Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 04

The language was not nearly as veiled as she'd imagined:

"17 -- Employee hereby consents, during the Probationary Period, to the administration of disciplinary acts as deemed appropriate by the Partner(s) for the furtherance of Employee's training and/or the remediation of Employee's errors. Disciplinary acts may include, for example and without limitation: dress-code modification, loss of phone and/or internet privileges, temporary restraint, corporal punishment by hand or device leaving no mark persistent beyond four hours, demotion, reduction in work and/or termination of employment."

There it was, spelled out in black and white as if actually legal. She supposed Mitchell had written the extra language just for her. The idea that after just one interview he had guessed she'd accept such terms made her anxious.

Was it really so obvious? How many people in her past, she wondered, had recognized her closeted desires and said nothing? Dozens? Hundreds?

She strove through memories of her interactions with authority figures: professors, cops, doctors, managers -- searching for missed cues. Had they all seen what Mitchell did?

Re-reading the paragraph she experienced a guilty twinge of arousal. It illuminated a sexual fabric within her vastly more complex than she'd previously acknowledged.

Shame and delight were conjoined within her; that much was clear. But the crush she'd originally had on Adams now felt subsumed within a broader urge to give-in; to grant each doctor his disparate wish.

"Why am I wired this way?" she complained aloud, raking her hands through her dark hair. She shut her eyes and tried to rationalize it all.

At least there was the bit about no lasting marks. She conflated that with Mitchell's promise of, as he put it, "no intercourse unless she begged for it," into a scrim of security; a willful hope that this whole charade couldn't get too out of control -- not to the point of any permanent harm anyway.

She leaned back into the pillows and allowed her brain to play with this new lens, fantasizing about what Wednesday might bring. With Mitchell, a handsome doctor twice her age, in charge of her discipline and those tiny white shorts to wear she was certain another spanking awaited her. The idea of bending over for him, panties down, gave her chills.

She imagined how each smack would surprise and arouse her. By the end she would melt into a sexual plaything. What would he do to her then?

Brushing aside her laptop she touched beneath her skirt, gauging her appetite for deviance. Other fingers arrived at her chest, plucking a nipple through her thin sweater.

Her brows furrowed and a brief mew escaped her as she recalled how demanding Mitchell could be; how early that morning he'd shortened her skirt and touched her everywhere with such assurance, how his erection had bulged while she sat on his lap, how he'd kissed her and then made her kiss the other three doctors too.

She squeezed and swirled her fingers, pining like an addict.

Minutes later she was still striving to engross herself but her libido had apparently decided that fantasy was no longer enough. It needed the real thing.

That's when her IUD occurred to her, suggesting that actual intercourse might be okay too.

The idea stopped her cold.

Conscience at last voiced its outrage: Who did she think she was? How, after everything her parents had done to properly raise and educate her, could she debauch herself into this pleasure-addled strumpet? Hadn't they sent her all the way to Grandma's house for a corrective period of self-improvement? Shouldn't she be conducting herself as a strong, independent Millennial; firmly entitled to the modern, post-feminist paradigm everyone else seemed to share? Wasn't this job eviscerating her inherited dignity, perhaps permanently? And for what? So her bosses could resuscitate their lame adolescent fantasies and she could enjoy a few orgasms?

"Fuck," she exhaled, smoothing her clothes back into place. "Quit already!"

Pained by doubt, she rose to her feet and crept down the hallway.

The incandescent bulb above the mirror in her grandmother's spare bathroom afforded a stark reflection to consider as she washed her face and brushed her teeth. When she returned to her bedroom she extinguished every lamp before changing into a sleep-shirt.

Once beneath the comforter she laid her head on a pillow and curled to one side.

Sleep's mercy arrived none too soon, slackening the rack of her moral introspection.

SCENE NINETEEN

Tiffany rose from bed early, unable to wait for her alarm. Sleep had ameliorated her angst, leaving behind only youthful eagerness for the adventures to come.

She tiptoed to the guest bathroom carrying the supplies Doctor Grisholm had given her and began the prescribed ablution ritual. Over the course of fifteen minutes she managed three repetitions.

Then she took a hot shower and shaved her legs from ankle to hip, carefully re-shaving between them as well. The smudge of brunette pubic hair she'd left behind on Sunday she made even smaller, reducing the odds of it peeking above the ultra-low jean shorts she had to wear.

