The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Internship

Part 2 of 10

Not for those under 18 (or whatever the legal age for this sort of stuff is in your area). If you’re not that old, Boo! Go away now. If you are offended by graphic descriptions of sexual activities, especially non-consensual ones, then don’t read this. All characters and situations are fictional.

Copyright © 2019

Archived on the Erotic Mind Control web site by permission of the author. This story may be downloaded for personal archiving as long as this notice is retained.

The next morning Nichole reached for her pants suit. But then she stopped. Ms. Henderson hadn’t liked it the day before. There wasn’t any reason that she’d change that opinion today.

Instead the young intern went for the skirt suit that Clara had chosen for her. It was hanging up, ready. Last night something had made her make sure it would be ready again.

Nichole couldn’t help the frisson of pleasure as she settled the short skirt around her hips. She spent a moment gazing at her image in the mirror, admiring the way the skirt showed off her legs. They almost glowed.

She didn’t want to think too hard about what she’d done the night before. Her first orgasm. Looking at herself was so much easier than remembering that.

She was so happy she’d made sure to shave her legs again that morning. Even though she hadn’t been intending to wear her new outfit. The skirt really did suit her. But she wasn’t sure about the shoes. She’d put on the same shoes she’d worn the day before. Two-inch, black heels. Plain. Professional. Just right for an office. They’d gone with her pants suit. The skirt suit was the same colour as that outfit. And black went with anything anyway. But Nichole wasn’t happy. The shoes didn’t look right. They didn’t look enough. They didn’t display her legs the way the skirt begged for them to be displayed. She wasn’t sure she could do what she was thinking though.

But Ms. Henderson would expect her to look her best.

Nervously licking her lips Nichole headed back to her closet. She knew what she was looking for was in there somewhere. Even if she had only worn them a couple of times.

Doubtfully she held the object of her search in front of her face. The shoes were expensive. They’d look good with the skirt. They’d show off her legs so well. And they weren’t that high. Three inch heels weren’t that bad were they?

Of course not.

Nichole slipped off her other shoes and put the heels on before admiring herself in the mirror as she turned side on. The higher heels were so much better, her eyes tracing the line of her calf, her trim thigh.

She wasn’t sure what her mother was going to say though.

It wasn’t her mother who made the first comment.

“She gets to wear that to this office she’s working in?” Alice, Nichole’s youngest sister, exclaimed as Nichole edged through the kitchen door. Coming down the stairs in the heels hadn’t been easy. She wasn’t used to anything that high.

“Miss Henderson bought me this outfit!” Nichole retorted, glaring at Alice where the latter sat at the family breakfast table. She wasn’t going to back down in front of her little sister.

“Well if you can wear something that short to work I want a skirt like that for school!” Alice turned to their mother Elaine, a pleading look on her face.

Elaine regarded Nichole with a sigh from where she stood near one of the spotless benches. Nichole could read the message. Couldn’t you have waited until after she left for school? Or worn something else?

Nichole just shrugged helplessly in return.

“You wear a school uniform that short and you’ll look like a stripper,” Nichole’s other sister, Ruth, the sole possessor of dark hair in the family, interjected.

Nichole admitted that Ruth had a point. With the long legs common to all the family and the blonde hair that Nichole and Alice shared combined with a pleated school uniform skirt as short as the one she had on she didn’t want to think about what her youngest sister would look like.

Nichole wasn’t at all sure that the insult hadn’t been directed at her as well. It was the skirt length that she was wearing that they were talking about. But Ms. Henderson had liked the skirt. If it was good enough for the office then maybe it would be good enough for school.

“Ruth!” their mother exclaimed. “You do not say that about your sister.”

Ruth muttered something in return. To Nichole it sounded suspiciously like “Well she would.” But it looked like she was the only one who heard it.

“You let her get away with it. So why not me?” Alice shot accusingly at their mother. “And what would you know about skirts anyway?” she adding, turning on Ruth. “It’s not like you ever wear any.”

Nichole had to admit that Alice had a point. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Ruth in anything but leggings or jeans. At least since Ruth had started university, the middle of the three sisters in her first year,

“I do so!” Ruth snapped. “I just wouldn’t wear one like that to school. Or work.”

Alice wasn’t letting it go. “When? When did you wear one?”

“Last time I went to a club,” Ruth muttered defensively.

“Oh yeah?” Alice taunted. “Why don’t you go get it and show us?”

“Girls!” their mother interjected. “Different rules for different places. Alright? If Ms. Henderson says Nichole’s outfit is fine for her office then it is. Lord knows I’ve seen people wearing shorter to work. But work and school aren’t the same. So you are not getting one like that, Alice. Am I clear?”

