Got To Get That Job

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she could, but he never seemed to be around these days -- and even when he was at home, he was increasingly distant and withdrawn.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.

"Oh, hello, I'm here to see a Mr. Richardson for a job interview at ten-thirty," she said.

"Ah, right -- Sarah Wells, is it?" he replied, rising to greet her. "Tony's busy at the moment, Mrs Wells, but he should be with you in about ten minutes. Here, let me take your coat."

"Thanks, but I'm a bit cold, so I'll leave my coat on for the moment," said Sarah, blushing slightly when she realised how incongruous her plummy voice sounded against the old man's coarse, uneducated rasp.

"But I've got the heaters on full blast! You'll be a bit toasty if you keep that big old coat on, lady. Here, come on, let me take it."

Sarah was becoming increasingly red in the face, and it wasn't just down to the oppressive heat. "No, really, I'd prefer to keep it on, thanks." Even as she said it, she was aware that her insistence on keeping her coat on was beginning to make her look stupid. It was indeed like a furnace in the room. She'd be sweating buckets if she kept her coat on for the next ten minutes -- and nobody dripping sweat was likely to be given an office job, she thought.

By now the old boy was standing right in front of her. The look on his face was a mixture of bemusement and growing annoyance.

"Really, Mrs Wells, you must let me take your coat. It'll be perfectly safe on this wall rack behind my desk. Besides - apart from the temperature in here, it's company policy." He paused, before continuing with a twinkle in his eye as he chanced a little joke that was clearly designed to pacify the well-to-do but decidedly uncomfortable-looking brunette in front of him. "After all, you might have a pair of .38 Specials tucked away under there. You might be about to blow us all to kingdom come!"

There was nothing else for it, thought Sarah. If I keep refusing, I'll look like a mental patient.

"Very well," she said reluctantly, standing up and unbuttoning the coat before shrugging it off -- a movement that caused her ripe tits to bounce alarmingly and nearly pop out of the skimpy top, which really wasn't up to the job. "I'll pick it up on the way out."

The old guy's eyes nearly popped out as well when he saw what she'd been hiding underneath the coat. "Bloody hell!" he exclaimed involuntarily as he was confronted with the delicious sight of her spectacular, gravity-defying cleavage. "I wasn't wrong, was I? That really is a special pair of thirty-eights you've got there!"

Sarah blushed heavily as she sat down on the other side of the desk. She forced a wan smile, but couldn't think of anything to say in response. Not only would she have to sit for the next few minutes with this dirty old man leering at her from no more than a couple of feet away, but the deference that had been in his voice when he'd initially spoken to her had completely disappeared. Whereas he'd initially treated her as a demure middle-aged lady of superior social status, now he was looking at her like she was just another big-titted street corner slut.

She thought she'd better try to make conversation with him. Maybe he was more important than he looked. She leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. "Tell me... is anyone out in front at the moment?" she whispered to him.

He looked completely bemused, although he was definitely keen on her leaning forward, which gave him an even better view of her twin treasures. "Eh? What are you talking about?"

"Well, you know - do I have stiff competition?"

"It's certainly getting that way, darling. But I still don't really know what you're on about."

She sighed. "You've had two days of interviews for this job," she said. "How have they gone? Is anybody in pole position yet?"

"Oh, right," he said. "Don't worry, I think you're way, way out in front!"

Now it was her turn to look bemused. "Me? But I haven't even had my interview yet! How can I be out in front?"

And now it was his turn to lean forward. Fuck me, what a pair. How were they even staying in? "Just think of it like a sprint race," he said. "You're all under starters orders, the boss has fired the starting pistol, and all the competitors are racing to the finishing line. BUT," he said, looking pointedly at her big titties, "I'm pretty sure you'll be breasting the tape before all the other girls."

She sat back. Clearly she wasn't going to get any sense out of this goggle-eyed moron. He was obviously the company's equivalent of the village idiot -- and worse than that, a village idiot with a breast fixation. She'd already had a bellyful of the man.

After another minute of uneasy silence, he offered her the fruit bowl. "Come on darling, let's get something inside you. How about a nice piece of fruit while you're waiting for the boss man to sort you out?"

