Very slow build to sex. Apologies for mistakes-no editor. Comments/criticisms welcome. silkcita
*****
Chris settled behind his desk and prepared for the day's last interview. There had been many. With the financial downturn in the area, the pool of attractive women willing to type and file and take a load of jizz was large. Most had offered to blow him at the end of the interview; the equivalent to Apple's one more thing at a presentation's end. But Chris declined. Clouded judgment led to rocky shores, and he ran a tight ship. Money, cars, expensive condos, women, they were only tools, like vitamins taken in the morning and after a meal. Chris Peters "took" them because they were necessary for a productive life—a
normal
life.
He was a twenty-four-year-old private accountant and freelance "investor" located in a small office suite consisting of a Liquor store, title loan office, and an Italian restaurant. This was Downtown. The only non-dilapidated building in the area was the strip club situated in a two-story building behind the suite. Except for the red neon sign of a nude woman lounging in a martini, it was hidden from the highway, soaring over the run-down strip mall like a topless phoenix. A buddy of his ran the establishment—poorly, in Chris's opinion, but he was not one to openly critique a colleague within the criminal underworld.
The doorbell buzzed and Chris looked at the security feed. In view was the side profile of a brunette in a pink blouse and grey pinstriped pencil skirt. She looked wholly out of place to the dirt and grime on the curb.
Chris buzzed her in.
The front door opened into a waiting area and what would be his secretary's desk. His office was adjacent to that, adjoined by a two-way mirrored door.
"Through the door on your right," he called out blindly to her. He stood when she entered through the open office door. "Ms. Davidson?"
The young woman gave a bright smile and strolled to his desk, trying unsuccessfully to hide her nervousness as she teetered closer on unsteady feet. "Yes, sir," she said in a breathy, girlish voice. "I'm here to be interviewed."
Chris shook her hand and introduced himself. He got the distinct feeling that she wasn't as smart as she dressed (a big minus). A cheery smile and lovely blue eyes made up a young face that was more girl-next-door cute than sexy. Her brown hair was browner in some places like the dark specks of a pecan shell. It was shoulder-length and fell like a bowl around her head. Her hand was soft (a plus) and her blouse was tight with a generous amount of cleavage (another plus). Very developed for her age, he observed, also noticing that she smelled strangely of oatmeal or homemade soap. Chris motioned to a chair and she turned to sit down.
His jaw dropped.
Smothered beneath her skirt was a shapely big ass.
Vitamins were good, but there was something therapeutic about squeezing a spongey ass cheek. It was the only thing that could his mind.
She sat and saw his face. "Mr. Peters?"
Resetting his mind back to business, Chris sat and folded his hands together on his desk, unable to ignore the relaxing Zen-like quality of her light blue eyes. "Do you have your resume, Ms. Davidson?"
"Oh, yes sir, I do," the young woman smiled, pulling her shoulders back, which wobbled her breasts beneath the tight blouse.
Chris waited patiently, then said, "May I have it?"
"Oh!" she exclaimed, and with an embarrassed smile reached inside her bag.
Chris took the resume when she handed it to him, disturbed to find himself eyeing her cleavage. She sat back and crossed her legs, smiling, oblivious of his ogling. With effort, he looked down at her resume. He frowned instantly.
"About my resume," the young woman began preemptively.
Chris flipped it over, searching. "Yeah, where is it?"
He was still flipping when she looked down inside her palm and recited, "Some talents aren't found on paper but through deed."
Chris angled his head to her with a raised brow. "Did you just read that?"
She lowered her chin and stared at him contritely with big blue eyes. She nodded.
Chris shook his head with an impatient sigh. Her resume consisted of a list of "strengths" and three references, two of which were relatives. By far the worst he seen. He leaned back in his chair, intending to send her on her way. He didn't mind the terrible resume or even her questionable intelligence—the position was mainly for optics, giving the place a look of legitimacy—but this wasn't the place for a naïve, eighteen-year-old girl.
Taking a glance at her resume, Chris said, "Tammy Lyn, you look like a sweet—"
Immediately her soft features crumpled into a sob. "Please, Mr. Peters," she cried. "We really need me to get this job. You don't even have to give me the full five hundred. I'll do it for four."
Chris averted his gaze. It was his friend who placed the ad. Chris thought no one would work for less than six, but as the interviews and propositions proved, he was wrong. The area's downturn was due to a factory being closed. It was the pony to the town's one and only trick. The ripple effect was catastrophic to regular folks but catnip to others, hence his presence.
He stood and walked around his desk and handed her a tissue, taking her hand then leading her to his couch. They sat and sunk into the plush leather. He saw her surprise and smiled. "Like a cloud, huh?" He'd spent top dollar for it, intending to use it when the job demanded an all-nighter.
Tammy Lyn nodded, tissue held to her running nose. Chris grabbed the box from the desk and handed it to her. That's when he saw a strip of paper lying on the carpet. He reached and picked it up, feeling her tense beside him as he did. Not wanting to embarrass her he quietly slipped it back to her.
"Thanks," she whispered, taking it into her hand.
"It sounded nice," he said, lightly patting her knee. "Who wrote it?"
"My Gran."
Remembering the references of her resume, he said, "I'm guessing the other Davidson is your mother. Who's your other reference?"
Tammy Lyn dabbed the last bit moisture from her eye and said, "A friend down the road. She loaned me some of her mom's work clothes." She bit her lip, her expression saying she wished she hadn't said that.
"Well, you look lovely," Chris said graciously, eliciting a smile. "Have you talked to your friend's mom about a job?" he inquired, feeling an unfamiliar urge to help. "Maybe something as an intern somewhere."
She shook her head indicating otherwise while Chris strained to not stare at her substantial cleavage. "No one's hiring," she said, her tone pleading. "At least someone like me, with no work experience or High School diploma."
Chris kept a straight face. He didn't even check her education level on the resume—probably because it wasn't there. "But you did
go
to school, right?"
Slowly, she shook her head. "I was home-schooled."
