Interview Techniques

One that I didn't think would end up on Lit, but here it is anyway, never mind the reasons for my opening statement.

In this one Pete attends an interview but is stunned by the ripe and delicious Beth, a hot older woman on the interview panel. The interview goes Pete Tong (wrong), but Pete gets a one-to-one chat with Beth.

I hope you enjoy the piece. Send feedback if you want to; I do appreciate it. Feedback can be via PM on Lit, Public Comments below, or by email. If you want a reply or response then email is best.

If there are any errors or bloopers in the text, I apologise, I originally pushed this out in a day on a deadline. I've taken a look over it but another deadline looms, so ...

OK, here it is.

GA -- Langkawi, Malaysia -- 6th of February 2013.

The woman is the distraction that will cost Pete the job. As soon as he walks into the room, with snakes of nervous tension coiling in the pit of his stomach, when he sees her, his mind goes blank.

There's only one name Pete hears as one by one the interview panel introduce themselves -- Beth Philips. There are three other people ranged in front of Pete, their smiles of reassurance intended to reassure the young man that this is just a job interview and that they don't actually plan on harvesting any vital organs from his body, but they might as well not exist since Peter can only boggle at Beth Philips.

His mouth flaps open and closed, no sound coming out at all when the opening question is delivered. It's an easy one to start with, a question designed to ease the nervous candidate into the interview process, to take his mind of his nerves, but all Pete can think about is how do the buttons on Beth's blouse manage to take the strain of containing what is obviously a fair old set of mahoolahs.

Pete shifts on his seat. He can see a couple of the interview panel exchanging glances already. He tells himself to focus, and to stop staring at the woman's chest, but it's no use, all he can do is sit there and listen to his own voice drone -- blah-blah-blah -- in response to the questions that come his way. He's talking without thinking, his eyes fixed on the hypnotic swell of Beth's bust.

His cock begins to throb as it stiffens and uncurls inside his suit trousers. Pete's hard-on is positioned in such a way that, in an attempt to conceal the ridge in his trousers, he's forced to adopt a peculiar hunched, question mark attitude way of sitting, an ankle resting on the knee of his other leg while he leans his torso forward. The fucking thing, his erect penis that is, is caught between his thigh and the leg of his trousers, making the whole situation both awkward and embarrassing. If he tries to lean back in the chair his dick will be outlined quite clearly, which is clearly totally unacceptable -- there's no way he can sit in front of an interview panel with a great lump of stiff dick trying to force its way into the open through the material of his trousers.

There's nothing he can do except grit his teeth and do his best.

But now the woman's said something to him. He sees the Cupid's bow of her lips forming words and realises Beth Philips has asked a question.

Bullets of perspiration bead on Pete's forehead as he looks up from Beth's straining blouse and falls headlong into the deep pools of her blue eyes.

The woman is stunning -- literally. Pete hasn't even processed what she asked, he's too busy replaying the husky timbre of her voice, which is low and sexy and kind of gruff -- a weekends spent in a lover's bed sustained by cigarettes and whisky sort of voice. Although a woman of her age wouldn't have such a clear complexion or such healthy-looking skin if she indulged in either alcohol or tobacco, but Pete would bet his left testicle she'd rolled in a few weekend beds with her blonde hair all mussed up.

Even as he knows he's blowing the interview -- no trainee manager's job for him with this supermarket conglomerate -- Pete is picturing Beth Philips in a hotel room with her big tits cantilevered over the cups of a corset. In Pete's head Beth is a lingerie kind of woman, and that woman, the one in his head dressed like a bordello whore, smiles at him as her fingers unzip her skirt. The skirt slides to the floor, sighing as it slips over the dark stockings Beth wears. She steps daintily out of it, taking care not to snag the lethal heels of her high shoes.

Pete sees the amused smile on Beth's face, one corner of her mouth curled upwards as her eyes flash with a mischievous light. She poses with her fists on her hips and allows the stunned young man his fill of her voluptuous bounty.

"Will I do?"

the fantasy Beth asks in that blues singer's growl.

"Do you like me dressed like this?"

Pete, unable to say a word, can only nod. He feels his jaw hanging slack and closes his mouth before the drool can slide over his chin.

