Before you read this, it isn't a stroke story as such. A story with sex in it yes, but not a quick fire wham bam. Thought it best to let you know.
Stella was a bitch, pure and simple, a statement of irrefutable fact. Somehow, in her twelve years working at the small Accountancy practice, she had charmed, or perhaps bullied the senior partner into making her the Office Manager.
She was the archetype of the Office Manageress. Quite tall, at around six foot, as slender as a rake handle, with hair pulled savagely back into a bun at the back of her head that you would swear was pulling her face out of shape and taking out the wrinkles. Her clothes hide any female form she might have had except that it was obvious her tits were small and high on her chest. Even the voluminous blouses she wore could not hide that fact.
Religiously, she wore a two piece suit to work, comprising of a pencil thin skirt with a short slit at the back and tailored jacket that looked as if it had been cinched in to her narrow waist. A blouse of pastel colour was under the jacket, usually with some kind of ruff or flounce at the throat.
She wore little by way of make-up. What she did wear was understated and muted. Transparent, colourless lipstick and eye shadow that hardly registered. Her shoes were the sensible pump type, flat heeled and characterless.
Her private life was something of a mystery. None of the girls in the office knew if she was married, had a boy friend, or, as mostly was supposed, a girlfriend, tucked away and dominated by this dragon into sexual submission. The popular fantasy involved rubber and whips with lashings of baby oil and possibly a dungeon.
She never once spoke of her private life, never mentioned children or family or any activity outside of the office. Conjecture was that she simply rolled into the broom closet at the end of the corridor over night, ready for the next days work.
Stella wore no jewellery, not even a watch adorned her bony wrist. No necklace hung around her neck, no ear rings, nothing. She was without charm, totally, completely and just as bereft of sexual allure too.
Most everyone was ... well ... scared of her. Even the Partners thought twice before bringing her in on a meeting or making any demands on her time. The frosty stare and steady eye she looked at them with was enough to freeze the words right on the tip of a tongue.
Names like anti-Christ and Ice Queen were regularly used instead of her name. She was aloof, self assured and blithely travelled from day to day with complete aplomb, unruffled or flustered.
But, and this is where the myth of an enigma can be built. Away from the office, Stella was anything but prim and proper as the new boy was to find out.
James, or Jimmy, as he preferred to be called, was a nervous wreck. His first day in the office as a junior clerk had been a nightmare. He was only eighteen, fresh out of college and thrown into the melting pot of an office, surrounded by a gang of ten women of various ages, but who exuded a united front when they stripped him bare of any self respect. Mercilessly, they teased him, both overtly and subtly. Making comments about his suit, lack of a girlfriend (was he gay), not quite tying his tie straight or worse, flashing a leg or slightly more, just so that he would blush, instantly, as his gaze inadvertently caught sight of a thigh or more of a cleavage than he really wanted to see.
The distractions meant that he often didn't quite get his work completed or was inaccurate. That brought him to the attention of Stella and a verbal lashing that also had him blushing with humiliation and frustration.
It was wicked, but served as entertainment to the ten women and broke the monotony of office drudge. The worst thing they did to him in his first week was to goad the youngest of them into inviting him out to the cinema while giving him an eyeful of her tits. The poor boy stammered his acceptance only to hear her say she would have to ask her boyfriend first. They took bets on the length of time it would take before he left, before they drove him out. It was heartless and, as it turned out, pointless too.
Jimmy had only just moved to London. His childhood had been spent in a small village in Kent. Appledore, quaint and old world, slept in the lowlands of the county with a flint build church and spire the biggest thing about the place apart from the orchards that gave the place its name.
Everyone knew each other, knew their family and pretty much all of their business as well. Village life is very close knit. Secrets have no part in the community. It means that you can call on anyone for help, but it also means you behaved and didn't get involved in things you shouldn't because you could be certain, someone would see you and your parents would hear about it before you got home. It meant that the promiscuity of larger towns would not happen there. If you were out with a girl, you had better be sure you were thinking of marriage.
Jimmy was unworldly. His upbringing meant that his experiences were stilted in comparison to most young men in the city. It meant he was disadvantaged in the defence of himself when faced with the united efforts of the ten, street-wise colleagues he found himself in the midst of. He had no natural resilience or wherewithal to play the game. Somehow, he managed to make it to his first pay check, a month's money which covered his peppercorn rent of a flat owned by a relative, food, travel to and from work and enough to allow him some leisure funds.
At the stage entrance:
Soho was like a magnet. Jimmy had heard of the sordid clubs and video parlours where it was possible to view models simulating sex acts. Where sex was sold on the street, in shops and hotels, only a stones throw away.
The flashing lights, advertising the many different services, vices, toys and visual delights, fairly spun his head. This was a side of London he had heard about, but was only now finding. Girls in negligees or basques stood in shadowy doorways, outrageously made up and beckoning to passing foot traffic to step inside and sample the delights on offer.
Jimmy blushed furiously while turning just such an offer down. He wanted to see what Soho was about, but wasn't quite ready to plunge headfirst into the first place he saw.
The pavements were heaving with people, jostling and barging their way through. He knew of pickpockets, so clutched his wallet tightly in his hand. A sudden push from the crush of people had him stumbling into a doorway. The door was open with some coloured strips of plastic hanging down as a method to stop gawkers leering in. Jimmy, when he regained his balance, found himself in a sex shop with rows of leather and rubber clothing hanging off of a high level rail. Under this was a glass counter, brightly lit, with all kinds of rings, butt plugs and body jewellery in various metals shining expectantly and mysteriously up at him.
Jimmy spun on his heel, ready for flight, only to be confronted by a wall of vibrators of wildly differing sizes, shapes and colours, massage oils, cock rings and more items of sexual attire, in rubber and plastic. Standing next to a display of outsized dildos was a lanky youth with bright pink, spiked hair, a fluorescent yellow spike through his nose and another through his eyebrow. He also sported a large silver ring through his lower lip. The young man wore a short leather jacket with no sleeves, a royal tartan kilt and knee high boots with buckles all the way up and soles about three inches thick. Jimmy was certain he had never seen anything quite so bizarre.
He bolted for the door, but not before he noticed the speculative lift of a spiked eyebrow and the effeminate bye, directed at his retreating back. The crowds outside had not diminished at all. He joined the milling people, hoping that he would not get lost.
A flashing neon sign caught his eye. "MINX" flashed on and of in lurid red. Under it, but not flashing was the word Cocktails. Jimmy needed a drink, was on the point of panic at this alien place he had landed in. Cocktails weren't exactly what he needed, but perhaps they sold a decent beer.
He passed under the flashing sign, into a dark doorway and then down a stair that took him to basement level. At the foot of the shadowy stairs were a tall counter and a checkout girl who was eyeing him with curiosity. She chewed gum and waited to see what would come next.
"Drink" Jimmy gasped. "Need a drink."
"Yeah!" She replied, sounding bored. "Frew there." She nodded her head towards yet another door, covered by a draped curtain. "That'll be five pounds mate." She continued to chew noisily and held her hand out for the money. "You 'aft a be a member innit? We do tempry memberships for special guests innit? Five pounds."
"Um ... Oh, 'course." He fumbled out a five pound note and handed it to her noticing that she had a Basque on that was at least one size too big for her.
She looked at the note in her hand, then expectantly at Jimmy, waiting for the usual gratuity. It was a fruitless expectancy. She sighed theatrically and indicated that he should go through the curtain, pointing the way with her chin.
.... There is more of this story ...