"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...
"One thing is odd, though," the interviewer says. "I don't see any employment for the last few years. May I ask why?"
"I... met someone," she says. "I became his slave." So many wonderful memories: on her knees, wrists offered up to him in supplication, begging for the chance to be his property. The feeling of utter bliss as he put the collar around her neck for the first time. Signing over all her worldly assets over to him without even blinking. Climaxing again and again around his hard cock, her life an endless blur of orgasms. Spending entire weeks in his house without so much as a stitch of clothing on, being used whenever he felt like it. The hours of punishment in the dungeon, blending pain and pleasure into a seamless whole. Getting her clit pierced and his name tattooed on her ass for his amusement. Walking through sex clubs on a leash, gleefully offering herself as a fucktoy to strangers at her master's whim.
"So what happened?"
"He got bored with me." Tossed out of the house in nothing but a thong and a pair of old boots. Pounding at the door, screaming and crying, begging to serve him again, promising to do better, to do
anything
just to feel his cock inside of her once more. The looks of pity the other --
