The Interview
The interviewer is late.
I glance at the non-descript clock, ticking away in its spot on the blank grey wall. 10:05. I’ve already been here for fifteen minutes, and I haven’t seen a soul since the secretary first buzzed me in. At least she was professional, a blond woman in a navy blouse and grey pencil skirt, who greeted me and offered me a glass of water. Then she apologized, explaining that she had to step away to attend to pressing business. I haven’t seen her since.
10:10. Restlessly, I flip through my portfolio, smooth my skirt, take another sip of water. I’m not really thirsty, but I took the cup to be polite, and now I find myself idly sipping from it while I wait. It’s oddly sweet. The secretary still hasn’t returned, and I consider standing up and walking out of the room. I don’t need this interview, after all. I already have a well-respected job with a growing company. The work could be more interesting, sure, but my coworkers are great, and even though the hours are long the pay is well worth it.
So no, I don’t need this job. This company sought me out, not the other way around. They emailed me, said they had an offer I couldn’t refuse. Their explanation was vague, but my curiosity was piqued. I agreed to come in for an interview.
10:15. The glass of water is empty. I guess I was thirstier than I thought. The secretary still hasn’t returned, and I’m getting impatient. An offer I can’t refuse? I scoff to myself. Well, they’re right. If they never get around to making the offer, then technically I can’t refuse it.
10:20. By now I’m insulted. Honestly, I could walk out the door right now and my life would be none the worse for it. They asked me to come here. They’re the ones who should be trying to impress me. The fact that they couldn’t even make it to their own interview on time clinches my decision. I stand and gather my things. Good riddance to this place.
The inner door slides open just as I’m marching past it.
“Elizabeth Halloway?”
I pause. There’s nothing unusual about the man standing in the doorway—he’s about my age, sandy hair, hazel eyes, wearing a dark grey suit and holding a clipboard. He’s not unattractive but not exceptionally handsome either. And yet, when he says my name, I’m overwhelmed by the need to stop and answer.
“That’s me,” I say. “I’m Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth.” He smiles and extends a hand. “I’m Cyril. We’re ready for you.”
“Are you?” I cross my arms. I’ve humored him by stopping to talk, but I’m still insulted. “The interview was supposed to start twenty minutes ago.”
“It was,” he nods. “And I’m so sorry for the delay. We were waiting on a few things.”
“You could have let me know.”
“Unfortunately there was no way to do so without disrupting the process.”
“What process?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll explain after the interview.”
“No thank you.” This whole bizarre exchange only confirms my desire to get out of here. If I leave now, I’ll have dodged a bullet. I can go home, pour a glass of wine, call my best friend and gripe about what a waste of time this day has been. “I don’t think this is a good fit.”
“Well, no, not yet. But it will be. Just give it time.” Cyril tucks the clipboard beneath his arm and waves me into the hallway. “Follow me, Elizabeth.”
Something inside of me seems to shift. I thought I wanted to go home, but now all I can think about is following Cyril. It’s not just idle curiosity either—suddenly the very thought fills me with a dreamy warmth, a comforting glow I could wrap myself in. I would so love to follow Cyril, to trail behind him down the hall, going wherever he leads… I barely notice my legs moving beneath me, drifting down the hallways as if in a dream, until I find myself standing dazedly in the entrance to a conference room.
“Here we are,” Cyril announces.
The warm, dreamy sensation that overwhelmed me a moment ago has vanished. “What the fuck?” I say.
“Language, Elizabeth,” he scolds. “Is that any way to conduct yourself in front of a potential employer?”
“Screw that,” I say. I stand in the doorway, unwilling to go any farther until I figure this out. I was planning to leave. And then he told me to follow him and it was all I could think about. That wasn’t normal. That wasn’t me. “What the hell just happened?”
