Justine Elyot - Fast And Loose

‘You know. My local. It wasn’t a big night out or anything.’

Change the subject, for God’s sake .

‘If you say so. I’d have said it was an all-nighter, though, judging by those rings around your eyes.’

‘I need this coffee, that’s for sure.’ I lifted it to my lips and cast around the office, desperate for an alternative topic of conversation. ‘Is Miles in yet?’

Tilda wheeled back her chair a fraction, giving me an uncomfortably keen look.

‘You weren’t out with him last night, were you?’

‘Miles? God! No!’

The man in question appeared in the doorway, pulling his hood off his face, looking as unshaven and dishevelled as ever.

‘Ladies,’ he said, in his sullen Mancunian accent. ‘Did you get one in for me, Til?’

‘You can get your own. It’s Ella who looks like she really needs one.’

‘Yeah?’

He sat down, yawning, on my other side and dumped his backpack under the desk before swivelling to stare at me.

‘Why’s that then?’

‘Oh, just thought she looked a bit tired, that’s all,’ said Tilda archly. ‘Like she needs a bit more sleep.’

She gave Miles a meaningful look which was lost on him, but which I at last understood. Tilda had been making these weird oblique remarks to Miles about me for weeks. And now I understood why – everybody knew that he fancied me.

It was nice to be in on the secret, even if I was the last to know.

‘Oh,’ said Miles. ‘Why’s that, then? Late one, was it?’

This seemed to satisfy Tilda that we hadn’t been secretly at it all night long, and she turned to her desk to log in.

‘Just a few drinks with my flatmates,’ I mumbled, following suit.

Miles grunted and lumbered off to the coffee machine.

Not my type, I thought, following him with my eyes. Too simian, and that stoop – why didn’t he walk tall? Like Tom. Mmm. Tom. Bleurgh.

My phone rang twice. An external ring. Unusual, especially for this time in the morning. Mum or Dad?

I picked it up.

‘Morning, Foxy.’

I nearly dropped the receiver.

‘Oh’ was all I found to say.

‘You can walk, then?’

‘Just about.’

He chuckled. ‘I mean, your ankle.’

‘Yes,’ I said, bending low to the desk to avoid being overheard. ‘That’s what I meant.’

‘Just wanted to make sure I hadn’t…incapacitated you…in any way.’

‘I thought you had a breakfast meeting.’

‘Yeah, done that. Stale croissants, bloody cheek. Anyway, speaking of bloody cheek…’

‘Were we?’

‘Mm, I’m thinking about cheeks now. And I don’t mean the ones on your face.’

Tom! It was on the tip of my tongue, but a throat-clearing from Tilda brought me to my senses. I would have to keep my words neutral or risk the third degree.

‘Though I’m not into drawing blood,’ he continued thoughtfully. ‘So literal bloody cheek isn’t quite what I have in mind. A nice bit of red flush, though…mmm.’

‘Did you call me for a reason?’ I muttered, beyond flustered.

‘Yes, I did,’ he said. ‘Did you set up that account on Safeword.com?’

‘Oh…not yet. I’ll do it later.’

I’d made a start but my brain had failed to co-operate, too preoccupied with Tom and his wily ways. I was in no mood to be penning kinky come-hithers to strangers after all that .

‘You’d better,’ he said, his voice like raw-edged silk. ‘Or you’ll know about it when I see you.’

Now this sounded promising.

‘Oh, will I?’ I said, trying to keep my tone light enough to deflect any attention from my neighbouring desks.

‘Yes, you will,’ he said. ‘And I’m getting a sense that you’re testing me. Do I have to prove that I mean business?’

I gulped. ‘Yes’ or ‘No’? Which was the right answer?

I couldn’t resist it. Despite the danger that surrounded me, I put my lips close to the mouthpiece and said, ‘Maybe you do.’

I could almost hear his smile at the other end.

‘Oh, dear, Foxy, you do have a habit of letting yourself in for it. OK then. As soon as you put the phone down, you’re going to go to the Ladies’ and do two things for me. One, pull the cups of your bra down and keep them that way for the rest of the day…you are wearing a bra, I take it?’

I gave a little yelp of indignant laughter. Mistake. Tilda was on the case right away, her neck tilted in my direction.

‘Of course,’ I hissed.

‘Just checking. I know what you’re like, Ms Cox, you rampant little animal. So, yeah, the bra is number one. Two, take off your knickers and put them in your bag for the rest of the day. You are…?’

I tutted and huffed. ‘Yes, again.’ I paused. ‘Oh, God.’

‘What?’

‘Do I have to?’

‘Yes, you have to. I’ll be waiting for you in the lobby at six, to make sure.’

Now this was a thrilling thought, as if I wasn’t thrilled enough.

‘Will you?’

‘You bet. What are you wearing?’

I gave Tilda a swift side-eye. I wasn’t sure I could answer this without arousing suspicion.

‘What do you mean?’ I hedged.

‘Skirt? Trousers?’

‘The former.’

‘I was hoping you would be! Excellent. Go on, then. And don’t forget. Six o’clock in the lobby for your underwear check.’ He made a couple of smoochy noises and rang off.

Tilda was definitely about to ask me who was on the phone. I had to get out of here.

‘Just going to the powder room,’ I said casually, slinging my bag over my shoulder and hobbling off. The powder room was our private reference to the ladies’ toilets – we found it funny because they were so ungenteel and usually in a horrible state.

They weren’t too bad this morning – the earliness of the hour meant that they were still at least clean, though their dingy tiling and rotten old sinks didn’t exactly cheer the eye.

I wasn’t here to rate them for aesthetic appeal, though. I was here to obey Tom’s orders and show myself for the scarlet woman I was.

I locked myself into the furthest cubicle and ran my hands over my outfit. Officewear wasn’t my natural style, but when I dressed for work I used it as an opportunity to channel my inner Mad Men cast-member. I kept things classic and curve-enhancing. Thank God it was November and my white shirt was made of cotton heavy enough to keep any overtly erect nipples at least half-concealed. My little summer cap-sleeved blouses would have been a different proposition.

I unbuttoned quickly and pulled the lace elastane cups of my bra down over my breasts. My nipples, thanks to the phone call, were in a state of high excitement. I wondered if there was anything I could do to flatten them before going back into the office. The shirt might be heavy, but a couple of dimples were still a strong possibility. Then I remembered my emergency cardigan. Thank God! I could button it over my shirt to keep things a little more modest.

Thus reassured, I fastened my shirt. As it closed over my unfettered breasts, the thick cotton pressed against my nipples, teasing and chafing them. They felt stiff and a little sore, and their peaks were definitely visible. I’d be feeling them every time I moved my arms, every time I pushed back my shoulders or flexed my spine.

‘You bastard,’ I whispered, thinking of Tom and how he would examine me later for signs of my obedience.

The thought made me dizzy and I had to sink on to the toilet lid, trying to block out the images of the previous night that twined around me, laughing at me with his smile and his wicked blue eyes.

Now the knickers. This would be more difficult. My pencil skirt was form-fitting and I wore tights underneath it, since I hadn’t been expecting anything of a sexual nature to happen at work.