Beginnings: Chapter 3 – Model Answers

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I arrived home utterly exhausted after my first full day at Berman Bruce. I went straight to my bedroom and closed the door. I popped open the side button of my skirt, lowered the zip, cautiously eased the tight material over my bottom and allowed it to fall to the floor. The cheeks of my bottom were still smarting fiercely; a burning reminder of my disobedience. I positioned myself in front of the full length mirror and turned around. I caught my breath sharply as I saw the livid marks which Veronica’s hand had left on the cheeks of my bottom. My fingers moved down and then tentatively onto the tender flesh, releasing another sudden, exhilarating, searing pain which caused me to bite my bottom lip hard. It was clear to me that Veronica had intended to leave a painful and lasting reminder of her words, and her authority, and she had. Something inside of me had begun to change, I knew, and I could no longer ignore it. Wild waves of unfamiliar feelings and emotions were building and drawing my body and its desires into uncharted waters. My first instinct upon seeing the smarting marks on my bottom were that I ought to be feeling ashamed. I began to realize, however, that I had lived all of my life to that point, in the overbearing shadow of an unseen mistress called guilt, and that she was now endeavoring to call me to obedience once more. She was all I had ever known. But where, I began to ask myself, had my faceless mistress ever taken me? The answer, of course, was nowhere that I felt I belonged. That fact, however, I knew would not prevent her trying unless and until I could finally exert the kind of control over her that I had felt Veronica exercise over me. I needed to change, but where to begin? When I entered the reception at Berman Bruce the following morning, Helen Swan was busy trying to impose her presence. Dressed in a navy blue trouser suit and black heels, her sleek black hair was held obediently in an officious-looking chignon, and she was moving around the reception area like some kind of supercilious queen bee. She was one of those people whose face seemed to evade every attempt to place an accurate age on it, but I suspected that she was probably around thirty years old. It was clear from the thinly-veiled looks on the faces of the staff in the reception area that Helen Swan’s self-important and smug manner was tolerated for the sole reason that she occupied a door with a plate which included the words ‘Office Administrator’. From behind the reception desk, our eyes met and I immediately sensed a frosty hostility. As I walked past her, I continued to observe her discreetly as she began to berate the receptionist for how untidy her work area was, in an unnecessarily superior tone. Out of nowhere the word ‘bitch’ entered my head. Just as I pressed the button for the lift, the doors slid open and Veronica stepped out, looking immaculately presented in a light, white skirt suit with an exquisitely scalloped jacket. My heart rate began to elevate inexplicably once more as I saw her. I couldn’t help but immediately contrast Veronica’s authentically powerful presence with the synthetic show of superficial authority that Helen Swan had been displaying just moments earlier. “Good, you’ve arrived,” she said. “Something has come up unexpectedly in the Samantha Sutton case and I’ve just arranged to meet with her at her studio to discuss it. Come on.” I followed Veronica out of the building to the partners’ car park and got into her pristine, black MX-5, its glossy contours oozing its own, undeniable sensuality. I did not know very much about kaçak iddaa cars, but you didn’t need to in order to understand that this was significant luxury. “It’s a beautiful car, Miss Hamilton,” I said, admiring the red leather interior as I sank into the plush passenger seat which seemed to immediately wrap its opulence around my body and caress it. Veronica turned to me and smiled. “It is, isn’t it?” She handed me her black briefcase before starting the engine and folding the slender fingers of her right hand around the leather-wrapped steering wheel, and those of her left hand provocatively around the smooth, bulbous knob of the gear stick. “Inside the front pocket of my brief case you’ll find a statement that I received first thing this morning,” she continued. “I would like you to read it.” I opened the front pocket of the brief case and took out the document, which ran to four or five pages, as Veronica slipped the car into gear and eased smoothly off. It was a statement which had been written by a woman named Faith Foster, who claimed that she had been seduced by Samantha Sutton whilst working on her first job as a model at a fashion show in London about a year earlier. She went on to allege