Jordan was walking through the student union building, swimming upstream against a current of undergraduates heading out the doors to class. She had completed her teaching for the day, but was now under pressure to finish her own projects. She had some class readings to do. And there were always, always more writing projects on the horizon. The academic grind. But she broke up her day, drawing an organizational wall between her teaching and her own student time. She wanted to get some coffee from the cafeteria before returning to the graduate student offices.
As she made her way to the cafeteria, she passed a familiar room and her heart fluttered slightly. 22B. The campus ROTC office. An unexpected place for a drastic change of life trajectory. Or at least that's how it felt now, in retrospect. At the time, more than a year ago now, walking between the service flags and through the otherwise nondescript door of 22B was more of an irritation than anything.
It was the day after Jordan's confrontation (if you want to call it that) with Professor Lukacz over her incomplete proposal. She had been anxiously waiting for Professor Lukacz' feedback on her proposal. She had submitted it in the specified time frame, although it was technically late. She had wasted a whole study day fixing it, then went home to her husband to relax and unwind. Relaxing had been difficult, however; her faculty mentor's stern dismissal of her initial work left her anxious.
After making love with David that night, the tension remained. It couldn't be the sex. That was what eased her tension. She always felt so good and relaxed while her husband enjoyed her body, although if she was honest with herself, she also noticed a lingering tension after he finished. Some days it was worse than others.
The next day at school, she avoided interacting with her colleagues, unsure of if or what they had heard about her late/unsatisfactory proposal. It was a tough spot to be in. Too much tension. She tried not to be irritable, but her fuse was short. She wanted everything to appear effortlessly put together, including herself, for her meeting with Lukacz at 2:00 that day. She dressed smart: tan slacks, a dark blue turtleneck sweater, and a light gray scarf.
It went well. He was in a much better mood. He cheerfully greeted her as she came in and handed her the printed out proposal, dripping with red ink as usual. However, his in-person feedback was refreshingly helpful.
He was clearly rushed though–he had an upcoming presentation at a Vienna conference, and his own stress was peeking through his stern veneer. Jordan took careful notes, responding politely and cheerfully, easing the tension on both sides. By the end of the meeting, the two were chatting amiably. Jordan was visibly relieved as she stood up to leave.
"One more thing, Jordan…" Professor Lukacz said, turning around to rustle through some papers behind him. "I was doing a spot check on some of the student papers you and your colleagues graded, and came across this." He pulled a paper out of the stack. "You gave an A to a student paper…a Mr…Greg Schett. Do you remember?"
"I do, actually. I think he shows a profound understanding beyond his sophomore status. I think he's one to watch. The paper is pretty impressive."
"Yes…" the professor grunted in assent. "It does show advanced acuity. Probably because he copied almost all of it from a paper I wrote about fifteen years ago."
"Oh." Jordan responded sheepishly.
"Not to worry…" Lukacz continued. "You aren't expected to read everything I've ever written. At least not in your second year." He briefly made eye contact and a small, sarcastic smile broke across his normally stern face.
"I'll definitely be more careful about…"
"Again, not your fault, dear." Lukacz interrupted. "You did nothing wrong. You correctly graded a paper that is obviously brilliant." His smile widened and Jordan began to relax again. "There is not question…this paper deserves an A in a sophomore class. It just wasn't his."
Jordan smiled and nodded.
"Normally, I refer these issues to the academic office for action," Lukacz continued. However, young Mr. Schett is in a military officer's training program. Are you familiar?"
"The ROTC cadets? Yes, I see them around campus in their uniforms sometimes."
"Well, his commanders need to be notified since this will likely affect his scholarship. In my experience, they prefer to be notified before the academic office is notified."
"I see." Jordan said, unsure of where she came in.
"They'll want to talk to the one who graded the paper…that's you…and they'll want to talk to me. I can't talk right now, I have a plane to catch. But I don't want this to sit for a week. I need you to take the paper down to the ROTC office and explain the situation to the officers there. They will contact me and I can finish the process. But I'd like you to get the ball rolling as soon as possible."
"I understand, professor. I'll stop by on my way home today," Jordan replied confidently. "Good luck in Vienna, professor."
