Slowly and imperceptibly, awareness and responsibility crept in, both of them having the prefix “self-.” Objectively, which was all but impossible for me, at that time, I didn’t have too terrible of an existence. It just wasn’t the life I needed. I had been on the planet for less than a score of years, and I already had a large, modern house without a mortgage. Even better, the fact that Dave gave me the deed to the house infuriated his parents; that gave the both of us endless pleasure. No income from Dave’s IT business had trickled in, so I was on my own for living expenses.
I’d tried various things to find myself, including a stint in a Christian congregation. Other women my age were rebelling against their parents by experimenting with Wicca and other forms of paganism, but I, being raised by devout pagans, had to cozy up to mainstream faiths to rebel. It was short-lived, as my upbringing made sense to me, and I had issues with the new church’s core precepts.
I also tried acting and dressing differently, adopted the local, Southern twang, and made myriad attempts to fit in. None of those worked for me; I either loathed myself even more for faking things, or I couldn’t keep a straight face. The serendipity of finding a new job, hours after quitting my old, shitty occupation, gave me hope, strength, and inspiration. Suddenly, my self-absorbed life of tragedy seemed filled with hope and possibilities.
The day I quit being a waitress, I had a few dollars in my pocket, and the sun was shining in a cloudless sky. I felt like treating myself to lunch, just not at the restaurant I’d just left, so I was walking down the street, looking for a quaint, little café or some other place to dine. Just as I was walking past a small insurance agency, the owner was putting a Help Wanted sign in the window.
Curious, I entered. The owner, Frank, and his son, Frank Junior, were discussing, from opposing points of view, the advantages and disadvantages of hiring some office help. Not being the most customer-service-oriented men to have ever existed, they ignored me when I walked in. I was slightly surprised at that, as I’d grown quite used to men looking at me with lusty stares that ran the gambit of quick glances up to drooling, perverted, lecherous leers.
“What’s the job pay?” I asked them, interrupting their tête-à-tête.
Then, they noticed me. Four eyes scanned me, running down my torso, then back up, lingering on the outlines of my hard nipples poking out through my shirt and feasting on the exposed flesh of my scrawny legs. My skirt was a lovely, little wispy, gypsy affair, just above the knees. It flared out a bit, making it seem shorter and more risqué than it was.
The older Frank seemed charmed and delighted; the younger version, however, seemed skeptical. I couldn’t blame him. I was dressed somewhat suggestively, definitely not job-interview attire unless I was auditioning to be an erotic dancer. Of course, had I been trying out as a dancer, I’d probably have put on some underwear. I was on my own, now, and I hated doing laundry; that was just one more excuse to not wear any undergarments.
“Do you know what an office assistant even is?” The arrogant, condescending Frank Jr. asked me.
I was used to people treating me as if I were a brainless bimbo. Not only did I have about two decades of weathering such affronts, but when one has a modicum of physical attractiveness, the typical assumption is that brains and beauty are mutually incompatible.
“Office assistant? That’s like a combination secretary, records department, receptionist, and janitor, all on burger-flipping pay, right?”
The older Frank, a handsome, older gentleman with graying sideburns and just a bit of a paunch, laughed. Junior, a swarthy, chiseled man with a muscular torso and tiny waist, glowered at me.
“Do you know how to use a computer?”
“No,” I teased with scathing sarcasm. “I come from a primitive, mountain tribe, and we don’t have those mysterious, magical things. We have, however, upgraded to triangle wheels instead of the old, square ones. They eliminate one bump.”
Big Frank, as he was called, laughed at that. “Here’s the job, Miss…”
“Greene. Krystal Greene.” I felt like Jane Bond.
“Well, Miss Greene, we’re a small life, home, and auto insurance firm, and we need some help with greeting customers, filing the paperwork, scheduling, setting up new accounts, and things like that.”
It was a five-day workweek, and the pay was quite low. They couldn’t afford a trained, competent person, so I got the job. Oddly, despite no training or real education, I excelled at helping to run a small business. To my surprise, I had a knack for reading people and putting them at ease, which made the long wait times much more pleasant for the clients. I also kept on Frank Junior about filing his paperwork and nagged Big Frank about his schedule. Under my guidance, the tiny office flourished.
As there was no formal dress code, and I’d gotten hired dressed as a slutty tramp, I wore some of my less-revealing witchy and Bohemian-styled clothes to work. Those were happy months for me. Big Frank was a leering pervert, always making improper comments. Had I been the type to take offense at the drop of a hat, I probably could have sued for sexual harassment to cover my expenses, but it was all in fun. He never once made me feel uncomfortable or threatened.