“It’s alright for Nichole,” Alice muttered. “It’s always alright for Nichole.”

Guilt flushed through the eldest of the three sisters. Nichole knew that there was more than an element of truth to Alice’s complaint. Elaine tried to be a good mother to all her daughters but they all knew that if it came down to it Nichole would edge her sisters out. It was never anything too blatant. But if they needed their mother to drive them to different places Nichole would be dropped off first. Or if the family budget didn’t quite stretch then it wasn’t Nichole who’d miss out on new clothes. And Nichole’s word that carried more weight in an argument about what film to go see. Nichole didn’t like it. She’d learnt to keep quiet. But it still happened. Like now.

“Nichole’s older than you. When you’re her age it’ll be the same rules for you.” Their mother’s standard excuse. Except Nichole was always going to be the eldest.

“You just want a skirt like that to show off to the boys,” Ruth muttered.

“Do not!” Alice hissed back.

“Do so,” Ruth retorted. Nichole was pretty certain that Ruth was right. As far as she was concerned Alice spent far too much time worrying what the boys at school thought of her.

“At least I like to look good,” the youngest of the sisters declared. “Not like some.”

“Girls!” their mother snapped. “Don’t be like that when Nichole’s getting ready for work.”

Nichole grabbed a piece of fruit and fled. She really didn’t want to be at the centre of another argument.

Wow, this skirt really does look good, she thought as she neared the building that held the agency’s office.

Her image in a shop window had caught her eye. Quickly she pulled out her phone. She had time. Running away from the scene around the breakfast table had let her catch an earlier train. She could afford a few minutes to indulge herself.

Quietly Nichole stood there in front of the window, her reflection gazing back at her as the crowd hurried past her. The image was so clear. She could trace every line of her legs. Smooth. Trim. She could see the occasional passer-by glance at them. She didn’t like it, but she couldn’t blame them. That image of a tall handsome stranger popped into her head again. Would he like her legs? Would he think the skirt too short? She turned side on, adopted another pose. Surely he wouldn’t think there was anything wrong. He’d like what he saw. And he was so handsome. Nichole knew what he’d be thinking about. What she’d be thinking about. She’d be so turned on.

She was turned on, heat flaring at her centre. She was sure she could feel herself moistening. It would be so easy to just reach under her skirt and…

Oh Hell, no. Embarrassment flared as Nichole realised that her hand had been reaching for the hem of her skirt. How could she think about doing something like that out in public? No matter how turned on she felt. No matter whether her panties might be damp.

No matter how good it would feel.

Her hand was moving again.

Nichole tore herself away from the window and hurried off.

A revised set of the folders was waiting on her desk. Nichole didn’t notice as the blue glow flared around her chair as she sat down.

Before starting on the folders she checked her calendar and email. She had an appointment with Ms. Henderson. At eleven. Quickly grabbing one of the folders she hoped she had enough time to get through them.

“No.”

It was the first word the agency owner uttered after Nichole walked through her door, folders cradled in her arms.

“Uh, sorry Ms. Henderson?” the young intern ventured cautiously.

“No,” the older woman repeated. “It’s a good outfit but you can’t wear the same thing two days in a row. People will think you can’t afford more. And that therefore your business doesn’t have the money for you to buy enough outfits. They’ll steer clear of you if they think you are going under. And then you will.”

“Oh.” Nichole really didn’t know what to say to that. She hadn’t even met any customers. She had noticed some going in and out of the office yesterday and that morning, but she doubted any had noticed her. Well, except for when she’d been at the water cooler and a middle-aged man had stared at her legs. She hadn’t liked that. He was nothing like the suave millionaire she’d imagined. And she doubted he’d been looking at her outfit at all.

“So we can’t have you wearing that again,” Ms. Henderson, waving in Nichole’s direction. “Not today. Not this week. I’m assuming that you didn’t have anything else suitable. So it’s off to the shops again. I’ll expect you back by one. Clara?”

Nichole didn’t say anything, simply standing there silently as Ms. Henderson gave her instructions to her PA, resentment rolling off the dark-haired woman.

“Come on,” Clara ordered curtly once that was done, again grabbing Nichole by the arm and dragging her out of Ms. Henderson’s office.

Almost before Nichole realised it they were back in a high-end clothing boutique. She could barely remember the trip. For a moment she wasn’t sure that she could remember it at all.

“We’re going to need to get you at least four outfits,” Clara declared, rifling quickly through a rack of skirts. “Maybe five. That will give you a spare if you need it. We might need some others later to allow for dry-cleaning time but we’ll see what Ms. Henderson says about that.”

“I can’t afford all this,” Nichole protested weakly as the PA loaded her arms up with expensive garments.

