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Being a Shocking but True Account of the Working Woman's Moral Degeneracy

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"Please," Mildred says.

Mildred's cheek rests on a stack of expense reports, her knuckles clenched around the edge of the desk. Her skirt is bunched at her hips, which push back desperately against Ida's hand. Ida fucks Mildred faster.

Time passes. Mildred sobs and shudders and doesn't come.

Finally, Ida slides out her fingers. "Jesus boss," she says, "my arm is tired."

Mildred stands up, empty. Ida leans in to kiss her and Mildred turns her face away. "No," she says, "I can't."

"Can you usually?"

"I don't remember."

Ida looks at Mildred, shoulders slumped and eyes averted, and asks, "It's Veda, isn't it?" She's getting riled now, buttoning up her rumpled blouse. "She did this to you."

Mildred smoothes her palms against her skirt and doesn't look at Ida. "I just wanted to forget how she touches me. I thought if I let you..."

Ida pulls Mildred into her arms. "She won't have me anymore," Mildred murmurs into her neck, "I'm not good enough for her. I never was."

"Listen Mildred, whether you're blue-blood or blue collar, what that girl did to you is wrong."

"It's my fault," Mildred says. "I wanted it. She's just a child. She's my child."

"Veda's a bad apple. There's nothing you could have done to change her."

"Then I'm rotten too," Mildred says, "because I don't want to."