"Thank you, Jordan. The ROTC office is in the student union building. You can look up the location in the directory. That will be all."
Jordan smiled and nodded, placing the offending paper in her bag.
Ten minutes later, she had located the ROTC office. 22B. She stood in front of a blank, brown door flanked by military flags. She took a deep breath and reached for the doorknob.
* * *
In a desert environment, even a few minutes of rain makes a huge mess. A rare cloudburst had dropped about an hour's worth of heavy rain early in the morning. Sergeant Rein was intently aware of the unstable soil and its effects on his marines' ability to move efficiently around the battle space. He had woken up early that morning and function checked every platoon radio 3 different times, checking every battery and spare battery twice. Although he had learned on the previous day that the communications breakdown was manufactured, he didn't dare risk a repeat under any circumstances. Yesterday's success was entirely too close to catastrophic failure. And today promised to be a messy day–mud always interferes with the mission.
He was standing in the shelter doorway. Only he and the fire watch marines were awake. The sun had not yet risen. He looked at his watch. 4:59. Thirty seconds left.
His mind drifted briefly back to the previous night. The glowing phone screen in front of his face. He had seen his best friend's wife naked. Not only naked, but in an extremely compromised, sexually aroused state. It was undeniably hot. He felt the blood move into his cock as he remembered her bright brown eyes staring up at the camera. Staring up at him.
Poisson had said she had given him permission to show that to him. No…Poisson had said she had TOLD him to show him. He wasn't sure he believed him. It seemed incredible. Irresponsible. Pretty depraved. Not really the behavior he would ascribe to his fourth squad leader and boot camp buddy. But there was one thing that Jared Poisson was definitely not known for: lying. Of all marines, in fact, of all people Mark had ever interacted with, no one was more consistently honest and straightforward with him. But love and sex make people do strange things. If he was lying, then he was essentially sharing his wife's most intimate moment with another man without her permission. A serious breach of trust displaying a shocking, inexcusable defect of character. If he was telling the truth, then his best friend's wife was either complicit in sharing their most intimate moment with her husband's superior, or actively inviting an affair.
In either case, Mark had a serious problem on his hands. This sort of thing could and would lead to a serious breach in the discipline and cohesion of his platoon if not handled with tact and discretion.
He wasn't certain how to proceed. He was, however, absolutely certain that reporting this to his own superiors would only make it worse. Whatever the cause, whatever the outcome, this issue was his to deal with.
Sergeant Rein looked down at his watch. 5 seconds to 5. 4…3…2..1..
Mark's eyes stayed fixed forward as he addressed the marine awaiting his orders at the light switch. "Lights."
The light switched on, and the shelter sprang to life as marines fumbled about, getting ready for the training day.
* * *
Walking through 22B, Jordan was surprised at how spare and neat the office was. Most university offices were packed with welcoming furniture, fun and affirming posters, perhaps little bowls of candy. This office was more…spartan. There was a reception desk, a few office doors, and a small cluster of straight backed wooden chairs parallel to the entrance. Jordan approached the reception desk, finding a polite young female cadet in uniform.
"Hello! I'm wondering if I could have a quick word with the ROTC commander? My name is Jordan Stark-Simms, and I have one of your cadets in my psychology 121 class."
"Of course." The cadet briskly typed something on her keyboard, eyes on her monitor. After a moment, she looked up and smiled. You can go right in. Captain Lund says he has a few minutes.
"Thank you." Jordan walked around the desk and toward the three office doors in the back. All three were ajar. The one on the left had a nameplate on the door matching the name given at reception. Sam Lund, Captain, USMC. Jordan gingerly knocked on the door.
"Come in." A raspy, tenor voice emerged from the open part of the door. Jordan pushed the door open, a little hesitant. Behind a basic wood desk sat a man of medium build, short hair, and thin, wiry glasses. He was wearing a button up khaki shirt with no tie, a small square of multicolored rectangles above the left breast pocket, and two silver bars on the lapels of his open collar. Jordan was a little flummoxed. It seemed so formal. Was there a protocol for interacting with military officers? Professors usually responded to their title, so she risked it and addressed him by rank.