“You’re not paying, you little idiot,” Clara huffed, shooting Nichole a disparaging glance. “Weren’t you listening?”

Nichole frowned. She really couldn’t recall much at all of what Ms. Henderson had said to Clara. Or to her for that matter.

Oh Hell, I must have just drifted off.

“Oh, right, yes,” she stammered, trying to cover her mistake.

Clara rewarded her with a doubtful glance, but said nothing, instead leading the young woman over to a rack of silk blouses. They felt wonderful to the touch as the PA loaded some onto Nichole’s arms, but the intern had a nasty suspicion that the delicate garments would be awfully see-through.

Nichole thought that she should say something. She couldn’t wear clothes like that to work. Part of her wanted to say something. Needed to. But it was like it was cut off from the rest of her mind. Walled up. Behind glass. She could see it. But she couldn’t touch it. Couldn’t reach it.

She said nothing.

“That should be enough,” Clara declared after adding a pair of blazers and some skirt suits to Nichole’s load. “Come on.”

The dark-haired PA led Nichole over to the changing rooms, holding the door open for her.

“Thank you,” Nichole acknowledged. At least the woman hadn’t expected her to manage that on her own. Carefully she placed the pile on the bench seat and started hanging up the clothes on the hooks inside the small space. “Um, you can close the door now,” she added. “Please.”

Clara stood there for a moment, a thin smile on her lips as she regarded Nichole, one hand still holding the door open.

“No,” the PA declared after a moment, stepping inside the room and letting the door swing shut behind her.

Nichole stepped back. The space was too small. She felt trapped. Caught. What was Clara thinking? This wasn’t right.

The part of her that wanted to protest was behind the glass.

“You’re just going to take clothes off and put them on. It would waste of time trooping in and out of here. Ms. Henderson wants us back before lunch, remember?”

Nichole did remember that. But this wasn’t right. Clara shouldn’t be in here with her. Nichole was sure there were reasons for that. But right now she couldn’t remember any of them, a fog enveloping her mind. She wanted to fight it, knew that she should. Maybe the reasons were behind the glass. It was the only clear thing in her mind.

“So get started,” the PA drawled, her opinion of Nichole also clear.

The young intern simply stood there, unsure of what to do.

“Well,” Clara huffed. “If you’re going to be like that.” The satisfied smile on the PA’s face didn’t match her reproving tone at all.

Inside her head Nichole was screaming at herself as Clara’s hands reached for the jacket of her skirt suit. But she didn’t say a word. Even as she knew how wrong this was. That she shouldn’t be letting the other woman do this.

“Arms back,” Clara ordered, Nichole doing exactly as she was told.

No, no no.

She had no idea why she was acting as she was, so passive. No idea why she was just letting Clara undo the buttons on her blouse.

No idea at all why her nipples were hardening.

Nichole swallowed nervously as she heard the sound of the zipper of her skirt being undone. She’d almost missed her blouse being removed, her mind glazing over it. Letting the other woman take it off her. Simply standing there.

“Step out of your skirt,” Clara ordered.

Nichole did exactly as she was told. Even as she knew it was wrong. Even as she wanted to stop. Even as fear curled in her stomach. She couldn’t do anything about it. She couldn’t reach the part of her that might have done something.

“Let’s try this one first,” Clara grinned, holding up a black skirt. She moved around behind Nichole. The younger woman could feel her presence. Clara was leaning over her shoulder. Pressing into her from behind. Nichole felt the other woman’s breasts against her back. Where Clara’s nipples erect? Like hers were.

Nichole wasn’t sure why her eyelids were fluttering.

“Left leg first,” Clara directed, her voice a whisper. Nichole was sure that the PA’s lips were just a breath from her ear. Her skin was alive.

This was so wrong. She wasn’t into women.

So why did her pussy feel like it was on fire?

She raised her foot, easing it into the skirt.

“Now the other one.” The PA’s voice slithered into the young woman’s head, dark and oily and hot. There was no way Nichole could say no.

Slowly Clara pulled the skirt up Nichole’s legs. The PA’s hands were on her thighs, tiny sparks shooting from the contact, landing in Nichole’s pussy, other ending in her brain, smothering her thoughts. Her lips quivered as Clara did up the zipper on the skirt.

It was almost like a kiss.

“There,” the PA declared smugly. “I think we’ll be taking this one.”

Clara’s hands were still resting on Nichole’s hips, their bodies pressed together. Nichole could hardly breath, she didn’t know what to make of the sensations shooting through her.

Her eyes fell on their image in the mirror. Nichole dressed only in skirt and bra. Clara’s hands, her look, were possessive. Almost as if they were girlfriends, lovers.

