Daughter Training 2: A Woman’s Job

Story Excerpt

Jasmine felt like she did not belong in her father’s office, especially dressed as some cheap back alley slut. But she was the new intern and he was the boss. And regardless of her connections, she had never felt more out of place, especially not here, not like this, not with her brown legs bare, her ass barely covered, and her huge black tits buoyed up in the air like twin prizes. She was the only person in this company with tits this big, and her father, Mike, never let her forget it. Not at home, not in the parking lot, not in the sterile, glass-walled cube he called a boardroom. And never, absolutely never, when it was just the two of them.

“Sit.” Mike gestured at the chair opposite his desk. He hadn’t even looked at her yet. His attention was on his phone, thumb scrolling, never missing a beat.

Jasmine sat. She crossed her legs, then thought better of it and uncrossed. She tried to fold her arms, but her biceps pressed her breasts up and out so they nearly spilled from the lacy, black mesh. There was no way to be modest in this outfit. There was no way to even exist.

She cleared her throat. “Dad, is this a joke?”

Mike didn’t look up. “Does it feel like a joke?”

She glared at him. His salt-and-pepper hair looked even stiffer than usual, like a helmet, but his stubble was more pronounced. He’d been on a golf trip last weekend, and the sun had tanned his face and neck a deep, arrogant brown. She wondered if anyone had told him he looked handsome. She wondered if he’d be happy or pissed if she said it.

“It’s slutty. It’s not a uniform.” She gestured at herself. “I look like a stripper.”

Mike finally set the phone down. He rested his chin on the back of his hand and scanned her, bottom to top. He didn’t stop at her knees or thighs or the stretch of her panties, didn’t hesitate at her flat stomach or her exaggerated breasts. His gaze was clinical, bored.
“You’re not a stripper, Jasmine. You’re an intern. There’s a difference.”

She blinked, heat crawling up her chest. “Then why the fuck am I dressed like this?”

He didn’t answer right away. He looked around the empty room. His finance company was wildly successful. His office was big enough to fit a whole strip club if he wanted it with ten chairs, a glass table, and screens on three walls. Jasmine realized, with a pulse of dread, that she was the only one here with him. Every year he hired only one intern. Always a woman. Always with builds just like hers.