Exposed at the Office

This story was written after someone requested an ENF story. I hope you enjoy!

PRELUDE

I knew I needed to make an impression. Everyone else in the office was so glamorous, so smart! When I started there, I felt like a little church mouse in my trousers and jackets, my polo necks and sensible, flat shoes. I was in awe of the girls' confidence as they strutted around on their high heels, their skirts clinging around their hips and showing off hints of stocking tops; their shoulders on display in tight vest tops or clinging, silky blouses with plunging necklines; their faces fully made up with pouting red lips and sultry black mascara. And the guys, in their tailored business suits and shining, polished shoes...wow. They were so wordly wise, so self-assured. They walked like they could conquer the world. They probably could.

I cringed as I remembered my two-week appraisal in Mr Daniels' office. He was the ultimate in confidence; it oozed out of him. Over six feet tall, a hint of a tan still on his skin from his skiing holiday, jacket hung on the back of his chair, powerful shoulder muscles visible in the cling of his Italian cotton shirt. My knock at the door sounded pathetic, even to me; I felt like a child summoned to see the Principal. I don't think he even heard the first knock. I tried again.

"Come!" His voice carried all the authority of a man who is used to being obeyed. Who has never known anything otherwise. His instruction shot straight to a part of my mind it shouldn't have done, the double meaning electrifying my body as thoughts of orgasms rippled from my mind and out to my fingertips and toes. I felt my nipples harden under my sensible jacket as I pushed the door open, urging myself to get a grip.

It was plain that Mr Daniels did not have a clue who I was. I'd been working there for two weeks, and he hadn't even noticed me. He checked my tasks list, my reports, the feedback from my supervisors on his tablet. He nodded curtly; all was okay. I knew my work was good. My breath caught in my throat; I was so desperate to impress him! He put the tablet down. His cold, blue-grey eyes travelled up and down my body, taking me in: my sensible flat shoes, a plain brown trouser suit over a cream knitted polo neck, my hair in a ponytail, and just the merest hint of makeup. A trace of a smile played on his lips.

"Do you like working here?" he asked.

"Y-yes," I stuttered. God, I was like some little schoolgirl! "Sir," I added. I felt a blush creep up my neck to my cheeks, the flush painting me redder than any rouge could have done.

"We have an important client meeting on Monday. The CEO and the international sales team from their head office will all be in conference room 1. First impressions count. We need everyone to look the part. Can you see if you can work on that?" he said, a flick of his hand indicating my outfit.

"Y-yes, Sir," I gasped. "Of course, Sir."

"Good," he said, and picked up his office phone. "Sophie, is my ten fifteen here yet? Good. Bring the file through. I'll take coffee." He glanced up. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. It was evident I was dismissed. I turned tail and practically scuttled to the door, my flushed face burning right up to the roots of my hair. I reached the door as Sophie, his personal assistant, opened it from the other side, breezing in like a model on her own personal catwalk. Shiny red heels; stockings with a perfect seam up the back, ruler-straight; a clinging black skirt just skimming her buttocks; a silky white sleeveless blouse, buttoned at the front but showing her cleavage and the outline of her perfectly-fitting bra; a gold necklace; her hair pulled back into an elegant clasp; her face beautifully made up. She breezed past me in a cloud of delicious perfume as if I wasn't even there, carrying the files Mr Daniels had asked for.

"Thank you Sophie, you're an angel," he said, looking up with a warm smile. Oh God, why didn't he look at me like that?

And that's why I'd spent hours online, shopping for a new outfit, spending money I didn't have to make sure I fitted in at the office. I didn't want to let Mr Daniels down; when the clients came in on Monday, I would make sure I made the right impression. Mr Daniels would definitely notice me this time; he would smile at me like he smiled at Sophie, seeing how I had followed his advice and made the effort to please him. He'd be so proud of me! With my excellent work, and now looking the part, maybe I could be his next PA?

I had to pay extra for express delivery to ensure the outfit arrived on Sunday, ready for Monday. The cost of it all had taken my bank balance as close to zero as I'd ever been. I didn't know how I was going to eat for the next week until payday...but that didn't matter. I would look like a million dollars, even if I had less than ten. All evening, I was on tenterhooks, waiting for the buzz of the intercom to tell me my parcels had arrived. It seemed like an eternity! Darkness was falling before they finally came, and I carried them up to my flat like it was Christmas. Crinkling, plastic bags containing the new me.

