I straightened my flowery tie in the mirror. "Matt Long, soon-to-be salesman extraordinaire," I declared out loud to my reflection.
The suit I wore was reserved for weddings and funerals. Even the bright red tie was the only one I owned, last used about two years earlier at the marriage of a cousin -- which, incidentally, had already ended.
I was a bricklayer by trade, but recent bad weather had made building work treacherous. Rain makes laying bricks impossible and the site gets ruined with all the heavy machines moving about.
I needed a career change.
My whole life I had wanted to sell cars. Ferrari, Lamborghini, Porsche, anything. If it was fast and sporty, I loved it.
The interview was at a Toyota dealership, but hey, we all have to start somewhere.
I was twenty-two, fit and toned, good looking (so I was told), confidence was high and I was ready to step up.
I drove the few miles to the dealership, parked my old car and reminded myself of the name I was to ask for. Vera Chadwick.
Vera Chadwick. She had a name that sounded to me like a formidable old spinster. I had an Aunt called Vera, or as my older brother called her, "Perma-scowl". I don't think I ever saw her smile even once. She had a face that looked like it could've been carved by a skilled stonemason and mounted to the wall of a gothic mansion to scare away unwanted visitors of this realm or any other.
Walking through the car park, my heart sunk slightly seeing the cars for sale. Sensible, economical, reliable. Nothing to quicken the pulse of an avid petrol-head such as myself.
The automatic doors opened and I was greeted by a receptionist in her late forties, possibly fifty, but with the body of one much younger and incredible tits. "I've a meeting with Vera Chadwick," I announced, hoping that she would indeed be her.
"I'll ring through now sir, take a seat." She took my name, that's when I saw Rita's rather noticeable name badge. I needed my A-game and not to be distracted so easily by prominent breasts.
Behind me, I heard a door open and the sound of heels on the ceramic-tiled floor. I looked around, a magnificently elegant woman was walking toward me. In her late thirties or even forties, but as fit as can be. I was suddenly more enthusiastic to get the job once again, the place was full of sexy milfs.
In a business suit, dark blue with white blouse and skirt just above the knee, her brown hair was tied tightly in a ponytail and fell down to brush softly against her neck-line. She certainly had the appearance of a woman in charge, but didn't look like a Vera. Still, she was walking in my direction with a fixed smile.
The woman shook my hand and confirmed she was the lady I was looking for, then led me to her office at the back of the showroom. It had that one-way glass that looked like a mirror from the outside and helped to give the showroom an air of space and light. She led me in through a door that displayed her name.
She asked questions about my non-existent sales experience, then told me about the job and what would be expected of me in regards to targets. There was a flirtatious twinkle in her eye. She reminded me of a girl from the lap dance club I visited once. It was a quiet night and she had time to get to know me before inviting me to the VIP area where, for half a week's wages, she danced naked and then sucked me off. It was sensual, unhurried and worth every penny.
Ms Chadwick's blue eyes were enticing me in the same way.
"You are a bricklayer it says here," she said, referencing my resumé.
"Yes, I left school as an apprentice six years ago, but now I've had enough of getting wet all the time."
For a second I thought she blushed when I said the words "getting wet." I stopped in my tracks and there was silence for a couple of seconds. "That explains the rough skin on your hands. Maybe you could come over and do some work for me at my house."
"I have high rates, Ms Chadwick," I said, without thinking.
She giggled naughtily and then stopped herself from saying something, just took a breath. Was I mis-reading this?
"Put some of this on your hands," she said, pulling a tube of moisturiser from her drawer. She walked over to my side of the desk and squeezed out some cream on the cracked, dry skin on my bricklayer's hands.
"Rub it in like this." Her soft, manicured fingers with long red nails that matched her lips rubbed the cream into the skin. "I can tell a lot by looking at hands, Matt. Yours are lovely, big hands. You should make the most of your best features if you are to work for me."
She acted like she wanted to mother me. It was good to get this attention from her, although, I suspected, not entirely professional at a job interview.
