Lunch Time Masquerades

From Blushes 63

Should she tell Ian? About Mr Wilmox and his masks. There was no real reason not to, no reason to hide it. It was the sort of thing you would tell your husband. Mr Wilmox’s fantastic collection of masks. The only thing preventing Linda telling was that the masks were at Mr Wilmox’s house and he had taken her there to see them. At lunch time. Ian might see something in that. Linda going to Mr Wilmox’s house with him. Just the two of them. He might possibly think that Mr Wilmox fancied her.

Ian was very ready to believe other men were going to fancy Linda, and perhaps with reason. Linda was very attractive: tallish with long legs and a delightfully slim but well-rounded figure; plus a full, ripe mouth and big brown eyes, her face framed in short and stylishly-shaped chestnut hair. Ian didn’t really like the idea of Linda having a job, he would rather she was at home all day looking after their little house. Then she could only be fancied by the milkman and Ian wasn’t too bothered about the milkman.

But they were both young (Linda only 19, Ian 22) and with a large mortgage Linda needed to work. And she was lucky to have got the job at Acme Assurance: secretary to Mr Corrigon. He had come into their office once or twice and had been pleasant, saying little jokey things. And then yesterday he had said about his masks.

Not actually saying it was masks at first, just that he had something he was sure Linda would find interesting. She would perhaps have been apprehensive about accepting an invitation to go with a stranger to his house but Mr Wilmox wasn’t actually a stranger, he was a close colleague of Mr Corrigon. So Linda had said yes, and of course it wasn’t anything to be worried about. It had been Mr Wilmox’s collection of masks.

Carnival masks from all over the world. From Venice. From Rio. Thailand. All those places. Masks of dazzling colour and design. Beautiful angel faces. Fierce-eyed forest creatures. Birds of gorgeous plumage. Mr Wilmox had them in a brightly-lit display cabinet and they were so dazzling and beautiful it almost took your breath away. He took them out one by one to show her They were really fabulous.

And naturally Linda wanted to tell Ian, only she was afraid he might go off the deep end. It was silly but she knew he could. Assuming right away that Mr Wilmox had driven Linda out to his place to… well, do something. Make a pass. Screw her probably. Why did Ian have to think that sort of thing? Mr Wilmox had just been nice, charming. Giving her a glass of wine, then offering a second which Linda politely refused. And of course showing her his masks. That was all.

But Ian wouldn’t think it was all. He would think that even if that was all today then Mr Wilmox still had some ulterior motive. To fuck her. Even if not today. That was what Ian would think.

So she hadn’t mentioned it. Not right away when she got home or during the evening. Now in bed there was another chance. As Ian asked how her day had gone. Ian had already asked this earlier but he must have forgotten. But now she could easily say: Oh did I mention about Mr Wilmox. His masks. Really fantastic.

In bed with Ian. Close against him, her hand stroking his erect penis. His stiff erection. Doing this got Linda going. Turned her on. Her gripping hand sliding up and down the thick shaft. Ian was ready of course. But if she mentioned that business Linda knew he would react. Not thinking about the masks but about her in that house with Mr Wilmox. It would turn Ian off.

So she didn’t say. Just said, ‘Quite good. OK.’ And left it at that. Didn’t say about the masks. Didn’t say either (of course not) that someone else at the office had pinched her bottom in the corridor. And also didn’t say (of course not also); that someone else, younger, Derek Someone she thought (Linda didn’t know a lot of names yet) had asked her to go for a drink at lunch time. No she didn’t say any of this. Just ‘Quite good. OK.’ And shortly they were screwing. Ian on top of her. Inside her.

She thought of the man who had pinched her bottom (Mr Silford?) and that younger one. And of course Mr Wilmox and his masks. The thoughts flitting in and out of her head as they screwed.

----//----

The next day Mr Wilmox said, ‘Of course I didn’t show you my special mask yesterday. I was saving it. Because it’s special. I’ll show you today.

