Sarah was flustered. The kids had been playing up -- today of all days! - at breakfast, and she was already running about twenty minutes late by the time she dropped them off at the school gates. Her job interview was at 10:30, and she still had to put on her make-up and change her outfit before she could set off. And she knew she had to make a good impression at the interview. After all, her marriage was at stake.
How had she managed to get herself in this position, she wondered as she started to get ready. After all, she already had everything she'd ever wanted: a successful and loving husband, two beautiful children and a house that was the envy of her friends. If only they knew, she thought bitterly. The house was indeed lovely, but they were mortgaged up to the hilt -- and with her husband's business in trouble, they were in danger of losing everything. Julian had been spending all his waking hours over the last few months attempting to pull off deals to salvage something from the wreckage. She'd tried to support him as best she could, but he never seemed to be around these days -- and even when he was at home, he was increasingly distant and withdrawn. Even though she knew she was being selfish, Sarah felt neglected. She couldn't even remember the last time they'd made love.
As the financial storm-clouds gathered, Sarah had sought comfort and reassurance elsewhere. She had a job in the local tax office, a position she'd initially taken up for social rather than financial reasons. With her children now at school and her husband largely absent, she had craved the companionship and conversation of other sentient adults.
Unfortunately that companionship had become just a little bit too companionable. She'd become friends with a stammering, socially awkward guy who, though in early middle-age, still lived at home with his widowed mother. Initially she'd felt sorry for him, and hung out with him primarily because she felt safer in his company than with some of the more predatory males in the office. But she was lonely, and he was so attentive, always showering compliments on her, that she had become increasingly attracted to him. After a boozy Christmas office party, their inhibitions down, they had had a quick fumble in her car that ended with her giving him a quick blowjob. Within weeks, they were sneaking off to a local hotel for lunchtime fuck sessions. She didn't consider herself to be oversexed, but the liaison made her realise how much she'd missed being filled by a good hard cock over the last few months.
But they hadn't been discreet, and their office colleagues quickly became aware that their relationship had become sexual. Word had got back to Julian, who had a friend who worked in the same office, and he went berserk when he found out. Initially he'd threatened to throw Sarah out and stop her from seeing her children, but eventually settled for her quitting her job and breaking off all contact with the guy.
Now that the relationship was over, she was ashamed of how she'd acted like a cheap, selfish hussy. She was determined to get her marriage back on track, but being forced to quit her job meant that their financial position was even more parlous than it had been. She had to get another job, she had to contribute once again to the family budget, or they were sunk.
But jobs were few and far between, and finding another position wasn't easy. The first suitable advertisement that she'd seen was for an office situated a few miles away. The general area was pretty rough, but she had a car, so she wouldn't be hanging around the place outside of office hours. She called the number, and spoke to a Tony Richardson. He told her that he owned a recycling business, and that he was looking for someone who had general office experience and a warm, friendly personality. There would be training on the job, so no previous experience in the industry was necessary, he told her. He seemed a nice enough guy, and they arranged for her to come in for an interview at10:30 the following Wednesday. He told her that he would conducting all the interviews, and that he had other applicants to see earlier in the week, which left her a bit discouraged. What could she offer that others couldn't?
By Monday, she'd had to admit to herself that she wasn't entirely sure about the job -- not only did there seem to be stiff competition for the position, but it didn't sound as if the job itself would be particularly stimulating. It was hard to get enthusiastic about recycling. She mentioned this to her husband, but he wasn't in the least bit sympathetic. "Most people have to do jobs that they don't particularly enjoy," he told her. "The problem is that you had such a privileged upbringing that you think everything should just fall in your lap. Life doesn't work like that for most of us. After everything that's happened, you need to get this job. You need to do whatever it takes to get it. There's no two ways about it, we're getting desperate."
