Second reflection

Erin is folding towels on a small table. She is now wearing her work uniform, a white blouse with a small stylized pink orchid under her name tag. Behind her, the reception of her workplace, Orchids wellness and spa center.

The image blurs.

Same person, same location, same gestures. Only this Erin is wearing a red scarf. She puts the towels down and pulls down the crimson piece of wool. Underneath, the bite marks seem to have healed a bit but a nasty bruise surrounds them and sickly blue and red veins spread from the wound in a star pattern. She looks worried. She moves closer to the mirror. She lifts her upper lip. Below it, at the root of her upper lateral incisors, a pair of white bulbs stick out.

She lets her lip fall back into place; she looks even more worried. She pulls on the scarf again and runs the tip of her fingers over the bite marks. She tenses, bites her lip and closes her eyes. Her chalky white face turns red.

The image blurs again.

+++

Just like this morning my reflection is back to normal. No more red scarf, no more orgasmic blushing. I do look a bit redder though.

“What the actual fuck?” I say out loud.

“I beg your pardon?”

Behind me, my boss. George Stevens Burton, British immigrant, mid-forties, with a stick up his ass the size of a circus tent pole. He does not tolerate “that” sort of language in his business. He has been clear about it, many many times. Also, he is a full-time pain in the ass.

“Sorry mister Burton. I…”

“Erin…”

He does not go any further, he does not need to. His look, charged with all the class contempt a former subject of the crown can summon, says enough. This guy is a dick, he despises me. I want to burst but I need this job, I bow my head.

“Apologies, mister Burton, it won’t happen again.”

He turns around and walks back into his office. What he does in there all around the clock, I have no clue. Susan, a small framed blonde masseuse and good friend of mine, is convinced that he spends his work hours jerking off to porn on the internet. I am not as convinced as she is since I cannot imagine him in any sexual context. The guy is too proper. But then again, even the Queen of England must have had sex at least once at some point in her life.

Anyway, I shiver and continue folding the towels. Once I am done, I go back to sit at my small chair behind the desk and wait for the next client to come in.

Half an hour later, I take my break, quick cigarette and a jump to the loo. Sitting there, on the toilet, in the small stall, I notice my panties. They are glistening in the ugly neon light. I run a finger along my slit. A powerful shiver runs down my spine, I am nearly dripping. Fuck! That subtle caress felt good.

I did not realize it until now but I have been in this weird aroused fog the whole day. I take a moment to calm down and go back to my post. As I exit the staff locker room, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Nothing special, still good old me. It must have been the weed; I will have to ask Jim if he changed dealers and maybe cut down on the shit.