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“You have an amazing resume, miss,” her prospective employer says.
“I know,” she asserts. She sits at his desk in her power suit, coffee in a styrofoam cup. After years, interviewing for an office job feels weird. However. Right?
“Mmh.” Sits. “It’s unfortunate. Isn’t it?”
“What?!” She gasps.
Interviewer: “Please, miss.” “Finding the truth is easy. A background check won’t exempt you from using Felicity Fox for most of your career.”
“Felicity…?” dizzy. Is this some strange power move? She’s never heard or used the name. Why is it familiar?
“Now, it says here,” he glances at a paper, “that you spent many years as a stripper, correct?”
“A…?” Ridiculous. Ludicrous. She should storm out after throwing coffee at him. “Y-yes,” she says. She suddenly recalls the clubs. Spotlight glare. Nightly stage shaking. Dancing dirty for tips. Her blonde locks and breasts swaying on a dildo to the clamor of an appreciative crowd.
Hands together. “You were an escort too.”
“A whore,” she declares. “I was whore.” She won’t even call what she did a title. She remembers instantly. Her first time getting fucked up the ass in a filthy alleyway, little cocktail dress raised up around her hips, the john pulling severely on her hair—at her request. Cheap hotel rooms and automobile backseats forever. Offering returning customers free blowjobs on holidays… or whenever she just wanted a cock between her lips…
“One thing’s unusual,” the interviewer remarks. “I haven’t worked in years. Why?”
“I…met someone,” she says. “His slave.” So many great memories: kneeling, offering her wrists to him, pleading to be his property. The joy of first putting the collar on her. Giving him all her earthly possessions without hesitation. Her existence was one long orgasm around his firm cock. Spending weeks naked in his house, being used whenever he wanted. The dungeon’s pain-pleasure hours. Getting her clit pierced and his name tattooed on her ass for his entertainment. Walking through sex clubs on a leash, happily fucking strangers.
What happened?
I bored him. Thrown outside in a thong and rusty boots. Pounding at the door, shouting and crying, asking to serve him again, promising to do better, anything to feel his cock inside her again. She was pitied by younger slaves. Thinking about that makes her cry.
The interviewer apologizes. “I don’t understand. Beautiful.”
Thanks. She flushes and straightens. Extends her tits. Why didn’t she wear more cleavage?
“Well.” Interviewer ponders. “Your management experience doesn’t fit what we’re seeking for.”
“… oh.” She looks down.
However, I sympathize with starting anew after a gigantic life change. His finger taps the desk. “I’d have to talk to the CEO, but maybe we can find another place for your special talents.”
She gasps. “Like?”
“On paper, your job title would probably be secretary or receptionist,” the interviewer continues. “You’re the office slut. Fucking higher-ups—including myself—on request. sleeping with prospects. Free lap dances for staff morale. Suchlike.”
“Amazing!” Wide-eyed. “Really?”
“I’m sorry, but…” Shrugs. “You’ll be working late. Much overtime. You’ll do anal, right?”
“Absolutely!” She’d buy a butt plug on the way home. Make sure her ass was ready for another cock. God, fucking for money? Her desire came realized. Shit. The wondered makes her moist.
“Excellent.” Interviewers make notes. He rises and circles the desk. “One more thing, then. Do you mind showcasing your employment skills?”
“No.” Smiles and licks lips. “I kinda hoped you’d say that.”
“Okay.” He indicates his crotch.
Pressure’s on. Time for her best blowjob/titjob—or more if she can get him to try her other products. She joyfully kneels. She takes off her blazer and unbuttons her blouse, smiling at him and keeping eye contact like a good interviewee. When she has time, she rubs her pussy under her pants. Just for luck—she doesn’t think it would be prudent to cum all over his carpet. Hopefully, his desk will be different.
Right? If you must, why not do what you love?

NSFW: yes

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