The Interview

The Interview

Kathryn M. Burke

I have to say, the ad was pretty interesting.

I'm Marcia Waters. Having just graduated from NYU with a degree in comp lit, I was immediately faced with an obstacle. How does a fairly smart (and, if I do say so myself, reasonably cute) twenty-two-year-old girl support herself in the big city with a degree in comp lit? Most employers don't even know what that is, and those who do look their noses down on someone who hasn't majored in business or finance or the sciences or other such "useful" disciplines. The fact that I had a sharp mind and was capable of learning quickly didn't seem to occur to them.

So after six months—during which I had to rely on impatient parents who were getting increasingly tired of supporting me—I saw an ad tucked away in an obscure corner of the New York Observer. I don't have it at hand, but it did mention something about a "notable historian" who wanted someone with a knowledge of foreign languages for some unspecified long-term project.

Well, that sounded right up my alley!

I didn't pay a whole lot of attention to one other phrase in the ad—something about "personal services" that might also be required. What did that mean? Did I really care? Well, if the guy (I don't know why I assumed it was a man who was the "notable historian") wanted his dry cleaning picked up, I guess I could do that.

So I called the number listed in the ad and found that it wasn't actually all that far from NYU. Great! I loved that area of town and knew it quite well from four years of college. The person who answered the call was a woman, but somehow I didn't think she was the historian in question. Maybe she was his secretary or something. Anyway, she gave me an address that I kind of recognized, and at the appointed time I showed up there.

It turned out to be a surprisingly large house—yes, a house, right there a stone's throw from the campus, and really more like an "estate" than anything else. We're not talking about the expensive townhouses surrounding Washington Square, which don't like a whole lot different from when Henry James hung out there more than a century ago. This place looked even more expensive: it took up and entire city block and was enclosed by a tall brick fence that had only a few gates here and there. At what I assumed was the front gate I had to press a button that activated an intercom, and the same lady who had answered the phone buzzed me in after I'd identified myself.

I walked along a curving and tree-lined walkway up to the house, which looked both old and imposing. Imagine working here every weekday! But I was getting ahead of myself. Looking at this impressive structure, my heart sank a little. Was this "notable historian" really prepared to hire little old me—a fresh-faced kid right out of college—for the important work he was doing, whatever that might be?

When I stepped into the house, my eyes boggled at what they saw. There was this huge foyer full of paintings on the wall and expensive-looking knickknacks on little tables here and there, and there was even an old-fashioned hall tree for hanging your hat and coat (designed at a time when everyone wore hats and coats). The woman who opened the door for me proved to be fairly nice-looking; I took her to be about forty, and the simple but elegant dress she wore showed off her bust and bottom to good advantage. If this was a secretary, she was a little overdressed—but maybe she wanted to make sure to present a pretty picture to that historian guy!

She led me into what I assumed had originally been the living room of the house—an enormous space, at least thirty feet long, that was now being used as some kind of office. It did have a long couch and several easy chairs, but there was a large and formidable-looking desk that made it clear that this was a workspace of some kind. The woman drifted to the desk and sat behind it, and I sat quietly down at a straight chair on the other side of it.

I took the occasion to get a good look at her as she beamed cheerfully at me. She was quite a bit taller than me (I'm a petite five foot two, and she must have been at least five foot eight), and her impeccably coiffed brunette hair contrasted strikingly with my rather untidy blond curls. Her face was open and honest, and really quite pretty: there was a twinkle in her eye, and her mouth was painted with just the right amount of lipstick for the occasion. And I got a real good look at the swell of her breasts as she sat with quiet dignity at her desk, especially since her dress had a low-cut neck that showed off a fair amount of cleavage. Man, if I were a guy I'd definitely look at her chest before I looked at her face!

I saw that there was a nameplate on her desk that simply said "Maureen." I thought that was a little odd: why didn't it have her full name? But who was I to criticize?

The first thing Maureen did was to push a piece of paper in my direction. Before I had a chance to read it, she said:

"Ms. Waters, I hope you're prepared to sign this document."

"What is it?" I said, picking it up and giving it a quick glance.

