Skirt day -

            Chapter six:  Cheryl

When she visits Joan later that afternoon, Lisa has
trouble remembering exactly what happened earlier that
day, after Steve sent her back to her desk.  She does
remember that Steve's order not to use the bathroom
heightened her urge to do just that, and her
willingness to obey the order provided a continuation
of the arousal that had been increasing in her all
morning.   After she got back to her desk, Lisa found
it extremely difficult to work.   She continued to be
extremely horny for hours - all she could think about
was that hand on the subway, feeling her wetness
through her panties.  That hand had felt so warm
against her bare thighs.  But more than that - had
anyone been watching her?  She could not even
remember, even though it had only happened a few hours
before.  Someone must have noticed, she thought.  She
had probably moaned.  She had probably been writhing. 
She had a picture of herself in the subway, flushed
with excitement, humping the hand of some unshaven
homeless pervert, trying to cum while mothers hid the
eyes of their children on the train.  Was I that bad? 
 Her memories were already blurred by the pressure and
the insistent itch of her crotch.

Add to this the fact that she really, really needed to
pee.  Her morning coffee and half a bottle of water
were pressing her bladder, but she was afraid to ask
Steve's permission to use the bathroom.  And she
needed his permission, she remembers, because the day
was, like the day before, and the day before that, a
skirt day.

She tried her best to ignore her bladder and her
morning's adventures and get some work done.  As soon
as she started typing her weekly report, however, her
thoughts wandered and her right hand perpetually
drifted to her lap.  How easy it was to sneak that
hand under her skirt.  How nice that there was nothing
but those thin cotton panties between her hand and the
source of her pleasure.  She tried to type with one
hand as her other hand stroked herself beneath her
short green skirt.

Suddenly, "Lisa, can I get a copy of the Roberts
report from you?"  It was Cheryl.  She poked her head
into Lisa's open cubicle.  Lisa looked down and
realized her skirt was resting far above the tops of
her stockings and her hand was . . . oh my god, did
Cheryl see?

"Um, of course, hold on a moment," said Lisa, as she
straightened her skirt as if she had only been
innocently scratching her knee.  She dug to the bottom
of a stack of folders on her desk and found the
report.  Cheryl stood at the cubicle door, silent. 
Lisa handed her the report, looking into her eyes to
see if there was any response.  Cheryl was silent and
stoic.  She took the report, smiled, and then abruptly
walked away.

I have /got/ to get my own office soon, Lisa thought. 
She has some 10 employees - does that not warrant her
an office?  But then she thought: why do I need my own
office?  So I can masturbate while I'm supposed to be
working?  She sat in contemplative stillness for
probably twenty minutes.  Did Cheryl see?  What did
she think?  

Finally she snapped out of it. Oh my god, she thought,
I so need some privacy, a splash of water, and a pee!

She stood up and pulled her skirt down as far as it
would go, which was not very far, she thought.  She
marched to Steve's cubicle.

"Steve, may I /please/ use the restroom now?"

"Did you drink the bottle of water I gave you?"  

"I drank half of it.  If I have any more I'll burst. 
Please Steve."

"Stand a little closer."

Lisa approached Steve, who remained seated in his
cubicle chair.  She is quite tall and his chair was
low, putting his face at the level of her crotch.  His
hand reached for her thigh, which he gently stroked.

"Why do you want to use the restroom now?  I was going
to play a little game with you at lunch.  All part of
your punishment, remember?"

Lisa shuddered at the feeling of Steve's hand on her
thigh.  It was different from the subway hand; that
hand was much firmer, and its anonymity made it seem
larger.  Steve's hand was gentle, almost a tickle -
and she needed more than a tickle.  She looked at
Steve's face; at his large, childish grin, and
wondered what she really felt about this man.  He is
assertive, but . . .

"Steve, I need to pee.  Okay?  You said not to go
without your permission, but I have to go, NOW." 
Steve's hand had now gone under her skirt, where his
fingernail was gently tickling her bare thigh.   He
tickled her for a few seconds, as Lisa waited for a
reply, her distraction mounting.

"Okay, boss," said Steve, " . . . but we'll play a
little game right now instead of later."  He removed
his hand from her skirt and folded his arms.  "That's
a nice blouse you're wearing," he said.

Lisa looked down at her blouse.  With the garter and
skirt, she had barely given any thought to her shirt
that morning, choosing a simple cream cotton blouse.  