She's so beautiful, gloriously so. Soft, honey-blonde hair frames her pretty face. Pete stares at her and sees that Beth's face is no longer completely smooth and unlined. There's a slight tissue-paper crimp of crows' feet at the corners of her eyes when she smiles, but the slight imperfection only serves to heighten the woman's appeal in Pete's eyes. At twenty-two years old he's turned on by the hint at Beth's true age -- forty-four, and he knows that her maturity and experience can only mean a good time for him. Beth's breasts, big and round with long, thick teats set in the centre of the pale saucers of areola appear heavy and firm, their size exaggerated by the way they're held aloft by the scaffold of the corset cups from where Beth hauled the shivering orbs after removing her blouse.

The young man glances down to the smooth junction of Beth's thighs. He sees the woman's meaty labia dangling there below the gentle, unblemished slope of her midriff that's visible beneath the frilled hem of the black corset and her stocking tops. Beth is perfectly depilated, without a pubic hair remaining, and Pete thinks how sweet it would be to have Beth lay back and open her legs so he could slide his tongue through those flaps of flesh and probe at her opening.

He looks further down and sighs when he sees Beth's legs presented in dark stockings, the tops of which are strapped to the corset by no less than six fastenings, three to a leg. And then of course there's the shoes, bedroom shoes, a whore's footwear, purely decorative, designed for effect and worn for the same reason. Beth's shoes are a midnight black with heels as lethal as an assassin's blade, with the long tassels from the bows that are wrapped around the woman's calves and shins dangling behind.

"How do I look, Pete?"

Beth murmurs. She takes a pace towards him.

"Do you like me dressed up, Mister Armitage?"

she asks.

"Do you like my pussy all bare?"

"Oh yes

," Pete sighs, smiling.

The voice comes through the delicious fantasy images, cutting through Pete's lewd reverie.

"Mister Armitage, are you there?"

"Oh ... I ... Sorry," Pete responds eventually. He blinks and finds himself still in front of the interview panel. The three interviewers are staring at him like he's just exposed himself to a nun while Beth Philips merely reclines in her chair and taps a pencil on the desk. Pete glances at Beth and feels the heat rise in his face.

She knows what I was thinking

.

"Ah, you're back with us, Mister Armitage," Beth smirks.

The pencil ceases its tapping as Beth shifts her position. Pete sees the weight of her breasts shift under her blouse. He could almost whine with frustration.

"Suh ... sorry," Pete stammers. "I suppose I'm making a mess of this interview. I'm just so ... so—"

Horny? Desperate to get a look, just a peep at those big tits of yours? Flustered because I've been thinking about you all dressed up in lingerie and killer heels?

"—nervous," Pete finishes.

"I think," Beth begins and then glances left and right for the panel's consent. 'I think that we should take a break. Perhaps you could use some fresh air, Mister Armitage? Maybe a glass of water or coffee?" She fixes her disconcerting, blue-eyed gaze on the strung-out young man. "A brief recess might be in order."

The three other panel members mutter and mumble and then nod.

"If you take ten minutes, Mister Armitage," the old bald man, the panel leader, suggests. He inclines his head towards the door.

Pete rises to his feet and, trying to mask his persistent hard-on as best as he can, lurches towards the door. When he gets outside he mutters a curse, chiding himself for the complete bollocks he made of the interview. He knows he's blown it. Even if they gave him a second chance in front of the panel he knows that they'd never consider him for a position. He'd be lucky to get a job collecting trolleys from the car park, let alone a position on their management programme.

Tempted to just blow it out and leave, Pete decides to see it through to the bitter end. Who knows, maybe he could pull a blinder and get offered a place on the course after all?

Yeah, and pigs might fly.

Ten minutes later, Beth Philips steps into the ante-room Pete waits in.

"Ah, Mister Armitage," she says, looking even sexier to Pete now he's seen her stood up. He can see just how well built she is. The spectacles give Beth an air of authority -- a kind of schoolmarm air -- a strict disciplinarian appeal that sends a frisson of arousal rippling through Pete. His erection, dormant after subsiding a few minutes after his exit from the interview room suddenly revives. Beth glances around the ante-room. "Uhm ..." she begins, "... will you follow me, please?"

Puzzled -- he thought he'd be returning to the interview room to hear the bad news -- Pete follows behind Beth's cock-thickening hip-sway as she leads him along a series of corridors. Eventually they stop outside a door, which Beth opens. She enters first and then holds the door open, gesturing with a sweep of an arm for Pete to come in.

