The Interview 54

For Sam, there was something slightly intimidating about large corporations. Perhaps it was the vast, open spaces of marble and brass elevators, the enormous windows overlooking from the 17th story an immaculate plaza below. Perhaps it was the power suits, and the executives downing an egg roll as they listened intently to their messages on cell phones like looked more like laptops. For a boy from Boise, Idaho, this was as alien as Mars.

There was something also thrilling about the prospect that he might become part of this word, that he would be like an eagle in a nest, overlooking the entire skyline of Manhattan.

But first he had to get this job.

And to do this he had to pass the interview.

Sam was sweating as the elevator climbed and climbed passing floors eight, then nine, then ten . . all the way to the 17th floor. He was alone. He studied his black Italian-made shoes, looking for an imperfection in his recent polishing. He felt like he was in a costume, his blue suit just not fitting quite right; it had been the suit he wore for his best friend's wedding. Sam had put on at least ten pounds since then. Would they notice? The person giving the interview? Would she notice?

He looked down now at his appointment card: it said simply, "Theresa Golapenis" 4 p.m., room #1757." He could feel his armpits become humid as he thought about his interview. It actually felt a lot more like an execution.

The elevator opened, and he blindly walked out, like he was being ejected from a machine. He turned right quickly, just because he wanted to appear that he knew exactly where he was going, even though he didn't. It didn't take long for someone to catch on.

"Can I help you?" a woman behind a hexagon-shaped mahogany desk said.

"Um . . I'm here for an interview . . room . . ," He looked down at his appointment card. "Room 1757."

"I'll buzz you in." The woman smiled as though she was earning $100 just for that perfected smile technique. There was just absolutely no way to tell if she was being genuine or fake.

He walked through glass doors imprinted with the company logo, like a watermark, and was told to follow a hall down to room 1757 . . and that Ms. Golapenis would be waiting." He did as he was told and moved quickly, since his watch just turned 4 p.m. He felt beads of sweat grow under his arms, as he remembered his father's words, "No one is ever on time. One is either early, or one is late." He definitely wasn't early, so that meant . . .

"Are you Sam Anderson?" a voice immediately said, as soon as he walked through the door of room 1757.

"Yes."

"I'm Theresa Golapenis. Please sit."

He did as he was told, and his armpits now felt wet—not just moist—but wet. He wondered if he should have walked up to shake her hand. He already felt that he blew the part about eye contact, and a firm handshake. This wasn't going well.

"So why do you want to work for Fidelity?"

Okay, this was good; he had completely prepared for this question. His answer would be in three parts. The first related to the prestige of Fidelity as a company; the second related to the idea of challenge, that he enjoyed challenges the position would bring; the third point . . .

As his brain was racing to collect and order his thoughts, he noticed that Theresa Golapenis had uncrossed her legs . . and -- there is no way he could be seeing this -- he saw what looked like -- of course he knew it must just be a shadow, but there was . . texture . . hair? His mind was playing tricks . . and his heart pounded like he had just gulped four shots of espresso. What was that third point?

"Mr. Anderson?"

"Yes: well there are two . . no three reasons I feel Fidelity is . . "

Theresa Golapenis was looking at him sternly now with a clipboard and pen ready, and she leaned back in her chair, as if preparing to write down his response. As she did so, her knees widened, and what he thought was shadow clearly wasn't. He bounced his eyes away so she wouldn't notice, but he flipped them back one more time just to be sure.

Beneath her navy blue short skirt, he saw, clearly this time, a fluffy patch of pubic hair with a tan slit running from the center of the patch to the bottom. His heart began to pound like a base drum, and he moved his eyes to the ceiling, pretending he was deep in thought.

"Mr. Anderson . . you said there were three reasons?"

"Yes."

Now he was being rude, because he wasn't making eye contact. Had he really seen what he thought he had seen? Was he just truly, truly nervous—beyond any nervousness he had ever experienced? Focus on the question. Focus on the question. Focus on your answer now. You know this. Three points. You went over and over this last night a million times.

As he still gazed at the ceiling, her cunt opened in his imagination so that there was now a space between the tan lips, a dark space that led into the depths of her being.

Focus on my answer.

He returned his eyes to hers, locking them, thinking that if she can't see his eyes move, she won't know what he's thinking about.

Her cunt.

"Fidelity is one of the most prestigious companies to work for . . "

Her cunt -- wet now.

"It's always been a top leader in the S&P 500 . . I read a recent Forbes article . . . "

Her cunt was more visible now, as Theresa leaned back further in her chair writing on her clipboard, then looking through her black-rimmed glasses back at him.

How can she not know? Why did she not wear . .?

"Is something wrong Mr. Anderson?"

"No. No. No. No." He realized he just said "no" four times in a row.

"Fidelity also would provide a great challenge . . "

"A challenge?"

"Yes."

"What kind of challenge?"

Her cunt was visibly wet now. He could see white sparkles like someone has thrown glitter on it. The tan slit was now pink and bulging, contrasting against the dark, curly, puffy hair. He wasn't sure, but he felt he was smelling it . . like wet grass . . or pencil shavings . . like moist earth after a rainstorm, and he wanted to put his hands into that soft ground, feeling his fingers sink into the wet earth. His cock was starting to grow and grow quickly, pushing against his pants. His cock was pointed down, so the pressure was unbearable, yet he kept telling his eyeballs to stay fixed, stay fixed on her eyes. If he looked down, or look at that beautiful wet pussy, she would know. He would lose everything. Everything he went to Swathmore for . . his father's high expectation . . this moment . . this interview was his life.