Steve turned away from Lisa and jotted something down
on a piece of paper, which he then folded twice.

"Here's the game: on this page is a number," said
Steve.  "It is the number of buttons of your blouse
you will have to unbutton in order to use the bathroom
now.    If you want to use the bathroom, you have to
tell me a number of buttons.  If it is smaller than
the number on this page, then you may /not/ use the
bathroom; rather you will have to wait until after
lunch.  If it is equal to or larger than this number,
then you have to unbutton the number of buttons that
/you/ say.    And the buttons will stay unbuttoned all
day long."  

Lisa was confused at first, but then she thought about
what number to guess.  She couldn't guess too low; she
HAD to get into the bathroom NOW.  She had to guess
Steve's number.  She looked down at her blouse.  Five
buttons showed above her skirt.  He wouldn't ask for
all five - that would not pass in the office.  Neither
would four.  Three might, MIGHT just barely pass for
decent.  That's probably his number.

"Three," said Lisa.

"Well, then," said Steve, his grin wider still,
"unbutton three buttons." 

Lisa did it, she guessed right!  She unbuttoned the
buttons; the first was one she might have unbuttoned
on her own when it got too hot.  The second showed a
bit of cleavage.  The third showed the middle of her
lacy white bra.  The thought of her office mates
seeing her underwear unnerved her.  I have to leave
these open all day?  

"Now," continued Steve, "you may use the restroom, but
only to pee, since, as you said, that's the reason you
needed to go.  You may do nothing else.  That's an
order."  

Steve handed her the piece of paper and turned back to
his computer.

Lisa walked down the hall towards the restroom.  As
she walked, her blouse strayed open, showing large
amounts of her upper chest.  She hoped no one would
see her in this state of dress.  She felt so exposed -
her legs were on display, her thighs were naked under
her short skirt, her white lacy bra was visible to all
- and her pussy felt like a river with a leaky dam
about to burst.

But 10 feet from the bathroom, her boss Jim turned the
corner and spotted her.  "Hi, Lisa," he said as he
passed, an obvious smirk on his face.  Lisa rushed
into the bathroom.

Finally in the privacy of a stall, she lifted her
skirt and pulled her panties down to her stocking
tops.  (That was easier than usual, she thinks.)   The
relief of emptying her over-full bladder filled her
with pleasure, and she almost orgasmed from it. 
Almost.  As she sat on the stall, feeling relieved,
she noted she was still holding a piece of paper. 
What's this?  She unfolded it.  Scrawled in pencil was
a single large number: "1."  

Oh, she thought.  She looked down at her chest, at her
B-cup breasts behind the lace of her bra.  She could
have guessed 2.  Or even 1.  And then she would not
have had to have her bra on display.  She must have
been confused by the game.  It was that hand at the
subway, she thought.  It left me so confused.  She
again started stroking herself, as she sat on the
toilet.  But I must not do that, she thought.  Steve
ordered me not to.  

She cleaned up as best she could - finding herself and
her panties extremely wet - and exited the stall.  
Then she saw something that gave her pause.

There, in the large mirror above the sinks, she saw a
26 year old blonde woman, whose blouse was open to her
bra, whose skirt was 4 inches too short, and one of
whose stockings had fallen so low that the start of
the lacy stocking top was visible beneath the skirt's
hem.  Her cheeks were red, her breathing was heavy,
and as she looked she could see that the woman's right
hand was sneaking under her skirt, stroking her pussy
through her wet panties.  That woman in the mirror is
going to go back out to the office, looking just that,
she thought.  Everyone will know that she desires sex.
 They will see it in her exposed cleavage, in the
glimpses of bare thigh above her stockings.  They will
smell it in her pussy which gushes all day, feeling no
relief.  And anything they ask, she thought, anything,
she will do.  That woman in the mirror - that's a
SLUT.  Look at how lustfully she is rubbing her
panties.  But she won't let herself orgasm, because
Steve told her not too.  Yes, a slut.  She thought of
saying the word out loud.  It is what Steve wants,
isn't it?  She said it.  "Slut."  Her stroking
intensified.  "SLUT."  She knew Steve ordered her not
to masturbate, but it felt so good.  So very, very
good.  Her entire body was warm and sensitive with
pleasure.  "Ssssslut" she gasped, as she felt the
orgasm, the biggest one ever, she thought.  Her
fingers were inside her panties, her skirt pulled
obscenely to her waist, and the pleasure overwhelmed
her.  She felt the orgasm hit her, and hit her hard. 
Her eyes closed as the waves of sexual release began
to surge through every part of her body.