It was all here. Smart, shiny black heels, just like the Laboutin Kates, with a five inch heel. Hold-up stockings, with a seam up the back just like Sophie's. A silk wrap-around skirt, also in black, midi-length above the knee with a pretty band to tie on the hip, to create a lovely decorative detail. I don't wear skirts much - at all, really! - so this was wonderfully daring! And the top: a silky, button-up, sleeveless blouse, in a pure, crisp white, and a new push-up bra to make the most of my small boobs. An elegant clutch bag just big enough for my phone, and door key. New makeup; and a tiny bottle of the scent that Sophie was wearing, which had cost me all the money I had been saving for a holiday. But that didn't matter: I was breathless with excitement to try it all on!

And so I stood, admiring myself in the mirror, an ugly duckling become a swan. I looked glamorous. Elegant. Confident. Ready. I couldn't wait for Monday. The day that would change my life.

MONDAY

I am awake early. I shower, wash my hair, shave everywhere, and make sure I'm ready. I spend ages on my makeup: lots of eyeliner and mascara, teasing my lashes out with the special brushes I bought; deep red on the lips. I spritz with the expensive scent, and feel an intoxicating rush as the heady aroma fills my tiny bedroom. Then I dress, pulling on my panties before peeling the silky stockings up my legs. I check and recheck the back seam, making sure it's straight. Then I wrap the skirt around my waist, holding the layers against myself and tying the neat ribbon bow on my hip. Then the bra, which pushes my breasts together and up, giving me a cleavage that otherwise I would lack, and accentuating my figure. Then the blouse. It feels a bit revealing to show my shoulders, but I keep repeating "confidence" in my head to convince myself it's the right choice. The blouse is tight when I do the five buttons up across my front, the top button only just above the line of my bra. A gold chain around my neck creates a neat angle with the plunging neckline, acting like an invitation arrow to check out the figure that the underwear has given me. Earrings in, hair brushed and sprayed and tucked back into a new black claw grip, and time for a final check: yes. I look great. I'm sure I will create quite the impression.

I take the bus to work as usual. I want to call a cab, but my shopping spree has left me all but broke, so I use my normal mode of transport. But somehow it feels different. Whereas normally I am anonymous, a face in the crowd, unnoticed by others, today I can feel eyes following me wherever I go. Men - and some women - stop in their tracks and watch me pass. Their eyes trace up and down my body, not in contempt like Mr Daniels at my appraisal, but in admiration. My expensive heels click against the paving slabs as I make the way to my bus stops. I'm not used to walking in them, and totter occasionally as I struggle to balance, but I style it out and affect total confidence and poise. I'm even starting to convince myself.

The bus arrives, and I climb aboard, squeezing past commuters and shoppers to find a space. There's nowhere to sit, so I stand and hold the handrail, balancing precariously on my heels, feeling a little anxious but also so proud of myself. I'm going to be a hit in the office! They're going to be so impressed...maybe I'll even be asked to help with the client meeting?

The bus lurches suddenly, and I catch the smell of scorched engine oil. Looking around, I see black smoke pouring from the engine compartment at the back.

"Sorry folks!" calls the driver. "Everyone off. We'll need an engineer. The company will send another bus, but it'll be half an hour or so before it gets here."

Shit. I look at my watch, and get my bearings. I'm due at work in fifteen minutes; I think it's about a twenty minute walk. I can't wait for the replacement bus, because I'll definitely be late. If I hurry, I can probably make it on time...if I go on foot.

But I hadn't reckoned on my heels. Running in them is out of the question. Walking in them is just about bearable, but I am so much slower than I'd have been in my flats. I go about twenty paces, clip-clopping on the busy sidewalk, before I admit it's hopeless. My heart is beating faster; I can feel the prickle of anxiety up and down my spine. I cannot be late. There is no choice. The heels will have to come off.

I steer out of the rush of pedestrians and stop in a doorway, lifting my feet and pulling off the shiny heels one at a time. The sidewalk feels cold and rough under my stockinged feet. They will be absolutely ruined if I try to walk on concrete in them! They will have to go too.

But people are passing all the time! They are already looking at me strangely, in my glamorous clothes holding my heels in my hand. But I have no choice. The stockings have to come off too, and I'll have to walk barefoot.

