Her Master's Voice

(Friday September 26th 2014, 7.42 a.m.)

The blond woman hesitates before leaving her apartment. She yet again inspects her appearance in the floor to ceiling mirror, twisting her tall silhouette as her eyes check out each flawless inch.

Her eyebrows knit, making her blue eyes darken.

The navy blue suit seems conservative, but it's cut tight enough to suggest that the woman inside isn't. The jacket hugs her waist. From there it flares with her hips and melts into the pencil skirt that stops two inches above her knees.

It gives her a subdued sexiness, more so because her legs in dark sheer nylons are long and perfectly toned. At each step the tall heels make her calf muscles stretch while her ass sways inside her skirt's tight wrapping.

Just as she leans into the mirror to inspect her freshly painted lips, her phone rings.

"Damn!" she mimes, watching the clock behind her. She's late already. But she steps back into the apartment, never able to ignore a ringing phone, and picks it up.

"Hello?"

A hoarse voice creeps into her ear, almost whispering. It's a voice she knows well. Her eyes widen until the white shows around the blue. Her mouth opens too, the lower lip trembling slightly.

Her knees turn liquid.

She drops her wallet to find support with her left hand against the wall. A glittering droplet makes a shining trail down the insides of her thighs. Soon it turns into a rivulet that runs down her legs, soaking the rug beneath her feet.

She doesn't seem to even feel it.

As the soft voice stops, she stands for minutes, just staring. Then, with dreamlike motions, she puts the phone back into its cradle. She spreads her legs and watches the dark spot. Then she picks up the wallet and walks out of the apartment, carefully closing the door behind her.

The elevator isn't busy.

Only an old lady and a little poodle accompany her downstairs. But the dog gets very nervous the moment she steps into the lift. He jumps from the woman's arms and starts sniffing and licking up her legs - growling and yelping.

She doesn't move; she just stares while her fingers fumble with a button of her jacket.

A vague smile tugs at her lips' corners. She doesn't respond to the lady's nervous apologies after she retrieves the dog. With glazed eyes she opens another button of her jacket and lets it slip off her shoulders to the floor.

The doors sigh open.

She gets out, crossing the marble lobby like an automaton, oblivious to the stares of the janitor and the receptionist. Her white silk blouse has gone by now, and as she walks she reaches behind for the clasp of her bra, pushing out her chest. Its release makes her flesh tumble out and sway with her movements.

Her nipples stiffen against the cool breeze of the air conditioner.

The moment she reaches the street, her skirt is gone, left behind in the middle of the marble lobby. The cool morning breeze kisses the dark blotch on her thong, making her shiver.

People stop in their tracks.

Car drivers hit their brakes at the sight of the almost naked blonde under the blue marquis. Then a black stretched limousine slides to a halt at the curb. A tall chauffeur gets out and opens the rear door for her.

Without even acknowledging him, she moves into the car. It leaves in seconds to melt into the busy traffic.

A triangle of moist black lace is blown into the gutter.

(Monday September 29th 2014, 5.45 a.m.)

The room swims in a translucent gray.

It's almost as hazy as her buzzing head. She stretches her body against the silk sheet. It aches all over. Her nipples hurt, as do her jaws. Her vagina feels overstretched and her anus throbs.

She groans.

Pushing the blanket off her naked body feels like weight lifting; her arms are filled with lead. Getting up to sit on the edge of the bed is like climbing a mountain. Swaying her legs to the floor makes her moan.

She rubs her eyes and sighs.

Her knees wobble as she rises to her feet in slow motion, straightening her body like an old woman. As she walks to her bathroom there is no muscle in her body she doesn't feel. Sitting down to piss makes her wince.

And when she at last meets her face in the mirror, tears gush down her cheeks.

Not again, she whispers, as she watches the liquid mascara run down her ruined face. Lipstick is smeared everywhere, but on her chaffed lips. Dark impressions of fingertips mottle her throat. Her nipples are dark and swollen, surrounded by a forest of bites.

She doesn't dare look at her vagina.

The shower is heaven. She stays under it until the scalding water turns cold. She uses hands full of lotion to slather on her screaming labia and her bleeding sphincter - wincing at the touch.

She has washed her hair twice to clean it from whatever unspeakable things that made it dull and sticky. Then she blows it into spun gold again.

Sitting down she makes up her face, using ample foundation to hide the ruins of exhaustion. Expert skill and brushes and pencils restore her eyes to an illusion of vitality. Her lips shine with perfect gloss.

Half an hour later she stands at her tiny kitchen bar, spooning skimmed yoghurt, fruit and granola. Outwardly she looks perfect in her tight gray suit, balancing on patent leather Louboutins. On the inside she feels like she's been in a car accident, like having to learn how to walk, move and live all over again.

Closing her apartment door, she walks over to the elevator. The receptionist will have this hardly concealed expression again that he always has when she wakes up like this.

It is Monday; a Friday and a weekend are lost. But at work nobody will ask her where she's been. Things will be as always.

And so will she.