But just then, the door opened.  Cheryl walked in, and
without another word walked right back out.   Lisa was
shocked by the intrusion; her orgasm was cut short and
she tried to quickly straighten herself up, but she
knew it is too late.   "She definitely saw this time,"
Lisa said to the slut in the mirror, as she felt the
pleasure start to fade away.

		Chapter seven: The First Relapse

This has gone too far, Lisa decided.  She buttoned up
her shirt, including even the collar button, which she
would usually leave undone, to make a point.  She
pulled her stockings up and assured that the tops are
well hidden by her skirt.  She splashed some cold
water on her face.  She had disobeyed, but it is for
the better, she thought.   She couldn't go into the
office looking like . . . that.  She could not let her
employee give her orders.  This had all gotten quite
ridiculous.  

Satisfied that she looked as professional as she could
in her cream blouse and miniskirt, she left the
restroom and immediately went to Steve's desk.  

"Steve," she said.  She saw his eyes scan her shirt,
buttoned to the top. "I need you to put the final
touches on my weekly progress report.  I'm going to
take a long lunch and then I have my usual afternoon
appointment.  I don't think I will return today after
that.  I'll see you Monday morning."

"Uhh, okay, boss," said Steve, with obvious
disappointment in his face.

Feeling back in control, Lisa walked back to her
cubicle, emailed Steve the documents he needed, packed
up her handbag, and walked out of the office, down the
elevator, into the street, into the subway, making eye
contact with no one.  She went straight home, laid in
her bed, and stared at the ceiling for the better part
of an hour.

She meets Joan that afternoon, after changing into
some old, comfy jeans and a baggy sweatshirt.  Joan's
office looks a little like a library; three of its
walls are covered in bookshelves, mostly filled with
books and journals, with the occasional piece of
sculpture or framed free-standing photograph.  Two
armchairs face each other in the middle of the room. 
Sitting in one is Joan, who wears a dark blue
skirt-suit with bare legs.  She is gazing through her
bifocals at Lisa, who sits silently in the other
chair, thinking about her day while reading the titles
of the books.  "Modern Psychology."  "Games People
Play."  "The Problem of Sex."  

"Lisa?"  Joan's tone is gentle.

"I don't want to talk about it," says Lisa.

"Isn't talking about it what you pay me for?" jokes
Joan.  "Well, talk about something.  Don't be
childish."

"Childish?  I am /not/ being childish.  Fine.  I'll
tell you."  

Joan waits.

"Okay.  Ever since your little `dare' I've been
following the orders of this employee of mine."

"And?"

"And today I found myself in a public bathroom,
half-naked, ready to prance around my office like a .
. a . . . like someone not as professional as I am and
should be, all because of . . . "

"Why were you half naked?"

"Well, it was a skirt day.  Like you said.  I was
wearing a skirt and opening myself up.  Big mistake."

"Why a mistake?  You seemed to enjoy the feeling last
week."

"But it got out of hand."

"How exactly?"

"Well, the skirt was so short - it only fell this high
on my thighs."  Lisa gestured with her hand how long
the skirt had been.

"Well, that's about where my skirt is sitting," says
Joan, pointing out her own hemline.  "That still
passes as professional in this decade."

"Well, it's not only that; my shirt was undone."

"All the way?"

"Well, three buttons, but . . . "

"Lisa, that seems a little more revealing than usual
for you, but it's actually quite trendy these days to
wear a blouse half un-buttoned.  I still don't see why
this is `out-of-hand.'"

"Well, I was in the bathroom, looking at myself in the
mirror, and my co-worker, Cheryl saw me."

"So you were in the privacy of a woman's bathroom, and
a coworker saw you in a skirt as short as mine and
with three buttons of your shirt undone.  And this is
out of hand why?"

"I looked like . . . a slut."  Lisa blushed as she
said the word.

"Lisa, I doubt it.  You looked a little sexier than
usual, for sure, but a slut?  This is the problem,
Lisa.  You are too hard on yourself."

"Well, my employee, the one who was giving me orders,
made me get his permission to use the bathroom."

"And you obviously got it, since you were in the
bathroom."

"Well, that's why my shirt was unbuttoned.  To get
permission."

Joan waited for more, but Lisa fell silent again. 

"Lisa, last week you told me that not backing out of
these little orders was the point - that it made you
feel better.  And now?  Is there something you're not
telling me?"