No!

Nichole wasn’t like that. She didn’t want that. No matter how much delicious shivers of need were rushing through her. She clung to that image in her mind, that dark, handsome stranger. What would he think of her in that oh so short skirt?

Oh my God!

It was short. So much shorter than the one she’d been given yesterday. Well above mid-thigh. She’d hardly be able to bend over in it.

“I can’t wear this!” Nichole cried. She tried to turn around to face Clara, but she couldn’t move, the other woman holding her in place.

“Why not?” the PA scoffed, her hands easing themselves around the intern’s waist, snuggling into Nichole, trails of fire lighting across Nichole’s back as she felt the other woman’s breasts shift against her.

“It’s too short!” the young woman protested.

“So?” Clara smirked, one of her hands drifting to Nichole’s thigh. “Don’t you remember what Ms. Henderson said?”

A memory drifted into Nichole’s mind. From earlier. In Ms. Henderson’s office. The agency owner had said something about shorter skirts. And Nichole’s legs. Nichole had tried to protest then. Something about it hadn’t felt right. No matter how complimentary Ms. Henderson had been she shouldn’t say things like that about how Nichole looked. Should she? Nichole had failed to say a word back in the agency owner’s office. She tried again. But if that was what Ms. Henderson wanted it had to be right. Didn’t it?

Nichole didn’t know what to say, what to do. Her legs did look amazing in the skirt. Long and lean before disappearing under the hem of the oh so short garment. People would want to look at her legs in this skirt.

She’d like that.

What?

Nichole enjoyed looking good. She admitted that. Didn’t everyone like that?

But right now the idea had her on fire.

“Let’s try you in one of those blouses,” Clara grinned.

Nichole shivered as she realised just how close Clara’s hands were to her bra.

To her breasts.

She stood there, docilely, as Clara manoeuvred her body into a white blouse.

As Nichole had suspected the blouse was see-through. But not quite as badly as she’d feared. There was just the hint of the outline of her bra visible. That was alright wasn’t it? Something told her that it wasn’t, but Nichole couldn’t focus on what.

Not as Clara did up the buttons of that blouse. As the woman’s hands brushed against her breasts. Breasts that were hot and aching and just dying to be touched. For a few moments Nichole could move again, bouncing on her toes, leaning towards the PA.

Then she stopped again as Clara declared “There, let’s have a look at that. Oh, it needs a blazer.”

Nichole continued to stand there as the PA placed a blazer on her, black, like the skirt. At least it hid some of the blouse.

But it did nothing to hide how short the skirt was. If anything it emphasised it, the cut of the garment drawing a watcher’s eyes to the hem of the skirt.

“Yes,” Clara declared, eyes bright and her chin on Nichole’s shoulder as a hand drifted over the younger woman’s hips. “We’ll definitely take this one.”

After that there were more skirts, a grey and white plaid, a red hip hugging number, a blue mini skirt that seemed hardly there. Blouses and blazers in colours that matched and complimented.

Skirt suits that were just as short.

Nichole couldn’t take her eyes off her image in the mirror. Dressed up. In her underwear. Clara telling her what to do. Telling her how good she looked in the outfits.

She did look good, the blouses tailored to show the lines of her figure, the skirts showing off the perfection of her legs. Nichole couldn’t believe how good she looked. How desirable.

Where had that thought come from? Was it something Clara had said? Nichole couldn’t believe that. Was Clara saying anything but telling her what to do so the PA could dress and undress her?

But she did look so good. At least Nichole thought she did. Would that imaginary lover think so? Would he like the outfits? Would he want her?

She’d want him.

She was so turned on.

Nichole gasped as she realised how aroused she was.

“Someone’s enjoying this,” Clara sniggered, the PA’s fingers brushing the edge of Nichole’s panties.

Panties that had an unmistakeable damp spot at their centre.

Oh God, no.

Embarrassment flamed in the intern. She couldn’t believe that her body had betrayed her like that. Couldn’t believe that she’d let herself feel like that.

“I have to go,” she managed, feebly reaching for her own clothes. Were they hers, really? She hadn’t paid for them. It didn’t matter. She had to get out of there. Try to clean herself up. Try to pull herself together.

“No,” Clara declared, Nichole freezing in place.

Please, I. She couldn’t form the words. She wanted to plead, to beg. But she couldn’t say a word.

“You can’t seriously want to leave, can you?” Clara scoffed. “Not when we’re having so much fun. You must want to stay. Right here.”

Part of Nichole did want to leave. But maybe it was the part behind the glass. Was that glass getting thicker?

