell me, do you think you have enough experience to fill the vacancy? Although, as the only applicant, I suppose we'll have to make do with you, even if we have to accept that you'll need a degree of training - how much training is, of course, up to you; how quickly you can learn, I mean."

"As its Velvet's first evening with us I think we can release her from the responsibility of preparing our evening meal, don't you?" Flo interrogated her brother. "Perhaps you'd do the honours instead."

Without comment Ebb withdrew and left me facing his sister.

Flo beckoned me forward with a crooked finger until I stood before her. There, in full view of any interested neighbours or bystanders, she slid her hand up between my thighs and began to tease my labia - conjuring up, I confess, an immediate salivatory response. As her caress ceased and she slid her finger tips up over my mound, producing a faint rasping sensation rather tan a sound, her brows creased into a frown.

"Dear me," she said, almost to herself, then, "stubble. I thought you were told to keep yourself clean shaven! When did you last shave?"

Reluctantly, and with massively increasing trepidation, I admitted that it was three days previously.

With no apparent effort on her part, in short order I found myself sprawled face down across her lap, the trailing skirts of my costume flung upwards over my back and Flo's hand repeatedly striking my bare, unprotected bottom.

After she'd delivered in excess of a dozen blows, Flo wrenched me upright and sent me inside to find her brother and ask him to supply me with hot water, a towel, a shaving brush, cream, a razor, talcum powder and a stool, to bring back outside so she could shave me herself, to ensure compliance with her order.

Inside, through the lounge I found a kitchen where Ebb was busy over his preparation. In halting, shamefaced term I explained my errand. It was Ebb's turn to run his hand over my unprotected mound again raising a rasping sensation. Spinning me round, he raised my skirts and inspected my pink and bruised bottom.

"I'm not surprised," he said. "You'll have to be a lot more diligent in future, if you don't want protect your bottom."

Equipped as ordered, I retuned to the balcony and, mustering the best grace I could, I sat as still as I could on the stool in front of Flo, trying not top let my smarting bottom make me fidget, my legs apart, to enable her to shave me to her satisfaction; aware as before that we had an appreciative audience whilst she did so.

When I returned from emptying the basin I found that Flo had loosened her kimono, to display her magnificent naked body, with its tight tip-tilted breasts, flat stomach and neatly trimmed auburn bush. Again I have to confess, that I felt my stomach clench, my breasts and nipples burgeon and my clitty start to throb and expand and my mouth and lower lips water at the sight of her perfection. When I was given the order 'pleasure me, no fingers', it was with no feeling or show of reluctance that I knelt to accomplish my task.

The taste of her sweet font was everything I'd imagined it might be, during the times I'd fantasised about her exposed sexuality in front of my screen. And as my busy lips, teeth and tongue, brought her gradually up to and over the point of climax, on three distinct occasions, the delicious honey-musk of her orgasmic flood was everything I'd envisaged.

'Maybe', I thought, 'there could be compensations'.