"Captain Lund. I'm Jordan Stark-Simms. Hello."
"Good afternoon. What can I do for you?" Firm, but polite.
"Captain, I'm a doctoral student and teaching assistant to Professor Lukacz in the psychology department. We have several of your cadets in our introductory psych class."
"Big class, right? Couple hundred students?"
"Yes. And we love your cadets, they're very good and engaged students."
"That's good to hear."
"Yes sir. However, we did have something come to our attention recently. It seems that one student plagiarized a paper. Professor Lukacz indicated that you like to be informed before this goes to the academic office."
Captain Lund's eyebrows furrowed. "Yes. Yes we do. I'm very sorry about this. What is the cadet's name?"
"Gregory Schett. He's in my section, so I graded his paper."
"Can I see it?"
"Of course." Jordan opened the file and pulled out the paper.
The captain glanced at the heading, and handed the paper back to her. "I'm going to refer you to his direct superior. Please tell him what you told me."
"Of course. Thank you for your time, captain."
Captain Lund stood up and led Jordan out of his office, crossing over to the opposite door, also ajar. He knocked once and pushed the door open. Jordan stood behind him, unable to see into the office, thinking it proper to wait to be introduced. Captain Lund spoke brusquely through the doorway.
"One of yours. Plagiarism. The grading TA is here."
Jordan heard a sigh emanate from the other side of Captain Lund. The captain stepped aside, motioning to Jordan through the open door.
"Miss Stark, this is Lieutenant Rein. He'll handle the situation from here."
* * *
"All squads roger up."
"Squad 1 Lima Charlie."
"Squad 2 All present"
"Squad 3 Up."
Mark squinted. He was located with squad 2 for this part of the mission, following the morning's frag order splitting up each squad to handle different objectives around the training town. Poisson's squad wasn't responding.
"Squad 4, roger up."
Silence.
"Squad 4, radio check."
Silence.
Mark exhaled in frustration. He looked at the squad 2 leader, who shrugged back at him. Mark keyed his radio handset quickly. Still no response.
Mark was ordered to report his platoon status to company HQ in 2 minutes. No response meant that he would report only 3 out of 4 squads in his platoon. He began to walk impatiently toward his second squad leader. They conferred in hushed tones while the other squad marines looked on, annoyed.
Exhaling audibly, Mark motioned to the back half of the squad to follow him. They began to file off, breaking the initial route plan in order to account for the missing squad. They only had a minute to do it. Quick stepping on an unplanned route was a really good way to get blown up by IEDs, and Mark knew it. Nevertheless, he had a whole squad missing.
Just as they rounded the corner, with Mark in the lead, two clicks came over the radio speaker.
"Squad 4 up."
Mark rolled his eyes, motioning the 6 marines following him back into their original line. He barked into the handset.
"Squad 4, radio check. Can you hear me?"
"Loud and clear. We were talking to a local, I rogered up as soon as they stopped talking."
Mark grunted. They would have words about this later.
* * *
"Miss Stark, is it?"
"Mrs, actually. Jordan Stark-Simms." Jordan walked through the door and extended her hand over the desk. The lieutenant reached out to grasp her hand. His hand was huge, big enough to completely surround hers.
"Have a seat, please." The lieutenant said. Jordan sat in the plain wooden chair across the desk from the lieutenant. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm here on behalf of Professor Lukacz. We have a student in our class, in my section actually, that we believe to have plagiarized a paper."
"I understand. Do you have the paper?"
"I do." Jordan handed the small sheaf of stapled pages over the desk. The lieutenant examined it intently, looking through the pages. After a moment, he returned to the first page and turned it around to face Jordan.
"Mrs. Stark, this paper has an A grade on it."
Jordan smiled. "I understand that, Lieutenant. I initially graded the paper and found it to be very good. Very advanced, in fact. Later on, Professor Lukacz checked over this particular paper and informed me that it was actually plagiarized."
"There are no indications on this paper that it is anything other than exemplary."
"That is true," Jordan responded, a little taken aback. She was not prepared to be challenged on this paper. "I brought it straight here from Professor Lukacz' office, I didn't have time to re-grade it or anything."