Now Cyril looks confused. He’s kind of cute when he’s confused. “We said our hellos. Then we left the lobby and came straight here. Did something else happen?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. Maybe it wasn’t his fault. Maybe he doesn’t know either. “Something was strange.” I don’t know how else to describe it, but I know it wasn’t natural. I should go, should turn around and leave before it happens again…
“It was probably nerves,” Cyril says, smiling again. He has a nice smile, confident. It reminds me of a handsome movie star whose name I can’t quite remember. “You’re nervous. It’s absolutely normal to be nervous before an interview. Of course it is, because I’m your interviewer, and you want to impress me. Don’t worry, though—I already know you have just the qualifications we need.” He gestures towards the table in the center of the room. “Take a seat.”
He’s right. I am nervous. I slide into the seat that Cyril offers. Was I this nervous in the waiting room? Wasn’t I just thinking about how I didn’t need this job? But the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. After all, it’s still an interview, and I still feel the pressure of wanting to impress. I clutch my portfolio. At least I know my work is top-notch. With or without the nerves, the quality of my work will speak for itself.
Cyril sits across the table from me. “Before we begin,” he says, “Let’s get you some water. You look parched.” There’s a pitcher of water sitting on the table. He slides a cup my way and I drink it gratefully, soothing my parched throat. It’s sweet, like the water I drank in the waiting room. I wonder if the secretary ever came back from her pressing business. Not that it matters. For a moment, all that matters is my thirst. I don’t stop until I’ve drained every last drop.
“That feels better, doesn’t it?” Cyril says happily, and I nod. My thirst is gone. I feel so much better. “I apologize for the awkward start. Would you believe that I’ve never done this before?”
“Never interviewed someone before?” I ask.
He nods. “Exactly. Or not for this position. This is a highly specialized role, and we can’t accept just anybody. So forgive me for starting off on the wrong foot.”
I smile, overcome by a wave of warmth. I do forgive him. How could I not? There’s something so endearing about Cyril. I could never stay mad at him.
“Now,” he says, smiling once more, “Ready to begin?”
“Ready.” I offer my portfolio, but he waves it away.
“Not yet. I have some questions first. You’ll answer honestly for me, won’t you?”
“I’ll answer honestly,” I promise. When I think about being honest with Cyril, there’s that warm, dreamy glow again. Is that normal? I decide it must be. After all, I like to think I’m an honest person, so it only makes sense that I would feel good about being honest in an interview.
“Wonderful.” Cyril scribbles happily on his clipboard. “Now tell me about your current position.”
We start with a few easy questions. I tell him about my current company, my day to day activities, my usual projects. By the third or fourth question, my heart is pounding. I know I have nothing to be nervous about. I know I’m good at what I do. It’s just that … Cyril’s so attractive. Like, really attractive. I can’t believe I didn’t notice at first, but now it’s so obvious that it’s distracting. Twice I lose my train of thought and have to pick up where I left off. Thankfully, Cyril doesn’t seem to notice. After a few minutes, he continues with a harder question:
“Is there anything you don’t like about your current job?”
I’ve been through enough interviews that I know never to bash a job. But I also promised that I would be honest. It’s so important to be honest for Cyril. “I love my workplace and my coworkers,” I say. “But sometimes the work can get repetitive. I wish I was doing something a bit more rewarding.”
Cyril nods and scribbles on the clipboard. “Understandable,” he assures me. “Your job is boring. You wish you took more pleasure in the work itself.”
“Exactly,” I say gratefully. My job is so boring. I wish I took more pleasure in the work. It’s wonderful how quickly he understands.
“And how do you get along with your coworkers?”
“Very well. I may be ambitious, but I’m still known for being a team player.”
“Excellent.” Cyril beams—oh god, there’s that movie star smile again—and scribbles in his notes. “One of the biggest parts of this job is working well with others. Supporting your team members, boosting morale, that sort of thing. Do you think you can do that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Excellent. Next question, Lizzie—”
“It’s Elizabeth,” I correct him gently. I don’t want him to think I can’t get along, but the truth is I never liked pet names. I always preferred my full name—Elizabeth.
