Not being an addict, Steve had never used the smokers’ door before that morning, but then this would be a day of many firsts. Although the keycard used to open the door belonged to Steve, and even bore a photograph of him - taken six months earlier, during a brief teenage infatuation with facial hair — it was Stevie who entered the building. The photograph made her smile wryly as she pushed the keycard back into her purse, everything that had happened in the months since it was taken, seemed to have conspired to create the trap, sprung so finally the day before.

The smokers’ door — around which the refugees of wheeze clustered each break — had the advantage of leading to the service stairwell, which posed less danger of meeting anyone than the lifts did, on her way to the eighth floor. She had barely two hours of relative anonymity remaining, and intended to enjoy their calm, before the inevitable storm struck, over her current appearance.

Compared to the photographs on her blog, Stevie was dressed quite demurely. She had tried to keep to the spirit of Ms Hawker’s vague description of femininity falling somewhat short of full drag, with the black pantsuit, and an unfussy white blouse. However, the pants ruled out flat shoes — even had she had owned a pair — as their cuffs ended two inches below her heel; the solution had been a pair of sandals with a kittenish heel, which neither allowed the cuffs to drag, nor elevated her from a stockinged five feet seven inches, to an Amazonian extreme.

There had been some tense decisions to make in the mirror that morning. Afraid of comments the overnight manifestation of bust might cause, she had abandoned bra and breastform, but knowing all too well what hilarity the tight fitting pants would inspire, she had chosen to tuck one particular villain out of sight, and hopefully, out of dirty mind.

Make-up had been less of a dilemma; Stevie had only a few months of practice, and knew she lacked basic skills in its application. Her chief goal for the day was to avoid excessive attention, and had no intention of donning clown face, instead restricting herself to the faintest smudge of lip gloss. Hair was less of a problem, as it had already been shoulder length in the days when Steve imagined a goatee made him Johnny Depp’s double. Following Ms Hawker’s more concrete suggestion Stevie had pulled it up into a ponytail, much closer to her crown than Steve had ever tied it. The effect was striking, as it lifted her already artfully thinned brows, enough to suggest mild surprise.

After the intensity of her preparations, not to mention a largely wakeful night, the almost empty early buses were positively anticlimactic. There was no public stoning, or villagers with torches, in fact no one cared enough to rub the sleep from their eyes to stare at the plain, flat-chested girl hugging a large coffee as though it was her last. Of course, this isolation gave Stevie ample opportunity to think about the trials that lay ahead, and her first step on the staircase was a very shaky one.

Bob Thornwell was having second thoughts. Penny Hawker had made a very convincing case for how Stevie could advance both their careers, after he had sent Steve home, but Bob had to admit that his judgement had been clouded by anger. Steve had kept to their original bargain, and was not considered Bob’s protégé; any fallout from the affair would not have stuck to someone in his position for very long. In some ways he felt he had let the boy down, Steve was practically family, and he regretted his studied lack of interest these last few months. At his request, the Credit Control department had run a check on Steve and found his credit score was a few points from zero, which made keeping his job vital. Bob had almost resolved to send Steve home the instant he arrived, his lesson learned, when he heard his PA’s greeting.

“Good morning Stevie, Mr Thornwell says to go right in.” Belinda had been with him for nigh on twenty years, long enough for him to detect the amusement in her tone. Bob pushed up his reading glasses, rubbed his eyes and braced himself for the appalling vision about to be visited upon him. Opening them again, Bob was not faced with the posing grotesque of Steve’s blog, but something entirely more surprising. Stevie in the flesh, and with less of it on show, did not appear all that different from the latest batch of ‘modern apprentices’ in the call centre; a little gawkier perhaps, less confident and, thankfully, less heavily made-up. Back in the days when Bob had been responsible for recruiting junior staff, Stevie would have ticked all the boxes. Well, maybe not all the boxes, Steve was still under there somewhere. Any thought he had of sending her home disappeared, and Penny’s plan, while still risky, promised great dividends.