And part of her did want to stay. The part that was enjoying Clara’s touch, the sensations as the PA’s fingers brushed over the edge of her panties, as her other hand played over Nichole’s stomach, teased toward the young woman’s breasts.

Nichole could hardly remembered why she’d wanted to leave.

“You want to stay,” The PA breathed. “I’ll have to be careful what clothes I have you try though. We’ll have to buy everything you put on. Couldn’t put them back now, could we. Not with…”

Clara’s hand brushed closer to Nichole’s centre. Part of the young woman was horrified. She didn’t like Clara. Didn’t want a woman touching her like that. But part of her realised just how good it felt.

“Not with how they’re marked.”

Nichole shivered at the emphasis the PA but on the last word. She was dying of shame. She was dying of need. A sneaking little part of her wanted Clara’s hand to reach further, reach her centre. Her arousal was building, hot and bright, devouring her thoughts.

Clara’s hand pulled back. The PA didn’t say another word. Brusquely she had Nichole try on a few more outfits. Didn’t let her hands go anywhere near the parts of the intern that were crying out to be touched.

Nichole mewled, then cringed in embarrassment at the sound. She was so turned on. She wanted someone, anyone, to touch her. Even the PA. Nichole could barely understand how badly she wanted it. She tried turning her body, just a little, edging a breast towards Clara’s hand.

“That’s enough,” Clara declared, laying a blouse on top of one of the skirts. Nichole didn’t know whether the PA meant they’d tried enough outfits or the way Nichole had been behaving. She couldn’t believe what she’d done. Shame and arousal burning in her she silently followed Clara out of the changing room.

Oh God, did anyone know she was in there with me? Nichole didn’t know what she’d do if someone did realise. They’d know Nichole had been trying on clothes. Would have been in her underwear in front of Clara. Did the shop assistant who was running up the sales know that? Nichole tried reading the woman’s expression. What would the woman think of her? What would the woman think she and Clara had been doing? They wouldn’t think it had just been trying on clothes.

Because it hadn’t, the memory of Clara’s hands arcing through the blonde.

Nichole hung her head. She didn’t know what to think. Embarrassment followed her all the way back to the agency’s office.

Her arousal did as well.

It wasn’t until she and Clara arrived back at the office that Nichole realised that she was wearing one of her new outfits. The grey and white plaid skirt, so short, well above mid-thigh. A grey blazer. White blouse. Clara’s mind floated back to conversation at breakfast. The outfit almost looked like a school uniform. At least the others Clara had bought for her didn’t.

What would Ms. Henderson think?

“Excellent work, Clara,” the agency owner declared, rising for her desk. “Now just stand there Nichole.”

The young intern couldn’t move from the spot. Couldn’t even decide if she wanted to. Instead she watched as Ms. Henderson approached her.

Nichole could see the agency owner’s eyes on her, clear blue orbs. More than that she could feel them. She was so turned on. Was she turned on because Ms. Henderson was looking at her?

She’d been turned on when Clara had touched her. But if Clara’s touch had been fire Ms. Henderson’s gaze was molten. Sensations were shooting through the young woman. Burning, living need. Her body was crying out in need, yearning, aching, to be touched.

She’d never wanted anything more.

But she couldn’t move. No matter how much she wanted to, how much her body pleaded with her to move, Nichole couldn’t. Standing there, with Ms. Henderson’s eyes on her, was exquisite, delicious, torture.

Nichole was so wet. Desperately she hoped she wasn’t leaking. She couldn’t bear the thought of embarrassing herself like that in front of Ms. Henderson.

“Yes, very nice.”

Ms. Henderson was behind her. Was she looking at Nichole’s arse? Nichole could remember how good her arse looked in the skirt. She’d seen it in the mirror in the change room. Maybe Ms. Henderson would touch her arse, through the skirt.

Nichole thought she might explode if that happened.

“Excellent,” Ms. Henderson declared at last, Nichole still yearning for her touch. “Now off you go. We can talk about the proposals after lunch.”

Nichole blinked. She’d been dismissed. She didn’t want to go. She wanted to stay there. With Ms. Henderson looking at her. Maybe with Ms. Henderson touching her. She could imagine Ms. Henderson’s hands on her. Like Clara’s hands had been on her. On her hips. Around her waist. Brushing against her breasts. Nichole could imagine the sparks, the need, running through her body, liquid and hot. Her pussy was throbbing. All it would take would be one touch from the older woman’s hands.

But she had to do what she was told.

She turned and left, trying to hide how much she was trembling.

Nichole stopped outside the door to Ms. Henderson’s office. She should look at the folders again. Make sure she hadn’t missed anything. But she couldn’t concentrate. Arousal was roiling through her, hot and dark and desperate. Her body ached to be touched, needed to be touched. She could barely think.