He smiles again. “Well, of course, that’s your formal name. But you really like it when I call you Lizzie.”
“I’d prefer—” I start to correct him.
“Now Lizzie,” he says again, and a delighted shiver runs down my spine. Oh! I really like it when he calls me Lizzie. I decide not to correct him. Cyril can call me whatever he wants. “Lizzie,” Cyril continues, causing another shiver of delight, stronger this time, “you might be expected to join in on team activities outside of work—happy hours and such. Is that something you could do? Are you friendly with coworkers outside of work?”
I wouldn’t say I’m friends with any of my coworkers, but I’m not above having a drink or two at the monthly Happy Hour. And it seems like that’s what Cyril wants. So I nod.
“Excellent.” More scribbling. “Lizzie have you ever dated a coworker?”
“I, uh,” Something about this question seems off, but it’s hard to concentrate when it feels so good to hear him say my name. And I really like Cyril. It feels good to answer him honestly. “No, I haven’t.”
“Have you ever had sex with a coworker?”
I frown. “Wait … isn’t this inappropriate?”
“Why should it be? Who’s to say coworkers can’t have sex if they’re both consenting adults?” That’s not what I meant, I want to say … or I think I want to say? But Cyril continues before I can put my thoughts together. “Is that a yes or a no?”
I can feel myself blushing. “N-no.”
“Very well.” He nonchalantly scribbles a few more lines. “Next question: Have you ever wanted to?”
“Have I wanted to…”
“Have you ever wanted to have sex with a coworker?”
“I, uh…” My tongue trips over itself.
“It’s a simple question, Lizzie,” he says matter-of-factly. “Has there even been a coworker who made you burn with lust whenever they were around? All you could think about was tearing off their clothes and letting them ravish you on the nearest flat surface? Have you ever had to work next to someone who filled you with such overwhelming yearning that you had to go home and rub your clit each night, imagining the feel of their cock in your pussy? Has this ever happened to you?” Cyril waits for my answer calmly with his pen poised above the paper.
I feel awkward answering this question. I even briefly wonder if it’s crossing a line, but … god, it’s impossible not to like Cyril. He’s so unbelievably sexy, and the more I consider the question, the more I struggle not to think about tearing off his suit and letting him ravish me across the table in the conference room. Just looking at him makes my body burn with lust. I know that as soon as I get home it’s going to a long, steamy night with my vibrator. No wonder I can’t focus when all I can do is picture myself ripping open his shirt, running my hands over the muscles in his bare chest, my legs wrapped around his waist, grinding against his hardening cock until I finally tear my panties off and …
“The question, Lizzie,” Cyril prompts. Oh my god, I’ve spent the last several minutes fantasizing. It takes me a minute to even remember the question.
“No,” I blurt out. “Yes but no. I don’t know. Yes, there have been coworkers I found attractive in the past, but nothing like that.” Nothing like how I’m feeling right now. “And even if there were,” I add firmly, “I never would have done anything because…” I trail off.
“Because?”
“It’s… it’s inappropriate,” I manage to finish.
“I see.”
He finishes scribbling my answer onto the clipboard, while I try to compose myself. Yes, it’s inappropriate. The lust, the yearning, the fantasies about how delicious his cock would feel in my wet, wanting pussy. None of it can happen. I’m a professional, after all.
“Cyril,” I try to bring the conversation back to something professional. Something I’m good at. “If you would take a look at my portfolio, I think you’d really—”
“Not just yet,” he says, but he smiles again, reassuringly. “I know you want to impress me. I know this interview is so important to you because you really want this job. Don’t worry—I just have a few more questions, and then you’ll get to show me just what you can do.”
I take a breath and nod. I have to be patient. I do really want the job, and that means I have to go through the process. I can’t rush things.
“You’ve done a lot of talking already. Your throat must be getting dry.” Cyril slides another cup of water my way. “Have another drink, Lizzie.”
