Mild ethnic terms. Apologies for mistakes: no editor. Comments/criticisms welcome. silkcita
*****
Friday
Manny was tapping his pen against the edge of his desk as an intrusive Arizona sun showered his office with an oppressive light and irritated his eyes. He glanced at his watch—4:12 p.m.
He was from Tennessee, the first of his family to earn a college degree. While everyone played football and partied, he was home reading and studying. They gave him shit for that: An athletic black teenager reading finance books on the weekends?
Sissy boy
, they called him. Girls ignored him. One would think they'd been more impressed by flowers and academic ambition than gold chains and bling. But they wanted to ride in shiny cars and go on shopping sprees.
The experience taught him a valuable lesson: Women were opportunistic cunts who'd fuck over the good guy for a flashy idiot. But that was okay. Those "ballers" were now in jail or working for minimal wage while the women picked through the leftovers like late shoppers after a Thanksgiving weekend sale.
Manny was the "Man" now, his own boss, playing middleman for banks and hedge fund managers. He owned his home and lived in a good neighborhood. Women who used to laugh at his "hooptie" would suck his dick to ride in his car today—not that he would give them the time of day: he had standards. But he missed the phat asses of the South. Prim and proper women out West, who did brunch and sipped mimosas, were aight; but there was something intrinsically appealing about a juicy big ass.
He was just about to call it a day when the front door jingled. He stood from his desk and walked into the lobby. Standing inside the front door was a young woman interviewing to be his assistant. He didn't need an assistant—his neighbor (Dave) was recruiting for a former maid. Manny was reluctant but Dave badgered him.
Just give her a chance, Manny
, he begged.
She's a single mother strapping to make ends meet
. Manny agreed but was noncommittal. Why would he pay someone four hundred bucks a week (her former weekly wage) to answer phones and file files he did for free?
"Mr. Tisdale? I'm Rosa Martinez. I'm here for the interview?"
The answer was in the form of a beautiful Venezuelan immigrant with long straight black hair and a soft, coffee-colored complexion. Standing at 5'5" with a slim waist and pronounced hips, she had what his friends back home called a 'coke-bottle shape.' Nice titties, too. Always having a gift for numbers, Manny estimated her measurements as 34C-24-38. She was dressed in a simple green t-shirt and dark blue jeans that looked glued to her curvy hips and thighs. Her English was barely acceptable and she was nearly fifteen minutes late.
But he decided to give her a chance.
"Hi," he said, flashing a striking smile. He crossed the length of the lobby and shook her hand. "Glad you made it. Have a seat." He motioned to the couch by the door.
She gave Manny a smile/nod as she walked by him. His eyes followed her and spied a full, thick, Latina ass. She smelled good, too, like a spicy flower. His mind changed gears. What had begun as a reluctant favor was now an opportunity to bag a big booty Latina.
"So, Ms. Martinez," he said, mirroring her by sitting at the corner of the couch. Dave says you're looking for an employment?"
"Yes," she said with an eager smile; accent thick and sexy. "He said you had an opening."
Manny nodded and crossed his ankle over his knee. He knew Dave left earlier in the week to visit relatives on the East Coast and would be gone for over year. As he understood it, she was twenty-eight with a six-year-old son and mother to support. Dave had been paying daughter and mother six hundred a week for cleaning services—cash. The status of their citizenship was never discussed but Manny assumed Dave knew it wasn't legit. He had to find a way to would turn this to his advantage.
"I guess I could use an extra hand around here," Manny said, noncommittally as he looked around the dated lobby. It was previously a dentist office and Manny did little by way of decorating. A stack of
Highlights
magazines sat in a circle on the table in front of them.
"Dave said you're twenty-eight, and have some office skills?"
"Yes," she answered, nodding.
Manny nodded and rubbed his chin, noticing how round and plump her breasts looked in her green t-shirt. She sat with her legs together, crossed at the ankles. Her butt was so thick she seemed a little taller. He said, "So, you can type?"
The twenty-four-year-old immigrant gave a tight smile and shrugged.
"Did Dave tell you what I do, Rosa?" he said, narrowing his eyes on her. "I buy and sell mortgages, swap bonds, play liaison between banks and private capitalists. Why would I hire an assistant who can't type?"
To have her skirt hiked up over his desk would've been an adequate answer. In truth, he didn't do much typing himself. Hell, he didn't do much of anything other than make calls and click a mouse.
But the query had the desired effect. She was worried. The thing she'd thought was so sure didn't seem so sure anymore. She shifted nervously in her seat, rubbing her hands, glanced down at her lap then looked to him. "Mr. Tisdale, I could learn it if you give me time. Mr. Bramlet already paid us for this week before he left on Tuesday. But next week... I really need this job."
Manny gave a sympathetic nod, reeling her in slowly. "He was paying you and your mother six hundred? With me only offering four, how you plan to make up the difference? Has she found another job?"
She shook her head and said, "Well, I was hoping..."—she paused, gave a nervous smile—"once I've been here—"
"You were hoping I'd pay you six hundred dollars a week?" Manny smiled good naturedly, easing her anxiety. He shrugged. "I guess that would work out good for your mother, too. She watches your son while you're at work." Rosa worried her lip and nodded sheepishly. Manny couldn't fault her for trying but paying six hundred for someone who couldn't type or field a phone call efficiently was unsound . . . unless they had something to sweeten the deal.
She was watching him with a hopeful expression, willing him to say she had the job. Manny recognized the look on her face and, wanting to fully lay the bait, said, "Could she clean on the weekends? I wouldn't pay her what Dave paid, but maybe a hundred for a few hours on Saturday and Sunday."
Rosa grinned and scooted closer across the couch, speaking excitedly. Yes, her mom would love that. Going on to say that she would do wonderful job, that Mr. Bramlet never had one complaint.