Her hand drifted toward her centre.

Not here. She couldn’t touch herself here. Not in front of the whole office. Not in front of Clara.

Nichole almost ran to the toilets.

Desperately she slammed the door of the cubicle shut, threw herself down on the seat before hiking her skirt up. Not that it took much to do that, with how little of the garment there was, how short it was. Was it a skirt or a glorified belt?

Nichole didn’t care. It was out of her way now. Two of her fingers traced the length of her opening, the young blonde moaning in pleasure. She was so close. It didn’t matter that she was touching herself through her panties. They were so wet anyway.

She found her clit, the hard nub pushing into the soaked fabric. Moaned again as she frigged herself, hard. So hard. Harder than she ever had. She was simply need, her centre crying out, empty, wanting to be filled. Her fingers found her opening again, through the sopping fabric.

Can’t push in. Can’t push in.

No matter how much her need cried out she couldn’t do that. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t time. This wasn’t the place. Not some office loo. When Nichole let something enter her it would be somewhere better. With the right person.

It would be perfect.

But she needed it so much, fire racing through her, her eyes losing focus, her head falling back as she stroked herself. She was so close.

Nichole summoned the image of that dark, handsome, lover. His hands on her. Him inside her.

She gulped, her crest threatening to overwhelm her.

The image morphed. Into a woman. A woman with ash-blonde hair.

Nichole cried out, bliss rocketing through her, her legs going taut, her breasts aching, as she came, Ms. Henderson’s face filling her mind.

Oh God, what?

Nichole’s breaths came in gasps. She couldn’t believe what she’d done. What would Ms. Henderson think if she knew that Nichole had gotten herself off at work? Worse, what would the agency owner think if she knew Nichole had pictured the older woman as she’d done so?

Nichole thought she was going to die of shame. She wasn’t like that. Was she? Maybe it was just that Ms. Henderson was beautiful and successful. Nichole allowed that she was in awe of the woman. Maybe that explained it.

She didn’t want to think about it.

Fumbling, somehow she cleaned herself up as best she could and headed back to her desk.

Nichole could barely look at Ms. Henderson when they met later, embarrassment filling the younger woman. She couldn’t think of her boss like that. She was never going to do anything that stupid again.

“Is everything alright, Nichole?” Ms. Henderson asked after they’d finished discussing the proposals. At least Nichole thought she’d done a decent job there. Ms. Henderson had seemed happy with her opinions, even if Nichole had stuttered and stumbled a few times. But now the intern just wanted to be gone. Sympathy was the last thing she wanted.

Don’t let her be nice.

Nichole was sure that would just have her melting again. Ms. Henderson looking at her with a caring expression on her face. Nichole wouldn’t be able to help but fall into those blue eyes. It hadn’t just been embarrassment that had made the intern look away from her boss.

“Um, sure?” Nichole offered.

“Good. I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. Or holding anything back. I like my employees to be able to express themselves.”

Nichole swallowed. She wasn’t feeling uncomfortable. Not exactly. Even if the heat at her centre did make her want to fidget. She wasn’t about to express herself though. Not like that.

“Speaking of which,” the agency owner continued blithely. “What did your mother think of the outfit you wore today?”

“Well, she,” Nichole began, then trailed off. Whatever her mother might have said Nichole was sure that her mother wasn’t entirely pleased. If only for the skirt’s effect on Alice. She wasn’t going to tell Ms Henderson that, whatever the agency owner had just said.

“I see,” Ms. Henderson smiled.

Nichole was caught in that smile. She could hardly breathe. When had she looked back in Ms. Henderson’s direction? The intern didn’t know. She couldn’t think. All there was was that smile. And that face.

And Ms. Henderson’s blue eyes.

Nichole wondered when she’d last blinked. She didn’t want to blink. Blinking would mean she’d miss a moment of looking at that face.

“Mothers can be like that,” the agency owner continued kindly. “They don’t like it when their daughters grow up. It takes them a while to adjust. Give your mother some time. She’ll come around. Speaking of which,” Ms. Henderson added brightly, pointing at a decorative paper bag sitting on her desk.

Nichole’s eyes followed the direction her boss was pointing. She didn’t want to. She wanted to keep looking at Ms. Henderson. But the agency owner obviously wanted her to look at the bag.

The bag had to hold something expensive. It had woven cord handles. The paper it was made of was so shiny. Like high end stores put your purchases in. Almost like a mirror. Or a window. Almost like the window she’d looked at herself in this morning. Nichole could almost see her image, the bag was so shiny. Was Ms. Henderson saying something to her? Nichole forced herself to pay attention.