"It's a non-disclosure agreement stating that you will not reveal any details of this interview to anyone, either a private individual or a member of the press."

"The details of this interview?" I said, totally flummoxed. "Why would I do that? And why do you need me to keep quiet about it?"

"You may understand in due course of time. But I really do need you to sign this agreement, otherwise we can't proceed with the interview."

I shrugged. If this guy, or his secretary, really wanted that level of privacy, who was I to say no? I signed two copies of the agreement and shoved one copy into my handbag.

Maureen carefully filed the other copy in a drawer in her desk, then beamed at me again. She said:

"Have you heard of Miles Thurston?"

My eyes bugged out. "Miles Thurston? You bet! World-famous historian with lots of bestselling books to his credit. I think I've read one or two of them. Didn't he write a book about Mary Queen of Scots? And also Louis the Fourteenth?"

"You're very well informed," Maureen said, apparently quite impressed.

"I guess he's written heaps of other books. He keeps showing up on the New York Times bestseller list. He seems to have developed the knack of writing books that are both good as history and entertaining to the general reader."

"You're exactly right about that."

"And that's the guy I'd be working for?" I said, adding quickly: "Well, of course, if I get the job."

"That's the man," she said, with more than a little pride.

No wonder he lived in this swank house! It was just the kind of place that a bestselling historian would want.

"Well, that sounds great," I said. "Can I ask what exactly my duties would be—if I were hired?"

She went into a longish spiel about a pile of original documents—numbering into the hundreds if not the thousands—that would have to be transcribed for a long-range project that Thurston was working on. The documents were in several languages, but mostly French and German.

She eyed me quickly as she mentioned that part of the project. "Do you know French and German?"

"I know French very well," I said. "I also know Spanish and Italian. My German is a bit rudimentary, but I can use a dictionary."

"Excellent," Maureen said.

She explained more about the project, and then asked me some questions about myself—what classes I took at NYU, what professors I'd studied with (Thurston clearly knew the faculty pretty well), and so on.

Then she shoved another piece of paper in my direction. This turned out to be the contract that spelled out the details of my job. It all looked pretty routine—until I got down to the place where my starting salary was spelled out.

I almost fell out of my chair.

"Can this be right?" I said incredulously. "This is really what I'd be making?"

Let me say that the salary was in the upper five figures—vastly more than anyone could have expected for what amounted, in the realm of the humanities, to data entry. Okay, some skill in foreign languages was required, but even so, this was crazily generous, even for someone who had made money hand over fist with his books.

"It is," Maureen said quietly. "But—"

"I knew there was a catch," I said glumly.

"No catch," she said. "But you must remember that the advertisement for this job specified 'personal services.'"

"Yeah, I remember. What does that mean?"

All of a sudden Maureen jumped up out of her chair and started pacing the room. Then she stopped, heaved a sigh, and knelt down next to my chair.

"Marcia—I hope I can call you Marcia—"

"Sure, go ahead," I said, a little baffled at her behavior.

"Marcia, Miles Thurston is a man who enjoys life to the fullest. You shouldn't assume he's a dusty old scholar holed up in libraries or in his study, scribbling away on his books. He works hard, and he plays hard. He has a tremendous appetite—and sometimes his wife has difficulty satisfying it."

From her kneeling position, Maureen looked up at me with a plangent expression. "That's why we need a little help in that department. Do you understand?"

"I think I do," I said slowly.

I suddenly realized why Maureen wanted that non-disclosure agreement about this interview—and why the salary for this position was so high! I confess I was a little offended at the implications of that salary; but, as a matter of fact, I'd be doing real work, and work that was presumably valuable, in addition to "helping" in the way Maureen was implying.

Hey, I like sex as much as the next girl. I can't say I've had a boatload of partners, but I've had perhaps a few more than my share, and it's always been fun. I'm not shy or timid—nothing like your proverbial Victorian maiden, who blushed at the mere mention of "legs" as opposed to "limbs." And I'll tell you that none of the men I've let into my bed have come away disappointed.

"You . . . still wish to be considered for the position?" Maureen asked.

"Sure, why not?"

Maureen breathed a sigh of relief. "You're not married, I suppose?" she said. "I'm not really allowed to ask that question, but you must realize the sensitivity of the issue. Miles wouldn't want to be a homewrecker."

