The Interview

I liked her.

When you have interviewed as many candidates as I have, you find that there are some you like within the first few seconds, and some you do not take to quite as much. I liked this woman.

She had entered the room hesitantly, unsure whether to close the door behind her, then closing it tentatively, holding down the handle, then easing it back up, so that she would not make a sound of any kind. I had indicated the chair on the other side of my desk, and her hips had swayed uncertainly as she crossed the short distance from door to chair, decidedly nervous in her grey business suit, black stockings, or maybe they were tights, black heels. Anxious, tense, uneasy, but something made me think that she would more than do, for the position that I had in mind.

When she sat, she did not cross her legs. Instead she kept them close together, her knees touching and angled to the left, her feet to the right. Her stockings, as I hoped they would turn out to be, were sheer, hinting of white flesh beneath the black. Her shoes gleamed black with small, metal decorative buckles centred at the front of each, the heels giving her an extra three inches standing erect. Her legs were shapely, but then so was her body. That was part of the reason that I had liked her as soon as she had walked through my office doorway.

She was blonde, her hair combed back from her forehead, baring it, and falling three inches below her shoulders, but with an upsweep at the ends, as if it was avoiding covering her breasts. The cut of her suit jacket was short, only just reaching her belted skirt. The jacket and skirt were a light grey, the belt contrasting in black leather, with a large, steel buckle at centre, matching the much smaller buckles on her shoes. Laid flat, the belt would not span much more than twenty inches. Hers was a waist that did not need any serous length of leather.

The tailoring of her jacket might have provided just enough overlap in front to allow the buttons to be passed through the corresponding button-holes, but she had left the front undone, perhaps because the cut of the suit, although it fitted perfectly her shoulders, waist and hips, failed to provide adequately for the fullness of her breasts.

Her blouse was white, and while describing it as sheer would be an exaggeration, the lighter, whiter, outline of her bra was clear beneath its fabric, contrasting with the other whiteness of her flesh. The bra itself was more likely to be mesh than an opaque fabric, allowing her areolas to show faintly through both layers, bra and blouse, each areola a two-inch circle of light brown beneath the double layer of white fabric. I liked their size and colour, and more so, her willingness to let them show.

It was subtle. It nevertheless conveyed a message. She was clearly nervous, but she had nevertheless decided in advance to dress so that her assets were displayed. Hire me, those areolas gently whispered, and these breasts are yours.

She had a black clutch bag, which she had carried in her left hand when she came in, and which now rested on her lap, her hands clasped lightly on top of it. Her fingers were slender. Unlike many blondes, whose white complexion can be marred by fingers that are almost red, hers were pure as snow, only the blood-red tear-drops of her varnished nails giving colour to her hands.

She wore just two rings, the sparkling diamond cluster given to her by her now husband, when they became engaged, and the solid gold wedding band that marked her as being his for ever more. I liked that she had not removed her rings. It added to the frisson of the interview I would soon start.

I liked her face. Her nervousness showed in the taut facial muscle beneath her pure white skin. She had delicate features, high cheek bones, a neat, slender nose, and a small mouth whose lips had a natural, bee-stung fullness that suggested that she was preparing to be kissed, even while they were in repose. I guessed that nature would have coloured those lips light pink. Her lip gloss had instead presented them as red, closer to a scarlet, the shade of choice of harlots the world over. Hire me, those lips declared, and this mouth is yours.

Her eyes were blue, the light blue of a winter sky, and her brows and lashes were so fair as to be almost white. Nervousness, almost to the point of fear, lay in those eyes. I liked that. This was someone desperate for this job, willing to do anything to be selected for the role.

Before I began my standard questions, I let my eyes roam over her, slowly and deliberately. She sat quite still, or almost still. I sensed her muscles tense, signalling a discomfort at being examined quite so intensely. I liked that. A little discomfort in an interviewee makes it all the more likely that they will be cooperative and open as the interview takes place.

