A followup to and expansion of the very well-written
"The Interview" by steelring
. It is brief but gripping; please read it first. I have repeatedly, over several weeks, asked steelring for permission to post this followup, through the feedback link on the story itself, and through the contact link on the author's Literotica profile. Having received no reply, I proceed to post.
I am grateful to BlackRandl1958 for the contribution of her peerless editorial skills, and her continuing efforts to bring my use of the King's English out of the days of George V.
I feel no compulsion to ensure that characters in my writing get what they deserve, mostly because I know how much I would hate to get what I deserve. If this is a bar to your enjoyment of a story, you may be better served elsewhere. On the other hand, you might like it. Who am I to say?
*
She sat in her car, trembling all over in her smart grey suit. Her left nipple still tingled, despite the layers of bra, blouse and jacket covering it. Her pussy still throbbed beneath her grey skirt, bereft of its pushed-aside covering, bare and vulnerable between her clenched thighs.
She was recalled to herself when a passerby knocked on her window, asking if she needed help. With a wan smile and a wave, she wordlessly assured him she needed nothing.
She had known the interview would be stressful. She had prepared for it, she thought. She could not have imagined how intense the actual interview would be. The woman seemed to know her backward and forward, for all that they had never met. Those eyes: dark eyes that had undressed her, assessed her, delighting in a conquest she was certain would not escape. Eyes that savored the vision of that conquest offering up the hidden intimacies of her beautiful body, for money. Eyes that could spot a lie at twenty paces. She was glad she had not told any, not really. She hadn't been completely forthcoming, but then neither had the woman.
On the surface, there wasn't much to know about Jillian (Jill) Jones. Normal upbringing, normal schooling, married to an everyday-seeming man named David Jones (not Davy!) at twenty-two, seven years ago; stay-at-home mom to one daughter who had recently started school. The only thing that stood out about Jill to the casual observer was her stunning beauty. There was far more to Jill than that, but she had done her best not to reveal anything unnecessary to her inquisitor.
She hoped her nervousness when she talked about her husband had been attributed to worry that would seem natural, given what she was committing herself to do. Goodness knows that should be sufficient: she had told the truth about only having been with two men in her whole life. Yes, Jill decided, her nervousness could be adequately explained without the truths she left untold.
David had indeed been made redundant. That's what it said in the letter that relieved him of his accounting duties with a major financial firm. The letter lied. David had been fired for blowing the whistle on certain executives who had billed the firm for "consulting services" that were, he accused, sessions with high-class call girls. He had not only been fired but blackballed, and found himself unable to get a job in his field. Since then, he had been trying to cobble together a living from piecework and freelance jobs. In his spare time, he attempted to vindicate himself by tracing the money paid for the "consulting services." He had run into one brick wall after another; one school friend told him that he risked physical harm if he continued his investigations.
"Not sayin' you're not right, David my lad, and yes they did you wrong, but people like this squash people like you an' me like bugs." He'd made a splatting noise to illustrate.
Jill loved David with her whole heart, and with a fierce loyalty that would surprise anyone who did not know the usually-quiet woman well. His vindication was at least as important to her as it was to him. She was part of everything he did, and he was often guided by her perceptions and ideas.
The mother of one of young Deirdre's classmates had buttonholed her quietly after a school function. She'd heard they were having troubles, the woman said.
"We were, too, and," a pause while she made sure they weren't overheard, "here's how we solved them. I solved them, actually." She handed Jill a card, with nothing on it but a printed phone number and a web address.
"What is it, then? Some kind of job?"
"You could say that," the woman smiled and winked. She looked Jill up and down and went on, "With what you've got, you could make enough while Deirdre's in school to kiss your money problems good bye!"
Yes, and kiss my marriage good bye, too, Jill thought, thinking she had got the gist.
"What would I have to do?"
"Just check out the web site and call the number, sweetie. It worked for me!" The woman smiled happily and sauntered away.
Jill had shaken her head, and almost forgotten to mention the incident to David. She had showed him the card, and watched as his face froze. He muttered something and went to his computer. After several minutes' searching, he found what he was looking for. He beckoned to Jill to come and look at the short list of phone numbers on his screen.
"Each of these numbers was dialed by three or more of the executives in the four days before they billed for a 'consulting' session. And look!" He pointed to a number on his screen. It matched the one on Jill's card. Jill squealed and jumped into her husband's lap, waving the card over her head.
"You've done it!" she shouted. "You're brilliant! This is the break we needed. You can take this downtown and let the police do the rest of the work, then you and Gerry sue for wrongful termination, and then you'll be able to work again!"
"We've done it," David put in a mild correction. "We did it together. I never could have solved this if it hadn't been for you."
David's trip downtown had not brought the hoped-for results. Instead, a bored-sounding vice detective had read David a lesson on the facts of life.
"Look, Mr. Jones, I'm not saying you're wrong, but look what we have for evidence. A web site, a phone number, and some guys who called it and then billed for consulting services. We have a woman who you say admitted to prostitution and referred your wife to the web site, but she'll certainly never tell that to us. If you're suggesting your wife wear a wire, skip it: it'd be inadmissible. You have no evidence that sex occurred at all, let alone prostitution. You have evidence that the firm paid the money, but you don't know where it went, and you sure can't prove anything. Sure, I can look up who owns the phone number and the web site, but I can tell you right now they'll both be burners, purchased with credit cards in fake names that have since been canceled. I'll do that for you now, if you want. Any reasonably bright second year law student would tear all this to rags.