“Some little gifts for your family,” the agency owner declared. It was what you’d say after drawing someone’s attention to the bag. But Nichole was sure that Ms. Henderson had said something else. She didn’t know what.

She didn’t know why her pussy was melting.

“You have two sisters don’t you?” Ms. Henderson asked.

Nichole simply nodded. She didn’t trust herself to say a word.

“Good.” Nichole could hear the smile in that word. It would so nice to look at that smile. Was she allowed to look at that smile? She didn’t know.

“Come on then,” Ms. Henderson coaxed, like she was talking to a child. “Pick up the bag.”

Slowly Nichole headed over to her boss’s desk. One step at a time. She didn’t understand why she was so nervous. She dared a glace in her boss’s direction

Ms Henderson smiled and nodded, then indicated the bag. Nichole was caught in that smile for a moment, those blue eyes.

Tearing her own eyes away she looked in the bag. There were three candles there. They were blue. She was sure it was the same blue as Ms. Henderson’s eyes. The blue of sapphires, of tropical lagoons. Of dark, mysterious, nights.

She picked up the bag. It was what she’d been told to do.

“Oh,” Ms Henderson continued. “And while I do like your new outfit, I suggest you change back into what you wore today. Might make things easier with your mother.”

Nichole could see the sense in that. Her mother had been surprised enough by the skirt bought for her yesterday. Today’s purchases might give her a heart attack.

“Well off you go,” Ms. Henderson declared. “And don’t forget to give your family their gifts. I’m sure your mother will be happy with your new outfits tomorrow.”

Nichole believed her, without knowing why.

How do I get all this stuff home? she thought, sometime later. Nichole was sitting at her desk, surveying the pile of bags before her. The gifts from Ms. Henderson only added to the products of her and Clara’s latest shopping expedition. She wondered what her family would think of the candles. Nichole didn’t know it, but their blue matched the colour of the glow around her chair every time she sat down.

The same blue as Ms. Henderson’s eyes.

Nichole was back in the outfit that had been bought the day before. She’d gone into the loo to change. She hadn’t repeated her earlier attentions to herself.

No matter how much she’d wanted to. No matter how much her centre was crying out for her touch. No matter how her breasts ached, or how obvious the damp patch on her panties. She’d simply changed. Like she normally would.

Nichole was pleased by that.

Something told her it was what she was supposed to do. That she wasn’t to touch herself. Not yet.

Of course not, she told herself. You don’t do that at work.

She tried to ignore what she’d done earlier.

Tried to ignore the need still crawling through her, hot and pulsing. She squirmed in her chair, unaware of a blue flare around it. All she could think about was how good it would be to touch herself.

With a start Nichole realised that Clara was looming over her

“Your taxi’s here,” the PA announced.

“W-what?” Nichole managed, her arousal retreating, just a little, under the PA’s icy stare.

“Your taxi,” Clara repeated huffily, as if that explained everything. Then she tsked. “You can’t manage all that on the train.” With a sweep of her hand she indicated the pile of bags on Nichole’s desks. “So Ms. Henderson ordered a taxi for you. Don’t worry, she’s paying for it. Although for the life of me I don’t know why. At least you’ll have a decent wardrobe after this.”

Nichole wasn’t sure that ‘decent’ was quite the right word. Not with how sheer the blouses were. Or how short the skirts were. Anyone looking at her could see so much of her legs. Ms. Henderson had seen them, earlier.

Nichole stopped herself there.

“Thanks,” she replied.

“Well, get moving,” Clara ordered curtly.

Nichole realised that Clara had said the taxi was here now. She bolted out of her chair, swept up the bags and ran out of the office.

A ride across the city later and Nichole was staggering through the front door of her house. From the lounge room she could hear the sounds of the TV. It looked like her sisters were watching one of their favourite animes, something with large machines and impossibly thin, spiky-haired, characters.

She never saw the attraction.

“Is mum home yet?” she called

“No,” Ruth replied. “Aren’t you early?”

“Umm, my boss paid for a taxi.” Nichole wasn’t sure why she hadn’t lied.

“God, are you her pet as well?” Alice huffed.

“Shut up Alice,” Ruth replied. “Let her take it. When you get a job you grab everything you can get.”

Nichole wasn’t sure she agreed with her sister’s mercenary attitude but it saved her arguing with Alice.

“Just because she’s the oldest,” she heard her youngest sister mutter.

Nichole didn’t wait to hear what Ruth’s reply was. Instead she hurried up the stairs to her room as fast as her burdens would allow her.

As she unpacked and put away her new outfits Nichole wondered how she was going to face her mother in them. The one she’d worn today had been bad enough. But these? The skirts were so short. The blouses so sheer as to be almost see through. Nichole could imagine how she’d look in them. Her legs would go on forever. Smooth, trim. She could picture it.

