Background Check

"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 -- younger -- slaves gave her. She feels tears welling up in her eyes just thinking about it.

"I'm sorry to hear that," the interviewer says. "For what it counts, I can't imagine why. You're quite attractive."

"Thank you." She flushes and straightens up in her chair. Tries to stick out her tits a bit more. God, why didn't she wear something that showed more cleavage?

"Well." The interviewer thinks for a moment. "In terms of the management position, I don't think your work experience quite matches what we're looking for."

"... oh." She casts her eyes down.

"However, I can certainly sympathize with having to start over again after a major life change." He taps his finger against the desk. "I'd have to talk to the CEO, but perhaps we can find another place for someone with your unique talents."

Her breath catches in her chest. "Like what?"

"On paper, your job title would probably be either secretary or receptionist," the interviewer says. "But really, you'd be the office slut. Fucking the higher-ups -- including myself -- on request. Sleeping with potential clients. Offering free lap dances to raise employee morale. That sort of thing."

"Ohmigod, that sounds perfect!" Her eyes go wide. "You'd really do that for me?!"

"I can't promise anything right now, but..." He shrugs. "I should warn you, there'd be a lot of late hours involved. Quite a bit of overtime. And to be clear -- you are willing to do anal, correct?"

"Absolutely!" She'd have to buy a butt plug on the way home. Make sure her ass was good and ready to take a cock again. But, God... fucking for a paycheck? It's like a dream come true for her. Shit. Just the idea of it's making her wet.

"Excellent." The interviewer jots down a quick note. Then he stands up and goes around the side of the desk. "In that case, there's just one more matter. I trust you are not adverse to demonstrating your job skills?"

"No, sir." She grins and licks her lips. "In fact, I was kinda hoping you'd say that."

"By all means, then." He gestures down at his crotch.

Okay, pressure's on. Time to give the best blowjob/titjob of her life -- or maybe more, if she can convince him to sample her other wares. She cheerfully returns to her natural state -- on her knees. Smiling up at him, making sure to keep eye contact the way you're supposed to in interviews, already looking forward to swallowing like a good little whore does, she slides off her blazer and starts to unbutton her blouse. When she gets a free hand, she gives her pussy a quick rub beneath the fabric of her panties. Just for luck, of course -- she has a feeling it wouldn't be a smart move to cum all over his carpet. His desk, hopefully, will be another matter.

Everyone has to sell out sometime, right? But if you have to... why not make sure you'll be doing what you love?