"No, but . . . "  Lisa rolls her eyes and starts
reading the titles on another bookshelf.  "Fear of
Flying." "My Secret Garden."  

"Lisa," says Joan, leaning forward,  "I think we need
to find out where all this. . . repression comes from.
 You've told me that your father left you when you
were, what, twelve?"

"Yes."

"Lisa, did he ever . . . touch you in a way that he
shouldn't have?"  

"Oh my god no!"  Lisa exclaims.  "No!  If anything he
didn't touch me enough.  He mostly ignored me, except
to scold me for staining his precious furniture.  No! 
How could you ask such a thing?!"

"I'm sorry, Lisa," says Joan, "modern psychology is a
quagmire of inappropriate presumptions.    Let's focus
on the present.  When was the last time you had sex?"

Lisa is silent.

"I'm guessing it's been a while.  A year, maybe?"

Lisa blushes.

"More than a year?"

"Not since college," she says, reluctantly.  "I've
been busy, and guys have been so . . . well, I've been
busy."

"I see.  Have you been masturbating regularly?"

Lisa's blush intensifies.  "I don't want to . . . do
we have to talk about this?"

Joan pauses, contemplates, and then asks "Lisa, were
you masturbating in that bathroom today?"

Lisa's hands fidget.

"Well, were you?"

"Okay, yes.  Yes I was.  I was masturbating in a
public bathroom.  Are you happy now?  And I'm mad at
my employee because he told me I couldn't but it's not
the sort of thing you can stop, you know?"

Joan allows a brief pause, and continues.  "Lisa, I
think I see what happened today.  Masturbation is a
natural, innocent activity, but you don't see it that
way.  This is why you thought you were slutty.  It's
not because of your flirtatious games with Steve."

Lisa shoots back: "How did you know his name is Steve?
 I never mentioned him by name!"

"You said his name last week!"

"I did not!  You know him, don't you?  Oh my god, you
told him I was going to follow his orders!  That's how
he knew!  That's why he was so confident!  You knew
all along!"

"Hold on, Lisa, hold on.  I don't know Steve.  Heck, I
don't even know what company you work at, or even what
exactly you do.  I only know his name because you said
it last week."

"I didn't!"

"You did!"

Another silence pervades the room.  Joan says calmly,
"Lisa, you are very untrusting right now.  You are
defensive, suspicious . . . and it's all because you
were caught masturbating."

"I'm sorry, you're probably right."

"Look, I am right.  Now, let me ask you - are you
going to keep going with this skirt dare, or are you
going to back out because of this coworker who caught
you at a moment of being a normal woman?"

"Oh, Joan, you're right, I've been silly.  I shouldn't
give up so easily, should I?"

"Here is what I would recommend.  Are you listening?"

"I'm listening."

"Okay: a new rule, for when you are wearing a skirt. 
You may only masturbate with someone's permission. 
You have my number - you can call me up if you want. 
Or call up a trusted friend.  Or ask Steve.  But if
someone else tells you it's okay to masturbate, then
you won't feel so guilty about it.  Do you
understand?"

"I do."

"Do you think you can do it?"

"What if I really, really need relief?"

Joan smiles.  "Then you'll really, really need
permission."

"Okay Joan," Lisa says.  "I'll try again."



That weekend, Lisa went shopping and bought a new
skirt.  It was a little more conservative - dark
brown, straight cut, and almost knee length.  A long
slit up the back made it somewhat sexy, though, she
thought.  Professional but sexy: that's what I'll be. 
And no matter what, it was still a skirt, and she
would still follow the skirt day rules.  She looked
forward to it.   She felt worried and lonesome all of
Saturday and Sunday, and found that she missed the
feeling that she was "following orders."  She did like
Steve, and although it was awkward to have to be his
boss and follow his rules at the same time, it seemed
more awkward to ignore the warm feeling his knowing
gaze could give her.  

On Sunday night as she drifted to sleep, she made a
resolution: on Monday, I will go to Steve.  I will
wear my new skirt and the stockings he gifted me.  I
will pull him out of the office and go someplace
private - the park adjoining the office complex - and
I will apologize.  I will tell him that I will do
whatever I can to make it up to him for not obeying
his orders.  

She wondered what he would do.  The thought made her
pussy moisten, for the first time since her episode in
the bathroom, but she was too tired to do anything but
drift into a deep but anxious sleep.