"How does Professor Lukacz know that it's plagiarized?"
Jordan was increasingly uncomfortable with the officer's intensity. Her voice began to shake…almost imperceptibly. "Professor Lukacz is very familiar with the paper it is copied from."
"So let me get this straight, Mrs. Stark." The lieutenant's voice was low and powerful. When he spoke, Jordan could almost feel the vibrations of his voice. She felt powerless and frustrated as he locked eyes with her. "You want me to discipline and possibly revoke the scholarship of a cadet because YOU gave him an A on a paper, then YOU heard from SOMEONE ELSE that they thought he plagiarized that paper?"
"I don't think Professor Lukacz would lie about that, Lieutenant," Jordan responded, beginning to get angry.
"Could he possibly be mistaken, Mrs. Stark?" The lieutenant lowered his voice even more menacingly.
"No, I don't think so, Lieutenant," Jordan narrowed her eyes at him, her indignation finally causing her to match his intensity. "I suspect he's not mistaken. You see, PROFESSOR LUKACZ wrote the paper that your cadet stole it from." She let that sink in, as they locked eyes like rams lock horns. "He copied a paper written by his examining professor, then turned it in for a grade."
Jordan was shocked at herself. She shifted uncomfortably in the plain, wooden chair. This seemed to be going so poorly. She had no control of this situation, and a specific charge to fulfill from her boss and academic mentor. What would she do if this man refused to forward the paper to the academic office? It had her handwriting all over it, singing its praises! It would make her look ridiculous! She had given an A to a plagiarized paper! Maybe she would have to contact Professor Lukacz in Vienna to push back. But that would certainly annoy him and make her look weak and helpless.
Lieutenant Mark Rein paused, leaning back in his chair thoughtfully. "Well, that was pretty stupid of him, wasn't it?" He smiled disarmingly.
It took Jordan a moment to realize the tension was gone and to regain her composure.
"I thought so," Jordan responded, nodding solemnly.
"Mrs Stark. I apologize for my line of questioning. I'm very protective of my charges."
Jordan smiled a little and softened. The Lieutenant continued.
"Mrs. Stark…I'm sorry, you're still very young…may we call each other by first names?"
"Of course. You're Mark, right?"
"I am. And you're Jordan."
She nodded.
"Jordan, I recognize we have a serious situation to deal with. I am more than willing to handle it. However, I need more than a paper with an A on it in order to respond properly. Could you find me the paper that it was taken from and bring that in for us to look at? Maybe point out the sections you think are plagiarized? Or if you're too busy, you could point me in the direction of the paper myself and I'll review it. Either way, I need some more to take action. Clear, thorough communication is absolutely crucial to what we do here. We cannot have any weak or ambiguous communications in military life. That's just how we do things here."
"I understand, Mark. I'll take the paper back and find that for you," Jordan responded amiably. "I'm familiar with Professor Lukacz' work, it shouldn't take me long to find it and annotate Greg's paper. When you do take action, however, I'd like to be involved, and hopefully resolve this amicably. I think we can bring closure to the situation without damaging your cadet's future."
"That's a wonderful sentiment, Jordan, and I appreciate the assistance. However, there will be damage to the cadet's future. Of that, I assure you."
Jordan was taken aback. "It's his first offense, though…I'm sure there's an explanation. Perhaps he was under stress and panicked…"
"I have no doubt of that, Mrs. Stark," Mark replied, returning to formalities. "But I have a cadet who is working toward a commission as an officer with the power over life and death that that commission brings. In an academic setting, he has chosen to cheat, and will likely lie about it. Stress and panic are not mitigating circumstances in this case. In fact, they make it worse. Any of my Navy and Marine cadets, perhaps all of them, will be put in situations of extreme stress. Many, many panic inducing circumstances. If it drives them to misbehave, then I cannot allow them to occupy that position."
Jordan was stunned. "I understand. I'm very sorry to hear that. What about his age? He's young. I'll…I'll work with him." She found the prospect of such final consequences to be very jarring. She began to feel responsible for the young man.
"Good day, Mrs. Stark. Thank you for bringing this to my attention."
