Lauren stood in front of Don, hands on top of her head and panties pulled halfway down to her knees. She felt like she’d been standing there forever, but she tried to remain patient. Don shuffled through some papers for a moment before leaning back and spreading his arms wide to lounge on the couch. Now that Do—Mr. Arden—had pointed it out, Lauren thought, she saw that this setup perfectly defined their relationship: her standing before him, at attention, required to be partially exposed, and waiting on him and him comfortably dressed, relaxing, and choosing when their interaction would begin. Mr. Arden was clearly in charge. More than “in charge”, she thought. A boss was “in charge”. Mr. Arden could tell her to do almost anything and she had to obey or face a punishment no normal boss would be able to dole out.
“Lauren,” Don finally began, “What part of your current contract do you dislike the most?”
She considered her words very carefully before replying. “May I . . . may I speak freely, sir?”
“Certainly. Freely, but respectfully.”
Still, she hesitated. “Sir . . . there’s very little about my contract that I do like. I . . . I wanted someone else in charge, but in my mind, it was just going to be someone enforcing rules that would be considered . . . more publicly acceptable. More normal. I didn’t necessarily need or want the . . . the forced inferiority. I’m doing my best to convince myself and behave as though men are inherently superior, but if I’m being honest with myself, I . . . I don’t believe it, and I find it really degrading to have to behave that way.” She gulped, wondering if she had said too much, but continued softly. “I think men and women are equals and should be treated that way.”
“Oh, Lauren,” he laughed. “I know all that. But don’t worry. In time, we’ll get your deeper beliefs adjusted so that you’re not just acting but truly accepting your inherent inferiority to men. But that’s irrelevant, Lauren. Right now I just want to know which part of your contract you like least.”
Again, she hesitated. She had never thought to rank how much she disliked her requirements. Certainly, she didn’t like being Do—Mr. Arden’s maid. She wasn’t a fan of her curfew, and having to treat all men as her betters was the part that made her external life the most difficult—dismissing one-offs like being told to dance and wait tables naked at a club, of course. But really, the part she disliked the most were the rules regarding her pubic area—having someone else dictate how she groomed there, having to use that vulgar word, the horrible punishment associated with it. She gulped, “It’s the rule about my . . . my pussy, sir.”
“There are several rules regarding your pussy, Lauren. Which one do you dislike the most?”
“I guess . . . I guess all of them, sir. I don’t like having that part . . . having my pussy subject to so much control and examination.”
“Excellent, Lauren. Wouldn’t be much point to you yielding control if the result was only things you would choose for yourself, would there? Anyway, my hope is that one or more of the new rules you just agreed to will bother you more than the prospect of getting your pussy whipped occasionally. So let’s go over them.
“These are two main sets of new rules, both designed to force you to think, every day and throughout the day, of what you can be doing to please men. Your failure to recognize your need to do that, more than anything, is what caused you to lose the contest, so that’s what we’re going to work on.
“The first set of rules concern how you dress. Keep in mind that the rules I’m about to outline to you are the minimum requirements or maximum allowed. You can always try to show you’re accepting your status below men by exceeding the standards. I want you to also note—and I hope you’re grateful for this—that nothing I’m requiring quite pushes you over the bounds of professionalism. People might notice the change, sure, but it won’t be over the line. Of course, you can always choose to do better than standards to show your commitment like I said, and that might cross a line, but that’s your decision.”
He stood up. “Let’s start at the top and work our way down.” He pushed her hair back from her ears. “First, from now on, you will wear either large hoop earrings or earrings that dangle at least two inches. Second,” he stepped back to look her up and down, “in the next two weeks, you’re going to get four new piercings. I want to see two of them as small hoops in the upper part of your ears,” he touched the upper portion of her ear and Lauren flinched a little, “and at least one somewhere below the neck.”
Lauren took a deep breath. That wasn’t . . . horrible. She liked to keep her earrings modest for work, but she had plenty of larger ones that she wore when she was going out. They would seem a little gaudy at work, and she would have preferred to keep her jewelry wear entirely professional, but, well, she would just have to accept that that wasn’t an option anymore. The upper ear piercings . . . well, they weren’t so uncommon anymore and could even be cute. She wasn’t too happy about the body piercing—just acknowledging that she could be forced to have her body pierced was demeaning, and she was certain it was going to hurt—but at least it wasn’t anything that would be visible at work.
