This story is based on real events, but with a little embellishment - I'm not going to tell you which is which!
All characters in this story are at least 18 years old. Please add comments - I love feedback.
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So here I was, blindfolded and secured to a chair, in a strangers garage, and I'd put myself here willingly, even enthusiastically.
Although my bonds didn't hurt, they were uncomfortable; wrists secured low on the chair back restricting the movement of my hands, the sleeveless top not allowing for any fabric between the flesh of my arms and the chair, and each ankle secured to a back chair leg forcing my knees apart, the denim skirt not even nearly reaching the black lace hold-up tops of my darkly stockinged thighs.
How had I got here? It all started at a reception in school. The Boarding School was being Inspected, and we Senior Girls were made to attend an evening reception that was being given at the start of the week to the visiting Inspectors, most of whom were senior staff from other schools like ours but not in our local area. Although we are an all-girls school we did have male teachers and some of the Inspectors were men, so the Reception was quite a social event. Like the other older girls, I wore a nice outfit to impress them; in my case a cream chiffon button-front fitted blouse with long sleeves, tight dark skirt to mid thigh, well almost, and dark sheer tights with black court shoes; my rich brown hair in a ponytail. Being a UK size 10 (34c 26 36) I felt that I looked very nice, and enjoyed the occasional extra-long glances I was getting from my own teachers as well as the Inspectors. It became a sort of game; they would check me out when they thought I didn't know, then when I glanced towards them they'd look away pretending they hadn't been staring.
It was a fun game; I totally enjoyed being ogled and admired, and I have to admit I did turn it on a bit, making sure my legs could be appreciated, that my blouse was unbuttoned just enough for a hint of cleavage and lace bra, bending a little to stick out my bum. It was all going my way when I noticed a tall, unsmiling man across the room staring at my legs. I paused, then glanced over expecting him to look away but he didn't! He held my gaze, then slowly let his focus slip down from my face, looking my body over, pausing at my chest but dwelling on my legs before returning to meet my eyes again.
As he did, I found myself lowering my own gaze, then again looking up at him. He gave the briefest nod of acknowledgement before turning away to talk to our Headmistress. I felt suddenly out of my depth. It was like the rules of the game had changed with no-one telling me, that I was no longer in control. For the next half hour I found myself almost following him round the room, wanting to understand what had happened, wanting to see if he would look away. He wasn't particularly good looking or fit. Just a dark haired guy in his 30's, fairly slim and ordinary looking. But there was something about his manner.
And then he was facing me across the room as he talked with a group of our teachers; he looked over fixing me with his eyes until I was again forced to look down. I now know what people mean when they say 'like a rabbit in the headlights'. After a brief moment I recovered my composure, and felt a bit cross, needing to get some reaction from him. I turned slowly in a complete rotation, looking up at him every so often, letting him take in my outfit, my body. It was stupid, I know, but I just felt like I wanted to, had to. When I was facing him again he gave the smallest beckoning nod, a 'come here' kind of gesture, and excused himself from his group, walking over to the refreshment table.
Of course I walked over to join him, but like we just happened to be in the same place at the same time. As we each refilled glasses, me with juice, he with wine, I heard him ask, "what are you wearing on your legs?"
"Er ... tights sir?" I replied, a little taken aback.
"Don't. Wear stockings. Hold ups. Or nothing"
And with that he turned and rejoined his group, ignoring me.
My head was spinning a bit, and I was confused. Who was he to tell me what to wear? Part of me wanted to flick up my skirt and show him that I was wearing tights, and was going to keep on wearing tights! And then that funny delicious churning sensation flipped through my tummy as I allowed the thought to linger, the thought of flicking up my skirt. It was kind of like flashing. No, it was flashing! Where did that come from? I'm not really an exhibitionist! As I made my way to the girls bathroom I told myself, "Its not like I go out of my way to let people stare at my legs, or my chest! I'm a good girl!" Since I was the only one in there I looked at myself in the tall mirror, turning this way and that, even trying to flip my skirt up, but it was too tight for that. So I scrunched it up to my hips, looking at my bum, at my yellow bikini knickers covered by the ugly tights, and had to admit that he was probably right. After all, he is a school Inspector, he should know things, right?
Reaching under the skirt I hooked my thumbs in and peeled the tights down, over my hips, and down my legs, stepping out of my heels to take them off. Suddenly I didn't like tights any more. They were ugly, and he didn't like them. Hang on, he didn't like them? What did that have to do with it? Cross with myself, I pulled my nails through the tights to ruin them then threw them in the bin, and then had a naughty thought, wishing instead that I'd just cut out most of the leg tops and the crotch! Hmm, too late now, but I could always experiment tonight!
Of course back in the Reception he didn't appear to look at me once, despite me almost stalking him, but as he was walking past me on his way out, he clearly said, "Good girl," to me, and I flushed with half embarrassed pleasure.
Over the next day I didn't get to speak to him even once. When I did see him from a distance he didn't even acknowledge my presence, as if we'd never met. I supposed that he was busy with his Inspector work, and preoccupied. I began to think that I'd imagined our brief contact at the reception, and tried to stifle my disappointment.
The day after that, which I suppose was Day 3, it was The Interviews: Each Inspector had to interview a few pupils to find out the real story the teachers hadn't told them, and yes, he was to interview me! I was so pleased. I knew he'd somehow arranged it, but hadn't been sure he would, much as I was hoping. His area of inspection was Pastoral, Sport and Extra-Curricular ... hmm how that set the mind racing!