I shiver with delight upon hearing my name and lift the cup to my lips. The water is as sweet as ever, sliding down my throat so easily. Cyril waits patiently. God, he’s so considerate. And so sexy. I wonder what it would be like to take his cock in my mouth. Would he taste as sweet?
“One more thing,” Cyril says, “before we continue, I have a confession to make. I don’t usually go by my full name, Cyril. Just as your given name is Elizabeth but you prefer Lizzie, I also have a nickname that I use with my colleagues. And I feel like we’re colleagues now, don’t you?”
“Oh yes,” I agree breathlessly. I’m so, so happy we can be colleagues. “What should I call you?”
“You can call me Cyr for short. It’s pronounced almost like Sir. But of course I don’t expect you to call me Sir.” Cyril chuckles at his own joke. “That would only be appropriate if I had authority over you, wouldn’t it? No, Cyr is just fine.”
“Yes, sir—I mean Cyr.” I try out the new name in my mouth and laugh when I get it wrong. Cyril laughs too, but in an encouraging way. “Thank you for sharing your nickname with me. I’m so glad we’re colleagues.”
“So am I.” He nods happily. “And now let’s continue with a few more questions.”
“Yes, Sir—I mean Cyr.”
If he notices my mistake, he’s gracious enough not to say anything. Instead he continues on: “For this section, it’s even more important that you answer honestly.”
“Of course, Sir—Cyr.” I’m trying to get his nickname right, really I am. But it’s so hard not to think of him as Sir since the words are almost the same. Of course, I’m not really going to call him Sir. That would imply that he has authority over me, and that’s just silly. Sure, he’s my interviewer and it’s really important that I impress him because I really want this job, but that’s not the same thing.
Right?
“Next question. What’s your bra size?”
I look down at my chest, hidden beneath my blouse. Cyril, too, is looking at my chest. Does he … does he find me attractive too? No, no he couldn’t possibly. He’s only asking as part of the interview.
“36DD,” I say.
He notes that on the clipboard. “You have beautiful natural assets, Lizzie.”
“Thank you, Sir.” I’m blushing. It feels good to know that I’ve impressed him. I really want to impress him because I really want this job.
“And when was the last time you had sex?”
“Before my last relationship ended. So about six months ago.”
He carefully jots that down too. “And when you have sex, what’s your favorite position?”
“Missionary.”
“Hm. Well, we can work with that. After all, you’re a team player. I know you love to think outside of the box and try new things.”
“Yes Sir,” I agree. “I love trying new things.”
He finishes writing and sets the clipboard aside. “You’ve answered well for the standard questions, but it’s really important to see how you would respond to scenarios. Now it’s time for situational questions. Are you ready to do some role-playing?”
Oh god, I’m so nervous. I didn’t know there was role-playing. But I want to impress Sir because he’s my interviewer and I really want this job. So I nod. “Ready.”
He claps his hands together. “Excellent. First role-play question: It’s been a long day, and all of the men on your team are feeling stressed. Morale is low, and they could use a boost. What do you do?”
“I, um…” I’m trying to focus, but my mind is going blank, distracted. How would I boost morale?
Luckily, Sir sees me struggling and gives me a hint. “Use your assets, Lizzie.”
My assets? That’s right, a moment ago he told me my tits were my natural assets. I look down at my chest and then up again.
“I show them my tits?” I say uncertainly.
“Excellent answer. Please demonstrate.”
I unbutton my blouse and drape it across the back of the chair. Then I unclip my bra, a plain beige contraption with no frills or lace, and let it fall to the floor. If I’d known there would be situational questions today, I would have worn something sexier. Too late for that now. But at least I can cup my tits in my hands and lean forward, letting Sir get a good view.
Sir looks pleased. “I see,” he says. “And is that the extent of your answer?”
What else could boost morale? I think back to my earlier fantasy of climbing onto Sir’s lap and running my hands over his muscular chest. It was inappropriate, but there might be something there that I can use.