Once dry she applied lotion to her skin and then squirted a long line of Grisholm's honey-toned ointment onto her index finger. Carefully she worked it into her ass. As it warmed its viscosity thinned to a nearly frictionless film, spreading a delightful tingle and somewhat minty coolness throughout the muscular ring of her anus.

"Wow," she breathed.

She studied the tube but the labelling was all in French.

With a guilty look she applied another dose to her finger and pushed it deeper, twisting to distribute the medicine evenly. To describe her physical reaction to this as positive would be an understatement of galactic proportion. The tingling bloomed tenfold, making her cough. She bit her lip and dipped at the knees. Every movement seemed to activate more pleasure.

The tube fell from her hand.

"Jesus!" she worried.

Somehow she resisted the urge to masturbate, certain that whatever the doctors had in store for her would be more electrifying than a quick rub-out in the bathroom.

She washed her hands and hid all the supplies. Then she donned a towel and scampered back to her room.

She skipped breakfast altogether; too nervous to eat and too aware that the white shorts offered no room for bloating. In fact they were so tight that she knew better than to bike to work in them.

She stepped into her lowest-rise thong panties, which happened to be white, and some calf-length raspberry yoga tights. After forcing her torso into Grisholm's chosen extra-extra-small racerback tank top she buckled-on his other gift: the embroidered choker necklace.

As far as shoes were concerned she figured that since it was a day without patients she was allowed to be casual. Between her comfy canvas Vans and a pair of cork wedges she chose the latter because they made her three inches taller and showed-off her feet. Doctor Jacobsen would appreciate that, she mused as she folded the white shorts into a square and tucked them into her purse.

She zipped-on a grey hoodie over her tank top and bid her grandmother goodbye as innocently as possible.

It all seemed to be going fine until halfway to work, when her bike's front tire went flat.

She didn't crash, luckily, but coasted to a halt on a lonely stretch of blacktop and dismounted. She found a spare inner tube in a pouch under the bike's seat but no pump with which to inflate it.

"Shoot," she said as she stood on the edge of the road. The sun was climbing above the Eastern mountains and the birds were quieting down. She was going to be late, which meant a spanking for sure.

She made an attempt the ride on the flat but immediately recognized she was risking damage to the rim in exchange for little progress.

She moved to the gravel shoulder and pulled out her phone, trying to decide which way to walk and who to call.

After five minutes of pushing her bike toward the clinic she heard a vehicle approaching from behind. She turned and held up a hand.

It slowed.

It was one of those ubiquitous full-size diesel pickups she'd seen so often since moving to Colorado. This one happened to be completely murdered-out with black trim, limo tint, bull bars and an aftermarket lift kit. It had huge, hulking tires.

"Hey!" a young man shouted down from the passenger window as the truck rumbled to a stop beside her. His pale arm was hooked over the door and a backward cap and wrap-around sunglasses hid most of his face.

Tiffany squinted up at him, unable to see the driver or anyone else inside.

"Hey!" he repeated, nearly shouting to be heard above the clattering diesel and its whistling wastegate. "You smoke?"

"What? No." she answered, shaking her head in confusion.

"Now you do!" the boy yelled as the driver floored the accelerator to a chorus of hooting laughter. Thick black exhaust belched from the truck as it roared away, completely enveloping her.

Instinctively she let go of her bike and ran, eyes and mouth closed, straight across the road to where the air was still clean.

"Fucking assholes!" she swore, thankful there had been no oncoming traffic to kill her. A billowing trail of diesel soot stretched behind the truck as it disappeared over a blind rise a quarter-mile farther on.

She looked down at her clothes and swore again while trying to dust off, thankful that she hadn't inhaled.

It wasn't long before she heard the approach of another car, this time from beyond the rise where the truck had disappeared.

A pop echoed off the canyon walls as the driver changed gear at redline, covering ground at a felonious rate.

She took a big step back when a narrow car burst over the rise at full droop, nearly airborne. It landed with a plastic scuff, speed undiminished.

She didn't know whether to clap or scream, but within seconds the choice was moot. The compact wagon decelerated smoothly with its hazard lights blinking.

Tiffany glared at the windshield, skeptical of the angular lattice within. She noticed the windows were down and the young driver was grinning broadly.