I could picture her naked, all that white flesh exposed, soft and curvaceous, delicate feminine flesh that any man would love to fondle and caress, or to secure and punish. She was the kind of woman who inflamed desire. Her pubis would be sparse, fine blonde curls doing nothing to hide her slit, or possibly it might be bare, devoid of hair. I wondered if it would reflect her husband's preference or her own.

The squirm was so slight that someone less astute might not have noticed, but I saw it. She knew what I was thinking. Her body had reacted, involuntarily. She was unaccustomed to such overt appraisal of her assets. Still, she would get used to it in time.

I had her emailed application on my desk, printed on plain white paper. To my left was my appointments diary, clients, locations, dates and times. To my right was the framed photograph of my family, all four of us, our children aged six and eight when it was taken, two years ago. Eight and ten already. Time changes children so quickly as they grow. Her application said she had a child.

I started gently, much as any interviewer would, exploring her previous employment history, the reasons that she was seeking this position, and other easy questions, to ask and just as undemanding for an applicant to answer too.

Before she had married and had her daughter, she had been a teacher. That had only been for two years, but she had enjoyed it. I glanced down at my sheet of paper, calculating from her date of birth, confirming what I already knew. She was twenty-nine, young enough still to bring freshness to her work, old enough, and with enough experience of life, to bring maturity. That would suit me well.

She had been a full-time mother since then, but a year ago her husband had been made redundant, and things were getting tight. Her daughter was at a private school, and they could no longer pay the fees. That was the reason that she was here. She was only available during the day, but she understood from our advertisement online that that some work would be available for those available only while their children were at school.

I confirmed that we had openings that would allow her to leave mid-afternoon. I quite liked this policy, the 'Mother I'd Like to Fuck' approach to flexible working. MILF recruitment was the term I used. It would not be a problem. Then I asked if her husband knew about her application.

He knew, she said, that she had come to attend an interview. He was still looking for the right position for himself, and was happy for her to work in whatever role she was able to secure. He had not asked for any details. That was when I changed my tack, and asked a very different question.

At first, she sat in shock. There was no answer, so I asked again.

"Do you suck your husband's cock?"

"Yes," she said, her voice almost a whisper with the tightening of her vocal chords. "Sometimes."

Some women blush incredibly easily. The miniscule vessels just below the surface of the skin engorge rapidly with blood and their face and neck turn pink. In spite of my directness, she did not blush. It was not conscious self-control. It does not work that way. Some women simply do not have the blushing reflex. She did not have it. If anything her face had turned a white shade of her already white complexion, all but those wrap around, scarlet, bee-stung lips.

"How long for?" I asked.

She hesitated.

"How long?..." she repeated, either unclear what the question meant, or unsure how to answer.

"When you suck his cock," I said, "do you spend just a minute or two, or do you take your time? Five minutes? Ten? Maybe twenty?"

"Oh," she said. "I see. Yes. I suppose it could be as long as ten minutes. Possibly."

It amused me that way in which a well brought up young woman would lapse into a certain almost formal way of speaking, even when talking about sucking cock.

"And just his cock, or do you lick his balls as well?"

"No," she blurted, before I had quite finished the question. Then realising her rapid answer might have given me the wrong impression, she added. "I mean, not just his,.. his,.. cock."

The last word was said not just hesitantly, but so quietly, that I could hardly hear the hard, double consonant that makes it such an uncompromising noun. My guess was that she did not often use the word, or any other crudities, in her mundane, middle class, day to day, existence. But she had used it now, and it was satisfying to have made her say it.

"So you lick his balls?" I asked.

"Well, yes," she said.

"Because he likes it, or because you like it?"

After a moment, she gave the answer that I was hoping for.

"Well... both, I guess."

I like a woman who enjoys their work.

Already, this all seemed promising. It says a great deal about any woman whether they suck cock. Single women are more likely to. Their instinct is to want to please whichever man they are currently dating, or have met in a bar for a night's mutual satisfaction at his place or her own. Even if they do not anticipate seeing the guy again, they want to be at least as good as the other women that he may have fucked. They will therefore suck his cock, and take their time in doing so.