“Moving down,” Don continued, “from now on, when you are in a professional environment—and that means work or school—you will wear dresses or skirts, never pants. You can still wear jeans and stuff when you go out with friends, but they had better be skin tight. When you wear them, the bottom of your skirts and dresses will go no lower than where your thumb joins your hand when your arms are hanging at your side.”
“Sir, I think . . . I think that might be shorter than you realize.”
“Oh? Please, tell me more about what I do and do not know, Lauren.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, sir. I just thought . . . You said that it would still be professional, so I thought maybe you . . . you didn’t realize how short that is.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Lauren. Are you concerned that this dress code might cause your co-workers to view you less as a competent peer and more as someone beneath them?”
“Y-yes, sir,” she said softly, realizing belatedly that that was the whole point.
Don snorted and, apparently seeing the realization in her eyes, moved on. “Finally, Lauren, whenever you leave home, your footwear must have heels at least three-and-a-half inches tall. And I think you’ll agree, I’m being pretty generous there.”
“Sir, I . . . I don’t have any heels that tall.”
Don frowned. “Lauren, are you trying to tell me that in the half dozen or so outfits you bought while working as a stripper yesterday, not a single one of them included heels over three-and-a-half inches tall? I find that hard to believe.”
She could feel herself tearing up. “No, sir, they all had heels much taller than that but . . . but they’re obviously . . . stripper shoes. I can’t wear those to work, sir.” She hated referring to them as “stripper shoes”. She’d been wearing them all day yesterday, after all, and she wasn’t a stripper. That had . . . that had been a one-time thing.
“You can and you will.” He shrugged. “Or you can go buy yourself some new shoes for work. I don’t really care. But every day, when you put on your shoes, that will be one more moment when you’re thinking about what you can be doing to please men.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, looking down. So much for work being a comforting retreat. How could she expect to be viewed as a strong, competent woman if she had to dress like that? Then again, she thought, how many strong, competent women spent a lot of time standing half-naked in their own living rooms having a dress code dictated to them by a man who, as far as she knew, hadn’t even graduated from college? A tiny, tiny voice in her head answered, “All of them should be,” but she resisted that idea.
Don patted her on the butt and then sat back down. “And that’s it, Lauren. Like I said, not too restrictive.”
Lauren had to admit that as much as she didn’t like the new dress requirements, Mr. Arden was right. When he’d first started talking about her new dress code, she thought there would be more to it. She was surprised—and relieved—that he hadn’t said anything about her underwear. She’d have to wear too-short skirts and too-high heels, but it was a relatively small penalty; she’d still have some dignity.
“Now, let’s go over the smaller set of rules. It’s really just two parts. The first is for whenever you are at home or anywhere else that our arrangement is known. Under those circumstances, when a man walks into the room that you are in, you will stop what you are doing, you will immediately stand up and hold your forearms behind your back, you will greet the man appropriately, and you will continue to stand there silently until he tells you to do something else or leaves the room.
“The second part will govern your behavior under other circumstances. Because I know you can’t behave that way at work and keep your job for long, this is a little more relaxed. When a man walks into the room, you will still stop what you’re doing and immediately stand up, and you will still properly greet the man, but you may simply hold your hands behind your back. And you may sit back down once the man sits or tells you to sit down.
“Easy enough, Lauren?”
She didn’t, actually, think it sounded very easy. Certainly, it was going to draw attention at work. And it seemed like something she could forget to do if she was distracted. But she guessed that was part of the point—she didn’t get to be distracted. It would force her to be thinking about how to behave toward men at all times. Regardless, she didn’t think arguing about it would do her any good.
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent.” He looked down at his paperwork. “There are a couple more stipulations in here, Lauren. You may not change your appearance—like, no getting a weird haircut or gaining a lot of weight—without my permission. Also, while leaving you in your current job seems to be a necessary evil at the moment, you will not accept a position of greater responsibility over men without first consulting me. Is that understood?”
Lauren’s jaw dropped and she started crying freely. The promotion she was competing for . . . that was a huge step . . . and now she wouldn’t be able to accept it? But Do—Mr. Arden—was right. If she was going to try to accept that men were her superiors, it didn’t make any sense for her to be placed in a position over more of them. If anything, she should be looking for ways to be demoted. Maybe she could get placed into an internship position if she just told her boss that she was going through some personal issues that were going to be detracting from her work. It certainly wouldn’t be a lie. But, no! A part of her fiercely resisted. She had worked hard to get where she was! She wasn’t just going to give it all away!
