"What interests you in working in a call centre?"
I look up into my interviewer's dark brown eyes. You would think securing a job in all centre would be as easy as ordering a cheeseburger but this whole interview has been a disgrace because my interviewer is hot. Every time he asks me a question behind his heavy oak desk, I probably sound like an idiot because I keep getting distracted.
"Tell me your strengths," he says and I have to tear my eyes away from how his rolled up shirt sleeves hug some pretty defined forearms.
"How do you handle conflict?" He asks and I barely hear him because his lower lip is slightly fuller than his top lip, and my head is exploding.
"What are some of your accomplishments," he questions after glancing down at my resume and I can't think of a single one because his fingers look pretty damn long. And strong. This observation makes me cross my legs to help relieve a bit of an ache that's starting to develop.
Much like the other questions, there is a pause. I pull myself together: "What interests me in working in a call centre? Well... Providing great customer service is very important to me. It makes my day knowing I can help someone else. It's a way of life," I answer with a straight face.
His lips don't twitch in amusement. He doesn't look impressed either - probably because I seem to need a ten second pause before every question as if I'm either slow, drunk, or learning English for the first time.
My parents would roll over in their graves if they knew I, their twenty-four year old baby girl, was interviewing for a call centre. Don't get me wrong, they were nice people but they had high hopes for me.
I'd always been a clever girl. "You're so smart," my parents would croon lovingly when I was a child. They fully believed their bright little girl would be a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer... My poor parents.
While I did catch onto things quickly - new tasks, instructions, theories, and formulas always came easy to me - there's a downside to being abnormally bright: you get bored. I just can't stick to one thing for very long without losing interest and moving on. I could barely get through a university course without dropping out halfway through for something new and more exciting.
Which brings me to the call centre and this very hot, potential employer. I'm sure my impressive list of career choices, (including administrative assistant, camp coordinator, retail, security, sales clerk, etc. (o name a few), is blowing his mind as much as I'd like him to blow me.
Not.
He looks bored and a bit superior. He probably has a college degree and a 401k. He's probably chock full of ambitions and at night, he probably has triumphant missionary sex with Virginia, his legal assistant girlfriend, before falling asleep and dreaming of making millions. Sure he's manager of a call centre now but one day, he'll be president.
Suddenly, I really want this job. His disdain for me and what my weak-willed resume represents for him turns me on. There's nothing I love more than a challenge, and this man (I can't even remember his name because my eyes quickly flicked over his wide chest when he introduced himself) on his high-horse is making me want this job badly.
"Listen," I say honestly, "I know my resume speaks of my tendency to jump shift often. But this is a good thing for you and your organization. I can learn anything and I can learn fast. And I'm going to bring a variety of skills to this job and make you wish you had ten more of me."
His eyes pass over my resume once more. "Alright Allie," he says with disinterest , "you're hired."
_
As much as I hated Sean - turns out that's what my boss' name is - I couldn't help but treat my shifts at the call centre like I was a groupie going to see my favourite band. I'd wear tiny skirts, thigh highs, inappropriately high heels, and tight little shirts. I'm sure the staff at the call centre, mostly little old ladies, just loved having me around.
I'd always show up ten minutes before my shift and stop in Sean's doorway before heading to my cubicle.
He would usually glance at me, exchange bored pleasantries to my insipid chatter, and then go back to his work.
"Hi Sean," I might say, twirling a lock of long brown hair around my finger, "have a nice weekend?"
"Yes, fine."
"Me too!" I'd chirp back before flouncing off with an extra bounce to my step so my little skirt might flip up and give him a tease (don't worry, I always wear panties. I am a lady after all).
Sometimes I would sink so low as to spend a few minutes in the washroom before my lunch to play with my nipples. Then I would hurry over to his office and say,
"Sean, it's freezing in here. Can we please get the heat on?"
I would then stand ramrod straight and wait for him to look up and see my erect nipples through my tight, cotton shirt. But his gaze never lingered. Instead, he'd make some noncommittal comment and look away.
I know what you're thinking. Could I be more obvious? I might be smart but I never said I was subtle.