Married women are less likely to continue sucking cock. Married sex gets lazy, and more infrequent, especially once children are on the scene. Sex would happen only once a week, after a film and a bottle of wine, ten minutes total from the initial foreplay to his ejaculation in her cunt, before they fall asleep. So, ten minutes spent sucking her husband's cock was pretty good. Even better, she did it because she liked it. Or so she said.

"And how is your daughter getting on at school?"

I could see her struggling to reconnect with motherhood, having just been asked about how long she sucked her husband's cock and licked his balls.

"Fine," she finally said. "Yes, she's doing well."

"Well enough that you're willing to suck someone else's cock to keep her there?"

The strategy always works. Remind the interviewee why they are here. They do not really want the work. Nobody really wants to work. They want the money. That is what they really want, the money, and the quality of life it brings, the house, the car, the vacations on the slopes or in the sun, or the private school. It is that primal desire to have the best that can be achieved, or to give their child the very best, that enables them to compromise the standards of behaviour bred into them by parental norms and expectations, and their all so conservative upbringing.

She swallowed before answering. I wondered if she had worked out the next question that I would ask, but first she needed to confirm that she would suck someone else's cock, not just her husband's, if that meant keeping her daughter at her private school.

"Yes," she said, simple and direct, telling me that her daughter's education mattered more to her than whose cock she sucked to be able to afford that schooling.

"And swallow?" I asked.

"Yes."

I paused. I let my eyes roam over her body again. This time there was no uncomfortable shift. A barrier had been broken. We had both been quite explicit, so she knew exactly why I was appraising her. It was time to get down to what would really be expected of her.

"And you're on the pill?" I asked.

"Yes."

"So when your husband fucks you, you do it bare?"

"Yes."

"Does he fuck you in the ass?"

She looked mildly shocked. Her face gave away her inner surprise at being asked, but she controlled it well. While the directness of my previous questions had not prepared her for this level of explicit, intimate exposure of their marriage bed, she regained her composure quickly.

"No."

"Has anyone?"

"No," she said.

I gave her a moment to digest the conversation, to realise where I was leading her with it.

"Do I have to?" she finally asked. "I,.. I mean... I'd rather not."

I pictured her on all fours, on a white sheeted mattress, offering up her anal virginity, white flesh on white cotton or silk, as pure a picture as can be, about to permit the impure, to be forever soiled. It was an interesting thought.

Nevertheless, employers need to be appropriately considerate to the sensibilities of those whom they employ. Stretching an employee's limits further than is comfortable does not bring out the best in them, and it was clear that, amusing as the thought was, a cock entering her anus would stretch not just her sphincter muscle more than she would find comfortable, but her limits of propriety as well.

"It was just a question," I said. "It's not a requirement. But you will be fucked bare. Is that a problem?"

"I expected that," she said.

This time there was a quiet confidence. She had clearly thought through what she would need to say in order to secure this role, and this was the level of compliance that she knew would be required.

"Have you had many lovers?"

"There was someone when I was at university," she said. "I never slept around. My husband was the second."

"And you have always been faithful to him?"

She nodded. That was enough.

"You must love your daughter very much," I said.

Always remind them of why they need the job. Besides, I felt for her. Some women have slept around as much as any guy, and giving up their cunt to earn the money that they need, has nothing like the same significance, as it would for someone who has only had two men make love to her, both meaningful relationships.

I paused for thought. I knew already that I would hire her, but it on principle the scheduled interview process should always be completed. Any manager must proceed as they intend to go on. I had pictured her naked already, but I pay good money, and inspecting the goods in advance of the contractual commitment is part of any sound business arrangement.

I got up, walked around my desk and behind her chair, and let my hands rest lightly on her shoulders.

"Tell me about your daughter's school," I said.