He stopped alongside her. The car's brakes ticked audibly with heat and its stance was so aggressive that the tires barely fit within their fenders. Its idle sounded offbeat and punchy, like two boxers sharing a speed bag.

The driver leaned across the Spartan interior and asked: "You a'right?"

She stooped to peer inside, eyeing him suspiciously.

He just stared back, grin wide and eyebrows arched in friendly curiosity. Then he checked his mirrors for traffic and offered: "Hope I didn't scare ya'. It's dead out here normally so I just do my thing. You stuck?"

"Yeah," she answered, still undecided as to his merits. "Flat tire."

He looked around. "Where's your ride? D'you wreck it?"

"My bike," she said, pointing to where it lay on the opposite shoulder. "I don't have a pump."

"Oh. Uh-huh... Gotcha. Well... I can give you a hand f'you want. I just gotta be at work by eight."

She straightened and considered this for a moment, scanning the roadway in both directions. There were no other cars.

When she looked back inside he was staring at her raspberry tights.

"Are you safe?" she asked.

He quietly smirked and wobbled his head before answering: "'Course not. I'm the only black dude in fifty miles and I'm chattin'-up a pretty white girl. Pretty sure my ass'll be all over the radio in five."

Tiffany grinned; pleased by the way he had flipped her question around. She decided his face looked honest, about her age, and for some reason the way his teeth contrasted with his chocolate skin put her mind her at ease. He seemed, reckless driving aside, harmless.

"You don't mind?" she asked.

"Nah-uh. Lemme just get off the road."

The little four-cylinder chuntered and fizzed as he feathered the clutch and crept onto the gravel shoulder.

Engine still idling, he set the handbrake and swung his door wide, then emerged in a limber sequences of moves; head and shoulders ducking out first, facing the car, then biceps curling to lift his narrow butt onto the door-bar of what she recognized was a full rollcage. Finally he extracted one leg at a time until he was standing.

His egress had taken only seconds but Tiffany found it funny, like a game of twister played backward.

She laughed as they squared off.

"What?" he asked. "It's a rally car, okay?"

"A what?"

He glanced back at the Subaru and put both fists in his jeans' pockets. Then he shook his head and faced her again, extending his right hand.

"I'm Cartwright."

"Tiffany," she answered.

Their palms gripped above the roadway, identically warm in the lingering ambient chill.

"Can see that," he nodded, glancing at her neck.

She'd forgotten how the choker advertised her name. The moment turned the corners of her mouth up.

Cartwright loped across the road. Soon he had her crippled bike leaning against the rear of his car. He produced a small box of tools and began spinning two wrenches to remove the front wheel.

As he worked Tiffany admonished herself to not stare. Still, she couldn't help noticing his battered hands. They had bits of tape here and there and a plethora of scars. But he got the wheel off seemingly without effort and soon had the replacement tube tucked in. Then he wrapped the nested rubber around the wheel.

She saw how his fitted t-shirt suggested a six-pack that had nothing to do with beer. This prompted her to think of her own appearance and dust off again.

When he extracted a portable air tank from under a net in his wagon's rear hatch and began to inflate the tire with it, she ventured: "D'you always travel so prepared?"

"Um... no, not really," he answered, glancing back. "You just got lucky. I do rallycross and wheeling. We run different pressures depending on the surface, so... re-filling a bunch of tires at the end of the day goes quicker this way."

"Huh," she nodded, checking the time on her phone.

It was already seven forty. Her anxiousness about being late crowded-out her curiosity.

"There," he announced shortly. "That ought'a work."

She stepped closer and gave the bike a testing bounce. "Awesome. Thanks!"

"No worries," he shrugged, packing up his tools. "Say, um... where you goin' anyway? Not too many people ride bikes out here."

"Yeah, I know. This thing is my grandma's. She doesn't have a car anymore and mine's in Boston, so... this is how I get to work."

"You from Boston?"

"Yeah."

"That's cool. Where's work?"

"Um... this little medical clinic. The one up at the top of the hill."

"Uh-huh. You wanna ride?"

"Um, no it's okay. I mean, thanks, but—"

"I don't mind," he added, checking his watch.

"I've already slowed you way down. But thanks... for helping and everything."

"You sure?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well alright. Ride safe I guess."

A look connected them before he stuck out his hand.

"Nice meeting you," they both said simultaneously.