that, following that seduction, she and Samantha carried on an intense and passionate sexual affair behind her husband’s back. By the time I had finished reading the statement we had left suburban Brighton behind and were heading north-west into the open and picturesque South Downs, a range of rolling, swelling chalk hills that stretch along south-east England. It was in an idyllic village in the Downs, some twenty miles from Brighton, where Samantha had her fashion studio. The quieter country roads that we were now on were bathed in bright, early morning sunshine. “Right, Lucy,” said Veronica efficiently, “I would like you to give me your assessment of the case in the light of this new piece of evidence.” A curiously thrilling nervousness had continued to overcome me every time that Veronica spoke to me, from our very first meeting a few days earlier, and suddenly did so again. I enjoyed the way the rhythm of my heart began to accelerate and my body grew both tense and overcome. I had quickly come to learn that nothing about Veronica could be predicted, and that to try was futile. “Something about Faith’s statement just doesn’t seem right, Miss Hamilton,” I said tentatively. “Go on.” “Well, Miss Hamilton, Faith is a young woman who is trying to break into a very competitive industry. I was wondering why on earth she would potentially risk harming her career before it has even really begun. It seems to me that Samantha Sutton has the power and connections to help Faith to realize her ambitions, and Adam Sutton has nothing at all, on the face of it, to offer her. Why would Faith even think about giving evidence against Samantha Sutton? What is in it for her?” I looked across at Veronica, who remained looking at the road ahead of her. “So why might she have provided the statement, do you think, Lucy?” “Money, Miss Hamilton?” I suggested. Veronica turned her head briefly towards me and smiled, almost knowingly, before turning her attention once more to the road ahead. “Money is a very seductive motive, certainly,” Veronica replied. “However, at this moment in time Adam Sutton has no money. Throughout the marriage he has lived like a parasite on Samantha’s success.” Something in Veronica’s tone suggested that she was feeding me thoughts to simply provoke me to think more abstractly. “Is it possible that Faith thinks that if Adam Sutton was successful kaçak bahis in the divorce proceedings, and manages to obtain the huge settlement he is seeking, he would then be able to pay her off, Miss Hamilton?” Almost before the final words had slipped from my lips, Veronica’s left hand left its position resting on the gear knob and had moved onto my right knee. I felt her soft fingers spread a little, and her nails graze my skin. I swallowed hard. I could see that she was smiling wickedly. “Lucy,” she said softly, “do you really think it is in any way likely that I am going to allow Adam Sutton to be successful in these divorce proceedings?” Her question, as clearly rhetorical as it was, almost compelled me to respond. I felt Veronica’s fingers teasing gently a little way up and down my thigh, just above my knee. “No, Miss Hamilton,” I replied. “I don’t.” I felt Veronica’s fingers slowly tease their way to the hem of my skirt and she began to gently slide it up my legs, slowly unveiling my thighs. “You have gorgeous legs, Lucy,” she purred. “I think you need to be showing them off a little more, don’t you?” “Do you think so, Miss Hamilton?” “Yes I do,” she replied, continuing to draw the hem of my skirt up my thighs and brushing her fingers provocatively against them. I had always opted for a more modest skirt length, usually just above my knees, putting this down to my mother’s insistence, particularly during my teenage years, that I shouldn’t dress, as she put it, ‘like a tart’. Although she hadn’t been quite as condemnatory during my time at university, somehow I had continued to feel the overwhelming presence of the guilt-bearing, slightly puritanical ghosts of her words roaming through, and haunting, my head. At that moment, some of them broke free. “My mother doesn’t like me wearing shorter skirts, Miss Hamilton,” I said. Veronica, totally unperturbed by this apparent spiritual challenge to her, continued to caress my inner thigh, stroking the silk-soft skin ever higher. “Do you really think I care less what your mother thinks or likes, Lucy?” Veronica asked. I shook my head. “Your mother’s thoughts and likes are a complete irrelevance to me, Lucy. From now on, you are going to be following my instructions, not your mother’s. Is that understood?” “Yes, Miss Hamilton,” I replied. I let out a soft, low moan as I felt Veronica’s long, slender fingers glide over the delicate fabric of my panties. “Whose instructions are you going to follow, Lucy?” she teased. “Yours, Miss Hamilton,” I