CHAPTER ONE
Tammy
Have you ever been wicked?
Just a teensie weensie little bit wicked?
And did it feel good?
This is the story of how I went from innocent intern to … well, something a lot less innocent.
The day began as usual. My alarm went off at 5 a.m. and I rolled out of bed, groaning. But I couldn’t afford not to get up. Literally, I couldn’t afford it because it’s my job at Luxor Corporation that pays my rent, my tuition, my clothes, food, books, everything.
So I struggled out of the sheets and reached for clothes I’d set out the night before. Hopping up and down a bit, I yanked the pencil skirt over my hips, grunting slightly, aghast at the tight fit. When had it gotten so small? Had the dry cleaners ruined my favorite little black number? Damn it, tears filled my eyes because I had no money and the skirt would be expensive to replace.
But in the back of my mind, I knew the truth. It wasn’t the dry cleaners, it’s me. I’m a curvy girl, the kind with generous boobs, wide hips, and a round, juicy ass. I’ve always been bigger, so to say, and it’s always a challenge to find clothes, especially work clothes that fit my Jessica Rabbit proportions.
So sighing, I shook my head, there wasn’t much I could do about it right now. Making sure I looked presentable with one last desperate tug at my skirt, a little shimmy of my hips, I grabbed my bag and raced out the door. The 301 bus comes only once an hour, so if I wanted to make my ride it’d be a hustle. It’s a solid hour commute each way and I planned on doing a little reading on the ride, maybe try to study up on organic chemistry.
Because in addition to my full time job, I’m also a student at Hudson University. It’s a tough load to juggle but I don’t really have a choice. In fact, I’m only in college thanks to a wonderful guidance counselor, Ms. Lincoln, who encouraged me to apply, told me I had the grades and grit to make it. So with a trembling hand, I’d filled out the zillion forms, not expecting much, and was genuinely surprised when a fat envelope arrived in the mail.
Tearing open the FedEx package, I’d gasped and colored, suffused with happiness. They liked me! I was in! A letter from the Dean himself stating, “Hudson University is happy to offer you admission …”
But that’s when the fairy tale ended. Because right behind the admission letter was my financial aid offer, and my eyes immediately started welling up when I saw the number. Had they missed a zero? Or maybe there was a typo, this couldn’t be right. But there’d been no mistake, it was my name and social security number at the top. Hudson was “pleased” to offer me five thousand dollars of grant money per year, renewable for four years.
But that was the problem. Five thousand was a pittance, a mere drop in the bucket. Tuition is FIFTY-five thousand per year. So by the end of year four, I’d be two hundred thousand dollars in the hole if and when I graduated.
But Ms. Lincoln hadn’t been wrong when she said I was full of grit and determination. I put a resume up on Monster and started applying furiously, throwing myself at any and every job although at seventeen, I didn’t have much experience except for a past stint flipping burgers and some random babysitting gigs.
But the stars aligned in my favor and I was called in for an interview with Luxor Corporation, a real estate conglomerate in Midtown. It’s owner and CEO is Nick Martin, billionaire playboy and handsome as fuck man about town, in the news as often for his latest female conquest as his most recent business acquisition. But that had nothing to do with me. I’d applied for a low-level role, just one step up from intern, I’d never see the top dog himself.
And when I got the position, it never occurred to me that I’d have occasion to meet Mr. Martin. In fact, in the three months I’ve been here, I still don’t know where he sits, what he does, or even caught a glimpse of the man. I’d love to, sure, just to see if Nick Martin’s as hot as he looks in the papers, but unfortunately billionaire CEOs don’t come by the basement very often, Mr. Martin’s probably in a glass penthouse in the sky, about as far from me as you can get.
Because yeah, I sit underground now, in the sub-basement really. I used to have a desk on the third floor with a bunch of other marketing folks but when my boss got into a motorcycle accident, stuck in the hospital indefinitely, HR moved me down here.
It’s a terrible location. I’m right next to the boiler, so it’s really hot and I often have to undo the top two buttons on my blouse just to cool down a bit. Plus, there’s no one else around. I’m literally alone down here, in a tiny little office with no windows, the hallway outside silent, floors polished, only the occasional whine of building machinery coming on with a heavy metallic creak.
And so I’ve been coming to work each day, letting myself in, wandering the halls by myself. At first, I tried my best to hold down the fort without my boss, to be his representative, but it didn’t really work. When clients realized that an eighteen year-old girl was now the only person in Interactive Marketing, they slowly disappeared, finding other outlets, other resources to handle their needs. So now I sit at my desk and read the Employee Handbook, peruse random marketing texts trying to teach myself the ins and outs of this job. But it’s impossible to fill eight hours a day and most of the time I’m on my own.
And I’ve become really wicked.
There’s a women’s restroom down the hall from me, and I’ve been using it for fun times. It’s my guilty little secret. I’ve got a locked drawer of sex toys in my desk and I take them with me to the women’s restroom for a small pick me up a couple times a day now. It’s so delicious, tremors running up and down my spine, my little cunt flexing and creaming, and the hours go by so much faster now. Did I say I was a good girl? Well I’m not … I’m bad.