Mark stood up behind his desk, allowing Jordan to see his whole frame for the first time. He towered over her, with broad shoulders and a clearly powerful build that was poorly concealed under his form-fitting khaki shirt and dark green slacks. Jordan noticed that the square of colored ribbons over his left breast pocket was noticeably larger and more colorful than that of Captain Lund's–his superior. She briefly wondered about that.
Mark leaned over the desk, picking a business card with his contact information out of a box and handing it to her. Once she took it, he grasped her small hand in his again warmly, gently moving her whole arm up to the shoulder.
Jordan held on to his hand for a moment, looking directly into his eyes. Bright, blue, icy eyes. They were stern and unyielding. But she thought she saw a hint of mercy–of compassion–deep below the surface. Something of depth covered over by a stonewall self-image. Holding his gaze, she tried to regain some control of the situation.
"Please keep me in the loop on this, Lieutenant. He's my student, as well as your cadet. I have charge of him too."
"I will. It was nice to meet you, Jordan. Good day."
Jordan let go of his hand, picked up her bag, and walked out the door.
* * *
A brutal training day, 5AM to 10PM. At 10:15, Mark and his squad leaders were holding their final huddle of the day, standing loosely in a circle apart from the platoon, eating out of open MRE bags. Mark was listening to each squad leader's concerns and complaints, making a final inventory of everyone's gear issues before they all fell into their cots for a night of well-earned rest.
Mark and Jared were facing each other on the opposite ends of the circle. Jared seemed to be slightly tuned out, staring past Mark toward the blank wall behind him. Fatigue stares…Mark thought to himself. Mark reached a long right arm across the circle and poked him in the cheek. "Pay attention, Poisson. Don't tune out like you did on comms earlier."
The other squad leaders snickered. Jared narrowed hostile eyes at his friend. Mark ignored the look, offering final parting instruction to the young marines. "That's the word for tomorrow. Keep. Tight. Comms. Communication is what is going to make or break us. We're doing good overall, but keep tight comms among your squads and with me. I will not wait for answers tomorrow. I'll just beat asses. Got it?"
The corporals grunted in affirmation and parted, returning to their corners of the shelter. Mark and Jared walked together back to their corner.
Jared kept a slight, conscious distance from Mark–clearly miffed.
"You calling me out in front of people now? What the hell, man?"
Mark scoffed back. "You taking advantage of our friendship and running your own little mini-platoon over there?"
Jared gritted his teeth, saying nothing.
"You embarrassed me in front of people, Frenchie. In front of our whole platoon." Mark grabbed his friend's face and turned it to lock eyes. "I'm your guy, Frenchie. But you. Can't. Ignore. Me. You got it? You play games in front of people, I'm gonna slap you down in front of people. You got it?"
"Got it…" Jared mumbled, grudgingly.
They sat down on their cots in silence, picking out the last morsels from their food bags and chewing slowly to hide their deep fatigue.
"So you still mad at me for showing you that pic? You ought to be grateful, man…"
Mark paused, thoughtfully. "She's really, really hot man. I'm not going to deny that."
"Really? What'd you think..?" Jared changed his tone, barely masking his excitement.
Mark paused again, staring down at the ground. Exhaling deeply, he looked back up at his best friend. "You ever read the Iliad?"
"The Lily Pad?"
"That's what I thought. No, The Iliad. It's a long story–an epic poem, actually–about the Trojan War. Ancient Greece."
"Uh, I think we read some of it in high school, I don't really remember. Why?"
"There's a character in that story named Briseis. She's a young woman…a captive slave, really. There are two warriors fighting on the same side–Achilles the invincible warrior, and Agamemnon the king. They end up fighting over who has the rights to this girl, basically as a sex slave. It pisses Achilles off so much that he refuses to fight, and he holds back his own troops from fighting. Tons of people die because these two guys fought over a girl. Including Achilles' best friend."
"You're worried we're going to fight over my wife because I showed you how hot she is?"
"No, I'm worried things will change because now we're connected in a way that turns things messy."
This time it was Jared looking down to the floor. "That was a huge leap of faith on my part to show you that pic, man. I'm sorry I did it."