“I let them touch my chest,” I say, more confidently this time. “They can play with my tits.”
“Another acceptable answer. Please demonstrate.”
I reach across the table for Sir’s hands and place them on my tits. He fondles me for a few minutes, no doubt inspecting my tits to make sure they meet the company’s expectations. I’m trying not to be inappropriate, to keep it professional, but it’s hard to boost morale and keep myself from getting excited. A few times he flicks my nipples, already swollen from arousal, and I can’t help but moan softly.
“This is very good, Lizzie” Sir says finally. It feels so good to hear my name coupled with praise. “For some of your colleagues, this would be enough. But what if it isn’t?”
“What do you mean, Sir?”
His fingers drift into a different motion, spiraling around and around my nipples. Teasing but never quite reaching that sensitive epicenter. “What if it’s a colleague that finds you attractive? Better yet, what if you find them attractive? What if their touch feels so good that you don’t want them to stop?” He brushes his thumbs across my nipples, causing me to whimper. “What do you do then?”
I think about my earlier fantasies, grinding against Sir’s crotch, his cock in my pussy. “Oh, I c-can’t.”
“Oh?” He brushes over my nipples again, sending another shock of pleasure through me. “Why not?”
“B-because.” I whimper. “Inappropriate.”
He begins rolling my sensitive nipples between his fingers. “Maybe it was inappropriate at your old, boring job. But this is a new job. One where every task is its own reward. One where you can take pleasure in your work.” On the word pleasure he pinches my nipples and I moan unabashedly, grinding my hips against the chair. “Don’t you want to feel pleasure?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you want to share that pleasure with your colleagues?”
“Oh—oh yes.”
“And the more pleasure you share, the more pleasure you feel. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes!” I barely know what I’m saying. “Yes, Sir, I need to feel pleasure.”
“Then go on, Lizzie,” Sir whispers, tantalizing me with his fingers. “Show me what would give you the most pleasure.”
I act in a lust-filled haze, nearly climbing over the table to straddle him. My panties are soaked, my skirt around my hips, my legs straddle his waist. From this angle, my sizable tits are inches from his face. I shift forward slightly to allow him a taste—for a moment he seems surprised, but then he begins to suck greedily on my tits, flickering his tongue over each sensitive nipple. He’s still fully clothed but I can feel his cock tenting inside his pants, Oh god, it’s even bigger than it was in my fantasies. I grind my hips against it desperately, wanting, needing.
“Oh god, Lizzie,” he groans. I can hear the lust in his voice. “You’re even better than I thought you’d be.”
“Th-thank you, Sir.”
For a moment, there’s nothing else. His tongue on my nipple, my hips grinding in pleasure and frustration against the fabric that covers his throbbing cock. Eventually he grips my hair in his hands and pulls me off of his lap. At first I think he means to guide me towards the table where I can spread my legs and be ravished, but instead, he pushes me to my knees beneath the table. My face is inches from his crotch. Oh. Oh. It doesn’t take a genius to understand what comes next.
I’ve never liked blow jobs. I used to make my disdain for them known, to the point that my last boyfriend stopped asking for them altogether. But it’s like Sir said—I’m a team player who loves to try new things. Right now it’s clear that a blow job is the best way for me to boost morale, and so I’m going to try my best. Besides, I really want to impress Sir. I’m eager to show him how good I can be in this position.
Sir unbuttons his pants, releasing his cock. God, he’s so hard already. My mouth waters, and I can’t help but lean forward and lick the precum off of its tip. He rewards me with a lust-filled groan, and my own lust grows. Slowly, carefully, I take his cock into my mouth, sucking lightly, beginning to settle into a rhythm. At first I don’t go much farther than the head of his cock, but Sir grips my hair, holding me in place, coaxing me to take a little more of him each time.
