Justine Elyot - Fast And Loose

I stepped out of my shoes and rucked the skirt carefully up to my waist, making sure not to damage the silky lining. Then I removed my tights, even more carefully because they were a fine denier and given to snagging at the slightest provocation. I laid them in my shoes and sat back down to wiggle out of the knickers.

These ones weren’t ‘special’ but they were still nice enough – white stretch lace boyshorts, to match my bra. If Tom asked to see them, I had nothing to be ashamed of.

Wait – what was I thinking? I was taking off my knickers and bra at work for the purposes of sexual titillation. Wasn’t that something to be ashamed of?

Only in the most exciting way imaginable.

I smiled at myself, my heart skittering along, listening for any signs of creaking doors or footsteps in the corridor beyond. Once I had removed the knickers and stuffed them in my bag, I picked up my tights again.

It seemed weird and wrong to put them back on. Surely the idea of having no knickers on was the sense of being bare and uncovered at an inappropriate time, in an inappropriate place. The tights would be cheating. But I could hardly leave them off without drawing attention to myself.

I put my feet in and eased them up to my knees. I really didn’t want to pull them all the way up. For a start, the idea of the unbreathable nylon right up against my privates didn’t appeal. Could I get away with having them just at mid-thigh? Would it create an unsightly bunch under my tight skirt? And would I be able to walk properly?

I tested the proposition. I needed to spend some considerable time arranging things so that my silhouette remained smooth enough inside my pencil skirt to seem normal, but eventually I was able to come out of the cubicle and take a look in the bathroom mirrors to make sure I wasn’t deluding myself.

I wasn’t. It looked fine. But it felt very, very strange. My walk was constrained to a kind of Marilyn Monroe-esque wiggle. It was just as well my job didn’t require a lot of striding and leaping around.

I did a few catwalk turns, admiring my swaying hips and enjoying the illicit feel of my bare thighs brushing together. The silky lining of my skirt caressed my bottom as I walked. My nipples throbbed, teased by cotton. I had been aware all morning of a residual tingle down below from Tom’s treatment of me, but now it was rudely at the forefront of my consciousness.

He intended me to remember what had been done to me, and to think of what was still to come. He wanted it to be on my mind all day.

I half-shut my eyes and ground my hips at my reflection.

Could I get away with a quick and furtive orgasm in one of the cubicles? I was sorely tempted…

The door of the office creaked and I leapt guiltily towards the sinks and turned on the tap at full blast so it sprayed my shirt.

‘Damn!’ I shouted, as Tilda swung into the room.

‘El, are you OK?’ she asked.

‘I was, until this fucking tap decided I needed a shower,’ I moaned, flapping my hands.

‘Go and stand under the dryer,’ she suggested, laughing at my unwarranted wrath. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? You’re not feeling ill, are you?’

‘No, I’m fine. Had to change my tights, that’s all. Got a ladder.’

‘OK. That’s good. Miles was getting worried about you.’ I caught sight of her raised eyebrows in the mirror. How could I not have seen this? Now Tom had mentioned it, the clues were everywhere .

‘Well, he shouldn’t,’ I said gruffly. ‘I’m all right, Til. You can go. I’ll be out in a minute.’

She didn’t leave. She stood there, chewing her lip and playing with her bracelet.

‘Just, while we’re alone in here,’ she said, once the dryer had ceased its deafening roar. ‘I did wonder whether you and Miles…last night…?’

I turned around, doing my best to arrange my face into shocked surprise.

‘Me and Miles? Are you kidding? No. Not my type. At all.’

‘Really? He’s not bad-looking. And quite sweet, when he wants to be.’

‘Don’t match-make, Til. It’s not going to happen.’

‘Oh, come on, Ella. I’m not suggesting you order the wedding flowers. But you could do with a bit of fun. You’re not still pining after Crowley, are you?’

Oh, God. The Name had come up. I hadn’t been expecting it, and it was like a blow to the below-the-belt area.

‘Pining? I’ve never pined in my entire life,’ I said, a bit too hotly. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I just don’t need a friend with benefits, that’s all. I’m fine as I am.’

‘All right, no need to bite my head off, dear. It’s just that I’ve seen a lot of women waste a lot of emotional energy on Crowley, and I don’t want you to be one of them. He ain’t worth it.’

‘It was one night, six weeks ago, Til,’ I said, but inside I was quivering and my blood was rushing to my skin so fast I thought it might burst through my pores at any moment. ‘I think I’m over it now.’

‘Good,’ she said decisively. ‘So, are you coming back? Your email alert pinged eight times while you’ve been in here.’

‘Shit, really? Eight? What’s happening? Is there some kind of big news story going on?’

‘Nah, just traffic stuff, I think. Come on.’

Sitting back down at my desk, I almost moaned with arousal as my bare bottom slid against the cold, sleek lining of my skirt. My thighs were immediately damp. This was going to be a challenging day.

At lunchtime I took a corner table in our favourite coffee shop with Tilda and determined to tackle the subject of her relationship with Tom. It had been on my mind all morning, and I needed to know the worst.

The seats in the coffee shop were moulded plastic, and they made my knickerless state all the more unavoidable as I slid and slipped around on the shiny orange surface, scared to cross my legs.

‘So, you seem really down on Tom Crowley,’ I said, as casually as I could, tearing open my sandwich package. ‘Is it just from observation, or is it personal?’

Her eyes flashed up at me and she paused in the action of raising a cup of soup to her lips.

‘Who’ve you been talking to?’ she said.

‘Nobody. Just…from what you were saying in the loos earlier.’

‘Hm, well, I stand by that.’ She paused, taking a sip of tomato and basil. ‘He’s a menace to womankind.’

‘But was he a menace to you?’

She sighed, put down the mug, looked all around the café as if assessing the best escape route, then turned back to me.

‘I don’t like to talk about it,’ she said. ‘But yes. I’ve been there. And I wish I hadn’t. All right?’

It was unsettling to see Tilda like this. In the couple of months I’d known her, she’d always struck me as strong and feisty, nobody’s fool. But a haunted look had come into her dark eyes and she seemed to lose some of her twenty eight years years.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. He really hurt you?’

She looked down for a second, then back up again, full Tilda service resumed.

‘Nah,’ she said. ‘He was a dick, but I don’t let it get to me. It was three years ago, anyway.’

I bit into my sandwich. Ugh. Too much basil. Why did basil need to be in a sandwich at all?

‘I know he has a reputation,’ I said. ‘Did he cheat on you?’

‘I don’t even know,’ she said. ‘I just got tired of waiting for him. Sitting in bars on my own, texting him to ask where he was, getting nowhere. It happened once too often and that was that. I don’t sit around waiting for men. Not even that man. I’ve got my own life to lead, you know?’

‘So he’s unreliable, basically?’

‘Very.’ She laughed her warm, raucous laugh, but there was some pain in it. ‘The poster boy for unreliability and lack of commitment. That’s Tom Crowley.’