I had recently lost my job and had spent numerous weeks pounding the pavement, knocking on doors and handing CV’s to harassed-looking managers. Most of them gave the same inane smile and mumbled something about being swamped with hundreds of applications, promising to get back to me as soon as possible. So far they either seemed to have misplaced my number or have simply written me off as a possible candidate. A woman had run the last place I had visited. To be turned down is annoying enough: being turned down by a woman really wreaked havoc on my ego. She had been a real nasty piece of work, let me tell you. She was a severe, snobbish kind of bitch and most definitely a man-hater. She had looked me over as if I was something she’d scraped off the bottom of her shoe, shook her head and made annoying clucking sounds with her tongue as she browsed through my application form. I hadn’t said one word and already I knew that I wasn’t going to get the job.
“No. No. No.” With a gold ballpoint pen she clicked off the fields I had filled out and I felt that I was back in junior school, being graded on a piece of homework. I am twenty-nine years old, not some pimple-faced teenager, and I felt terribly humiliated by her condescending manner. The add had asked for an office assistant. I’ve worked in offices all my life: I know how to use a stapler and do not feel intimidated by the photocopier. I was more than qualified for the position, was well-dressed in a suit and tie and definitely did not deserve this kind of arrogant treatment. “I’m afraid that you do not meet our qualifications,” she said pointy-blankly and handed me back my CV. She held it by the edge with thumb and forefinger so that she wouldn’t blemish her finely manicured fingernails. I frowned. It was a perfect, 4-piece document and not something I had just fished out of the gutter. “I suggest you try elsewhere.”
My dismissal was indicated by the shuffling of papers around the desktop and the sharpening of half a dozen pencils that did not require any sharpening. I stood there and stared at her while she blatantly feigned ignorance of my presence.
Consuela E. Harper, manager. A mahogany block of angled wood, the name nicely engraved in a plate of stainless steel, the letters painted white with a black trim. Next to it stood a matching pen and pencil cup with an assortment of pointy pencils that were just screaming out at me to be sharpened. She was a recent immigrant for she still had an accent. Not Mexican--- she had aboriginal blood in her for sure for her skin tone was muddy and the hair jet black This was a jungle bitch, half Caucasian, half South American Indian.
Imagine my anger at being turned down by a fucking immigrant. An immigrant who had a better job than I! Although rather good-looking and still young she apparently went to great lengths to pretend to be a lot older. This was a real prim and proper no-nonsense kind of woman, one who had no qualms to tell you just how she felt. Direct, blunt and to the point. With the long hair pinned-up, pince-nez glasses and the black, high-collar lace blouse she looked just like the kind of upper class, virginal prig who’d faint at the sight of a stiff dick.
She had a magnificent set of hooters pushing through that black blouse, full and firm. She was definitely a very handsome woman, no doubt about it. She suddenly looked up and pushed the glasses up her nose with a forefinger. Half a dozen rings shone and glimmered as she lifted her slender hand. She didn’t like the way I had been staring at her and proved it by making a face. She drew the heavy knit shawl closer around her breasts, hiding them, and stared at me. She had education, though, for her English, although accented, was excellent. This was Oxford at it’s best. “Well? Is there something you didn’t understand? Shall I repeat it a little slower perhaps?”
I shook my head and tucked the folder under my arm. I know that it had been a childish thing to do but I knocked over her pencil cup, called her a bitch and left the building. Somehow this woman had gotten under my skin and I vowed to get even with her. I had her name---I just needed a little time to figure out where she lived.
Two weeks later I sat in my car in front of her house. It was past eleven at night and the street was dark and deserted. She and her husband obviously raked in the bills for the house they lived in was quite large and the terrain as big as a football field. It wasn’t exactly a mansion with stone walls and wrought iron gate but pretty well close at that. It was to my advantage that the property was large, for the neighbors lived a fair bit off and wouldn’t be alerted by shouts and screams.
The house was empty. Ten minutes later a Mercedes pulled into the driveway. They must have come from some kind of semi-casual party for they were dressed accordingly and full of silly chatter. I allowed the couple to enter the house and made my way across the lawn a few seconds after. I knocked on the door and was soon greeted by a paunchy, middle-aged man with a hairline moustache and graying hair. He was easily a man well over fifty with a paisley scarf tucked under the collar and an emblem of a sport club embroidered on his blazer. Jeeze---that kind of look went out in the forties! I gazed past his shoulder but the woman was not to be seen in the vicinity. He started to say something but I cut him off with a tremendous punch to the stomach. It sent him reeling backwards. I entered the dwelling and locked the door behind me. The gentleman clutched his midriff and stared at me with surprise. He gave a groan, straightened and started to say something again but I gave him a solid push and he fell to the floor with a loud thump.
The woman’s alarmed voice echoed through the foyer. “Charles? What was that noise?” She came out of a side entrance. She stared at the fallen form of her husband, then at me. She clasped a hand to her mouth and blinked stupidly around the room. “What is going on here?”
“Shut up----both of you.” I pulled a .22 caliber pistol out of my back pocket and hefted it in my hand. “This thing is small and not very noisy, but it will nonetheless leave a hole. Don’t make me use it. Come here, lady, and help your husband to his feet.” I stared at the woman as she came slowly across the room towards her husband. She was really something, let me tell you.
She was a short and petite little thing, something I hadn’t noticed that day in her office, not more than five-foot-three, and that in four-inch high heels! She was wearing a yellowish/beige blouse, light in color and of such a thin, silky material that I could see the contours of her bra shimmering through it; and a three-quarter-length skirt, deep purple and lightly pleated. The weightless velvety skirt just swirled around her ankles when she walked, allowing me to see the creamy nylons or stockings she wore underneath. The high-heeled black pumps were of the open-toe, sandal type with a solitary ankle band for support. The ultra high heels really thrust out her round, firm ass and made her breasts push out against the blouse even more.
