Love my job

Myra walked in to scrub a flat she’d never seen before. Two men stood there—tall, half-dressed, clearly incapable of touching a broom. She ran the cloth over every surface until the place shone. When the work was done they tossed her money on the table, then closed in on her. One pulled her onto his lap while the other slid behind. They took their time, working both her holes until she was stretched and slick, then finished across her face. Myra lives for this moment—the moment the payment becomes something she actually wants. The only time she minds the job is when the men in charge forget to take their turn.