This was mid-morning, in the office. Linda didn’t know what to say. After a moment’s thought she wanted to say no thanks she couldn’t. But Mr Wilmox had gone, saying he would pick her up at 12.30, the same as yesterday.

She didn’t want to go. Two days in succession was clearly different from a single visit. It implied something more, some sort of relationship perhaps. Linda obviously didn’t want that — but Mr Wilmox was gone with the understanding that she was going. Linda couldn’t refuse now, not when it was Mr Wilmox, a senior colleague of Mr Corrigon. So she had no choice. But it would only be today. And anyway Mr Wilmox probably only meant today. To show her this one other mask.

In the car Mr Wilmox said, ‘You’re a lovely girl, Linda. George Corrigon’s a lucky man, isn’t he? And your husband too. You are married. Your husband’s a lucky young man.’

Linda didn’t now what to say. She gave a little laugh.

Mr Wilmox watching the road ahead said, ‘Yes, a lucky young man. Getting into bed with such a lovely girl every night.’

Linda could feel herself flushing. Mr Wilmox hadn’t said any of that sort of thing yesterday. He shouldn’t say that sort of thing.

‘Isn’t he? A lucky young man. Getting into bed with you every night.’

Linda forced an embarrassed laugh. ‘I… I don’t know.’

‘Oh yes. He certainly is. And what do you wear? In bed. A sexy little nightie? Or nothing. Lovely Linda nude under the crisp sheets.’

She wanted to tell Mr Wilmox to stop the car, take her back. She didn’t want to go to his house if he was talking like this. It was of course what Ian would have told her — if she had said anything to him.

‘What is it then, Linda. In the nude?’

She should tell him it was none of his business, she didn’t answer questions like that. But instead Linda muttered, ‘I… I wear a nightdress.’

Mr Wilmox laughed and slid a hand down from the wheel onto her knee. ‘Well that’s no problem to an eager young man, is it? To lift it up. And get at what he wants.’

She pushed the hand away. ‘Don’t… talk like that please. I… don’t like it.’

But Mr Wilmox’s hand came back, to squeeze her knee again. ‘Don’t be silly. I’m just being friendly. Because we’re going to be good friends. I know we are. Aren’t we?’

Linda said an uncertain ‘Yes.’ Mr Wilmox still had his hand on her knee. He slid her skirt back a little. ‘Have you got tights on? Or stockings?’

‘Tights,’ she muttered. With her own hand there to stop any further advance of Mr Wilmox’s.

‘You should wear stockings, my dear. Men much prefer them. I’m sure Mr Corrigon would prefer them. Yes. Will you wear proper stockings tomorrow? Nylons. With a suspender belt.’

She did say when they got to Mr Wilmox’s house and before they went in, ‘Look, I should go back. Really. Right away I think.’ But naturally Mr Wilmox didn’t want to listen to that.

‘What, when you haven’t seen the mask? Linda, don’t be such a silly girl.’

The mask was a clown’s face, white with coloured decoration. A sad clown’s face topped by a jester’s three-pointed cap, also in white. It was a beautiful, sad mask.

‘It’s for you,’ Mr Wilmox said. ‘Linda’s mask. For pretty Linda to wear. Can you be a sad clown?’

They were in the room where he kept the masks. That brightly-lit room with its large ingle-nook fireplace and exposed beams. everywhere. A pretty room with the gas pseudo-log fire now burning brightly in the fireplace. Mr Wilmox had taken Linda’s coat and brought out the wine and glasses again. And then produced the clown-mask.

Linda took it from him. What did Mr Wilmox mean: it was for her? She was wondering this as he moved in close, and turned her, so that Linda’s back was towards him. Then his arms coming round, under her arms. All at once the hands were cupping Linda’s firm tits through her thin blouse.

As she squealed he said, ‘You put it on, Linda dear. Then I can take some lovely photos of you.’

‘No!’ she yelped. Meaning his hands which were firmly in place, still grasping her boobs. She was trying to struggle away but the hands didn’t want to let go.

