Transit, 47

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft chime, and Lori leaned casually against the mirrored wall, her reflection captivating her attention. Platinum waves framed her face, the black leather top sculpted her torso perfectly, and the red vinyl leggings hugged every curve, gleaming like molten fire under the soft lights. She shifted her weight on her leopard-print platforms, her nails tapping idly against the chrome railing. Yet, despite her poised appearance, a nagging discomfort stirred within her.

Her thighs pressed together as she squirmed slightly, the glossy leggings creaking faintly. That empty, hollow sensation was impossible to ignore. No plug. The realization hit her like a lightning strike, her lips parting slightly as her breath hitched. It wasn’t something she had consciously thought about before, but now, the absence felt unnatural, almost wrong, leaving her fidgeting in a way that only made her movements more pronounced.

“Fuck,” she muttered. She adjusted the waistband of her leggings absentmindedly, her red nails catching the light, and gave a small, frustrated sigh just as the elevator dinged.

The hallway stretched out before her, marble floors glistening under the morning light pouring in from tall windows. Her heels clicked confidently as she strutted forward, the sway of her hips hypnotic, her movements unthinking yet undeniably seductive. As she turned the corner, the reception desk came into view, and her eyes locked on the young man from the day before. He stood up straighter as she approached, his expression shifting to one of recognition.

“Good morning, Miss Pleasure,” he greeted her, his light Russian accent curling around her new surname like silk.

Lori felt her lips tug into a knowing smile. Miss Pleasure. Hearing it aloud sent a strange thrill through her, though she barely registered why. “Morning, babe,” she purred, her voice dripping with lazy confidence as she ran her nails lightly along the edge of the desk while passing by. The young man’s eyes lingered, his polite demeanor faltering just enough for her to catch the faintest flicker of intrigue in his gaze.

She didn’t stop, letting the rhythmic clack of her heels fill the lobby as she crossed the gleaming floors, her movements deliberate yet effortlessly commanding. The absence of the plug still teased at her thoughts, but the way he had said her name—softly, reverently, with that hint of an accent—left a faint smirk playing on her glossed lips.

As she stepped through the front doors into the sunlight, the feeling of incompleteness remained, but the eyes she’d left behind in the lobby were enough to distract her, at least for now.