Professional suicide?

Those of you following me for some time will know not every blog is outrageous sex from first word to last as, let’s face it, real life isn't is it? So this blog about my stupid idea of following the roll of a dice is perhaps not as sexy as some, but then it’s only part 1!

Location is everything. What I was planning to do would hardly raise an eyebrow in a crowded pub on a Saturday night. However, as a professional manager in a less than modern forward-thinking firm, it could be, at the very least, career limiting. More likely career ending! But that was what made it so exciting.

To those unaware of what I was doing and why, you should read my old posts. In a nutshell, I’d decided to force myself to follow the throw of a dice when deciding how many buttons to leave undone on my skirt. Today’s number was three of five. On checking in the mirror, it meant that no matter how I stood, my stocking clad legs were on display above the tops of those stockings. Walking,, even with a short stride, gaped the skirt to reveal leg and suspenders.

I tried to envisage colleagues and more importantly, bosses reaction and wished I hadn’t.

In spite of what you know about me, I am pretty certain my work colleagues consider me less than sexy. (Honestly). You’ll know from previous blogs I have done some flashing at the office and have been spotted but on each occasion, I’ve made sure I had deniability. The incident could be put down to a wardrobe malfunction, and they were always well separated by time.

This view of my legs couldn’t fall into a malfunction category. I had somehow to ensure I wasn’t spotted. For a whole day.

The feeling it gave me was huge, a feeling of wantonness like the early days of my flashing. Knowing I was creating a vision for men to wank to. Power.

Now stupidly I had the same feeling. I had fantasies about it the night before. About walking into my boss’s office. Standing in front of his desk, my dress gaping. Revealing my stocking encased leg, the metal clasp of my suspender reflecting the light.

A stupid fantasy, but one that had my fingers playing as I imagined the outcome. In fiction, it would be wild sex across the large executive desk. In reality, an escorted walk to HR and dismissal.

I should try to describe my boss. We all know that you can’t judge a person's sexual proclivities by their outward appearance. The most meek and mild might be a secret dom. A muscled hunk, a wearer of baby nappies. So judging my boss by his outward demeanor was not a one hundred percent guarantee that he was totally uninterested in sex. But I would have bet my pension that I was right.

My fantasy might have ended with me stretched across his desk with his head between my legs, getting drowned in my piss. My reality, I suspected, would end somewhat differently.

In that reality, I’d made it to my desk without being seen, mainly because I’d come in early and the outer office was empty.

I sat back in my chair, looking at my lap. This was madness. Do the buttons up I told myself. Be sensible. I was losing the fight with my sane self. As I reached down to do up the top button, the door opened and my assistant walked in with the day’s diary. I hurriedly pulled my chair in, my legs safely disappearing under my desk, and we discussed the matters he raised. By the time he left, my mind was in work mode and my wardrobe madness took a back seat.

It was around coffee time that I came unstuck. An internal call from the head of another department. Could I pop in and see her regarding a query that could involve my sphere? Couldn’t she come to me I asked. No. Too many printouts. Easier in her office.

The sensible thing to do. The sane thing. The ‘You'll still have a job in the morning,’ thing was to do, was to do up those buttons. But then. I’m neither sensible nor sane.

What I did do was to grab an A4 notepad. Held in both hands in front of me, hiding my stocking tops. It looked weird. Fine holding it like that when standing and talking, but a strange way to hold it whilst walking.

I got through my outer office without attracting stares, walked down the corridor to Clare’s office, and went in.

Clare is younger than me, mid-thirties, a high flyer. Brain the size of a planet. Work focused to the exclusion of everything else. My hope was that that focus would preclude her from noticing my dress code was not quite in accordance with HR’s laid down policy.

Her desk was strewn with computer printouts. I could see why she hadn’t wanted to bring them to me. She outlined the problem without looking up, which enabled me to get close to her desk without her noticing anything. Due to the nature of her query, I had no choice but to stand next to her, but I leant against the desk hoping that would hide the gap in my skirt. It did. To start with.

We discussed the problem and matters got technical and I became absorbed in the detail. So much so my sartorial misdemeanour vanished from my mind. Until we reached a conclusion and I rounded the desk, sat in a chair opposite Clare, and crossed my legs. Clare was talking to me at the time, her eyes on me, not the printouts in front of her. Her eyes reminded me that the last thing I should have done was cross my legs. They opened wide. “Er, Tracy I think you have an excess button or two undone.” There were two ways I could react. First with shock and horror and do up the recalcitrant buttons. But that would mean breaking my vow to myself. The second was to brazen it out. “No, it’s intentional. Keeps my male minions attentive.” I joked, hoping to deflect her from my inaction on doing the buttons up.

I’ve said Clare was a high flyer and a workaholic. She was also humourless and as far as I could tell asexual. She looked at me, confused.

“A distraction, surely?”

A typical reply from her. Analytical rather than a normal comment such as ‘My god you let men see your underwear?’ although as far as I was concerned, a lot less problematical.

“Well, you know what they say, all work and no play…”

Her eyes were on my show. If it had been anyone else, I’d have thought there might be some sexual interest, but not Clare. Surely?

“Why on earth wear stockings?” There was disdain in her voice as if I was wearing something outlandish. Perhaps to her they were.

“They make me feel sexy.”

“Such a bore, suspenders and everything,” she replied as she returned her attention to collating her papers. My lingerie show seemingly forgotten.

The statement threw me though. Not for its content, a perfectly reasonable response, they could be a bore, but for the fact that it gave the impression Clare had knowledge of wearing stockings. If that were the case, I wondered if my assumption of her being asexual was wrong. A possibility worth exploring, I decided.

“Yes, they can be fiddly, but the benefits outweigh the downside. When do you wear them?”

“I don’t. Haven’t for years. A boyfriend at Uni was keen on the idea, I wore them for him but haven’t done since. Thanks for helping resolve that,” she said, holding up the file. “I can move forward now.” My exposure and our brief conversation about stockings might not have happened. It seems I’d got away with it! I’d file the titbit about her stocking wearing for future reference. Only another five hours to survive!

The incident had awoken my libido though and stupidly I decided to stop off at our young intern's desk on the way back to my office.

Part 2 to follow

Author’s note: Medium has changed the way they calculate the amount they pay us authors for what we post. I’m hardly a J K Rowling but what I did earn kept me in new knickers. Now those earnings have dropped to 10% of what they had been. (To 10%, not by 10%) And we were told it was for our benefit! I don’t like being ripped off, but will for the time being keep posting to see if I can recover those few £s. So please, please if you have enjoyed this little blog, do clap and/or leave a comment. It helps the little algorithm thingy think I’m human. XXX