“That’s it, Lizzie.” Sir whispers words of encouragement. “Good girl. Oh, fuck, that’s good.” His fingers tighten in my hair. “You know, I was so sure I’d fucked this whole thing up. This was my first time, you know? Normally we have this whole light show in the waiting room with flickering lights and subliminals, but you took forever to drink the serum, and then you tried to leave before I could get the audio going. I almost didn’t catch you in time—ohhhhh fuck, Lizzie.” He groans again as I slide my lips all the way down his shaft, taking all of him in for the first time. “Anyway I shouldn’t have worried. Look at you now. You’re a cock-hungry little slut just like the rest of them.”
I’m barely listening, too distracted by the pleasure of his thick, perfect cock filling up my empty mouth. Sir begins to pump his hips, fucking my face, lost to the pleasure himself. I moan desperately, the sound muffled. I’m such a cock-hungry little slut. I’ve been so hungry for cock for far too long. Thank goodness Sir recognized my nature and gave me what I needed. I love the pressure of him against my throat, the way I can feel every shudder of pleasure when my tongue brushes a sensitive spot. I can feel his cock growing harder, thicker, ready to burst—
Again, he grips my hairs and pulls me away. This time I let out a cry of frustration. “Please, Sir! I need to give you pleasure.”
“And you will.” He gazes at me hungrily. “Get on the fucking table, Lizzie. And take off those panties. I want to feel your tight pussy.”
Obediently, I scramble onto the table, wriggle out of my skirt and panties. I spread my legs wide for Sir. The metal is cold again my bare ass, but I don’t care about that. I moan with frustration as he teases my slit with his cock, and then I moan again with satisfaction as his hardness enters my slick pussy.
“God damnit Lizzie,” he groans as he begins thrusting his hard, thick cock in and out of me. “You’re so fucking tight. And you thought you wouldn’t be a good fit.”
“I—oh—oh—yes.” The words are meaningless against the sheer pleasure of feeling his cock inside of me once more. I thought he belonged in my mouth, but that feeling was nothing compared to the bliss of taking him in my tight pussy. All I can do is moan as he fucks me. Pumping in and out. Taking pleasure in my body while I writhe in ecstasy. Harder, faster, closer. I can feel his excitement growing.
“Fuck it, I’m gonna cum soon,” he gasps. “And you’re gonna cum when I do. Is that clear?”
“Yes Sir, oh yes!” My pleasure is so entwined with his I couldn’t refuse him if I tried. Every moan of his makes me moan, every shudder makes me shudder. He’s fucking me hard and fast. I raise my hips to meet him thrust by thrust. Thrust. By. Thrust. Yes. Oh! Yes!
“Cum for me, Lizzie!” he commands, but I’m already there. My body senses the culmination of his pleasure, his cock erupting and sending waves of bliss cascading through me. I can’t help but cry out in ecstasy. I never knew it could feel this good. My reward for a job well done.
When the world rights itself, I’m lying on the table, naked and glowing in post-orgasmic bliss. Cyril slumps in the chair next to me, breathing heavily. He mops his forehead with a handkerchief, pulled from his front pocket.
“That was excellent, Lizzie,” Cyril says. “You’re extremely well-qualified, and it’s clear that you take great pleasure in the work. The position is yours if you choose to accept it.”
I smile and nod dreamily. Of course I want to accept it. Anything for Cyril. For Sir.
“Good girl.” The praise thrums through me. Cyril smiles and lazily strokes my inner thigh. “I’ll have the secretary draw up the paperwork today. Spend a few minutes composing yourself, and then we’ll get you some more serum and send you off to meet the rest of the team. How does that sound?”
“Very good, Sir,” I say. I close my eyes and smile contentedly, enjoying the feel of his hands roving over my body. Enjoying the promise of a new, more rewarding job. We haven’t discussed anything like salary or benefits yet, but I don’t mind. If everyone at this company is as wonderful as Cyril, then I just know I’ll love it here.
I can’t wait to get started.