She hesitated before she started. In that moment of hesitation, I leant further forward, moving my right hand from the collar of her jacket to the bare flesh of her neck and upper chest, and then down a little further, to the top button of her blouse.

I used my index finger and my thumb to angle the opal-white button until one edge found the neatly sewn button hole, and the entire button then slipped through. I moved to the next button and performed the same careful angling and slipping through the hole. She still had said nothing more, so I whispered firmly with my mouth right up against her ear.

"I said tell me about her school."

I opened one more button, the one that once undone, allowed her blouse to open wide and reveal her bra, and the white flesh of her breasts.

"It's a girls' preparatory school," she said, "in Bromley, near our house."

I stroked the bare flesh of her left breast along the top edge of her bra. Her skin was translucent, the pure white emphasised by the fine lines of four light-blue veins. The skin was taut, surprisingly so for a mother whose breasts, several years before, would have been engorged with milk. So often a mother's breasts show stretch marks from the enlargement that milk production causes, but none were visible.

"And?" I insisted.

"And it is an old, red brick building, with maybe two hundred girls, with playing fields and a playground at the back."

I slipped my fingers underneath her bra. I had selected her left breast with deliberate forethought. You have to work out the angles. When standing behind the candidate, and reaching down, accessing the right breast with the right hand means turning the fingers unnaturally to the side. Accessing the left provides greater ease of access.

I could already see the light brown of her wide areole through the white mesh fabric of her bra, and I knew exactly where to find her nipple stub. The bra fitted her full breasts neatly, but there was enough give in her flesh to allow my hand to ease inside, and by the time my middle finger touched the stub, it was already stiff in acquiescent anticipation.

I liked that very much.

One of the things that I have learned over the five years that I have managed my own team, is that it pays to assert your rights early on in the employment relationship. Employees must be kept in line.

I walked my fingers under her bra, down the malleable flesh of her breast until my finger-tips were beneath the breast itself, and against the hardness of her slender rib-cage. The upper edge of her bra cup pressed on the back of my hand. Her stiff nipple stub pressed against my palm.

I angled my hand outwards, levering against her ribs, drawing her breast up and out, until the bra cup slid off my hand and came to rest below my finger-tips. Her left breast was now totally exposed. It was pushed upwards by her misplaced bra cup, the pure white, translucent skin tauter than taut. The blue veins ran all the way to her areola, crossing its width, right to the stub. The stub itself protruded half an inch, and its diameter the same. It had been well sucked by her infant daughter. Possibly it had been abused by infant teeth. It would be abused again.

Assert your rights. Let your employee know who owns them.

Most people use the thumb and index finger when they take hold of anything as delicate as the exposed stub of an aroused nipple. I prefer my middle finger, not the index, for the simple reason that it is the stronger, and intensifies the grip. I took hold of the stub and squeezed.

She gasped.

I squeezed a little harder, then a little more, then harder still, until the tendons in my hand began to hurt.

Her body tensed, but she did not complain. They are two such similar words, so different in their meaning. With no complaint, a person is compliant. She was compliant. I liked that.

"Are you sure you want this job?" I asked.

It seemed to take something of an effort for her to answer, to register the question against the pain of a vice like pincer, and then enunciate the words.

"Yes," she said. "I do want this job."

I like the instinctive politeness of her response. She had been well brought up. Her parents would be proud, of that, at least. Not of her willingness to sell her body.

I released her nipple stub, removed my hand, and she relaxed. Slowly, her nipple engorged with blood, and the light brown turned to flaming red.

"Tell me more about the school," I said. "Her teacher. Man or woman?"

It was part of the same strategy. The focus on the school was really focus on her daughter. It was the reason for her to be here, in my office. It was the reason she had accepted the pain of her nipple being tested for its sensitivity, and with that pain, the testing of her own commitment and determination to secure the role she sought.

My hand went lower, reaching down her body, over her skirt, and to her stockinged leg, or rather the leg that I had assumed was stockinged from the moment she had walked through the office door.