He finally did release her. ‘Some nice shots of lovely Linda,’ Mr Wilmox said. ‘To add to my collection.’

‘D… Don’t you do that!’ she gasped, shaking and wanting to rub her tits where his hands had been but also not wanting to do it in front of him.

Mr Wilmox merely laughed. ‘Just a little feel. I couldn’t resist them. Anyway my shots. I’ll show you the sort of thing. Some from my collection. Have a seat.’

Linda sat down after a moment’s hesitation. Maybe she would be safer sitting than standing where he could grab her again. Perching on the settee. She had no idea what he meant about shots, photographs.

Mr Wilmox sat next to her and spread out some photographs on the coffee table. Photos… of a girl wearing one of the masks. Linda recognised it: one from his collection; a birds-head mask fashioned from iridescent feathers and semi-precious stones. The mask was worn by a girl of about her own age wearing little or nothing else. In some of the shots it was nothing: she was nude apart from the bird-mask. In others she had on only skimpy bikini briefs and a matching little see-through bra.

‘Nice eh?’ Mr Wilmox was spreading them out. ‘This is Mandy. Mandy-The-Lovebird, that’s what I call her in my collection. Isn’t she lovely? And now today we’re going to have Linda-The-Lovely-Clown.’

‘No!’ Linda yelped. It was clear enough now what Mr Wilmox wanted. Looking at these photos. She was a lovely girl, a lovely shape. Posing in just that mask and in this same room, Linda saw. Thrusting out her bare boobs — and her equally bare bottom. Linda looked away. Shaking her head.

‘Yes,’ Mr Wilmox said. ‘Of course. I must have lovely Linda in my collection. But don’t worry, I don’t show them to every Tom, Dick or Harry. That dear husband of yours won’t be getting to know about them.’

‘No!’ she gasped again. Mr Wilmox meant it. He really wanted her to pose for these awful pictures. ‘Look, please take me back. I’ve got to get back. I’ve seen the mask. I like it. But…’

Mr Wilmox turned towards her on the settee. Sliding close. ‘There’s no problem. George Corrigon’s not going to want you this afternoon. He knows where you’ll be and of course he understands.’

‘No… Please…’ she breathed. Mr Wilmox was grabbing at her.

‘Get your things off. Let me have a look. Let me see what’s under that sexy nightdress when you’re in bed.’

‘No! I can’t. Take me back. Please…’

But there was no way Mr Wilmox was going to do that. He was in no hurry to get back to the office and he wasn’t taking Linda back until he had got what he wanted. It was difficult to believe what was happening: these awful photos laid out on the table and Mr Wilmox grabbing at her and telling her to take all her clothes off — or he was going to do it for her. It was like suddenly being in a nightmare. Linda thought briefly of Ian, at his office. If he could imagine this was happening…

She was having to do it. Unless she wanted Mr Wilmox’s help. There was no alternative. Linda had to take her clothes off and put that clown-mask on. There was really nothing to get excited about, Mr Wilmox told her, with his hands everywhere. It was just his little thing. And girls took their clothes off all the time. So just be sensible. Don’t be a silly girl.

Linda did it. Eventually. Well it was that or have her things pulled off, and probably torn into the bargain. Mr Wilmox promised again that his photographs were very private, she didn’t have to worry about that. (Although of course he was showing her the photos of this other girl.) But… she didn’t have any choice. ‘Alright,’ she said finally. Feeling slightly hysterical, not too far from tears. ‘Alright… but not everything off…’

But Mr Wilmox wanted everything off. At first he took some shots of Linda in her demure white knickers and bra. But then he insisted that she take these off as well. He did want her nude. With just the white clown-mask covering the upper half of her face. Linda’s lovely nude body, tall and slim-waisted but with her ripely thrusting tits and rounded hips and bottom. And that neat brown bush that she wanted to cover with her hand but Mr Wilmox insisted was not to be covered by Linda’s hand.