"Nope," I said, "no husband in sight."

"Boyfriend?"

"Not at the moment."

Maureen stood up and walked over to the center of the room, near where the long sofa was. There was an unreadable expression on her face.

"Let me tell you," she said, "that you seem to be a prime candidate for the position. I'll mention that we have one assistant already—"

"You do?" I said, startled.

"Yes, but she will probably be leaving soon." After a pause, she went on: "I've been authorized to make sure that you're suitable for the job. So I wonder if you'd mind"—another, heavier pause—"stripping."

That threw me for a loop. "You want me to take my clothes off?"

"Yes, please."

"Pardon my asking, but why?"

"Well, you know, given the robust salary we're offering you, we need to be certain that you would be to Miles's taste. He is rather particular in certain regards. I can tell just from looking at you that you're very likely to be a good match—but I need to make sure."

"You know what he likes in terms of female attributes, shall we say?"

"That's right."

I thought about the matter, then shrugged. "Yeah, sure."

I'll be honest with you: I felt weird undressing in front of this lady whom I didn't know from Eve. But, as I say, I'm not shy, so I removed my shoes and socks and peeled off my blouse and skirt. I was now standing in my bra and panties.

"All the way?" I said.

"Please," Maureen replied.

I wiggled out of my bra and whisked my panties down and kicked them away.

Maureen's response was—curious. Her eyes widened as she saw me reveal my nakedness, and when I was completely bare-assed she actually licked her lips and ogled me as greedily as any oversexed man would have. She came up to where I was standing and tentatively extended her hand so that it came close to my chest.

"It's okay if I touch?" she said.

"Sure, be my guest," I said.

She did so, taking first one breast and then the other in her warm, slightly sweaty hand, assessing their heft and rondure as carefully as any jeweler examining a diamond. "Miles," she said in a dreamy kind of voice, "is very keen on a good, firm pair of knockers—pardon the slang! May I ask your size?"

"Thirty-four D."

"Yes, I thought it was something like that."

She went on to stroke my shoulders, arms, stomach, and thighs. Then she asked me to turn around, immediately placing both hands on my back and moving them down slowly to my bottom, which she explored in considerable detail. She was letting out little "Mmm"s along the way. She even knelt down and gave my calves and feet a thorough examination.

Her eyes were shining when she stood up again.

"I think you'll do very well," she breathed.

"So," I said, "am I hired?"

Maureen looked at me with a mixed expression—partly nervous and partly regretful. Was she going to turn me down after this intimate survey of my person?

"I hate to ask you this," she said, deeply apologetic, "but Miles is keen on another facet of female sexual desire. He likes to know that the woman is enjoying the experience as much as he is. So he's especially concerned with how a woman expresses her pleasure at the proceedings. So I'm wondering . . ."

I wasn't slow on the uptake, even though I couldn't believe I was saying this in the middle of a job interview. "You want to see what kind of orgasms I have?"

"That's the general idea," Maureen said. "Of course, it would be a very bad thing if you faked."

"I don't need to fake. I'm pretty responsive."

"That's good."

"You want me to do it myself?"

"Well, unless you have strong objections, I could do it for you."

I was going to say, Knock yourself out, lady. I mean, who doesn't like to come? But I said more discreetly, "Feel free, Maureen."

She gestured that I should lie down on the sofa, on my back. Once again she fell to her knees, looking over my whole frame and continuing to lick her lips. With one hand she took hold of a breast, while the other hand snaked down my stomach and abdomen until it reached my bare pubic area.

"I have to tell you," she said softly, "that Miles prefers to have women with hair down here."

"Oh, he doesn't like shaved pussies? That's okay—I can let it grow out again."

Maureen nodded to herself, and then touched my sex for the first time. Initially she only parted my labia—I was already a little wet, as who wouldn't be?—and stroked them on the inside. Then she inserted first one, then two fingers into me, going slowly but fairly deeply into my vagina. Only then, as she saw that I was writhing and getting excited, did she gently touch my clitoris. It seemed to be swelling under her fingers, and I was breathing raggedly, my breasts heaving. She then stroked it harder, pressing it against my pelvic bone—which drives me crazy.