The young man walks into the office. There's a desk and a large executive chair -- the kind that reclines and rotates, plush and luxurious, which indicates the office belongs to a high-powered executive. There are two trays of documents on the desk, a laptop computer and a silver, expensive-looking pen. In one corner of the office stands a filing cabinet with a wooden bureau inlaid with some intricate scrollwork. In another corner there's a low, Ikea type coffee table, with two chairs and a two-seater sofa of the same Scandinavian design.

"Sit down, Mister Armitage," Beth Philips instructs, pointing to the Scandinavian nest in the corner. Pete sits and tries not ogle when Beth, after lifting the hem of her skirt to almost mid-thigh, settles into a seat opposite. "Well," she says peering over the rims of her spectacles. "How do

you

think that went?"

Pete looks at the floor. "Uh ... not too well, Mrs Philips."

Beth chuckles. "No, Mister Armitage ... Peter, may I call you Peter?" The man nods. "No, Peter, it wasn't the most dazzling performance we've seen on the panel." She pauses for a beat. "Not the worst either," Beth adds, "but it wasn't good at all."

Pete's eyes flick to the woman's legs as she shifts in her seat and offers her body in profile. Pete has to suppress the gasp that wants to burst out of his chest when he sees Beth's blouse stretched tight across her bosom. The woman crosses her legs, which causes Pete's cock to strain inside his trousers when he looks down at Beth's skirt moulded to her rump, the hem riding higher to give the young man a glimpse of the darker band at the top of Beth's stockings. Lust tugs at Pete's balls when he notices that Beth is wearing stockings, and when he looks more closely at the skirt and can now see the small, studded outline of the fastenings beneath.

"I'm afraid," Beth continues, "after consideration the team thought you weren't the right candidate at this time." Beth removes her spectacles and taps the end of one arm on her lips. She studies Pete for a few long, increasingly uncomfortable seconds in that attitude of pondering, waiting for a response.

"Uh ... it's OK, Mrs Philips," Pete says with a shrug. "I knew I didn't have a chance almost as soon as it began."

"Was it me, Peter?" Beth asks, uncrossing her legs as she leans forward. She glances down at her own chest. "Did I put you off because of the way I look?"

Pete feels the heat rush into his face. What could he say? The truth of it was yes, Beth had knocked him for six. It wasn't anything overt, she was dressed modestly, everything was covered, but for him it was the way she was packaged: big boobs straining against the blouse; blonde hair piled up in that messy-sexy style as though she'd just left her bed after being fucked and hadn't had time to do anything more elaborate; the shoes and tight skirt were part of it.

Then there was her voice, the low, sex growl that turns him on. And the way she looks at him, like she knows a dirty secret or caught him masturbating, makes his stomach flip-flop with excitement.

"I don't know, Mrs Philips," Pete groans. He looks at the woman again as she smirks at him, the spectacles back on her face.

For Pete the desire for Beth Philips is an indeterminate tug in his gonads, a deep and hollow vacuum, a dull and throbbing ache, and in that moment, with the perfectly ripened woman smiling at him, her body only three feet away, Pete understands why men do crazy things for sex. He knows why a dog will sit and howl all night when it sniffs out a bitch in heat. He wants to launch himself at Beth, but knows that in that single tick of the clock, to do so would ruin his life. Lunging at attractive female executives wouldn't go down to well in court, but the urge to rip her blouse open so the buttons flew like shrapnel, to haul those big jugs out of the bra and suck on Beth's teats while he tugs and tugs and tugs at his cock is almost overwhelming.

In his mind, in yet another fantasy in which Beth plays an integral role, Pete sees himself between the woman's thighs as she reclines in her chair. With her legs hooked over the chair arms Beth herself holds her thick labia apart with the tips of her fingers, the fingernails sculpted and painted -- mini works of art. The rings on Beth's fingers glint in the suffused sunlight seeping in from the louvered blinds covering the big window while she deliberately exposes the scarlet core of her body, which for Pete, inexperienced and unpractised, is a place of mystery. He's only vaguely aware of the geography of a woman's anatomy between her legs. He knows that his dick fits in there, but he's not exactly sure just how it all works since, to date, all of his sexual encounters have been furtive, clandestine affairs in back alleys after the pub, or a quarter of a dozen drunken one-night-stands, fumbling and groping under the covers in dreary bedsits.

The imaginary Beth sighs and offers him her cunt to lick.

Then the real, living, flesh and blood Beth regains Pete's attention when she shockingly murmurs, "You looking at my boobs constantly didn't help, Peter."