Mark sighed. "I actually know that was a big deal for you. That's part of the problem. You should know I still respect you. But you didn't think that all the way through. I'm worried about what this means…You get me?"
Jared nodded, still looking down.
Mark continued: "Dude, you have to, HAVE TO assure me that this doesn't change things. I'm still your platoon sergeant, you're still one of my squad leaders. We have to count on each other. No matter what."
Jared looked up and nodded, determined. Mark held his gaze for a moment, waiting. Then, his eyes softened slightly.
"Show me that pic again. I can't get it out of my mind." Jared excitedly reached into his pocket for his phone.
Mark thought twice.
"Wait."
Jared stopped, phone in hand, and looked at Mark, confused.
"Text Megan. Tell her you showed me the picture. I want to hear what she says."
Jared grinned and nodded, looking down at his phone and typing quickly. A moment passed, and his phone buzzed.
"She said 'OMG what did he think?'"
"Let me see." Mark verified the text and handed the phone back. "Tell her I want to see it again, but I want her to give permission. Jared nodded excitedly and began typing. "Wait…"
Jared stopped again.
"Give her my phone number, and tell her I want to see it again, but I want her to text me and tell me to look at it."
Jared's breathing quickened and his face reddened. He wordlessly complied, hitting SEND on the message. No response.
The friends waited, finishing their MREs and standing up to throw the remains in the trash outside the door of the shelter. As they were walking back to their cots, Jared's phone buzzed again.
"She said no, she's too scared."
"That's what I thought. You're thinking with your dick too much, man. You two gotta figure this out."
Jared nodded solemnly, clearly disappointed. "I get it man. You're right. Sorry for bringing this up." Mark grabbed him and gave him a back-slapping hug. "No worries, Frenchie. Let's put it behind us."
The two removed their fatigues and climbed into their cots. Jared laid on his back with his phone in front of his face, clearly still texting Megan. Mark took one more look around, ordered lights out, and laid down to sleep.
A gentle buzzing stirred Mark out of pitch-black sleep. It was his phone, tucked underneath the rolled up clothes he was using for a pillow. He reached down and pulled it out, hiding the light under the lid of his sleeping bag.
New text message.
3:00 AM.
He looked over at Jared.
Sound asleep
Mark opened the text message.
An unknown number.
Hey, it's Megan. Are you awake?
Mark squinted.
Mark: I am now. What's up?
Megan: Thanks for being understanding and talking Jared down. He gets excited sometimes, it's good he has a friend like you to keep him level.
Mark: No problem. You guys okay?
Megan: Yeah, we're okay. I just wanted to say thanks.
Mark: Yeah, no problem.
Mark put the phone down and began to drift back down into sleep. The phone buzzed again. He picked it up, annoyed.
Megan: Mark.
Mark: What's up, Megan?
Megan: Jared told me about Briseis. He definitely spelled it wrong.
Mark: Lol.
Megan: He hasn't read the Iliad, but I have. I think what you say makes sense.
Mark: Cool. You've read the Iliad?
Megan: Yeah. We should talk about it sometime.
Mark smiled.
Mark: Sure, totally.
Megan:But Mark…
Megan: One thing I know about that story is that nobody, ever, asked Briseis what she wants.
Mark's attention narrowed, zooming in on the last text. His heart quickened, and he sat up slightly.
Mark: That's definitely true.
Megan: So. Don't you wonder what Briseis wanted? What she would have wanted?
Mark's face began to flush, his cock stirring.
Mark: Yeah, I guess I do. What would Briseis want?
Megan: I think she wants you to look at that picture…
* * *
Jordan thanked the young student employee handing her coffee to her. She smiled at the not-too-distant memory. Her first meeting with Mark was mixed, with no real indicators that their relationship would evolve beyond collaborating on the fallout of a plagiarized paper. Turning back toward her graduate student office in the adjacent building, Jordan walked thoughtfully, holding her coffee cup in her left hand, her phone in her right. She passed 22B again.
She pulled up the contacts on her phone and looked up the contact page of a man who occupied so much room in her life and marriage lately. The contact entry was old, a carryover from when she first put it in her phone on the day he handed her that business card. A card promising a business relationship.