"Mr. Jones, these are the big boys. They, and the girls they play with, are well connected and very well protected. For me to even think of going after them, I'd need an ironclad case, and a victim, preferably high profile, which you aren't. Don't get me wrong, I think these people are doing exactly what you say they are, and I would love to nail the bastards. It would make my career. But if I went out hunting with just this, I'd end up exactly where you are: unemployed."
Jill and David had consoled each other until it was time to pick up Deirdre. They were both involved parents, who loved their time with their happy and precocious five-year-old. After she had been read to and tucked in, they consoled each other again, giving their all to each other and receiving more than they gave, in the ancient dance that is forever new.
David hadn't been exactly buoyant the next morning, but had gamely headed out. He would talk with some professional friends who owed him favors, he said, and see if he could trace the money past a roadblock or two. He put on a brave front for Jill, but she could see how downhearted he was. He was out the next couple of evenings doing freelance work for a little mom-and-pop store that found itself in tax troubles. He enjoyed the work, and was able to help them save their store, but it didn't do much to help their increasing financial stress.
Jill was cleaning up and found the card with the web site and phone number. Hmmm, she had thought.
"No. Absolutely not. Never!" had been David's unequivocal reply. "I know we're in trouble, but I'd dig ditches first. I'd die in an accident to give you the life insurance before I agreed to that."
"I'm not talking about dying..."
"No, you're talking about killing something that's more valuable to me than my life is. Could you ever look at me the same way after you did this? Could I look at you the same way?"
"David, I would never do this for money. I'd rather starve, as long as it's with you. I'd school Deirdre at home, I'd take in washing, I'd live in a dump, whatever I had to, to be with you. I know you've been discouraged; I've heard you when you put Deirdre to bed, and after she's asleep you apologize to her for not being able to give her what we both want for her. It breaks my heart. I don't care about the money, but I would do this, and more besides, to vindicate you. To give you back the life and work you love, that were robbed from you.
"This is the only way we can trace the money from the receiving end. We have to at least consider it."
They had talked it over for the next few evenings. David worked harder than ever at finding a job and at his investigation, but had nothing to show for it. That was probably why, eventually, he had weakened. They had planned for Jill to take the interview, see if she could get an offer, then they would go to the vice squad. She might have to go to one appointment, they reasoned, but she would stop short of having sex.
As she sat in her car, Jill was afraid their plan had sprung a leak or three. She had seen a "muscle" type guy in the office that afternoon, obviously to be sure she came alone. There would also clearly be "protection" the next morning when... she didn't complete the thought. Its being the next morning did not give them much time. She suspected that was intentional. She sighed and set off for her home to tell David everything. They had never kept secrets from one another; this difficult season was no time to start. She was sure her new employer would be annoyed, if she knew. David wouldn't like it much, either.
David and Deirdre greeted Jill warmly as always when she entered their home. She whispered, "I have the job. We'll talk later" in her husband's ear. His face sagged for a moment, just the smallest fraction of a second, but she noticed, and it was like a stab to her heart. She clung to him that evening, and who will blame her? She felt she had to be in physical contact with him while they ate the supper he prepared, while they did the dishes, while they read to Deirdre and put her to bed. They made tea, and sat together on the aptly-named love seat in the living room.
Jill told David everything in the order it happened. Her calm, almost emotionless voice was at odds with the tale she told, but it helped her and David retain some objectivity. She was precise and complete, right down to how many buttons on her blouse were unbuttoned, which hand the woman had used, and how many fingers had penetrated her. She finished, and heaved a huge sigh. She had watched the emotions play across her husband's face, but he had controlled himself well. They had both agreed she would do this; she knew she could count on him for his usual levelheaded analysis, despite his obvious hurt. She had never needed his calmness and strength more.
"Did the office look like it had been there for a while? Other employees, pictures on the desks, stuff in the waste baskets?" was his first question.
"I didn't think of the waste baskets, sorry, but you're right, it looked very temporary."
"So she just borrowed it, then. Was there anyone else there besides the woman?"
"Yes, this big guy who showed me in and out. He wasn't in the room for the interview. He looked like a bouncer, but a high-class one. He's there for protection, I'm sure, and to make sure I came alone."
David remembered what the vice detective had told him about protection. "This woman. What's she like?"
"She's tall, I'd guess about five nine or ten. Lean, muscular-looking, but also ... voluptuous, I guess I'd say. A figure guys would drool over. Dark hair in a tight businesslike bun; very dark eyes. They look like they can see right through you." Jill shuddered again at the memory. "She's very much in control. You just feel as if everything you could think of to ask or say or do, she's thought of already and is three steps ahead of you. She knows her way around a woman's body very well, and I suspect a man's, too."
"Has she done... this, or does she just supervise?"
"She's done it, I'm positive. She may still, from time to time. I asked her and she said I shouldn't ask, but the way she looked at the picture on her desk before she answered, I know she's done it."