Pete's head snaps up. He looks into Beth's face.

Did she really say that?

"I think that's exactly what happened, Peter," Beth Philips adds. Pete blinks, totally unprepared for the confession that follows. "It happens to me a lot, I've grown used to it. Ever since I sprouted tits men have gone all weird on me. My father's friends used to proposition me. Some offered me money ..." Beth grins and shifts her arse in the seat again. "... Some of which I might have taken." The woman chuckles. "That gave me a thrill," she reveals with a wink, a lascivious lowering of one eyelid behind the lens of her glasses. "Taking money for doing it, for sex, for sleeping with a man old enough to be my father." Beth rolls her eyes and continues her monologue to a speechless Pete. "It got worse as I got older. Now I get men half my age coming up to me all the time. On trains, at airports, and especially on the beach," Beth reveals in a weary tone. She pauses for a few beats before quietly adding "On the beach when I'm sunbathing topless."

"Mrs Philips ..." Pete whines. "Why are you telling me this? I ... I don't understand. I came here for an interview."

"Sometimes," Beth says as though Pete hasn't spoken. "I take a man up on an offer." She shakes her head slowly. "Not often, only occasionally, say two or three times a year if I haven't got a steady boyfriend, but I'll call a guy's bluff and offer it to him." She swivels in her chair and leans forward again. Pete gulps when he sees the heavy tits move inside Beth's blouse. "I don't have a steady boyfriend at the moment, Peter, and I know you haven't propositioned me." Beth pauses again. "But you want to -- don't you? You want to proposition me."

"Yes, Mrs Philips," Pete mumbles as he nods and gulps.

"Today, Peter," Beth breathes, "although you didn't get the job, how would you like to get me instead?"

Pete blinks and then stares at the woman in disbelief. "Mrs Philips!" he gasps without realising he's spoken.

"It isn't Mrs Philips, Peter," Beth responds. She rises from her chair. "There isn't any Mister Philips ... Well, there's my father of course but there's never been a Mister Philips romantically linked to me. I've never been married. I'm a Miss not a Mrs." Beth's fingers draw Pete's eyes like a hypnotist's pocket watch as Beth reaches for the buttons on her blouse. He sits there and gapes, saucer eyes growing ever bigger and rounder as each button flicks open.

Pete sees the tops of Beth's breasts when the blouse gapes open. He swallows heavily, mesmerised by the soft flesh spilling over the cups of Beth's pale blue bra. "Fucking hell," he sighs. "Oh, fuck ... You're beautiful."

"I don't know about beautiful, Peter," Beth says with a smile. "I've got something that the boys like." She jiggles her breasts with her hands. "It isn't just the big tits, a few guys have told me it's the way I look or the way I move, or that it's my eyes or my arse that they like." She shrugs. "Whatever it is it's been a blessing and a curse."

"Mrs Philips," Pete groans when Beth unfastens the front clasp of the pretty bra. "Can I touch them?"

"You caught me in one of my moods, Peter. I'm feeling frisky. I'm horny. Your reaction to me made my pussy get all wet. I loved seeing the hunger in your eyes." Beth holds the bra open in a parody of a park flasher in a dirty raincoat. Her eyes narrow. "Of course you can touch them, you silly boy," Beth adds in response to Pete's question. "What do you think I'm doing getting them out for you?" Beth moves her torso and her tits wobble and sway. "You can touch them, kiss them, Hell," she grins, "you can slide your dick between them if you want. How about that, Peter? A tit-wank with my boobs."

Pete gazes at the round globes with their promise of weightiness. He sees that Beth's breasts are better than he'd imagined. Their shape and the areola, slightly darker than the tanned skin surrounding them are such that he groans out loud, a desperate, visceral call of longing.

"You sound like you're in pain, darling boy," Beth says. She pouts in a facsimile of maternal concern. "Is it that bad? Have I made you all horny for me?"

"Yes, Mrs Philips," Pete murmurs, his voice a low, husky croak.

"Call me Beth, Peter," the woman says as she shrugs the blouse from her shoulders and lets the bra straps slide down her arms. "After all, my sweet, we're going to be intimate so we might as well be on first name terms." Beth's lips purse in a moue of consideration and she adds, "But it does make me all gooey when you call me Mrs Philips." Beth regards the young man, his face slack with surprise at finding himself in such an unimaginable position. She loved it when that happened and the young guys she chose found themselves in a scene right out of a porn film.