I lift the hem of my skirt, feeling for the stocking top up my thigh. I stare at the ground, avoiding the stares I know I am attracting as I hook my thumbs into the elastic and carefully peel my stocking down my leg, exposing my skin to the air. I smooth my skirt down to preserve my modesty; as I glance up I see several eyes look away. I know they have been watching me. My heart beats faster as I lift my skirt on the other side, easing the stocking down my thigh, below my knee, and gathering it carefully over my toes. I try to regulate my breathing, try to calm myself, conscious that every second that ticks past makes me later and later for work. I gather myself, clutching my heels in one hand and my bunched up stocking in the other, and set off down the street.

I don't know what's worse: the filthy, scratchy sidewalk on my bare feet, or the looks I'm getting as I walk rapidly through the throng of people, barefoot and barelegged. I can feel the heat of embarrassment rising through my body, alongside the warmth of perspiration as I rush against time, sweat patches forming under my arms. I can feel the soles of my feet rubbing raw, tiny stones and bits of grit digging into my skin and sending shots of pain up my legs. Fuck...why today? Why me? Is it better to take my time, protect my feet as much as I can and try not to work up too much of a sweat? Or just go for it, get there as fast as possible, and give myself time to clean myself up in the bathroom when I arrive?

I decide on the second option, and speed up, so I am practically running through the street. I push past people, muttering apologies as I go, my skirt flaring out as I move quickly, showing my thighs. I try to hold it down, with my hands full of shoes and stockings, feeling the prickle of tears behind my eyes. "Don't cry," I tell myself. "It'll make your mascara run..."

Crossing the road is the worst part. Waiting at the lights, people glancing at my grimy bare feet and exposed legs, making up stories in their heads about me. I am trapped, unable to move anywhere, willing the lights to change. Then walking across the rough, bumpy, gritty road surface like a walk of shame in front of the waiting drivers, all of them looking at me, staring at me, their eyes boring into me, travelling up my body as my skirt dances around my thighs. The shame...

Five minutes pass. Ten. I am breathless now, not just with the shame but with the exertion of my pace. Fifteen. The soles of my feet are raw from the friction with the street surface, and I can feel trickles of sweat running down my back. So much for my expensive perfume. But now I can see it: the office is just ahead. I check the time: I have minutes to spare.

*****

I push through the revolving door and into the lobby. The smooth marble floor is cool and sweet relief to my lacerated soles. I glance down and see I am leaving dirty, slightly bloody footprints behind me and cringe in embarrassment. I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead as I dart past the reception desk, not wanting to meet the disapproving eyes I know I will see there. I am heading straight for the ladies' bathroom. The door is just ahead. I move from the cool marble to the soft carpet and keep to the edge of the corridor, not wanting to soil the pile with my breadcrumb trail of filth and shame.

Thankfully, the ladies bathroom is empty. I drop my shoes, stockings and bag on the counter top, and survey the damage. My hair has come loose. My face is flushed but my makeup is, thankfully, intact. I raise my arm: there are patches of moisture on the blouse where my perspiration has soaked the material. What to do? I haven't a moment to lose in hesitation. Quickly, I undo the five buttons and shrug out of the blouse, hanging it over the back of a stool and positioning it under the hand dryer. I turn on the blast of air, watching the material ripple in the current and hope that it will dry. I step back, not wanting to get any hotter, and stand with my arms stretched out from my body like I am being crucified, to allow the cooler air of the bathroom to reach my overheated skin and cool it, so my perspiration will dry.

Keeping my arms away from my body, I gingerly lift my left foot and inspect the sole. It's bad: filthy dirty, caked in grime, with some small cuts and scrapes on the heel and ball. I contort my body to get my foot up and into the basin, standing on the tips of my toes on my right foot. I can feel my skirt riding up my thighs and catching under the curve of my butt cheeks, my legs stretched apart as I turn the water on to clean my foot. It comes out in a rush, splashing from the bowl and onto my skirt. Fuck! That's the last thing I need! I do a little hop on my tiptoes, moving away from the water, and lean forward to bathe my toes, my breasts bulging out from the ridiculous push-up bra I'm wearing. What was I thinking?