But, again, there was no use arguing. It was in the contract, she had signed it, and that was that. She bit her lip. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he thrust the papers at her. “There are a few other minor points. You can read it yourself on your own time. For, now, go make two photocopies of this. One for you, and one to hang on the fridge. Then, bring it back here and get ready to tell me your proposed punishment for how you behaved toward that man at The Landing Strip.”
Lauren hurried back from hanging the second copy of her new contract on the refrigerator to give the original to Don. He hadn’t given her a time limit, but she thought it best not to keep him waiting under the circumstances. She should never keep any man waiting, a small part of her observed. And it was true, she realized. Even if she couldn’t fully accept that she was to treat men as her betters, as long as she was living under her contract, it would only make her life easier if she behaved as though their needs were foremost in her mind at all times. Their time was important; hers was not. It was that simple.
Of course, Do—Mr. Arden could’ve made things easier for her. He hadn’t told her that she could pull her panties up, so she had been stuck shuffling around and trying to keep them from sliding below her knees. Besides making her feel ridiculous, it had obviously slowed her down. Once again, she chastised herself: How you feel is irrelevant. If Mr. Arden wants you to shuffle around like this, then that’s just what you’ll do. A small part of her even considered asking to go over his knee again for even considering otherwise. The threat of a spanking looming over her was the only way she ever really learned, she thought, but she tamped the idea down. She wasn’t going to spend all her time asking for more punishments.
Besides, as she had stood at the photocopier, no longer distracted by having to answer Mr. Arden’s questions, she realized how much her butt still hurt from the previous spanking. She had deserved it, she acknowledged, definitely she had deserved it, but she certainly wasn’t looking to ask for any more than necessary. In fact, she thought as she rubbed her butt, when Mr. Arden asked her what punishment she was recommending for her rude behavior toward Carl, she was going to go with the number she originally thought of: fifteen with the strap. It was a risk, she realized, that she might be picking too lenient a punishment, but she didn’t think so, and she was certain she’d be thanking herself when it was over five lashes earlier.
And now, here she was, once again standing in front of Mr. Arden waiting for him to begin the proceedings. She had automatically laced her fingers behind her head and hoped that that won her some points.
“Lauren,” Don began after having flipped through the original contract. “Why did I send you to the Landing Strip?”
She had to think for a moment. It seemed so long ago, now. “Because . . . because I failed to write a proper apology letter, sir.”
He looked annoyed. “Well, yes, it was a punishment for that, but why do you think I picked that punishment?”
“It was . . . it was to force me to show respect to the men, sir. To remind me that my place is in serving and entertaining them.”
“Exactly.” He paused. “And yet once you got there, one of the first things you did was get uppity with a customer you should have been entertaining. You hurled false accusations and insults at a man, Lauren. I hope you realize how serious that is.”
“Yes . . . yes, sir. I know it was wrong.” She hesitated. “And I . . . I know I deserve to be punished for it, sir. I don’t have any excuse.”
Don nodded. “What was his name again?”
“Car—I mean, I, uh, don’t know his last name, sir.”
Don looked disgusted. “God, you can be so dumb sometimes. You are not to address a man by his first name. Generally, you shouldn’t even refer to him by his first name. But surely you realize that I am not on the same level as you, so if I ask you for his name, I want his first name so that I can actually refer to him.”
She grit her teeth. She hated when he called her dumb. She wasn’t dumb. She was better educated than him . . . she took a deep breath and calmed herself. He did have a point. Of course, Do—Mr. Arden wouldn’t need to refer to a man as respectfully as she did.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, sir. His name was—is Carl.”
“Okay, then. Do you recognize that Carl is your superior?”
“Y-yes, sir. I mean I recognize it intellectually, but I was having trouble accepting it and I was angry so—”
“Do you think another stint at The Landing Strip would help you accept it?”
She started crying, remembering their conversation from last night. “Yes, sir, probably.”
Don looked at his watch. “Let’s just get down to basics. What do you think your punishment should be for your unacceptable behavior toward Carl?”
“I . . . I’ve thought about it a lot, sir, and I think fif-fifteen with the strap would be appropriate.”