replied, parting my legs a little under the tantalizing touch of her fingers. “Now, take your panties off,” she ordered, her voice firm and insistent. As though under some kind of hypnotic trance, I lifted my bottom from the seat and moved my hands under my skirt. With some difficulty I managed to work my knickers down my legs before taking them off. “Good girl, Lucy,” said Veronica. “Now, pull your skirt down and tidy yourself up. We’ll soon be there.” Within minutes we were pulling up outside Samantha Sutton’s studio; an enormous and impressive converted farmhouse on the edge of the picturesque village of Poynton. As I got out of the car and straightened my skirt, I felt the warm air move freely around my now bare sex, which once more had been teased to the edge of need. Veronica had taken my panties from me before getting out of the car, and had put them into her handbag. Veronica rang the doorbell and we waited for a few moments. “Lucy,” she said, “I have a task for you this morning.” “Yes, Miss Hamilton?” “During my telephone conversation illegal bahis with Samantha this morning, she told me that Emily is here for a few hours today doing a photographic shoot. You remember reading about her in Adam Sutton’s statement, don’t you?” I nodded. It would have been hard for me to forget. “Well, I want you to talk to her,” Veronica continued, “but very discreetly. She is unaware at the moment of what Adam Sutton has alleged about her and Samantha, and it is best that it stays that way for the time being. However, I want you to have a chat with her and see if you can obtain any information from her that may prove useful in the case. Do you think you can do that?” “Yes, Miss Hamilton, I’m sure I can. I will be very discreet.” “Good girl,” replied Veronica, smiling. I felt a kind of warm glow inside at the fact that Veronica was presenting me with the opportunity of doing something useful for her, and also that she was trusting me with it. In the short time I had known her, it had become apparent that Veronica was a woman who liked to be in full control of every aspect of her professional and personal life. The door opened and we were immediately greeted by a strikingly attractive woman, whose tousled blonde hair flowed in golden waves over her shoulders. Her clear skin, almost free of make-up, seemed almost translucent in the morning sunlight. She was dressed in the most divine olive-green sleeveless dress which hugged her body like an attentive lover all the way down to the hemline at her mid-thigh. I immediately recognized the woman as Samantha Sutton. I had seen her photograph several times before in fashion magazines, but none of them had really done her justice. Veronica had told me she was in her early-forties, but it was hard to believe she was. She could easily have been thirty-five. “Veronica, darling, how lovely to see you,” she said. “I am so glad you could come.” She then turned to me, and I was confronted with two blue, crystalline eyes that I thought would probably have sparkled in a darkened room. “And who have you brought with you?” she said, smiling. “This is my assistant, Lucy,” replied Veronica. “For a moment I thought you were bringing me another model to interview, Veronica,” she said teasingly, in a voice which seemed to be naturally low and husky. She held out her right hand towards me. “Hello, Lucy,” she said, “I’m Samantha Sutton, but please call me Samantha.” I took hold of her hand, which felt soft and warm in my own. She held it for several seconds. “I am very pleased to meet you too, Samantha,” I replied, more than a little in awe. Samantha invited us inside and took us through the building to her office at the rear. As soon as we entered the office, my mind took itself back to Adam Sutton’s statement. At the back of the office was a window, which, I assumed, was the window Adam Sutton claimed to have looked through when he first became aware of his wife’s infidelity. There, a few feet away, was Samantha’s desk, on which Adam Sutton claimed to have seen Samantha seducing Emily and teasing her into a state of wild desire. My mind was beginning to fill with all kind of erotic images. The tingling warmth between my legs was becoming insistent again, and I knew my sex was moistening deliciously once more. We sat down at Samantha’s desk and Veronica removed the copy of Faith Foster’s statement from her briefcase. I noticed what I thought was a hint of flushing in Samantha’s cheeks, but could not be certain. Veronica read the statement to Samantha, who listened in unbroken silence until Veronica had finished. “It’s all lies,” Samantha said in a manner that was far calmer than I would have expected. “Did you meet Faith Foster at the fashion show in London last year, as she alleges, Samantha?” asked Veronica.

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