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.