Don waited, and then his face turned dark. “That’s it? You blatantly disrespected a man during a time when you were specifically supposed to be focusing on your proper role—”
Lauren didn’t know what came over her, what possibly inspired her to interrupt Don, but she was talking before she even realized she had thought of the words. “And . . . and also, sir, I’ve been reading that story you wrote . . . the one about the reporter who did the fake expose on the corporation, and they pay that man to get retribution, and the whole thing is filmed so they get to watch . . . and . . . and I really think it’s important that Car—Ca—the man from The Landing Strip be able to witness my punishment, so I should have to invite him over to watch.”
She was breathing rapidly by the end, astonished and mortified at her own suggestion, but she had had to say something before Don declared a much harsher punishment for her.
Don, for a moment, was silent, then, “That’s actually a good idea, Lauren. And you will do that. But don’t think for a second that I believe that you intended that as your suggestion from the beginning. So, for trying to go easy on yourself, I’m adding two penalties to your punishment.
“First, you will handwrite a 1000-word letter of apology to Carl for your behavior. And I think you know, Lauren, that when I say, ‘1000 words’, I mean 1000 words.
“Second, you are grounded for the next week. That means you will not leave the apartment except for work, school, or errands having to do with your contract. When you are in the apartment, you will only sleep, eat, or do chores related to your contract, work, or school. When you are not doing any of those things, you will stand with your nose in the corner thinking about what a privilege it is to be able to suggest your own punishment and how next time you will take the opportunity more seriously.
“Do you understand me, Lauren?”
Her jaw had dropped as he had described her grounding, thinking about the sheer quantity of time she was going to waste staring at a wall over the next week. Now, she fought back tears. “Yes . . . yes, sir.”
“Good. Now you have a lot of work to get done. Get to it.”
“Yes, sir,” she turned and shuffled crying to her room.
***
Lauren walked toward the Landing Strip from where she had parked a few blocks away. After Don had sent her to her room, she had gotten her crying under control and went through a list of things she needed to get done.
First on her list was bringing her pubic hair in another centimeter on either side, and that immediately faced her with a dilemma: did Mr. Arden mean another centimeter all the way down, or just a centimeter at the top while tapering so that the bottom remained the same width? The first option, she decided, just left her with a small, goofy patch of hair like a man with a soul patch on his chin. She figured that couldn’t be what Don wanted and went with the second option.
After taking care of that annoyance, she had gotten dressed, taking into account her new rules. She considered wearing the tight jeans Don had said she was allowed, but she decided on a skirt for now instead in hopes that he would see his requirement was just too short for work. She had gone with a tennis skirt, choosing to save her slightly more formal “going out” skirts for work, but she still had to really stretch her arms to make sure her thumbs were below the hem. She had almost forgotten the earrings but had then picked out a pair of large red hoop earrings, and had, reluctantly, put on the 5” heels from her Little Red Riding Hood outfit before teetering into the living room. She resolved to find some heels closer to the 3-1/2” limit while she was out.
In the living room, Don had made her hold her arms at her side and had tsked at how close her skirt was to the thumb-limit, but he had approved the outfit. Then he had handed her an envelope and said, “Give this to Carl when you find him.”
“What is it? Sir?” Startled by the demand, she hadn’t even taken it from him right away.
“It’s an envelope that I’ve told you to give to Carl. What other information could you possibly need?”
“Nothing . . . nothing, sir. I’m sorry. I’ll do it.”
“Of course you will. And Lauren,” he added as she turned to leave, “You’ll notice that that envelope is sealed. It needs to be sealed when you hand it to Carl.”
“Yes, sir,” she had murmured before leaving.
Now, she was almost at the front door of the Landing Strip, though it was slow going in the heels. She stopped for a second and shook awkwardly. The stubby pubic hair Don forced her to keep was so itchy when it rubbed against the inside of her panties. Did he not realize how uncomfortable it was? It was maddening!
But she tried to ignore the itchiness and continued on. She had been smart this time and had $160 in cash on her-- $15 for the cover charge, $138 to pay her debt to the club, and $7 to spare because the ATM only paid out in tens and twenties.
She didn’t recognize the bouncer, and he looked confused when he saw her. “Gotta go in the back,” he hooked a thumb over his shoulder.
It was her turn to be confused, and then she realized: her clothes made him think she was there to strip! She blushed furiously and then stammered, “I’m . . . I’m not here to dance, sir. Just to pay a debt.”