Maureen now actually lowered her face to the breast she was still clutching and placed her lips on my nipple, sucking hard. I wasn't expecting that. I've had only one or two lesbian experiences, and they were more like goofy experiments than serious lovemaking; but this one was becoming pretty intense. She continued probing my sex, and I knew the culmination was fast approaching.

She was simultaneously placing three fingers as deep into my vagina as she could and rubbing my clit with her thumb. Oh, man, did she knew how to turn a girl on! As my orgasm slowly radiated from my pussy all the way through my body and seemed to create an explosion in my brain, I started pounding the sofa with my fists while letting out loud moans and grunts, tossing my head back and forth as I gazed on Maureen's lips fastened to my nipple.

It takes me a long time to come down from the high of a climax, and Maureen had an expert knowledge of how to prolong the sensation for minutes on end. I became dizzy and bleary-eyed, letting my tongue hang out as bone-shaking shudders continued to course through my frame. At last I had to push her hand away: I was almost crying from my extended orgasm.

Her own eyes were glittering at the sight. "That's quite a performance!" she said admiringly.

"No performance," I whispered between ragged breaths. "All real."

"Oh, I know that—no one could fake so well."

I grinned weakly at her. "So do I pass the audition?"

"With flying colors."

"That's great. When do I start?"

"You can start as early as Monday." After a pause: "Would you like to live here?"

"Live here? You mean, get room and board?"

"Yes."

"Wow, that would be fabulous. But I figure the cost would be taken out of my salary."

"Certainly not." She seemed almost offended at the idea. "We have plenty of room here, as you can see, and the cost of food doesn't come to much."

"That's incredibly generous of you."

"I should let you know that Miles has certain expectations of his partner."

"I can imagine."

"For example . . . do you like to swallow?"

"Swallow come, you mean? Well, I can't say it's the most tasty substance in the world, but I can manage it."

She looked at me almost shyly. "How about . . . rear entry?"

"Oh, he likes that?"

"Yes, very much."

"I've done it a couple times. Kind of uncomfortable, but I'm sure I can get the hang of it. Practice makes perfect, you know!"

"Yes, it does."

Maureen seemed to be on the verge of saying something more when a door I'd scarcely even noticed—one toward the back of the room, leading to the rest of the house—opened in a flurry and a tall, well-built man walked in.

This guy was flat-out gorgeous. He must have been in his early forties, because he had these lovely little patches of gray at his temples. He must have been about five foot ten, and his broad shoulders, muscular chest and thighs, and strong, firm bottom would have made any woman weak in the knees and wet between the legs. But his face—his face! He looked kind of like some private eye from the 1930s, with chiseled features and a sharp jawline; but there wasn't any sense of harshness in that face, and his penetrating blue eyes seemed to see right through you.

This must have been Miles Thurston.

"Maureen," he said, apparently not even noticing me, "can you—?"

Then he did notice me, and stopped in his tracks. I was still lying lasciviously naked in my post-orgasmic daze, and I had nothing but benevolence for the world. I gave him a cheerful smile, hoping he liked what he saw. I guess he did.

"Well, who's this?" he asked Maureen.

"This is Marcia Waters. I have a strong sense she'll be your next assistant."

Miles actually licked his lips as he contemplated that prospect. Eyes fixed on me, he slowly approached and stood over me as I lay supine on the sofa. Then he calmly unbuckled his belt, undid the zipper on his pants, and let them slip to the floor. He then pulled his underwear down to his knees.

What was revealed was a rapidly hardening member that I figured would reach about eight inches when fully erect. Not bad at all! Many of those pampered undergraduates at NYU could barely manage six inches, so I knew I was going to be in for a treat.

I got up and, while remaining sitting on the sofa, took his cock in my hand and started giving it some good licks. I let my tongue rove all the way up and down that shaft, feeling it harden by the second, and didn't fail to pay attention to the large sac of balls below it, which I squeezed (gently!) and stroked with my hand. I also reached around and felt the cheeks of his bottom: I could tell he liked that, because the moment I did so he let out a groan and got fully erect.