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The Peek-Chique Account

Chapter 1: A Second Chance

"If you can't come up with something better, we must consider a reassignment, Jessica. You've done valuable work here; I don't want to lose you but really, I expected something better than this."

Mr. Ambrose looks down his patrician nose at my layout for the new campaign; models' photographs, storylines for TV ads, sketches, sample web pages, months of work carefully placed along the length of the twenty foot, black lacquer conference table. He isn't happy with any of it.

"We worked hard to get this account." Now he is fixing me in place with a sharp, focused glare.

"This client is looking to us to propel them to the top of the lingerie industry, and we assured them we could put them there. We promised them the best of what we built our reputation on, Jessica. Savoir-faire! Sharp marketing! Strategy! Where is it in this pile of shit, hmm? Where is it! Answer me!"

Of course, I couldn't. It happens in my line of business. One minute you're the hot new thing. Your ideas are sharp, it's easy, you're fast, unstoppable. You pass the wannabes in the corridors and you don't have to acknowledge them because you are The Hot New Thing. You're riding high in the most elite of London's advertising firms. And then you get the plum account, and it all dries up. At 25, I'm finished, my glamorous, yuppie career is over.

Lingerie! How hard could it be? But I soon found out; every idea I could think of had been done before. Hours of looking at Peek-Chique's product line just sucked the inspiration out of me. All the bras, panties, teddies, suspenders, blah, blah, blah. The little bows, the little florets, the little minded tedium. I lost it. "It" wasn't in that pile of shit, and we both knew it.

Wordlessly, I follow Mr. Ambrose, the firm's founder and final arbitrator of taste, as he strides to his office. His grim expression beacons his displeasure to all the other glass-walled offices. A thousand stares follow us along the corridor as I shuffle after him, head bent. Done for.

"Take a seat." I move to a chair at his desk; he moves to the couch by the window. Oh God, have I lost all ability to read anything that's going on?

I change direction and eventually plop hopelessly on the other end of the couch. He surveys me coolly; I survey the silk threads in the carpet. As the silence lengthens, I am forced to raise my head and meet his gaze.

He is the epitome of cool. He is all tall, grey, elegance; fifty-ish, with well cut short hair and a long, athletic frame. He is swathed in a cool, grey, silk suit; the trouser leg drapes like mercury as he leans back, swings his right foot onto his left knee, and spreads his arm expansively along the back of the couch.

"Jessica," his tone is warmer, more confiding now, "This is the worst time to hit a plateau."

"Yes, sir."

"I want to give you another chance. I still think you can do it, you know. You just need a little help."

"Jessica, look at me." The softness in his voice is almost more than I can stand. My mouth is going slack and I'm swallowing, trying to keep it together. Blubbering in Mr. Ambrose's office would be just asking for the coup-de-grace, the merciful final blow. Oh God, please don't let him fire me.

"Jessica, I know what you're thinking. That's not the plan. I have another; if you will only trust me, I know exactly what you need."

OK! A final swallow and I turn towards him, straighten my back, turn back my shoulders (he doesn't hide his assessment of my realigned breasts) and look him right in the eye.

"Mr. Ambrose, I want you to know I will do anything to turn this around. I know what this account means, I truly do. This is not my best work, I admit it. It's nothing like what you expect of me, what you deserve. I mean it. I'll do anything."

His mouth spread in an almost imperceptible lean, lined smile. I hold my breath. For a moment, all I can hear is the hush of that smile.

"Very well. You will take the rest of today off, and go shopping. At Peek-Chique's. Charge everything, firm expense. Buy the best, most outrageous products they sell. I want you to purchase crotchless panties, a peek-a-boo bra, a corset, silk stockings. Then get yourself a new suit. Short skirt and jacket. A nice, fine English wool. Dark grey. Very expensive. And get a pair of six inch, high heeled boots, black patent leather, thigh length. Go home, have a light dinner, put everything on, and wait for my call. You'll hear from me at 8:00 p.m. sharp. Go."

That evening my full length bedroom mirror sees a new me and I squeal at the transformation. "Ooh, you tart, you! Look at you! Pointy toes, pointy heels, shiny black, all the way up your legs. Naughty girl!" I pirouette and pose in front of the mirror, enraptured with myself.

My new tight fitting skirt eases around my buttocks and hips, artfully showing three inches of silky thigh above the boots. The jacket fits snugly too, and the wide, low neckline shows my ample, bulging mounds. I undo the jacket to admire the regalia underneath.