With his words still smarting in her ears, she prepared for the interview. The only child of well-off parents, she'd always been chronically shy. Even at the age of 42, she was still embarrassed by what she called her "sticky-out bits". She had a full, nicely-rounded ass that she'd always been teased about ("like a couple of grapefruits ready to be squeezed," her husband joked) and a pair of breasts that were out of proportion with the overall frame of her body. Indeed, her boobs had always attracted attention, even though she tried to dress in baggy clothes to hide their fullness. With shoulder-length black hair, rosy red cheeks (largely caused by her uncontrollable blushing) and a pouty mouth, she had always looked like a real-life version of Betty Boop, and that had been her nickname as a teenager. But her prominent breasts had quickly seen the name amended to Betty Boobs, particularly in male-dominated offices, where it became a standing joke. It had carried over to her private life. Her husband was such a fan of the character that he even had a Betty Boop calendar, and so the Betty Boobs tease had stayed with her. She didn't like it. She deserved respect rather than be treated as a walking, talking cartoon figure with a voluptuous pair of tits.
Like most big-breasted girls, she'd lost her virginity at an early age after one of the neighbour's boys had followed her home. He'd rung the doorbell and asked her out for a walk. Lacking the self-confidence to say no, she'd reluctantly gone with him. Ten minutes later, she was on her back in a nearby field, spread-eagled fully naked with her tits being slavered over as some lad she barely knew destroyed her hymen with the first adult male cock she'd ever seen.
Well, she said to herself as she dragged her thoughts back to the impending interview, today my big breasts are going to work in my favour for once. I need that job, and there's nothing that stupid working-class men like more than a bit of cleavage. Having already selected high heels, tight black micro-panties and a black pencil skirt that emphasised her grapefruit-ass cheeks, she slipped on a black push-up bra that she'd recently bought in an effort to get her husband -- always a tit-man -- paying more attention. She then added a classy but low-cut top before looking in the full-length bedroom mirror to check that she had the appearance of a smart, efficient and perkily sexy job applicant.
"Oh my God," she thought. "I can't go out dressed like this! I've shown a lot less cleavage on a public beach! I'm even blushing as I look in the mirror. I just can't go through with this..." The push-up bra was already at least one size too small for her (a trick she'd learnt from her more confident girl-friends), and her big, thrusting breasts looked as if they were fighting to break free of their wholly inadequate confines.
She sat back on the bed as the voices in her head battled for supremacy. I can't go out like this. But you need that job. I can't go out like this. In that case, you won't get the job. I can't go out like this. But other women do -- what makes you so special? I can't go out like this. Then don't go out like that -- throw a big coat over everything, and then only take off the coat once you get into the interview room. That way only one person -- the person you're trying to persuade to give you a job -- will see you dressed like you're taking your tits out for a walk.
Okay, she thought, that's a reasonably good compromise. I'll dress up in a big coat like Lady Bountiful, and then, when I'm inside the inner sanctum, I'll throw off the coat and dazzle this Tony guy with my, er, wits. Nobody else will see me, just him. Yes, that'll do. Quickly grabbing her handbag and a belt that emphasised the enviable slimness of her waist, she picked out a suitable full-length coat and headed for the front door. Got to get that job, she thought. Got to get that job.
Thirty minutes later, she pulled up in a car park that was adjacent to the address that she'd been given -- despite her earlier panic, still about fifteen minutes ahead of the allocated interview time. She didn't really know this area, and was shocked at how run-down and seedy the surroundings looked. She'd been expecting a swish, multi-storey, modern building complex with air conditioning and individual office units, but this was more like a post-apocalypse wasteland. A row of derelict-looking, glorified Nissen huts surrounded by crumbling walls with obscene graffiti and a couple of winos huddled together nursing their cider bottles: had she really come to the right place?
No, wait, she had: a makeshift sign bearing the legend "Tony Richardson Enterprises" was propped up against the building nearest to the car park. She made her way towards it with a sinking feeling. The place, the job, the people - this was all wrong. She was made for better things than this rundown, working-class shithole. But even as those thoughts ran through her mind, another, louder voice inside her head kept worming its way through everything with a now-familiar mantra: GOT TO GET THAT JOB.
She knocked on the outer door, to be greeted by a slightly thin, reedy voice shouting "come in!" She duly entered. If anything, the office looked even more dismal than the outside area. Sparsely decorated, no carpet on the floor, and a couple of threadbare chairs either side of a makeshift reception desk with an incongruous bowl of fruit on the top. Behind the desk lounged a shabbily-dressed, emaciated old man. He looks about seventy, she thought. He stood up to greet her. "How can I help you, sweetheart?" he said to Sarah in a rough but not unfriendly manner.
