The Job Interview

Image cour­tesy of The Alexa Collection

“Ms. Smith? Mr. Mof­fit will see you now.”

He looks up as she walks in, look­ing her over. Not bad. She’s not overly tall but pretty hair and a nice smile. She’s a lit­tle curvier than the girls like to be these days, prob­a­bly obsesses over her weight — thinks she’s fat. He’s pleased to see that she’s nicely turned out in a smart lit­tle suit, long legs show­cased striped stock­ings that make her seem taller than she really is. The heels prob­a­bly don’t hurt either.

She stands before him, ner­vous smile turn­ing stiff at the cor­ners as he keeps her stand­ing for a tri­fle too long. Hid­ing a smile, he ges­tures at one of the chairs in front of the desk, not­ing her relief as she sits, crosses her legs, uncrosses them, and recrosses them, tuck­ing her ankles beneath her chair. Hint of cleav­age and a whiff of some­thing sweet and flo­ral as she leans for­ward to put her resume on his desk. He looks it over, going over her pre­vi­ous expe­ri­ence. Not bad. Not bad.

“Ms. Smith, have you looked over the list of requirements?”

She straight­ens up in her seat, clears her throat and nods. “I believe so…”

“I under­stand that some of them may be a bit…unusual. But we like to think out­side the box. I think it gives us a cer­tain “edge” over our competitors.”

She looks up, briefly meet­ing his eyes before flush­ing deeply and quickly look­ing away. “I…understand.”

“Then you have no objec­tion to begin­ning the typ­ing test? You under­stand that we require all of our employee to type at least 70 words per minute. This is not nego­tiable — we require max­i­mum effi­ciency in all things.”

She rises, mov­ing to the work­sta­tion that he indi­cates. Sim­ple desk­top, flat screen, key­board. No chair. The desk­top is higher than you’d expect — a bit too tall to sit at comfortably.

“Bend over.”

Bend­ing over, she places her hands on the key­board, align­ing her index fin­gers on the home keys, wrists arched, ready to begin. He comes up behind her, reach­ing over her shoul­der to turn the screen on, and watches her as she dili­gently begins the test.

‘The quick brown dogs jumps over the lazy fox. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.’

The feel­ing of his hands on the sides of her legs breaks through her con­cen­tra­tion. She falters.

‘How much wooood…’

His hands begin to bunch the fab­ric up her legs, inch­ing the hem of her skirt higher. “Don’t stop.”

Deep breath and she tries to recover her com­po­sure. Fin­gers back on the home keys. One let­ter after another.

The hem inches higher, briefly catch­ing on the curve of her bot­tom, then it’s bunched around her waist and she’s aware of the cool air on the exposed skin above the tops of her stock­ings, on the cheeks of her ass exposed by the thong she wore. ‘Just keep typ­ing’, she tells herself.

Almost done. Just a few para­graphs left. She can do this. She’s almost there.

*SMACK*

The sud­den impact knocks the air from her lungs. The pain from the burn­ing imprint of his hand on her ass sears into her flesh. Tears in her eyes and she’s try­ing not to cry.

Just keep typ­ing. Almost. Done.

*SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK*

The blows are unre­lent­ing, match­ing her fin­gers on the key­board stroke for stroke. She types faster, he spanks faster. Tears well, spilling over the cor­ners of her eyes, salty pearl col­lect­ing at the cor­ner of her mouth. A pink kit­ten tongue dart­ing out to taste it.

Done.

His warm hand on the sting­ing skin, rub­bing, pinch­ing. She blinks rapidly, sticky wet lashes, her per­fectly applied makeup slightly smeared and she tries to main­tain her com­po­sure, tries to catch her breath.

His hand on the back of her neck, guid­ing her upright, tip­ping her head back against the hard plane of his chest until she’s look­ing up at him, into those dark eyes. Her bot­tom lips quiv­ers as she wavers on the very edge of her control.

“Very well done, Ms. Smith. Are you ready for the next test?” He taps the but­ton on the inter­com. “Ms. Con­nor, could you please come in here?”