"Yeah," he laughed, bobbing her hand. "I guess I'll see you. It's a small town, right?"

"Totally."

"I work at Mick's out on Railroad Avenue... custom trucks and stuff like that."

"N'kay."

He turned and stooped to secure the air tank under its elastic webbing again.

Tiffany adjusted her purse across her body and swung one thigh over the bike's saddle. Then she announced: "I'm gonna be late, so..."

"You sure you don't want a ride?" he asked again, turning around. "I could run you up there in, like, two minutes dead; maybe less."

She squinted above a grin, "That's what worries me; the dead part."

He spread his hands and said: "Hey, when I go pro you'll wish you'd come along."

"Uh-huh."

"Seriously. I'll drive slow."

She sighed, glancing up the long empty road.

"Las' chance," he added.

She studied his face once more, attempting to read his thoughts. Then she nodded, "Okay, sure. That'd be great."

SCENE TWENTY

The lobby's clock indicated seven-fifty-five when Tiffany emerged from the lavatory in her prescribed outfit. It had taken seemingly forever to wash off all the diesel soot and exchange her comfy leggings for the miniature shorts.

Cartwright had asked for her number though, so that was fun.

Her outfit seemed doubly inappropriate now that she was in an office setting. The black tank top bared her midriff to her ribs and the shorts were positively pornographic. Their stretchy fabric contained more spandex than denim and they had no inseam at all; just a pair of one-inch cuffs that crept upward in back to display her ass. The whole ensemble left very little to the imagination.

She cringed at how the doctors would judge her. Adams' old Land Cruiser hadn't been in the parking lot when Cartwright had dropped her off, but Mitchell, Grisholm and Jacobsen's cars all were.

With a resigned sigh she clomped across the lobby in her cork wedges, consoling herself that at least her excuse for being late was valid. The tank top wobbled as she walked, offering her youthfully outthrust breasts little in the way of support. Perhaps they would take pity on her, she mused, or be too distracted by her outfit to care.

As soon as she reached the first doorway, Doctor Grisholm called out: "There you are!"

"Oh, um... hi," she answered, halting mid-stride.

"Come here for a second. Let me see you."

She hesitated, anxious to check-in with Doctor Mitchell before her tardiness grew, but Grisholm rose from his desk and approached, beckoning her into his office.

"Good morning sir," she said with a nervous wave, "But, um... is this urgent? 'Cause I should probably—"

"My Goodness," he enthused while pulling her across the threshold, "You look delicious!"

"Thanks but I—"

He twirled her as though they were dancing, muttering: "Un-be-lievable."

"I, um... Thanks, but I really need to check-in with Doctor Mitchell before—"

Her words faltered as she noticed his face, which was normally so unreadable, go through several iterations of wonder. His gaze licked her like a tongue; she could nearly feel it. Memories of their prior assignations flashed back, swelling her capillaries.

He put her through another slow turn before finally regaining some composure.

"Fine, yes fine," he smiled politely. "Run along and check-in... but first one question."

"Um'kay."

"D'you do your cleanse this morning?"

She glanced sideways and subtly mumbled, "M-hm."

"Three times?"

She nodded.

"Good. And plenty of ointment afterward?"

"I, um... I really need to check-in with Doctor Mitchell, sir."

He slid one arm around her waist.

She tried to twist away but his other arm caught her, immediately snugging her close. Then he lifted, dragging her up onto the curve of his belly.

"Sirrrr!" she whined as her feet cleared the carpet and the shorts dug in, becoming almost painful.

He nestled both hands under her ass and bounced her upward, forcing her legs astride his stout girth.

"What are you doing?" she complained, clinging to him like monkey on a tree.

"Take it easy," he assured, balancing for them both. "I just want to check that you've used enough ointment."

"What?!? No!"

His fingers ventured under the seat of her shorts until one touched the knot of her anus. Her blue eyes shot wide and she tried to squirm higher, losing both sandals in the process.

He began easing a stubby forefinger into the silken grip of her ass. The collar of muscle guarding her rectum flared and pinched.

She winced, tingling with sensitivity.

"Lovely," he whispered.

She was appalled by how erotic this felt, gritting her teeth and trying not to make noise. She could feel her panties digging in on account of her splay-legged hug.

He eased his digit deeper and her anus latched onto it. She begged him to stop.