She worked. It focused her, took her mind off of him, of what he’d done to her. Of what she’d enjoyed him doing to her. The words echoed off some primal nubbin of her brain. No. She was civilized, reasonable. Responsible. She didn’t agree to this. Didn’t like this.
Yet anytime some little nugget of memory rose, she found herself squirming in her chair. In the ladies room, her cunt would be oozing. Her asshole clenched. The memories of her body kept The Incident alive.
He let her stew. He’d watch her always from afar. A stranger never strayed too close, after all, until it became totally necessary to remind her of what she was capable of. Of what he was capable of. Her body was looser, these days. She walked with a sexual roll, hips swaying rather than the staccato steps common in today’s businesswoman. How many times did her nipples rise each day, he wondered, looking at the telling jut under her shirt. She was seemingly unaware of them, locked, he thought, in the memory of his body buried in hers. He watched other people, men and women alike, pause for a moment, watching her. The swing of her hair, the sashaying walk, the curve of her tits, the pebbled nipples poking cheekily from her top. Men licked their lips, or would touch their fly; women would either stare in admiration, or avert their eyes. Just one visit and already such change he had made on her.
His smile was wolfish. Soon it would be time for another.