Career Girl
by LindaMarie

Becky got out, and she did it the easy way.

Well, they call it that. Getting a respectable job and hauling your ridden-one-times-too-many ass out of Oldtown ain't as easy as it sounds.

She promised herself, Not for money, honey, not any more and she learned to type, to answer phones in her good-girl voice, scribble shorthand like she'd actually gone to school. Then she found the only corporate fat-cat in town that wasn't already a familiar face, and waited. She stretched out her savings and traded in her whorin' clothes for pencil skirts and button-up blouses and sensible shoes. She let her mother buy her the glasses she'd been putting off wearing for years.

Her lucky day came within six months. The big guy's secretary was out on her ass for not being good enough.

Becky was better than her. Becky was always the best at anything she put her mind to.

She got the job, and she kept it. She kept that old vow she'd made, too.

A year later Becky had a fancy new apartment and a practical used car--nothing fancy there, but it got her to work and back without complaint. That was all that mattered. Her work was her life, just like always.

One day Becky went to the office and Mr. Warren was crying into his jacket sleeve. My wife's leaving me for some actor shithead, he said. She's taking the kids. You're all I have left, Becky. And she hugged him. That's how it started, anyway.

He told her he loved her. It had been a while since a man told her that. Maybe he didn't mean it any more than the others, but he wasn't paying for her cunt this time, just the neat black-lettered pages she'd stacked on his desk, the ones she made sure not to scatter as he bent her over the table and took her for all she'd once been worth.

It's an old story in Sin City, played out a million different ways. It was six months later and they'd fucked in every place possible in that one spacious room. He was out to lunch, and Mrs. Warren walked in. She and Becky had a little chat. When he came back he found his secretary alone and crying.

His wife had never left him; oh, sure, there'd been a fight, and Mrs. Warren had made plans for it, but the two of them made up that very same evening. The first evening Becky had to drop off her merino wool skirt at the cleaners to get out the spunk stains.

Mr. Warren referred Becky to a colleague who paid even better than he did. He thought he was doing right by her, she supposed.

Her new boss used to pay her to suck him long and slow while he tangled his hands in her silky hair. Not for money, honey, not any more.

Now he pays her to only patch through calls he wants to take, and type as cleanly and precisely as he speaks. To remember birthdays and anniversaries and buy his wife something nice for him to give her.

Now she does the blow jobs for free.


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