He took the nude shots and then some more of her in that same little brief bra and bikini knickers that the other girl was wearing. Mr Wilmox didn’t seem to want to stop clicking his camera. All kinds of shots. All kinds of poses. Poses that Linda said she couldn’t do, but of course once she had started, had agreed to take her clothes off… it was not possible to refuse. Mr Wilmox didn’t want to be refused any poses. He wouldn’t take her back until he had got all he wanted, he told her. He could stay all afternoon. And into the evening…

----//----

They got back to the office about three. It didn’t go on into the evening because Linda cooperated. Agreed to all Mr Wilmox wanted. All those shots. And now, at the office? ‘Don’t worry,’ Mr Wilmox said in the car park. No problem, no one’s going to bother. Just a slightly long lunch break.’

Mr Corrigon didn’t mind. Just smiled at her when, a bit breathless and flushed, Linda went in. Had a nice lunch?’ he asked. And then, ‘I believe Mr Wilmox is a keen photographer. You haven’t been doing any photography, have you?’

So Mr Corrigon knew! Or could guess. Red-faced, Linda shook her head. ‘No. I… I don’t know…’ Mr Corrigon laughed, and gave her some typing.

Mr Corrigon knew, or guessed, and what about all the rest of them there? Did everyone at the office know about Mr Wilmox and his masks and photographs? Oh God! But hopefully no one else would know she had gone with him at lunchtime. That was what Linda desperately told herself, no one else would know.

But then later on that other man, the one who had pinched her bottom in the corridor earlier, she thought his name was Silford, came into her little office next to Mr Corrigon’s. He was grinning. ‘Did you have a nice lunch?’ he asked.

It was the same as Mr Corrigon had said. Flush-faced, Linda didn’t know what to answer. She was standing by her filing cabinet and Mr Silford came in close. ‘Don’t!’ she yelped as he tried to get his hand at her bottom. He laughed, still grabbing at her. ‘I saw you come in with Mr Wilmox. A very long lunch break. Eh? Doing a bit of photography?’

‘No!’ she gasped. ‘I don’t kn… know what you’re talking about.’

Mr Silford, who was another manager, fiftyish like Mr Corrigon, laughed again. ‘No? I bet you do. Shall I tell your husband?’

‘No!’ she breathed. ‘No… ooo…’ And stopped trying to struggle away from him. Or at least seriously struggling. Continuing to say ‘No… Please…’ but now letting him get what he wanted. His hand on her bottom. A proper intimate grope at her bottom-cheeks.

‘That’s better,’ Mr Silford said, a bit red in the face now. ‘We don’t want to be unfriendly and stand-offish, do we?’

----//----

‘Had a good day?’ Ian asked.

Linda felt as if she needed to go to the bathroom and throw up. Feeling sick with tension and fear and everything else. Mr Wilmox and his masks and camera. Mr Silford with his groping hands. If Ian knew just one tenth of it he would go berserk. And it seemed to Linda that he must know, it must show all over her face. Ian would see it; see something at least, and demand that she tell him everything that had happened. And of course she would have to, he would get it out of her. Every last bit. Every unbelievable little bit. (Some of those poses, on the table… they didn’t bear thinking about. But she would have to tell Ian exactly how she was. Exactly how her legs were spread when she was lying on the table nude apart from the mask.)

She managed to mutter some sort of reply and, miraculously, Ian didn’t seem to notice. Neither the embarrassment in her reply nor what she was sure was written all over her face. He merely asked what they were going to eat.

Linda who got home before Ian would normally have had something started but today she had just sat in the kitchen in a daze. She forced herself to get moving, prepare something. It was late — but Ian didn’t even remark on that. Nor, sitting opposite Linda at the kitchen table, did he even now remark on her guilty face — or indeed on the fact that she was hardly eating. No, it seemed that she was not discovered. Linda’s dreadful secret was still secret. For today at least.