It was in the Dining Room, in one quiet corner during the interval between lunch and tea. I was in uniform now, of course. Blue and red striped tie, white button-front school shirt (why do they make girls school shirts so the bra always shows through?), plain white bra, knee-length red/blue tartan skirt. The younger girls wore a shorter grey skirt and white socks with flat shoes, while we older ones wore tights and low heels.
Of course I'd been looking forward to this as soon as the interview list was up on the notice-board. A mix of excitement and nervousness, and yes, that delicious tummy churning again whenever I thought about it. At the appointed hour I had to walk the length of the room to get to his table, and I could feel his eyes on me the whole time. It made me self-conscious but in a nice way, and I found myself putting a little extra swing in my hips, and wishing I was wearing something a bit more sexy than school uniform.
When I got to his table, the look in his eyes somehow prompted me to ask,
"May I sit down, please Sir?"
He thought for a moment, then nodded.
Pulling the bench away from the table a little, I lifted my right leg over, acutely aware of how much leg that action revealed ... it was lovely. Once sitting opposite him I placed my hands in my lap and waited.
Fixing me with his piercing stare, he opened with,
"Your full name ...? Date of birth ...?"
I told him, though of course he must have already got this from the school records?
He wrote them down. "Home address ...?" he continued. I answered.
"Mobile phone number ..?" Now this I didn't have to give ... but I did anyway.
"What sports do you play?"
I replied with swimming and hockey.
"What are you wearing ... a complete description ..?"
Oh, that made my tummy flip ... this couldn't be a standard question?
"Um, School shirt, school skirt, undies, shoes.."
He just looked at me, waiting
"Er, white school shirt, school tie, tartan school skirt, low black heels, white bra, white knickers, hold-ups"
"Uniform regulations state tights, not stockings ..." he pierced me again with his stare, "why are you wearing hold-up stockings, Andrea?"
"Er, because you told me to?" I blurted out, a little surprised.
"And why did you do what I told you to do?"
"Um, ... because ...you were right?"
"I am always right ..." then he took out his mobile. I looked away, through the window, trying to calm my heartbeat. Suddenly, my phone vibrated. I ignored it; after all it would be rude to look at it during the interview.
"Answer it," he commanded.
Pulling the phone from my skirt pocket, I looked at the message ... sender ID was 'Sir', the message read,
"Reply with the word YES if you wish to continue to do what I tell you."
Looking up at him I searched his face ... did he really just send me this text? I couldn't read his expression. Biting my lip, fingers trembling for some reason, heart hammering, I replied YES.
Immediately his phone buzzed, he checked it, then nodded to me.
"Stand up," he ordered, so I did, clambering out from the bench, again showing lots of leg. Then, "on one leg," which I did. "Now the other one." I changed to standing on my left leg.
"Walk slowly to the door." I turned and started towards the door, when he said loudly,
"I haven't finished with you yet; come back here and sit down." A little confused, I turned and walked back, hoping he just liked seeing me walk, hoping he just liked seeing me! There was something almost addictive in following his instructions. Sitting once more, hands in my lap, I waited as he typed into his phone again.
Checking my phone as it buzzed I read, "You will obey any instruction I give you. Reply YES to show you understand." Again with fumbling fingers I replied YES, looking up at him as he read it.
He typed again, and as soon as my phone buzzed I opened his message, "You will answer fully and truthfully any question I ask you. Reply YES to show you understand." Again I replied YES.
I waited nervously, wondering what was coming next.
"Now if you have quite finished your texting, perhaps we might continue the interview?" he asked a little sarcastically, as if it wasn't him texting me but one of my friends!
"Er, yes Sir" I replied, thrown off balance.
"What extra-curricular clubs or activities do you take part in?"
I told him about music lessons on the clarinet and piano, and Orchestra.
Without looking up he continued, "What about masturbation? How often do you masturbate?"
Gulping with embarrassment, "er ... every day Sir ..." He looked at me as if wanting more, so I added, "in the morning before I get up, and usually before I go to sleep ... Sir"
"What do you use ..?"
"Fingers, Sir ... just .. Fingers ..." I was sure I was bright red, and remembered the time I'd tried using a wine bottle after a school do. "Er, I did try once with a wine bottle?"
"You will tell me about that some time. When you masturbate, do you reach orgasm?"
"Um, sometimes, sir." At that he reached again for his phone, and I excitedly reached for mine.
His message read, "You will not orgasm again until you have my permission. Understand?"
Disappointed, I sent back YES, and looked up at him again, but he was writing on his pad.
"Do you feel that the school offers a sufficient range of activities?"
I answered, "Yes, Sir."
Looking down at his pad of paper, pen poised, he asked, "Are you a virgin?"
Blushing, I stammered, "Um ... ye .. Yes ... Sir.."
"Are you trimmed, shaved or natural?"
"Um, bikini trimmed for the summer Sir, but normally I'm just natural?" He nodded.
"Bra size?"
"34C, Sir."
"Are your nipples sensitive enough for you to orgasm from playing with them alone?"
"I ... er ... I don't think so, Sir," never having tried that.
"How often do you think out explicit sexual fantasies?"
"Golly! Um ... most days, Sir?"