The corset really is well made, and the shop girls at Peek-Chique's knew their merchandise. They fitted me with a dark green brocade underbust model, with metal clasps down the front, black ribbon lacing up the back, and suspenders. I hitch the skirt up to my clamped waist, to admire the view. Turning slowly, I look over my shoulder to see my exposed round buttocks, the top of my leather thong lying just under the bottom edge of the corset. A very neat package.

And it doesn't stop there. In front, the corset top rises in a crescent below my breasts, to point the way to an exquisite black leather bra, with a little slit sewn along the cup seam. I push my titties around a bit, so the nipples peak out a little better. To get just the right look, I pull on them and roll them between my forefingers and thumbs until they engorge. There. Protruding nicely.

Uh-oh. It's 7:30 p.m. and Mr. Ambrose is going to call. I totter into the kitchen to grab a quick bowl of cereal. I can't wait to tell him how inspired I am. He's really the best, a genius. This has made all the difference; I have a whole new direction for the campaign. It's going to be great.


"Mr. Ambrose, you have your best marketing consultant back on form. I really can't tell you how…"

"Are you dressed as I told you?"

"Oh, yes, sir! This is absolutely brilliant, you have no idea…"

"Write down this address, hail a cab, and announce yourself as Mr. Ambrose's guest when you get there. Go, now."

He hung up.

Chapter 2: A Red Devil Woman

I'm dumbstruck. I stand in the middle of my kitchen, staring at the scribbled address. I don't understand any of it. He wants me to go out dressed like this?? I can't! I mean, it looks great but I don't wear this kind of thing in public. Actually, I don't wear it in private, either.

But what'll happen if I don't? Should I call him back? And say what, Jessica? "Gosh, I'm really sorry Mr. Ambrose but I don't usually wear clothes like this and could you not fire me anyway?" Oh, sure! What choice do I have?

It's freezing outside, the pavements are sparkling with an early frost. I'll compromise and wear my long black cape. It's warm and stylish, and it'll cover me up. I'll worry about what's underneath when I get there. It'll be OK.

I quickly catch a taxi on the street corner and give the cabbie the address. "I think it might be a hotel or something, but I wasn't given the name of it, just the street address, sorry."

The cabbie shot me an odd look as we moved out into traffic. "That's not a hotel, luv."

"You know the address?"


Either I had an unusually taciturn driver, or there's something wrong here. "It's a private address, then? A house?"


I'm puzzled, but try not to show it; cabbies know London like the back of their hands, but they don't know the individual houses, surely? How come he knows this one?

Oooh! It occurs to me that maybe the house belongs to somebody famous. That's it! Mr. Ambrose has asked me to a private party and I'm to show everyone how great our account looks in real life. It's a little risqué, but I can brazen it out. Get people's reactions, get some ideas. Brilliant!

"If you don't know why you're going there, luv, you'd better think about it. I can turn back."

I'm not sure what he means, and my heart hit my boot tips as I realise I'm dressed for a party, alright. I just don't know what kind. I don't have a clue. But I still don't have any choice. I tell the cabbie to keep going, and settle back into my seat and my mounting anxiety.

My words in Mr. Ambrose's office come back to haunt me as I near my destination, "I want you to know I will do anything to turn this around… I mean it. I'll do anything."

I finally face the truth. I don't know what I'm doing. I really don't. God, please take care of me tonight because I don't know how this is going to work out. And I'm scared.

The house is a large, solid Edwardian in a quiet residential street. A path leads from the gate through a tunnel of shrubbery to the front door. There is a dim light glowing there, but the curtains are drawn at every window, no trace of light in any of the rooms. For all I know, nobody's home. I hope.

I press the door bell. A woman's voice answers over the intercom, "Who calls?"

"Um, I'm Jessica. I'm Mr. Ambrose's guest."

A buzzer sounds and the door swings inward, revealing a tall black girl in a formal maid's dress. Only I've never seen a maid's dress like this before. The low neckline reveals half circles of her dark aureolas, just covering her teats. The dress is a narrow sheath of slick PVC, full length to her ankles, with a double zip up the front. The hem looks tight and confining. The neckline, the long sleeves, the hem, and her little white satin apron are all edged in frothy white lace. I can't speak, as my mouth is hanging open. Without a word she turns, and my eyes pop at the naked, brown cutaway ass, as she hobbles away on high platform shoes across the entrance hall and down a corridor. "Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore!" I tell myself.