"Mr. Anderson. What kind of challenge?"

He could feel his cock start to leak cum, and he could picture a wet spot growing on his dark blue pants. But he remained fixed, locked on her eyes.

He couldn't answer. He was breathing too hard. He just kept looking directly into her eyes. But what he was really seeing was that her cunt seemed to be breathing, wanting him, opening for him, telling him to come inside, and be buried deep within it for a long, long time.

He couldn't bear it anymore.

He was silent and looking at her and breathing audibly.

"What kind of challenge?" she said again—staring at him.

It was too much. He unzipped his pants, then undid the hook, pulled his boxers down, letting his 7 inch erect cock bounce freely like a Jack in the Box into fresh air.

Theresa did not move. She simply put her clipboard down and starred an his manliness.

"Impressive," she said but still professionally.

"Thank you," he said, also professionally.

"Is that your third point?" she asked.

"Yes, this is my third point," he said now for the first time looking down at his red, hard, throbbing cock, with bobbed like a floating buoy in the sea of the empty office space.

"I think that is by far, your most interesting point."

"Thank you."

"Do you mind if I examine that point a littler further?"

"Please."

"Come a little closer then."

He walked awkwardly toward her chair, with his pants starting to fall down. His hard cock was now like a statue pointing off the bow of a ship with a course straight ahead for her face. He almost feared poking her, as he felt he cock continue to expand and grow." The purple head of his penis now was within inches of her lips, and she took it in her hand like grabbing a microphone. She looked it over, seeing the bluish veins running throughout the shaft.'

"Impressive," she said again, as she began to lick the shaft, then the head, then plopping his entire member into her mouth and sucking deep. He was worried he would cum too soon, especially when she began to lightly massage his balls with her other hand, running her long manicured fingernails all over his sac. As he closed his eyes, he could only picture one thing—the same thing he had seen moments after the interview started.

Her beautiful, wet, hairy pussy, that glimmered like a treasure beneath her professional skirt. She must have read his mind, because she took her mouth off his cock, and, still holding his cock in one hand, guided him to his knees. She then let go off his cock, and leaned back in her leather chair, spreading her legs for him.

Now, he knew he could smell it. The wet earth after a rain. It was there before him, her labia pulsating like an underwater sea creature. It was magnificent and exotic, like magical creature out of a fairytale book. It seemed to talk to him: "please taste me. I want your tongue inside me. I want you to open me with your fingers and lick me gently. I want you to tease me now with your tongue and move it side to side, now up and down." All he had to do was listen, and this magical creature would guide him. He could hear deep moaning, saying, "don't stop. Stay close to me. Keep your tongue inside me a little longer." This was the magical creature talking or sending thoughts into his mind. The magical creature of her cunt. He spread her lips wider to let his tongue inside as deep as it would go, and her gorgeous pussy kept telling him to lick, lick, lick. It began to tremble, her labia vibrating now, then pulsing in a building rhythm. A gush of fluid eased itself from deep within, and now her pussy said, "thank you" to him. But it wanted more.

Her pussy was so wet now, he glided his steel into her like she was melted butter, and he sank his cock deep to the very base of its shaft. He felt he was so far in her that the head of his cock must be near her heart. She tilted her head back, and thrusted her hips against his, so he slid even further inside. They were one organism now. And he began to fuck her.

Each thrust took him deeper into her center, her core. She now looked at him, throwing her glasses on the floor. Their eyes locked like magnets and he fucked her again and again. She moved her mouth silently, saying "fuck me, fuck me, fuck me." Her teeth were clenched in an expression with her lips flexed, almost like a horse's mouth. But she was beautiful in her intensity. Her eyes shot with fire, saying to his eyes, "I love it when you fuck me like this. Keep going. Keep going. Keep going."

He knew he had to cum soon. He was about to explode. He felt like he was falling into her cunt, like he was burying himself alive. He was sinking deeper and deeper into this moist hole, but God it felt so fucking good, he didn't care if he buried himself alive, and never came out again, that her pussy completely swallowed every inch of him, and that he stayed inside it forever. He kept falling, falling, until he decided to let go and just let her cunt swallow him like a snake's mouth eating its prey.

Her cunt did swallow him and he thought he was cuming inside her, releasing his warm fluid like firing cannonballs. Each fire cannonball brought him even deeper, like he was cock burrowing like a small animal inside a hole. He knew he was soon about to release streams of warm liquid, and he suddenly panicked pulling his cock out. Her pussy was wide open and the motion created a vacuum with air rushing in. He looked down at that beautiful pussy, the very same pussy that started this, the hairy pussy with exposed lips he saw underneath her skirt, and he finally released. He had held it back for this long.

Streams of milky liquid fired and landed on her neck and blue jacket. She quickly undid her shirt, letting her D sized breasts fall over her shirt, and the rest of his sperm covered her luscious breasts like a Jackson Pollock painting, done with white against a skin-colored canvas. He kept shooting sperm now, like out of a paint gun, as though there was an unlimited supply. She rubbed his cum all over her nipples and breasts, and she moved one hand down to her pussy to massage it since it had been abandoned.

They both lay in the chair like shipwrecked castaways, breathing deeply, recovering from their ecstasy. Not a word was spoken, as they both eventually rebuttoned. He almost stumbled backwards into his chair—the interview chair. And she regained her pose, grabbing the clipboard, crossing her legs, putting her glasses back on. She gave a relaxed smile now.

"Impressive. That's all I needed. We'll be contacting you soon."