In bed she felt ultra-hot, ultra-sexy. Needing to release the pent-up tensions through a big orgasm. Or perhaps ten orgasms. Stroking Ian’s erection and wanting to do things she never did: take it in her mouth; suck it half-way down her throat. But she didn’t do that (Ian would certainly have wondered what had happened to her if she had). They just did what they always did — but as soon as it was in her Linda started coming — and weeping at the same time. Ian asked about that. ‘Nothing,’ she managed through her sobs. ‘It’s nothing…’

----//----

The next day Mr Wilmox made Linda go with him again. He wanted just a few more shots for his collection, he said. She said she didn’t want to, she couldn’t. Mr Wilmox just said not to be a silly girl. And of course now she really didn’t have any choice. He had those photographs of her. If she didn’t cooperate… he could simply send one to Ian. She should never have agreed to it yesterday. Why hadn’t she just refused; said she would report him, to somebody, the police perhaps. And even if he got her sacked if she hadn’t agreed to it, well, that would be better than Ian finding out. A hundred times better. But it was too late for that now. After yesterday.

So Linda had to go. In the car Mr Wilmox slid back her skirt. ‘Good girl,’ he said approvingly. Because she had done as he had told her. Worn stockings and a suspender belt today instead of her usual tights. The hand slid up to the warm bare flesh above the stocking tops. ‘Good girl,’ Mr Wilmox murmured again.

Today Mr Wilmox had something else. A cane. A thin and whippy rattan cane of the type they have (or used to have) in boys schools to deal with more major offences.

‘Have you ever had the cane, dear Linda?’ Mr Wilmox had produced it from somewhere and was giving it a few wristy swipes through the air. He had got out the wine again and taken her coat. And then this cane.

Linda gave a desperate little whinny. ‘Probably not,’ Mr Wilmox said. As you’re such a nice, sweet, conventional young girl. I don’t suppose that nice young husband canes you. Or anyone else, eh? But some girls like it once they’ve had it. Well, perhaps not always like it but it nonetheless can turn them on. It excites them. I wonder if it will excite our lovely Linda?’

‘No…’ she said weakly. ‘No. Not the cane…’

But Mr Wilmox wanted the cane. He wanted Linda in the mask again wearing just those sexy little undies. Being caned this time. Linda-The-Girl-Clown being caned. She had displeased her master in some way so she had to be caned. Lying on the coffee table. And then bending over it. To have her pretty bottom in the tight little sexy briefs caned. The cane zipping in. Slicing in.

It was a killing pain. A really impossible pain. Like a red-hot knife searing into her unprotected bum. A pain that brought hot tears to her eyes. She felt sick, faint.

‘How was that?’ Mr Wilmox asked. ‘Turn you on, did it?’ He had put the cane down. ‘Let’s see. Let me see if my Clown-Girl is turned on.’

‘No…’ she gasped. ‘No… I’m not going to. Not… that…’

But Mr Wilmox was insisting. Insisting on what he wanted. Insisting too that Linda, hotted up with the cane now, wanted it also. A carnal connection. The male into the female. Of course she wanted it. Young married girls wanted it; liked it. Something extra, something different, to titillate their appetites. To add a little spice to their routine nightly couplings. Mr Wilmox was very insistent.

----//----

What was she going to do now? What was she going to say to Ian? She wouldn’t be able to face him, to look at him, anyway. So she wouldn’t be able to say anything. But she had to.

Not Mr Wilmox, Linda had tried to blot that out of her mind although of course she couldn’t, not really. Mr Silford. He wanted to see her tonight. He wanted to take her for a drink, he said, though obviously it wouldn’t be a drink he wanted. He had made her promise to meet him. If she wouldn’t, well, he might just send a little anonymous note to Ian. About Mr Wilmox. Mr Wilmox and his masks. And his collection of photographs of girls wearing the masks. He might, in fact he was sure he would, send a note. Because he was so desperately keen to see Linda, Mr Silford said.

After Mr Wilmox at lunch time Linda had not been able to think straight. And even if she could think straight, straight thinking could only tell her that she would have to see Mr Silford. But… how was she going to do that…?

That’s where the story ends, but something tells me it won’t be long before Mr Corrigon makes his move too…