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Women Only
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Straight Female / 26
A Smart Ass Texan Lured Me Away From My Chicken Shit Job In Boston
I was 22, depressed, working tables at PF Chang's in Boston. A solo businessman smiled at me and he asked my name, and then asked why I was working there. I didn't walk like a waitress. He offered me a job, but first I had to show him a good time. I said fuck you, and he grabbed my arm and told me I had it backwards, he was going to fuck me.
I flew to Dallas and stayed at Fairmont hotel downtown. My interview was one of those six people at a time, a psychological profile, an aptitude test. The lady told me I would be on telephone reception. 12.50 an hour, benefits after 90 days. Better than waiting tables, I got an apartment for 60 days.
The day I moved into the apartment, which turned out to be the executive staff house for visiting board members and other VIPs, he came over to claim his good time. He meant it too, the whole dance for him, twirl around, off with the top, barefoot in panties, then see you tomorrow, and he walked out.
After my 90 days I was transferred to marketing, then transferred to treasury, nothing serious, just watch, learn and get along. The apartment I got was twice as big as the shit hole in Boston. That's where he claimed his good time, everything has a price, he said. His department is treasury, where he wants me, right under his thumb.
A good time in Dallas, is a night out on the town, a ride in a Mercedes cabriolet, a walk in the park. The only way I got my good time was to threaten to get on a plane and go back to Boston where I grew up. I also got my first pair of cowboy boots. The real pretty ones, the ones with the shit on the inside, or so he says.
I could have titled this desperate girl runs away from home for a man.
I flew to Dallas and stayed at Fairmont hotel downtown. My interview was one of those six people at a time, a psychological profile, an aptitude test. The lady told me I would be on telephone reception. 12.50 an hour, benefits after 90 days. Better than waiting tables, I got an apartment for 60 days.
The day I moved into the apartment, which turned out to be the executive staff house for visiting board members and other VIPs, he came over to claim his good time. He meant it too, the whole dance for him, twirl around, off with the top, barefoot in panties, then see you tomorrow, and he walked out.
After my 90 days I was transferred to marketing, then transferred to treasury, nothing serious, just watch, learn and get along. The apartment I got was twice as big as the shit hole in Boston. That's where he claimed his good time, everything has a price, he said. His department is treasury, where he wants me, right under his thumb.
A good time in Dallas, is a night out on the town, a ride in a Mercedes cabriolet, a walk in the park. The only way I got my good time was to threaten to get on a plane and go back to Boston where I grew up. I also got my first pair of cowboy boots. The real pretty ones, the ones with the shit on the inside, or so he says.
I could have titled this desperate girl runs away from home for a man.