Her heart was racing, desire tingling on her lips. Heat was pouring from her centre. She was alone in her room. She could do whatever she wanted in here. If she wanted to touch herself she could. If she wanted to let a finger slide up her leg she could do that. If she wanted to unzip her skirt, let it fall to her ankles, step out of it, she could do that. If she wanted to unbutton her blouse, throw off her bra, she could do that. She could stand in front of her mirror, clad only in her panties and her high heels as her hands mauled her tits.

Like she was doing right now.

Liquid heat was pouring through the young woman, her breath catching in her throat. Her cheeks were so flushed, the blush pouring down to her chest, the heat from her centre rising to meet it. She was so turned on, the evidence of her arousal clear on her panties. Her hips jerked as she tweaked her nipples, electric bliss shooting through her body. It would be so easy to lower one hand. Slip it into her panties. Touch herself.

A hand hovered at the waistband of her knickers.

It would be so easy to slip it inside. She wanted to. Needed to. Needed to feel that rapture wash over her. Her clit was so hard, her centre so wet.

She could do it.

Something told her Nichole that she shouldn’t. That she wasn’t allowed. That she had to wait.

A whimper escaped her throat as she reached for some clothes. Comfortable, baggy. The sort of thing she often wore around the house.

Not at all like the outfits Clara had chosen for her.

It was so hard to put the clothes on. Liquid need was pouring through her, her skin on flame.

But she had to.

Even if it was one of the hardest things she’d ever done.

Dressed, Nichole’s eyes fell on the bag containing the candles. She could give two of the candles to her sisters. Two of them were meant for her sisters. That was what Ms. Henderson had said. She could go downstairs and give the candles to her sisters now. Maybe that would soften Alice’s attitude.

Nichole reached for the bag. Even as she wanted more than anything else for that hand to slip inside her sweat pants, inside her panties. To slide along her opening.

Her eyelids fluttered. She knew how good it would feel. She could almost taste it.

She picked up the bag.

It was what she was supposed to do.

Nichole didn’t head downstairs.

Instead she paused at the top of the stairs. She could hear her sisters laughing. They were still watching the show.

Good.

Nichole spun on one foot and headed into the nearest room. Alice’s. It was neat and tidy, posters of her sister’s favourite singers and anime characters on the wall. All male. A large, free-standing mirror, off to one side. The only sign of mess was the clutter on Alice’s makeup table and a few clothes strewn on the bed.

Nichole reached into the bag, pulled out one of the candles. It had Alice’s name on it. She hadn’t noticed that before. Carefully Nichole placed the candle on Alice’s makeup table, off to one side. Then she reached into the bag again. Pulled out a lighter.

She didn’t know how she’d known to do that.

She lit the candle, the blue flame glowing clean and pure.

Then she left the room.

Ruth’s room was next. Far messier than Alice’s. Clothes and books and odds and ends strewn around. Posters of obscure bands on the wall. Nichole wasn’t sure where to put the candle. The one with Ruth’s name on it. Nichole needed to put it somewhere Ruth would see it. Somehow Nichole knew that too.

In the end she decided on the windowsill, lighting the candle before leaving the room.

Their mother’s room was last. It didn’t show the personality of either of Nichole’s sister’s rooms. It was neat and tidy and just barely lived in. For a moment Nichole wondered if her mother was lonely.

She left the lit candle on her mother’s dresser.

Nichole went back to her room. She had to put away all the clothes Ms. Henderson had paid for. There were so many. So many bags.

She didn’t want to think about the bags. Her body was calling out for attention. She was alone, in her room. She could her body what it needed. Let it give her what she needed. She could imagine her hands. Cupping one of her own breasts. Reaching for her centre. Stroking her opening.

It would be so easy. So good. Her hands could…

Nichole frowned. She wondered why she had an empty bag in her hands. She hadn’t started putting any of the clothes away. So what had been in the bag?

The bag wasn’t empty. There was a lighter in it. Hadn’t there been something else? Something she’d needed the lighter for…

Nichole pulled the lighter out, flicked it. The flame burned clear and blue.

That’s a strange colour…

Nichole stared at the flame. She didn’t know for how long. Staring into that blue flame.

She wasn’t going to touch herself. No matter how much she ached. No matter how much she needed it. No matter how wet she was. No matter how much she could barely think of anything else.

She turned the light off, put it down, turned to her new clothes.

Silently she took them out of the bags, hung them up. Put aside ones that could do with some ironing. She’d see to that later.

Maybe that would take her mind off how much her body quivered with need.

She couldn’t touch herself.

Not yet.

(To be continued)