Marks

She removes the rubber bands from her breasts and looks at the marks left behind. Her hands caress those marks, bright red against her skin, and she thinks of him. Wonders where he is, what he’s doing, is he thinking of her at all? At this last she shakes her head to clear it and stands.

 

What does it matter? He’s hundreds of miles away at the very least, and she has no idea when she’ll see him again.

 

If ever, the cynical part of her mind adds. She pushes the thought away and forces herself to dress for the day. Every day, without fail, she stands in front of the full-length mirror in the vanity area and thinks about what she has to do that day and what should she wear that he would enjoy. Today is fairly easy: she has a job interview. Easy to choose the skirt, just above the knee. Easy to choose the sweater, low-cut without being whorish. Easy to forego panties. Easy to roll the stockings – real stockings, not pantyhose – up her legs and step into the 3-inch heels.

 

She doesn’t wear makeup as a general rule, but for days like this, for job interviews, she will at least wear lipstick. She wields the curling iron like a weapon, preparing for the battle that will be the interview. With her hair up, she looks like a librarian. With it down, she looks like someone a lot less intelligent. Can’t win, she sighs, and leaves her hair down. If she can get through this meeting without twirling it, it might just work. Final touches: contacts, silver hoop earrings, watch.

 

One last look in the mirror before she leaves the apartment; it will have to do, she decides, and goes downstairs. The drive to the nondescript office building is blessedly short, all the better to not brood on the mistakes she might make. Day after day she goes out looking for jobs, and day after day she is told she is by turns overqualified, underqualified, too aggressive, not aggressive enough. It is wearing on her psyche, making her think she isn’t good enough, that no one wants her for any reason.

 

Logically she knows that’s not true, but she keeps all her fears to herself, afraid people will jump to the worst conclusions if they know she isn’t as together as they think. She picks up her purse and folio and heads into the building, checks in at the receptionist’s desk. She’s early, of course, early enough that the interviewer hasn’t yet arrived for the morning.

 

She decides to freshen up in the ladies’ room; it’s really just an excuse to trace those welts on her breast again, to indulge in a couple moments thinking of him before reality interferes, intrudes. Those marks, those welts remind her who she is, who she is to him. She lifts her skirt, one hand holding it up while the other strokes her pussy. Relax, she thinks. Relax, it’s just another idiot interviewer who will look down your sweater, refuse to meet your eyes, thinks your talent is stuck in your breasts and not your mind. She dips a finger inside, not terribly surprised to find that she’s quite wet. She’s in a perpetual state of arousal anymore; she knows he knows and is pleased, even if he can’t be there to take advantage of the situation – to tease, torment, and finally (hopefully) fuck her.

 

She pulls her skirt back down, slowly licks her finger clean, and heads back out to reception. The interviewer is apparently unthrilled that she’s there early. It’s only twenty minutes early, she thinks. Late, as far as she’s concerned, but strike one against her even before the interview begins. It’s nearly enough to make her consider getting up and walking out, but she needs a job too badly. So she sits, reading and re-reading her resume to herself as she has dozens of times before.

 

Finally the receptionist takes her back to a meeting room to wait some more. The interviewer will be with her shortly, the receptionist tells her. Yippee fucking skippee, she thinks. Not an ideal attitude to go into this with, she knows, but at this point she’s simply tired of the job hunting process.

 

Ten minutes go by, then fifteen. Now the interviewer is late, and she is extremely annoyed. Has she wasted her time here when she could be somewhere else? Somewhere she can be alone and make herself cum. Somewhere she could work on the tasks he set for her this week. Somewhere she can do something that connects her to him.

 

At the twenty minute mark, she decides the interviewer is just playing one of those fun interview games, one where they try to force the interviewee into being antagonistic. Screw that, she thinks, and stubbornly refuses to play the game. She conjures him in her mind, his face, his body, his smell, his touch . . . the list is endless. She closes her eyes and smiles. Silly, really, how just the thought of him can calm her.

 

Thirty minutes. Should she go get someone, she wonders? She decides against it, and instead traces those marks through her sweater and bra.

 

Forty minutes, and she decides she might as well remove the bra. It’s not like the interviewer would notice anything above or below her chest anyway, and the bra is constricting against her ribcage. She reaches under her sweater, unclasps the bra, shrugs it off and places it in her purse, thankful she carries a life-size purse instead of one of those itty-bitty bags. Much better. One hand automatically continues to sketch the shadow of those marks on her breast, separated only by the sweater. She can feel her nipples harden, most definitely a reaction to her thoughts, the marks – oh especially the marks.

 

She looks at her watch, almost not interested in how long she’s been left in this meeting room. Forty-five minutes past her appointment time. Ah well, she thinks. I can take a hint when it’s writ as large as this one. But rather than leave, she turns sideways in her chair so she can put her legs on the chair next to her. Her legs are lewdly splayed, her skirt hiked up to her hips. She’s pretty certain she’s lost the job, so she turns her attention back to him. She thinks of the last time she felt his hands on her body and realizes it’s been months. Months since she felt his lash on her breasts, felt his hands on hers following her movements as she masturbated for him, felt his lips on hers.

 

The door to the meeting room finally opens, but she’s utterly unaware, lost in her own world. He steps into the room, assesses the situation and closes the door. A smile crosses his face as he watches her touch herself, one hand still tracing the marks on her breast, the other teasing her pussy. Her eyes are closed; she’s completely lost in her thoughts, her reverie. She hasn’t noticed that he’s in the room, that he’s watching her intently.

 

He crosses the room so he’s behind her, watching her push her skirt higher and her sweater lower as her breathing becomes ragged. She’s close to the edge, close enough that when he puts his hand on hers and strokes the marks he made on her body, her soul, she orgasms quickly. He puts his mouth close to her ear and whispers one word – lovely.