_
It is after my first three weeks on the job that Sean interrupts me in the middle of my shift to come into his office. By then, I had grown tired of his curt dismissals and had recently stopped greeting him on my way in and out of the building. So I am more than surprised that he called me in. I have never been fired from a job before and while the call centre is already growing stale, I hadn't planned on leaving quite yet.
Sean takes a seat behind his desk. "Do you know why I called you in here today?"
What is this, the principal's office? "No," I answer, biting my tongue before adding something embarrassing like 'sir'.
"It's about your performance," Sean informs me.
This causes me to sit up straighter and cross my legs with indignation. Sean's brown eyes glance down briefly at my slim legs and it's all I need to fuel my confidence. "I can't imagine what you're going to say," I tell him, "I'm always ten minutes early, I have a good attitude, I read the damn script to our stupid customers and I don't fall asleep at my desk like some coworkers. What could you possibly have to say?"
Sean clears my throat and pauses, probably trying to make me ashamed of my outburst. Well tough. He's been rude to me for weeks and I've never been one to back down from conflict.
"The floor supervisor has brought some concerns to me about your attire," he says in a clipped voice. "It's not office appropriate."
I do not respond well to that. I stand up, chest heaving slightly from the small bubble of rage growing within me. "Oh please. This is a call centre," I respond sarcastically. Sean's eyes rest on my chest for a good ten seconds before meeting my face. A red flush creeps up his cheeks giving me a new surge of power. "Don't tell me you don't like the way I dress," I tell him gesturing out his large office window overlooking the call centre. "I'm the only eye candy here."
Sean is quiet. "I never said I don't like the way you dress," he mutters, "but it's indecent for a place of work like this."
Something about Sean's words makes my pussy leak the slightest bit of wetness. I look at him for a silent minute before turning to his window and slowly pulling down the flimsy grey shade. To Sean's widening stare, I reach for the hem of my little shirt and slowly pull it over my head.
It's a gutsy move but I'm a twenty-four year old in my prime. I've always considered my flat stomach and perky breasts as luxuries rather than privileges.
I toss the shirt aside. "Fine," I say quietly, my voice low, "do you have anything more appropriate for me to wear?" I cross my arms against my lacy pink push-up bra, realizing that it adds even more cleavage to my already well endowed chest.
He's speechless and I feel like queen of the world.
I slowly make my way over to him behind his desk. Like a robot, he pushes his chair slightly back as I approach and I take advantage by slipping between him and the desk. His hands are curled tightly around the arms of his chair and the knuckles are white. It's a big boss leather chair. Figures.
I place my hands on top of his hands and lean forward so I'm right in his face; I could probably lick that full lower lip if I wanted to.
"I think you like that I dress like a slut," I tell him. I glance down and see a bulge in his black slacks and feel my lips curl into a mischievous little smile. Lifting one hand, I pull the lacy cup of my bra down off of my left breast. "Now lick my nipple and show me how much you like it."
With this demand between us, I lean up slightly so my nipple aligns perfectly with his lips.
There's a tense pause. I admit that a part of me is looking for a way out of this situation but, on the whole, I just feel curiosity and a buzz between my legs.
Sean's hands tighten under my own on the armrest. He leans forward, his eyes never leaving my exposed nipple. Almost reluctantly, the flat of his tongue laps the hard little bud once and I shiver. His eyes find mine and he stares at me while using his tongue to flick my nipple back and forth.
"Fuck," I breathe, exposing my other breast. "Suck this one." He doesn't need to be told twice and starts sucking earnestly.
I can feel my pussy creaming under my short little skirt into my pink thong. He's sucking me with a nice amount of pressure but he isn't nipping or scratching with his teeth, which makes me realize that my prior assumptions of his white-bread sex life might have been right. This realization makes me feel heady with superiority.
For three weeks, this man has been sneering at me from afar and dismissing me as a mindless employee. He made it more than clear in my interview that I was beneath him. But here, with my tits hanging out in front of his face and my aching pussy asking for release, I am superior.
I abruptly pull away from him, my breast pulling out of his mouth with a satisfying pop. He looks disappointed but expectant.