Frank Junior, on the other hand, was too shy to say anything. His eyes, however, roamed all over me whenever he thought I wouldn’t notice. Once he got over his dominant-male routine, he was quite the fun and pleasant man to be around. Junior was in his late twenties, physically fit, and quite handsome. The exhibitionist tease in me looked forward to his lusty stares.
By then, I’d resigned myself to my slutty fate. No matter how I dressed or how I behaved, it seemed that my choices of peers had no bearing; people judged me to be a slut. If I was going to face the ire of society, I might as well embrace the role and enjoy it. I ceased worrying about whether I looked slutty and began cataloging my various looks. “Office slutty,” was the designation for my work wardrobe. The stages of slutdom went from “hint of sluttiness” up to “look-at-my-mostly-revealed-body-and-fuck-me-hard cum-slut.” When one goes to a rave and bimbo’d-up floozies, high on X and wearing ass-revealing micro-dresses, slut-shame you, you’ve mastered your slutty wardrobe.
Junior had a long-term girlfriend. They’d been dating for almost five years and living together for a little over eight months at the time I got hired. Her name was Bethany, and she hated me for some reason. Her first words to me were, “Who the fuck are you?” Her words dripped with scornful venom. Her demeanor and attitude reminded me of high school. After that, it was all condescending, negatively judgmental stares of intimidation and crass, spite-filled half-sentences.
It wasn’t my place to mention that she was just a vile, spiteful creature who felt the need to put everyone else down to feel superior. So, I never voiced my low opinion of the woman. They were family, and I was the hired help. However, whenever she’d drop by, checking up on Frank under the pretense of dropping by to visit with her boyfriend. I went into teasing-slut mode.
Bethany noticed, and she hated me for it. I enjoyed it, and my teasing fueled many masturbation marathons in the comfort of my own home. Had we not worked together, I’d have wantonly fucked Frank Junior. The fact that his girlfriend was a psychotic twat just made him all the more desirable. My budding self-awareness told me that it was just because I didn’t like the woman, so I wanted to return the treatment she gave me by showing her that I could take what she had. The pagan upbringing of my youth kept me from seducing my coworker and boss, as one does not lash out at others for any reason, but it didn’t stop me from playing.
If Bethany was in the office, which was regularly, I’d suddenly need to stretch and bend, picking up papers from the floor, addressing my aching back from the uncomfortable chairs, or stretching my arms way up high to address some random thing above my station. I teased, enticed, and distracted, making Bethany fly into an indignant rage on more than one occasion because her beau wasn’t paying attention to her.
The truth of the matter was that I loved the attention. All I’d ever wanted in life was acceptance and the attention that goes along with it. So long as I hid my intellect and wit, Frank Junior gave me attention every time I’d move or shift position. Bethany was symbolic of my prior tormentors, and it felt like sweet revenge. Big Frank, although he never made a move, lavished horny attention upon me. He never hid his ogling, and I let his eyes feast on me.
“I wore that green blouse you said you liked,” I told him one morning, “but no bra, because I know how much you love staring at my tits.”
“I’m so sorry, Krys,” he apologized. “I promise you, I’m harmless. It’s just that you’re so beautiful. I appreciate a well-proportioned woman.”
“I know,” I explained. “It’s no problem. I like you looking.”
That was all that was ever said. Every so often, I’d catch Big Frank looking at my ass. When I did, I’d smile at him, knowingly, and continue working. It became our silent game. He’d leer at me, barely containing his lust, and I’d see how hard I could get him. His son also surreptitiously drooled over my body.
I discovered that I didn’t just enjoy the attention; I craved it. I began dressing slightly differently. Rather than choosing publicly acceptable clothing that hid my feminine curves, I began intentionally picking clothes that enhanced it. The attention-whore in me had blossomed.
Around my birthday, All Hallow’s Eve, I suggested that they use a Frankenstein character for their radio ads. It was a play on the firm’s name, “Frank and Son Insurance.” That idea embedded me firmly into the company’s fold. I had even entertained the idea of staying there, long-term. In my off-hours, I even began studying to become an insurance agent. However, my slutty nature got me fired, and it was worth it.
The office was on the smaller side. When one entered, my station, a long counter in its alcove, faced the front. I had full command of my area, and it separated the dual offices from the waiting area. A single, multipaned wall of glass spanned the width of the office, behind me. My rear wall was transparent, as if I were on display. My area, being the front counter as well as the records room, was jammed with file cabinets, printers, and other office sundries. Because of that, I had a long table, my surrogate desk, against the glass wall, so I could do my policy filings and other paperwork.
