"You have a very impressive resume, miss," her prospective employer says.
"I know," she says confidently. She sits in front of his desk in her best power suit, hair and makeup on point, coffee in a styrofoam cup in front of her. Feels strange, interviewing for an office job after all these years. But hey. Everyone's got to sell out sometime, right?
"Mmh." He sits back. "It's a pity it's all a lie. Wouldn't you say?"
"
What?!
" Her jaw drops in shock.
"Please, miss," the interviewer says. "The truth's not that difficult to find out. Just because you've gone under the name Felicity Fox for most of your career doesn't make you immune to a simple background check."
"Felicity...?" She feels dizzy. What is this -- some kind of bizarre power move? She's never even heard the name before, much less used it. But... why does it sound oddly familiar?
"Now, it says here," he says, glancing at a piece of paper, "that you spent many years as a stripper, correct?"
"A...?" Ridiculous. Ludicrous. She should throw the coffee in his face and storm out. "Y-yes," she admits instead, for some reason. And all at once she remembers: the clubs. The glare of the spotlights. Shaking her bare ass on a stage, night after night. Dancing as dirty as she could to get those tips. Bouncing up and down on a dildo, her blonde curls and breasts bobbing, to the roar of an approving crowd.
He puts his hands together. "It also says that you worked as an escort."
"A whore," she says bluntly. "I was a whore." She won't even try to dignify what she did with a fancy-sounding title. It all comes back to her in a flash. Her first time getting fucked up the ass in a filthy alleyway, tiny cocktail dress hiked up around her hips, the john pulling painfully on her hair -- at her request. The endless parade of cheap hotel rooms and car backseats. Offering repeat customers free blowjobs on holidays... or, hell, whenever she just really wanted to feel a cock between her lips...