At that moment, with my legs stretched wide, skirt hitched up, splashes of water on the floor, my boobs bulging out as I lean over the basin, the hand dryer stops. In the silence, I hear the outer door of the bathroom swing open. I freeze. There are two steps until Sophie, Mr Daniels' PA, rounds the inner wall and stops dead, taking in the sight in front of her. The blood rushes up my face in a crimson blush, my mouth falls open as I try to think of something - anything - to say, but no words come. Shock registers on Sophie's beautiful, immaculate face, and then amusement, with just a hint of cruelty behind those gorgeous brown eyes, framed by her perfect lashes.

"Well, that's one way to make an impression," she smirks. She raises her smartphone. "Smile!" I freeze, mouth gaping, totally exposed. Click. The shutter goes. "Please, carry on!" she says, making her way into one of the cubicles. As the door lock clicks shut, I am sure I can hear the swoosh sound of a text message sending.

My stomach drops. My mind is in turmoil. What should I do? I picture myself as Sophie's phone has caught me: one wet foot up in the sink, one filthy foot tiptoe on the floor, my skirt bunched up around my waist...she could probably see my panties! Oh God, my tummy exposed, my little breasts crushed together in a push-up bra...what a picture. And that image is probably in the office WhatsApp group right now, the group that I have not yet earned the right to be a part of. I picture the notifications pinging into people's phones, their curiosity as they unlock, and then their amusement...maybe open laughter..."hey, have you seen this?" as they pass their phone to the next desk. She won't have sent it to Mr Daniels, will she? Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, what am I going to do?

I realise I am still standing exactly as I was when Sophie came into the bathroom, with warm water still flowing over my left foot. I take it out, leaving a wet - but clean - footprint on the tiled floor, and swap to my other foot, cleaning it as best I can. The cubicle door remains shut. I grab my blouse and quickly button it, covering my bra. The sweat patches aren't properly dry - of course they aren't, what was I even thinking? - but a cold chill has settled across my body and the dark patches under my arms are the least of my worries. I need to dry my wet feet. Can I get them up under the drier?

I hear the flush of the toilet, then the click of the lock as the cubicle door opens. Sophie appears, stalking into the bathroom, her superiority and control oozing from every pore.

"P-please, Sophie, let me explain..." I gasp, my voice coming out something like a squeak. "I-I...the bus..."

"Kneel," says Sophie, looking at me coldly.

"E-excuse me?"

"I imagine you don't want that photo spread around the office?"

"N-no, Sophie, please don't spread it around," I gasp. Maybe I'd been mistaken. Maybe I hadn't heard that text message swoosh after all? Maybe it wasn't too late?

"Then kneel. Beg. Convince me to keep it a secret," she says.

I stare at her, conscious of my eyes goggling and my mouth falling open again. Surely she can't be serious? But as I meet her cold, hard gaze, it is abundantly clear that she is entirely, totally serious. And what choice do I have? I drop to my knees on the bathroom floor.

"Please Sophie, please don't share that photograph. I'm new here, I really want to make a good impression. Mr Daniels, he told me I needed to fit in more, so I bought a whole new outfit, it cost me so much Sophie, I really wanted to impress him, to impress everyone, especially today with the client meeting...I bought the same perfume as you Sophie, it smelt so good, but then the bus broke down, and I didn't want to be late, and I had to walk, but my heels slowed me down and then I had to take them off and I didn't want to ruin my stockings so I took them off too and my feet hurt so much and they were so dirty so I tried to wash them and my blouse was all sweaty and I was trying to dry it and then you came in and please please please Sophie I'm having such a bad day please have mercy on me please don't share that picture..." Even as the words pour out of me, I know I've lost it. She already thinks I'm amusing, but now she thinks I'm pathetic too...and as I look up from my kneeling position at her towering over me, I see her snapping two, three more pictures of me kneeling on a toilet floor, begging her for mercy. What have I become?

Somehow, I manage to wrestle control of my vocal chords back, and stop speaking. She regards me, kneeling at her feet, with a look that is pure contempt. The silence stretches out for what seems like an age. But finally, she speaks.

"I will keep these photos on my phone, and I won't send them to anyone," she says. I breathe a sigh of relief, but she's not finished. "But there are two conditions. Firstly, you answer to me. If I need something doing, you will prioritise that, and do it well. If I'm not satisfied, your photos will be round the office before you can blink. Understand?" I nod, blankly. Anything to save the humiliation of those pictures being shared. She pauses, a cold smile playing on her lips. "Second condition: I want your panties."