“Oh. Fifteen bucks then.”
She paid him and went in. Carl was in there, and she couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. Good, she thought, I’ll get to have my spanking and this can be over. And she deserved it, she decided. She’d been unbelievably rude to Carl and if it took going over Do—Mr. Arden’s knee or bending over and taking a few with the strap to make amends, it’s what she would do. Ha—like you have a choice.
But Carl was distracted by the dancer he was teasing with a dollar bill. It was some blonde floozy, down on her knees and elbows in front of him, knees spread wide and not a hint of shame. Lauren grit her teeth. That had been her only a day before, though she liked to think she’d maintained a bit more modesty.
Since Carl hadn’t seen her, she went straight to the cashier outside of the outfit store and settled up her debt from the previous night’s work. It still rankled that after hours and hours of dancing and waitressing naked for those lowlifes she had owed the club money instead of the other way around.
With that accomplished, she steeled herself, walked over to Carl, and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and sneered at her. “What do you want?”
She realized she hadn’t prepared anything to say to him and found herself just thrusting the envelope Don had given her at him. He flinched from it and looked suspicious. “What’s that?”
“Sir, I . . . I still feel bad about how I behaved toward you last night and I’m . . . I’m going to be punished again for that. I think that letter might explain it.”
He took it and opened it cautiously. After reading for a few minutes, he looked up. “This true?”
“Sir, I . . . I haven’t been able to read it, but if Mr. Arden wrote it, I’m sure it’s true.”
He leaned back in his seat. “Lift up your skirt.”
“Sir?”
“This letter says you have to obey men. Is that true?”
“Yes, sir,” she gulped, suddenly very fearful of what could happen here. “Within limits.”
“Then lift. Up. Your. Skirt.”
She did so, slowly and reluctantly, and revealed a pair of high-cut blue-and-white striped panties.
“Turn around. Slowly.”
She did so, wobbling slightly on her high heels.
When she was facing him again, he dropped the bomb. “Give me your panties.”
“Sir,” she balked, “We’re in public—”
“We’re in a strip club, stupid. Take off your panties and give them to me. Keep holding your skirt up.”
She still hesitated. What if she refused? She didn’t have to tell Mr. Arden. She could claim she hadn’t been able to find Carl. But what if Mr. Arden had put contact info in that letter? Ugh—this was so frustrating! She’d never thought that outsiders would be brought into their arrangement!
After a moment’s hesitation, she muttered, “Yes, sir,” and started to comply. It was hard to hold her skirt up without using both hands, so once she got her panties over her butt, she had to wiggle to get them to slide down her legs. Carl seemed to like that even more, unfortunately.
The dancer looked down and yelled, “Hey, slut. Find your own—”
“Relax,” Carl interrupted. “You’ll still get your dollar.”
After handing Carl her panties, Lauren stood in front of him, holding her skirt up and waiting for further instructions. His eyes fixated on her crotch.
“Looks like you trimmed that pussy back, din’t ya?”
Lauren wasn’t sure which made her more uncomfortable—that Carl had memorized the appearance of her pubic hair well enough to notice the change or that he was forcing her to talk about it. She grit her teeth.
“Yes, sir.”
“’Yes, sir’ what?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
He sighed. “Yes, sir, you did WHAT?”
She realized that the letter Mr. Arden had written must have told Carl about some of the rules by which she was bound. She really wished she could read it, to know just what information Carl had on her.
She squeezed her eyes shut to try to keep from crying. It was too much, being forced to display herself in public for this disgusting bastard, and now to talk about herself in degrading terms. “Yes, sir, I trimmed my pussy back.”
He laughed, clearly enjoying her discomfort. “Spread your legs a little more.”
She slowly complied.
“A little more.”
She squeezed her eyes shut again and spread her feet wider than her shoulders. He whistled. “Well, will you look at that gash. You got a real nice gash, you know that?”
She bit her lip before answering. “Thank you, sir.”
Carl ran her panties through his fingers and started to say something but caught himself before starting again. “You know what? I’m going to keep these. Go buy yourself another pair to wear home. Don’t put them on, though. Bring ‘em here first. You can let your skirt go.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Right after she said it, she kicked herself for feeling gratitude at being allowed to let go of her skirt.
In the store she picked out the least sexy panties she could find. Whatever game Carl was hoping to play, she wanted to make it as unrewarding for him as possible. Plain, white cotton panties, but still a thong. And all the same, $35!