“Sit down Stevie, we’ve a lot to discuss.” It was not the avuncular tone Stevie was used to, but it was an improvement from that of day before. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask to see your knickers today.” Stevie eased herself into the chair at Uncle Bob’s desk, fighting a growing sense of unreality. What had been a fantasy a few days before had now happened, what had been a nightmare, was now in the hands of a trusted older friend. She knew that the coming weeks would not be easy, and when she returned to her old life, it would never be quite the same again, but it was good to have someone else share the load. Relaxing a little, she listened intently as Uncle Bob outlined what was to happen next. Stevie would not return to the accounts department, where her performance had been lacklustre anyway, but had been seconded indefinitely to the eighth floor as an office junior, reporting to Uncle Bob. When he asked how that sounded, she was almost gushing with relief.

“Great, really great, thank you so much Uncle Bob.” Stevie watched the smile fade from his lips.

“I’m an old fashioned sort, Stevie,” Uncle Bob said sternly, “and I keep a formal office. I’m ‘Mr Thornwell’, or ‘Sir’. Now it’s time for my morning coffee so run along.”

“Shall I help Belinda?” Stevie asked, rising from her seat.

“It’s Miss Banford to you, Stevie,“ he chided.

“Oh yes, sorry Uncle Bo...” he who was not known as Uncle Bob, reached over the desk and grabbed her wrist.

“A child could remember these things, Stevie, do you want me to treat you like a child?” Stevie shook her head, but Bob did not seem at all placated. “Well I think I’ll have to - go stand in that corner,” he pointed at a space between two filing cabinets, “and face the wall.” Meekly Stevie took her place, what was next - detention - lines?

“Didn’t Stevie show up, Bob? Oh no there she is.” Remembering kindergarten rules, Stevie refrained from turning her head as Ms Hawker entered the room, as much as she wanted to face the person who seemed the agent of her current misfortune. Their conversation continued talking in hushed tones that she was patently not supposed to hear. Stray words did escape this confidentiality, and the occasional phrase, but the first coherent sentence she overheard was ‘oh my that’s a perky little bottom isn’t it?’ Thankfully, the words were Ms Hawker’s not Mr Thornwell’s, but was that any reason to feel better?

Eyes fixed on the wall ahead, Stevie was only vaguely aware of someone approaching her, and Ms Hawker’s “good morning Stevie,” provoked a small start from her. The next few seconds, however, established a whole new magnitude of surprise, as the personnel officer’s hand made contact with Stevie’s behind. She was not so much stroking it, as examining it with her fingers, much as people inspect fruit in the supermarket; the hand roved over her rump, until finally slipping into the cleft between her buttocks, which finally seemed to satisfy Ms Hawker.

“You’re wearing a thong Stevie, how daring, “she whispered in Stevie’s ear.

“Yes Miss Hawker, I didn’t want any lines showing,” in reply she received a stinging slap.

“My name is Ms Hawker, and you’d better remember it,” and with that the older woman moved away. Stevie had to blink away tears that had prompted less by physical pain — it had not been a token tap — as the humiliation of having her bum paddled. It did, however, give her something else to think about, besides the three large cups of coffee she had drank on her way to work.

“Sorry Bob, that was unprofessional of me, but I can never resist...” whatever else Ms Hawker had to say on the subject trailed away, as she lowered voice once more. The next words Stevie hear clearly were Bob’s.

“Come here Stevie, so Ms Hawker can have a look at you.” Ms Hawker had moved the desk to the side of Mr Thornwell’s desk, and Stevie took up a position between them at its corner. “Well, don’t just stand there like a lemon,” he continued, “kneel so she can take a proper look.” Stevie nodded, and sank to her knees with as much dignity as she could muster after being made to stand in a corner, and a spanking. Ms Hawker leant forward, took Stevie’s chin between her thumb and index finger, and turned the new junior’s face this way and that. Stevie half expected to have her mouth pinched open to count her teeth, but Ms Hawker seemed content.