"No thank you," she replied, trying to remain aloof yet personable rather than giving in to the cold panic she was starting to feel. Must stay polite, she thought. Got to get that job.

"No? You don't fancy a banana, maybe? You look like a girl who's quite partial to a nice big banana," he said, holding it in his fist while thrusting it in her direction.

"Thank you, but I had a full breakfast before I came out," she said in what she hoped was a jokey, friendly manner.

"I'll bet you did, you little tart," he muttered to himself under his breath, though he must have known it was still loud enough for her to hear. How much longer do I have to tolerate this creep, she thought. He then picked up a pear, saying to her in a louder voice: "How about this lovely ripe, juicy pear, then? Everybody enjoys a nice pear, don't they? I know Tony does -- but you'll find that out soon enough..."

Sarah frowned. She couldn't work out if that comment was encouraging or not. It suggested that Tony was, like her husband, a confirmed boob man -- which, given how stacked she was, would probably get her the job. On the other hand, would he be content to enjoy her titillating display of flesh, or would he want to sample the goods at some stage? She wanted a job, not another affair.

She was lost in her thoughts when the phone rang. The old man answered. "Hi Tony. Yes, she's sitting in front of me now. Definitely a ten -- and at least nine of it is out on display." Silence. "I know. I'm sorry, but... well, you'll see soon enough. Anyway, I'll tell her you're on your way."

Thirty seconds later, Tony burst through the internal door. "Hi, Mrs Wells? Lovely to see you. Come through with me, please, to my office and we'll get right down to business." Not for the first time that day, Sarah was shocked. Not only had Tony Richardson brazenly feasted his eyes on her tits, which had wobbled alarmingly as he deliberately gave her a powerful extended handshake, but he looked like an absolute slob. A hugely fat man who must have been upwards of 300 pounds, he wore a filthy pair of outsized jeans, held up by a nasty-looking cheap belt, and a football replica kit top that barely covered his outsized bulk.

As he guided her into the main office, she heard the old man in the outer office shout to her "Good luck, Big Tits!" and the door was closed. She was horrified, humiliated. He could have called her by her name or even "darling" rather than being so uncouth. Sensing her thoughts, Tony apologised. "Sorry about old Stan, Mrs Wells. He can be very crude sometimes, but he's a good worker, and he has a heart of gold. But he doesn't get to see many beautiful women these days! I'll have a word with him. He should know that all our employees deserve his utmost respect, even those that look as if they didn't finish dressing before they left the house!" He laughed to put her at ease while patting her on the bottom. She took this to be a friendly, reassuring gesture, even if his huge palm did seem to linger a little longer on her curvaceous rump than was strictly necessary.

Sarah was encouraged by the "employees" reference, almost as if she'd already got the job. And Tony did seem nicer than her initial assessment had suggested, though his giant frame (he was at least twelve inches taller than her) and unkempt, sweaty appearance did intimidate her slightly. Tradesmen types always made her a bit nervous.

The office was more spacious than she'd initially estimated: the outer segment patrolled by Uncouth Stan gave way to a larger, open-plan office, with Tony's room situated at the back of it. As he led her through the bigger room, she saw there were about seven or eight men working there, all of various shapes, sizes and ages. No women, though. Why was that, she wondered. As she walked through the large room -- with Tony's hand still resting lightly on her bottom (he was obviously a very friendly guy, she thought) -- one or two of them looked up from their work.

"Bloody hell -- look at the state of that!" said one, who then wolf-whistled. That alerted his co-workers, and suddenly the room was full of clapping and cheering and crude comments.

"Hey Tony, are we opening a branch of Hooters?"

"Definitely ladies doubles champion!"

"Long while since she's got her feet wet in the shower!"

"That's enough guys," ordered Tony, smiling a little at Sarah's evident shyness and discomfort at the lewd remarks. "They're a nice bunch of lads," he quietly reassured her. "They can be a bit boisterous, but they're a good team. Your job would be to look after them and keep them all happy, so I hope you're good at rubbing along with people."