I step into the entrance hall and close the door behind me, not daring to advance any further in. I wait, and take in my surroundings. The flooring is old fashioned, large, diagonal black and white tiles. At the far end of the hallway is a curving, dark wood staircase. To my right is a corridor running along the house to what I suppose would be the kitchen, scullery and cellar stairs, originally. It's so quiet. An enormous brass candelabra hangs on a chain from the high ceiling, illuminating the dark red wallpaper and several closed, solid-looking dark wood doors. I can hear no sounds from behind them.

"Good evening."

A female voice from halfway up the staircase makes me jump.

A tall woman in a long red velvet dress is slowly descending the stairs towards me. The skin-tight fit shows she is lean, muscular, and full breasted. A fishtail train drags heavily behind her. I put her somewhere in her mid-thirties, 5' 10". She is a redhead; her long hair with golden glints is piled up high, Victorian style. Her grey eyes and arching eyebrows are set wide in her fine-boned face; her deep red-painted lips are full. She trails her hand carelessly along the banister as she descends, red fingernails contrasting starkly with the pale skin and dark wood. She fixes her total attention on me as she steps slowly, deliberately, towards me; her expression is a curiously sensual sneer. A red satin choker draws my eye to her long, firm, white neck and her black jet drop earrings; they remind me of the screw-on earrings my grandmother used to wear. Suddenly I feel overwhelmed, like a little, helpless girl.

She stands in front of me and regards me with obvious distaste. "What, pray, are you wearing?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh, you will be. That heavy mass of stuff around you; who told you to wear it?"

The question is rude but somehow I can't refuse to answer. "Ah, well it's very cold outside you see, and I thought I should wear an extra layer, and this cape seemed to be the…"

"Mr. Ambrose gave you explicit directions, did he not? Did he mention a cape? Well? I have an excellent memory and, I warn you, I know when someone is playing games. Answer!" I am almost panicked by the tone of her voice.

"My employer did not mention a cape, no, but as it is so cold…"

"Silence!" Her scream seems to bounce off every wall and tile and I jump in shock.

"Remove it! NOW!"

I fumble with the buttons and shrug out of the offending cape as quickly as I can. I stand awkwardly with it in my arms, not knowing what is required of me, only knowing this woman obviously has expectations on Mr. Ambrose's behalf.

"Put it down on that chair. The maid will put it away." I comply, and then turn to face the haughty red woman.

"Mr. Ambrose did not give me a reason for coming here tonight," I venture. "As you seem to be familiar with his intentions, could you let me know what they are, please?"

"Oh, very pretty. You express yourself well, when you want to. Yes, I think we can do something with you. Follow me."

Chapter 3: What the Butler Saw

I follow her into what looks like a sitting room and, at her gesture, close the door behind us. There is an eclectic mix of furniture, most of it facing a fireplace with a blazing fire in the hearth.

"Sit." I choose an overstuffed low-back chair and, as I sit, I try not to let my skirt ride up any higher. I keep my knees together and cross my ankles slightly to one side.

"I understand you have been failing Mr. Ambrose, but that you wish to redeem yourself in his service. Therefore, Mr. Ambrose requires me to instruct you in such a way that you will once again be useful to his business. Do we have an understanding?"

"Ah, well yes, I think so. Mr. Ambrose has not been happy with me lately and I have had some difficulty in my work. Do you know much about advertising?"

"Nothing at all. In fact, my business here is extremely private. In a moment, I will require you to sign a contract prepared between Mr. Ambrose and myself, and you are to sign it as a third party. It binds you to absolute secrecy. In having you here, Mr. Ambrose has demonstrated considerable trust in you. The damage to his firm resulting from any indiscretion on your part would be calamitous. Do you agree to sign the contract?"

I have signed a dozen or more confidentiality agreements; I nod pertly, regaining some composure on this more familiar ground. At this, the red velvet woman crosses to a writing desk, steps behind it, and presses a button. Presently the door opens and a tall, solidly built man enters bearing a silver tray on which, I presume, is the contract. He is wearing a dark, old fashioned suit which contrasts oddly with his short cropped blond hair and light blue eyes. He lays the tray on the desk, bows, and steps back.