“Much, much better than I expected,” she said, releasing Stevie’s chin, “but I’m not sure I approve of younger staff walking around bra-less.”

“I thought they would make me look silly,” Stevie stammered.

“Never mind, honey,” Ms Hawker reached out and brushed Stevie’s cheek with the back of her hand, “I’m sure you’ll remember tomorrow.” With that she turned her attention to Bob, and the conversation carried on over Stevie’s head, pausing only when Miss Banford brought in a tray containing two cups of coffee and a plate of biscuits. Stevie eyed the latter ravenously, as she had been too anxious to eat anything since she had been dismissed a day earlier. Noting the direction of Stevie’s gaze, Ms Hawker picked up one of the small almond treats and pressed it to the girl’s lips. Try as she might not to, its fragrance made her mouth water, and Stevie parted her lips, allowing Ms Hawker to push it between them.

“Good girl,” remarked her benefactress, absently patting Stevie’s head. It was the worst indignity yet, but did little to dampen the pleasure of eating something for the first time in nearly twenty four hours.

“Thank you, Ms Hawker,” Stevie’s voice was almost a whisper, hoarse with embarrassment, but hoping also that another biscuit might be forthcoming. It was not to be, however, as the conversation turned to other things, leaving Stevie with a growing sensation that an altogether bodily need had to be addressed. After a few minutes consideration she raised her hand level with her face, and waited to be noticed.

“What is it now, Stevie?” Bob gave impression of being extremely irritated, which could not have been helped by her reluctance to answer.

“I need to pee, Sir,” she managed to stammer, “may I?”

“Of course,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, “use the gents’, just stay away from the urinals, I don’t think anyone is ready for that sight.”

Mercifully, the men's room was empty as Stevie bustled into a cubicle, desperately trying to disentangle herself from her underwear before disaster struck. It was a small moment of relief in an otherwise dreadful day. As she sat there she wondered if the job was worth it. A few days ago Steve could have begged his parents to bail him out of debt, though it would mean moving back in with them, and losing Stevie for a while. Instead she found herself being bounced along a road with no clear destination ahead, just putting up with whatever anyone threw her way. If she walked away now, with the threat of Uncle Bob letting Stevie out of the bag, would they even talk to her?

Fearing whatever punishment might be inflicted for taking too long in the bathroom, Stevie redressed hurriedly, but with one need sated she realised that she was incredibly thirsty. Who knew when she might be allowed a coffee break, so she ducked her head under the tap after washing her hands, and gulped down a few mouthfuls of cold water.

“This is the gents’ isn’t it, what are you doing in here?” Stevie straightened immediately, and found herself facing a man in his fifties, who she had never seen before. “Oh, you’re the new girl,” he placed heavy emphasis on ‘girl’, “carry on.” He brushed past Stevie, taking a place at the urinal, and began to unfasten his flies. Stevie had stood alongside others at urinals since infancy, but she found herself blushing to her hair roots. Muttering apologies Stevie scurried from the room.

“You do remember that not keeping your keycard on display is a disciplinary matter?” Ms Hawker was perched on the edge of Miss Banford’s desk, juggling something in her hands. Stevie’s heart sank, was there no end to the trouble she could get in, but cheered a little when she added, “I think we can let it go this time,” and held the object still enough for Stevie to see that it was a camera.

In a few short, moments Ms Hawker had manoeuvred her against the office wall, and was posing Stevie’s arms, as easily as an artist might a maquette’s. “I didn’t bring my bag Belinda, could you perk up Stevie’s eyes a smidge?”

“Of course,” answered Miss Banford, sliding open a drawer.

Uncle Bob’s PA held up a compact’s mirror for Stevie to inspect her handiwork. In a matter of minutes she had, with a few deft strokes, transformed Stevie’s face. It was a skill Stevie was desperate to acquire, and she pressed Miss Banford for details of everything she was doing.