Lt. Rein, ROTC.
Jordan clicked edit, and changed the entry.
Cpt. Mark Rein, USMC.
She then recategorized the contact from "work" to "personal." Then, on a lark, she texted him.
J: Hey. Just walked by 22B on my way to get coffee. Remembering how we met. Thinking about you. Hope you're having a good day.
The text was marked sent, not read. She returned her phone to her pocket and walked briskly back to her work space.
The graduate student "offices" were really just a collection of large open rooms divided by dozens of half-cubicle walls. Jordan's desk was near the corner, furthest from the entrance. She walked to her student desk, set down her coffee, and immersed herself in her work.
Deadlines, deadlines, deadlines. Always more deadlines.
Her phone buzzed on the desk next to her laptop.
New text from Cpt. Mark Rein, USMC.
She opened it.
M: I think you wore a dark blue turtleneck.
Jordan blushed.
J: You remember! I'm flattered. I certainly wasn't dressing to impress you…I didn't even know you then.
M: What are you wearing now?
J: Jeans and a dark brown blouse.
M: Are you wearing a bra?
Jordan blushed again.
J: Of course…
M: No you're not.
Jordan blushed again.
M: Jordan, are you wearing a bra?
J: Yes…
M: No you're not.
Jordan's heart began to beat faster. She glanced around to see if anyone was looking. All the others had their heads down, many with headphones on. She wasn't drawing attention to herself.
M: Jordan, tell me you're not wearing a bra, or I'm going to up the ante by telling you you're not wearing a top.
Jordan began to feel her pulse rising gently between her legs.
She looked around once more. No one was outside of their own little work bubble. It was risky, but she loved doing what Mark told her to do. She leaned forward over her desk as if she were stretching, and then reached behind her back and unclasped her bra strap.
The familiar sound of elastic releasing tension seemed ten times louder than it ever had before. She frantically scanned the room again, then quickly pulled the shoulder straps through her sleeves. Finally, she reached under her shirt and pulled the bra out, quickly folding the cups in half and stuffing it in her bag.
Face flushed, Jordan quietly picked up her phone again.
J: I'm not wearing a bra.
Silence. Then, one more buzz.
M: Good girl.
Jordan began to carefully regulate her breathing, as she feared her arousal would become audibly apparent to her colleagues if she didn't watch it.
J: I did what you wanted. Do I get a reward now?
M: That depends. Are your nipples showing through your blouse?
Jordan looked down.
J: A little.
M: Good. Rub them a little, so they show more.
Jordan bit her lower lip slightly as she reached up to rub her nipples through her shirt. Unsurprisingly, they quickly began to poke into the fabric of her shirt.
J: OK. I definitely can't go anywhere for a while.
M: I understand. So I just have one question, and I'll leave you to your work. I know you're busy after all.
Jordan smiled to herself.
J: Oh, thank you…
J: What's your question?
M: Do you know how long sperm can stay in a woman's body after sex?
J: I don't know…like 4 hours?
M: Definitely longer than that. Sometimes 3 days.
J: That's very interesting.
M: I think so. So just a quick follow up question. Did you and I have sex recently?
Jordan bit her lip harder.
J: Yes.
M: When?
J: Saturday night.
M: Did I cum inside you on Saturday night?
Jordan began to pant. The pulse between her legs grew steadily in intensity.
J: Yes.
M: A little or a lot?
J: A lot. God, so much…
M: That's my memory too. What day is it, Jordan?
J: Monday
M: Let's see. Saturday night…Sunday night…Monday afternoon. What might that mean for your body right now, Jordan?
Jordan couldn't stand it. She needed him. She felt so submissive. So beautifully used. Her fingers shook as she texted back:
J: I might have your cum in me right now.
M: That's right. So here's what you're going to do. You're going to stand up, nipples showing or not, and you're going to quietly go to the nearest bathroom.
J: OK…
M: When you're there, you're going to go into a stall, pull down your pants and panties, and you're going to remember how much I filled you up two nights ago. You're going to remember the feeling of my cum, and you're going to do your best to find whatever is left in you with your fingers.
Silence.
J: Yes, sir…