Dressed for the Role - Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Updated Uniform Requirements

UPDATED UNIFORM REQUIREMENTS

Jon’s door is already open.

I hesitate at the threshold, heart thudding like it wants to escape. The office is glass-paneled and pristine, all chrome edges and low leather furniture—masculine in a curated, sterile way. Jon is behind his desk, thumbs tapping on his phone, pretending not to notice me.

But he called me. He knows I’m here.

“Come on in,” he says casually, not looking up. “Door.”

I step inside and push it shut behind me. The soft click is deafening.

It’s warm in here. Or maybe it’s just me. The panties are clinging to me beneath my slacks, slick now with sweat, the lace a constant whisper against my skin. They shift with every step, rubbing in places they shouldn’t. I can’t forget them. I don’t think I’ve stopped feeling them all day.

I stand awkwardly in front of his desk, trying to keep my face neutral. Trying not to squirm. My collar feels too tight. My slacks too thin. My erection—a dull ache now—is mercifully gone, but the heat remains. Shame in the bloodstream.

Jon finally looks up.

“You look flushed,” he says, like it’s small talk. His smile is a little too slow to be friendly. “Everything alright?”

I swallow. My tongue feels thick. “Just a long day.”

“Mmhmm.” His eyes drop—slow, deliberate—to my waist. “Or maybe... something a little more delicate going on?”

Jon leans back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head, eyes fixed on me like I’m something under glass.

“You know,” he says, almost conversational, “I wasn’t sure it was you. Not at first.”

I blink. “What?”

“In the bathroom.” His voice doesn’t change. “You picked the last stall, far left. You sat down and I heard you lower your pants. Real gentle. Real careful.”

My mouth goes dry.

Jon stands, slow and steady, rounding the desk. “I waited. Just listened. Thought it might be someone else. But then I saw your shoes under the divider.”

He’s in front of me now, close enough to touch. He doesn’t.

“You wore them,” he says softly.

I can’t speak.

“And you’re still wearing them.”

Jon doesn’t speak right away. He just watches me. Calm. Expectant.

Then: “Take off your pants.”

My heart skips.

“I—” I start, but my voice comes out thin.

Jon raises a brow, still casual. “I want to see them. The panties.”

The words hit like a slap. Heat rushes to my face, my neck, my ears. I stay frozen. Maybe if I wait long enough, he’ll laugh it off. Say it was a joke.

He doesn’t.

“You wore them to my office,” he says, voice still low. “You sat in my meetings with lace hugging your cock. So don’t act shy now.”

My fingers twitch at my belt. I don’t look at him as I unbuckle, unzip. I tug the slacks down just enough to show the edge of black lace stretched over my hips.

“That’s cute,” Jon murmurs. “Now all the way.”

I close my eyes. Then obey.

The slacks slide down to my knees. I’m left standing there in just my button-down shirt and the panties—tight, feminine, obscenely delicate against the hard lines of my legs. My breath shakes.

“Come here.”

I hesitate.

“I said, come here.”

I step forward. Each movement makes the lace shift, pull, kiss against my skin. I stop just in front of him, unsure where to look.

Jon places his hands firmly on my hips. His thumbs brush over the edge of the panties. Then lower—palming the lace-covered curve of my ass, possessive, like he’s checking the fit.

And that’s when the door opens.

Click.

He doesn’t move. I don’t dare turn.

“Am I interrupting?” Rachel’s voice, amused and smooth, glides across the room like a razor in silk.

Neither of us moves.

“Am I interrupting?” Rachel’s voice floats in like a cold breeze—poised, amused, dangerous.

Jon doesn’t answer. His hands remain firmly on my hips, fingers resting possessively against the thin black lace. I can barely breathe.

“No,” he finally says. “You’re right on time.”

Her heels click across the office—slow, deliberate. I can’t see her yet, but I feel her presence wrap around me like perfume.

When she finally comes into view, her eyes trail down my legs—bare, pale, exposed. A small wrinkle of distaste touches her lips.

“I suppose this is a start,” she says. “But if you’re going to prance around the office like a little slut, the least you can do is follow the dress code.”

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. She’s already hiking her skirt higher, fingers slipping beneath the hem.

“Pantyhose,” she says simply, peeling them down with practiced grace. “It’s office policy for women, after all.”

She steps out of them and holds them out to me. Not a suggestion. A command.

“Put them on.”

I hesitate, frozen. The lace already feels like too much. But their eyes are on me—waiting. Measuring.

I take the nylons.

I sit, cheeks burning, slacks still around my knees. The material is sheer, whisper-thin, still warm from her skin. I try to slide my foot in, but it snags. I fumble, tug too hard, nearly twist the delicate fabric. My face is on fire.

Rachel sighs softly.

“Oh dear,” she says. “Have you really never put on a pair before?”

I shake my head, helpless.

She crouches, taking the nylons from my hands with a tut of mock patience. “Just like a little girl on her first day of ballet,” she murmurs.

I die a little.

She bunches them expertly, guiding one leg in, then the other. Her hands glide along my skin, firm and practiced. As she rolls them up, I feel the silky tension stretch tighter, smoother—like discipline wrapping around me inch by inch.

By the time they reach mid-thigh, I’m trembling.

Rachel rises with them, tugging them up over the panties, over my hips. She adjusts the waistband with a practiced flick, then smooths her palms up my thighs, flattening the fabric, perfecting the fit.

It nearly breaks me. My cock pulses, straining against the lace and nylon, and I feel my knees weaken.

“You’re a fast learner,” she murmurs, lips near my ear. “That’s encouraging.”

Jon chuckles behind me. “Think he’s ready for a name tag yet?”

“Not yet,” Rachel replies, stepping back with calm precision. “But if he wants to keep his job…”

She smooths her skirt, checks her reflection in the window glass.

“You’ll wear panties and nylons to work again tomorrow,” she says. “Or we’ll let HR know you’ve been stealing them from the bathroom. That little incident earlier? We could make it very convincing.”

My blood runs cold. Shame and arousal twist in my stomach.

I nod.

Rachel smiles. “Good girl.”

Jon laughs again. “See you bright and early.”

I should fight this. I should say something. But I don’t. I can’t. I just stand there in lace and nylons, knowing I’ll show up tomorrow in them again. Because I don’t have a choice anymore.

He did what they asked. He wore the panties. He slipped on the nylons.
But Jon and Rachel aren’t finished with him.
Not even close.

There’s something new in the way they look at him now—like they’ve already decided what comes next. And he’s terrified to find out what it is.