“Time for that later,” Ms Hawker interrupted, “we’ve a photograph to take, remember.” One photograph turned into ten, as the demanding photographer repositioned her model after every shot, calling in Miss Banford for cosmetic alterations along the way. Stevie was almost dizzy by the time she left, but asked to borrow the mirror once again.

“It’s down to work now Missy, now to your desk!” Miss Banford pointed to a small table, on which stood only a tall pile of papers.

“I suppose my PC is arriving later,” Stevie took her seat, pushing the papers to one side.

“Oh no,” the older woman smiled, “you’ll not be doing anything that requires a computer dear, just filing, making coffee and whatever else we can find. You can make a start by putting those into date order.”

“What are these for?” Stevie lifted the uppermost piece of paper.

“You really don’t need to know Stevie, just sort them, and when you’re finished, I’ll show you where they live.” As Miss Banford’s tone indicated that there was nothing more to be discussed, Stevie set to work on what turned out to be expenses claims. A sidelong glance told her that she was being watched, so limited herself to picking out the date, ignoring the rest of their contents. Stevie had had less menial Saturday jobs when she was in school, and whereas downstairs in Accounts, Steve had been solely responsible for several clients, on the eighth floor Stevie was responsible for nothing more than doing as she was told. Still, the time passed pleasantly, except for the paper cuts.

“Of course Ms Hawker, I’ll send her right up.” After an hour’s wading through the pile of forms, Stevie was glad of an opportunity to stretch her legs, and wanted to see her new photograph, if only it did not mean a trip to HR. She dithered about whether to take the stairs or the lift, until she remembered the lifts had mirror walls, and vanity won out giving her two floors of preening. Belinda, that is Miss Banford, had done a wonderful job on her eyes, although she had done very little at all. The effect, however, was infinitely better than any of Stevie’s attempts.

HR took up much of the sixth floor, in one large open plan office, at the centre of which sat Ms Hawker, like a spider watching over her web. Silence had broken out immediately the lift doors closed behind Stevie, as if the entire department had been waiting for her arrival. Feeling very much like a fly, she picked her way through the maze of desks, until she reached Ms Hawker.

“Here you are Stevie, a new keycard, and lanyard so you can’t forget to wear it around your neck.” Stevie turned the keycard over to see her photograph, and alongside it, in big bold letters ‘MISS STEVIE WESTON’. It was almost a dream come true, almost but not quite. Lost for a few moments in her reverie, Stevie slowly became aware that Ms Hawker was still speaking. “You cleared your blog last night Stevie.”

“Yes Ms Hawker,” she answered, her mouth suddenly dry, “I thought it best if I did.”

“Hmm,” across the desk Ms Hawker made a steeple of her fingers,”I’d like you to log into it now.” She pushed back her chair beckoning Stevie to come around. Bending over to use the keyboard, Stevie realised that her bottom was well within the personnel officer’s reach, if she wanted to administer another slap, but then they were in an open plan office, so she should be safe from unwanted attentions. As much as the slap had stung, Stevie’s mind had drifted several times since to the moments before when Ms Hawker’s hand was merely wandering, and a small part of her regretted the present lack of privacy.

She stepped back from the desk to allow Ms Hawker to use the keyboard, and watched her change the account password. The significance escaped Stevie, until she was asked to access her personal email account, which also had its password changed. In the space of seconds Stevie had surrendered her online identity to another, and had to ask why.

“Almost everyone in the company has accessed your blog, Stevie,” Ms Hawker gave her a pale smile, “and will no doubt do so again. We need, therefore, to ensure that it doesn’t contain anything that compromises what we’re trying to achieve.” Stevie wanted to ask what it was exactly that they were trying to achieve, but doubted she would get a meaningful answer, and merely nodded her understanding. “Anyway, it’s almost time for lunch, and I could hear your stomach rumbling in the lift, so off you go.”