Unfortunately, she realized her payment options were still cash or starting a tab over. She supposed she could go out to the ATM and bring back cash, but she was scared of what might happen if she kept Carl waiting. She was just going to have to come back one more time to pay this off.
As she returned to Carl, she saw that there was a new dancer now, a slender Indian woman who was shimmying around in a lacy black thong and bra. The last dancer was Carl’s waitress now and had brought him a bowl of chips and some sort of hot sauce. She smirked at Lauren as Lauren tottered up holding her new panties out to Carl.
“Exellent,” he said. “Good job.” And before she could answer he took the brand new panties and immersed them in the bowl of hot sauce. He pulled them out dripping. “Now,” he held them toward her. “Put these on.”
“You . . . you can’t be serious. That’s disgusting!”
“Oh, I’m serious. And it’s going to be a lot worse than disgusting. Put. Them. On.”
She grimaced as she took them from him and slid the wet, dripping mess up her legs.
“That’s right. Make sure you put them on right. Get that thong up into your crack.”
Lauren did as she was told, pulling the thong up between her cheeks. She didn’t know what Carl was expecting, but it felt absolutely disgusting, like she had wet her pants.
Carl was grinning ear-to-ear. “Excellent,” as he talked, she began to feel just the faintest tingling. “Now, when you get home, make sure you give this to Don.” He handed her the same envelope she had brought. The tingling was turning into a slight burning, and she shifted uncomfortably. “And don’t even think about reading it.” The burning was growing. Without thinking, Lauren started to reach for the panties to pull them back off. “Oh, and do NOT take those panties off until Don tells you it’s okay. And do NOT ask him if you can take them off. You got that?”
“Please, sir,” she could feel the tears coming, but she didn’t care. It burned. It burned so badly. “I—I—”
He laughed hard. “Just shut up and get out of here before I change my mind. I’ll see you tomorrow. We’re going to have a lot of fun.”
She turned and walked away as quickly as she could. Someone snickered and another person yelled. “Look at her. She’s walking like she’s got a load in her parents.” If not for the extreme burning, she might have felt more shame, both for the comment and the fact that it was right. She was walking with her feet spread wide, doing whatever it took to mitigate the burning.
In her car, her vision blurred, and she found herself flooring it. She had to . . . had to . . . had to get home as quickly as possible so that Mr. Arden could let her take these panties off. A light in front of her turned yellow. Shit . . . she wasn’t going to make it. She accelerated even more and still the light turned red just before she got to the intersection. She saw the flash. Shit, she thought, a red light ticket.
Finally, she was back at her apartment, still in agony, and she raced in. Don was sitting in his usual chair reading. He looked up and smiled as she came in. “How did it go?”
She thrust the envelope at him. “Uh, Mr. . . . uh, Mr. . . . Mr. Carl told me to give this to you, sir.”
Don took it and slowly read the contents as Lauren bounced from foot to foot, but kept her arms held behind her back. She tried to think of anything . . . anything to distract her from the burning as Don took his sweet old time. Finally, he looked up. “Well, Carl says he’ll be joining us to watch your strapping tomorrow. Maybe take a few licks himself. Won’t that be nice?”
Immediately, she started bawling, finally—if only for a moment—distracted from the incredible burning in her crotch and ass. How was she supposed to react to that, the reminder that not only was she going to be forced to submit to a bare-assed strapping, not only was her tormentor going to be invited to watch, but the same jackass was going to be allowed to participate? But she knew how she was supposed to react. She straightened out and regained her composure. “Yes, sir. I’m thankful that he’s going to take the time to participate in my punishment.”
Don shrugged. “Somehow I doubt that.” He looked down at the note again and his lips twitched. “Oh, and Lauren,” he started speaking very slowly, “Would . . . you . . . like . . . to take . . . your panties . . . off?”
“Yes, sir,” she almost interrupted him in her haste. “Please, sir, I would like to.”
He looked thoughtful for a few long moments. “I have to say, I like Carl's style. Okay. Take them off. Go get yourself cleaned up so you can get dinner on the table.”
“Oh, thank you, sir.” She fell down in her haste to get the panties off over her high heels, but she didn’t care how silly she looked. She got up and rushed to the bathroom, suddenly appreciative of how her short skirt let the cool air flow over her.