The woman, who has still not offered a name and for some reason I have not dared to ask it, waves me over as she unfolds the document and offers me a pen. I sign the contract where she indicates, noting the typed name under her signature as simply "Mme.", the abbreviation for 'Madame'.

"Good. Now, how do you like Wilhelm? A fine figure of a man, don't you think?"

I had not really paid much attention to the butler while attending to the contract and it seemed an odd question, but I obliged her by turning towards him… and stumble backwards. While I was signing the agreement, Wilhelm had unzipped his fly and pulled out his cock. As I try to regain my composure, he looks right at me and begins to stroke himself. He is flaccid, but enormous.

"Do you not feel a little warm? Take off your jacket," Madame says to me. Madame obviously knows what my dress instructions were, but I don't want to show my corset and peek-a-boo bra to this monstrous man. I don't like where this is going, at all. I put my foot down.


"NO?!" The volume of Madame's outraged scream is astounding in the close room. She comes at me like a tiger, grabs my hair in a clenching fist, drags me to an end of a sofa and forces me over one arm. She furiously pulls up my skirt, exposing my bare buttocks and thong.

With my head forced down into the sofa cushion I can not see what is happening but, through my cries, I can hear a drawer being opened and shut. The next sound I hear is a loud 'WHAP' as something hard makes contact with my left cheek. The sting is sharp, lingering. Again, I feel it; then again. And now again. At each pause, the sting barely subsides before it is revived and the pain is becoming a long, rising crescendo. I want it to stop. I wail, and kick against whatever, whoever, I can reach.

"You will NOT resist your chastisement! Lie still! Now!" The spanking increases in intensity, the rhythm becoming faster and, although I can not help but twitch under each blow, I now hold my legs as still as I can because I understand it will not cease until I obey. Eventually the spanking slows, and then it stops, leaving me weak and sobbing.

Now a hand palms my stinging cheek in circles, soothing the pain. I am so grateful it is over. Then, 'WHAP', my right cheek is given its share of attention too, until I am pushed again to my limit. Again, the palm soothes, and it is finally over.

"You may stand." Trembling, I stand, but find I need the treacherous sofa arm for support. My legs are shaking so much I can't balance on my heels, but I don't want to sit. My skirt is still up around my waist but I don't even move to pull it back down. Madame is standing behind the desk once more.

"Do you remember what I asked of you?" Sniffling, head down, I nod and take off my jacket. I hold it, without initiative.

"Give it to Wilhelm." I look up at the huge butler. Wilhelm is standing beside Madame, still stroking his long, wide cock, now much bigger and blood-engorged. The foreskin is pulled back; the head is almost purple. Expressionless, he appraises my brocade corset, my black leather bra with my peeping nipples, my hitched skirt, and my exposed leather thong. I stagger across the room to him, and hold out my jacket. He takes it, and looks to Madame.

"Go and hang it up. I will ring when I want you," she tells him. His disappointment was obvious but he leaves, taking my jacket and his engorged prick with him.

"Now, I notice you are wearing a thong." I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

"You were told to wear crotchless panties, were you not?" Oh no, not again. I hadn't taken Mr. Ambrose literally; I hadn't thought it necessary, but now I am wishing I had followed his instructions to the letter.

"It is this sort of disobedience that brings you to your humiliation. What Mr. Ambrose expects, Mr. Ambrose gets. You are to understand this. And I am to help you to understand this. Remove your skirt and your thong; lay them on my desk."

I ease the tight skirt down from around my waist to around my ankles and step out of it, and then pull down the leather thong as quickly as I can and scoop up both garments. I lay them on her desk as she ordered, and stand before Madame's desk, my hands clasped in front of my naked bush. Despite the humiliating semi-nakedness, all I can really think of are my throbbing buttocks.

"Bring that wooden chair over to the centre of the room and sit on it." The chair Madame indicates is an old, narrow, wooden ladder-back that looked like it would have had rush seating at one time. But there is nothing but the seat frame, now.

After trying several positions, I find the only way I am able to keep myself from slipping into the missing chair seat is by spreading my legs wide enough that my thighs are supported by the frame. I try to brace myself with my feet on the floor but, because I am not very tall, I can only tip-toe the floor in this position. For extra support I clutch the frame of the seat, palms down. This pushes my shoulders back, and my breasts forward. Madame's expression tells me she is pleased. Strangely, I like this. And I am grateful too, that I am not being forced to put pressure on my sore buttocks. I am starting to realise that Madame has planned everything, well in advance.
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