You’re A Good Girl
by Pan
“You’re a good girl,” Melissa’s boss said, nodding as she unstacked the shelf.
What the hell did he mean by that?
A part of Melissa wanted to turn around and just slap him. It was totally inappropriate. She couldn’t imagine the old man saying that to any of his other employees. ‘You’re a good boy,’ to one of the clerks, as he put a customer through—it wouldn’t happen. He was being totally sexist.
But he didn’t mean it that way, she knew. He was just a harmless old man. From a different time.
She tried to remind herself of that as she continued working, biting her tongue.
“You’re a good girl,” he said the next day, as she clocked in.
That one confused her a little. What exactly was she a good girl for doing? Coming to work?
He clearly didn’t mean it as a come-on. She was a fifth his age; no part of him could possibly think that she was going to be interested in someone old enough to be her grandfather’s grandfather.
I mean, he wasn’t that old, but still.
Perhaps he genuinely thought he was complimenting her. It made a certain amount of sense—‘good girl’ could hardly be interpreted as an insult.
He was probably using it in the same way as one might say ‘nice dress’, or ‘great shoes’ to a woman, when you’d never say anything even remotely similar to a man. Sexist, obvs, but fairly harmless, in the scheme of things.
“You’re a good girl,” he said again, nodding his approval as she tied her shoe. Before she could see the expression on his face, he was gone, pottering around the corner to do whatever he did when he wasn’t complimenting her.
What on earth was that about? She hadn’t even been doing anything work-related. Maybe the old man was starting to get a little dotty, moving around the store, spouting off outdated phrases at random.
It was so off-putting, it stuck in her head all day.
You’re a good girl. You’re a good girl. You’re a good girl.
The next morning, she found herself hovering around his office. She tried to tell herself that her duties required her to do work in that particular area, but after she’d restacked the tomato cans half a dozen times, she couldn’t lie to herself any more.
She wanted to see him again.
She wanted to hear him say it.
To her disappointment, he must have had a lot of emails to catch up on (or whatever his generation used to communicate. Telegrams, or carrier pigeons or whatever), because she didn’t see him for the remainder of her shift.
“I’m a good girl,” she muttered, as she stayed back for fifteen minutes after the store closed, making sure that everything was spick and span.
To her delight, Melissa saw him as soon as she entered the next day. She’d gotten up early to iron her uniform, and she was even wearing makeup.
She knew that her boss liked women in makeup.
But as his eyes ran over her, her tension wasn’t relieved. He smiled at her—the kind, gentle smile he’d given her so many times before—and said nothing.
Nothing.
Melissa worked harder that day than she could ever remember working. To make up for how little she’d gotten done in the previous shift, she told herself. By the time it was time to go, every aisle of the store was spotless, every stray item returned to its proper place. She’d even sorted the toy rubber balls by color, leaving a tidy rainbow of bounciness.
She knew that he’d seen her, how hard she was working. He’d even stopped to make casual conversation for a few minutes; Melissa had hung on his every word, but he hadn’t said the specific four that she was holding out to hear.
More than an hour after she’d clocked out, Melissa finally called it a day. She wanted to get home in time to get a good night’s sleep, make sure that she was well-rested for her early shift the next day.
A month passed, in which Melissa tried harder each day to improve. All day, as she worked, a single phrase repeated in her head.
You’re a good girl. You’re a good girl. You’re a good girl.
When she wasn’t working, she was doing research. The history of the company, the history of retail. Every site she could find, that described the attributes of a model employee.
Melissa was doing all she could to earn her boss’s praise.
Late at night, when her brain felt as though it was as full as a brain could be, she’d stagger into bed and masturbate to get to sleep.
As she did, she pictured the old man who owned the store, bestowing on her the four sweetest words in the English language.
The words had become more than an obsession, more than a phrase. They’d become a mantra. She lived her life to the beat of ‘You’re’, ‘a’, ‘good’, ‘girl’—after six weeks without hearing anyone but herself say them, Melissa had a revelation.
She was being a good employee. That wasn’t what her boss meant—if he’d meant ‘you’re a good employee’, he would have said so.
No, he’d been quite specific.
A good girl.
A good girl.
The next day, Melissa broke some of the rules. Instead of the regulation pants that the employee code of conduct demanded, she wore a black skirt. She eschewed the tie, and undid her top two buttons.
Her boss’s eyes lit up when he saw her.
“Very nice,” he said, giving her a kindly smile.
As he entered his office, Melissa followed him, closing the door behind him.
“Did you need something?” he asked, standing beside his desk.
“Please,” Melissa said, putting her hands on his concave chest. “Sir…”
As Melissa dropped to her knees in front of her boss, he grinned down at her.
“Melissa,” he said softly, enjoying the sensation of her lips wrapping around his cock. “You’re a good girl…”