The Interview

"Mr. Dickens, your 4:30 interview has arrived."

John Dickens looked at the clock on his desk. 4:30 exactly. Perfect. He pressed the intercom button.

"Thank you, Mrs. Harris. Would you please show her in?"

Dickens rose and walked to his office door to greet them.

It opened to reveal Mrs. Harris and a very short, slender young lady dressed in a loose-fitting, short black cocktail dress. In the right circumstances, the simple dress might have seemed acceptable attire in the staid office, outfitted with upholstered leather furniture and dark wood. But the patent leather red stiletto heels would never work.

Dickens smiled at the young lady, then at Mrs. Harris, and back to the young lady.

"Thank you, Mrs. Harris. Considering the late hour, you may go home. I'll show our visitor out when the time comes."

"As you wish, Sir."

Good old Mrs. Harris. Sixteen years of late-afternoon interviews and she'd never once offered to stay or inquired about the young ladies afterward, though they almost never returned, and none ever came to work for the firm.

"Miss Jamie McEvin," Dickens said as though announcing her arrival at a party. He gestured for her to enter the room and closed the door behind her. "You're very punctual. I like that. It conveys respect. May I call you Jamie?"

"Yes, that would be nice." She smiled. It was going well so far.

"Splendid. You may call me Mr. Dickens," he said. "Or Sir."

Her smile was more uncertain now. She liked his voice. Slightly deeper and huskier than it had sounded on the phone the night before when he called her for the interview. An unusually late hour it had been for a business call, but Jamie had been warned this firm was full of eccentrics. You can get away with that when you're the largest, most successful firm of your kind in the state.

"Please have a seat." Dickens gestured toward a large sofa, and as she moved toward it, his hand went to the perfect spot in her lower back, high enough so it didn't appear he was trying to touch her ass, and low enough to make her think he wanted to. She liked the tiny bit of pressure she felt from his fingers and the effortless way he guided her. Her breath quickened a bit, and when she sat, she crossed her legs. Dickens eased into the overstuffed chair facing her. His eyes lingered on her legs.

"Your resume says you are fluent in French. How long have you been practicing?"

"My father lives in France," Jamie said, thinking that the verb he'd used was an odd choice. "I visit him often. And, of course, I took four years at the university."

"The university," Dickens said, nodding knowingly. "Yes, your friend from the university, Jenny, has given you a wonderful recommendation."

Jenny had been Jamie's roommate through three years at the school. They'd had a lot of fun and kept a lot of each others' secrets, many of them involving faculty members -- married, of course -- even a dean.

Now Jennie was a housewife and a mother, with three children and a position in this firm. She'd put in a good work for Jamie when the time came and had given her a heads-up about the interview.

"Do whatever they ask," she'd said. "The pay here is phenomenal. They may ask you to do some things you don't understand at first. Just go along. You'll figure it out eventually. I just know you're going to fit in."

"I see you have some experience with Russian and Greek, as well," Dickens was saying. His eyes were still on her legs. Long, muscular. Jamie shifted on the couch and smoothed her skirt.

"Not very much. Just from my travels."

"A little exposure is better than none at all," Dickens said, looking directly into her face. "I'm mainly interested in French, but members of the Board come from a variety of backgrounds."

He gestured for her to stand, though he remained seated.

"I appreciate your wearing the outfit I requested. It's perfect. Silk?'

"Yes," Jamie said weakly. She felt her face beginning to flush and didn't understand why.

"Please turn around," Dickens said, "slowly."

She did as she was told, her feet unconsciously falling into the positions she had learned in the few weeks she'd taken modeling lessons in middle school. "It's just a show," she was thinking. "He wants a show." And she relaxed a bit, confident she could give him what he wanted.

"It drapes across you nicely," he said. He liked her legs and the way the dress showed off her tiny breasts without accentuating them. Without a bra, the fabric rubbed them slightly as she moved, just enough to stimulate the circulation and make the nipples grow a bit.

"Come," he said, rising suddenly. "Let's find out exactly how well you've followed my instructions.

He pressed a button on his desk and the wall behind them drew back, revealing another room, with a long marble table. There were five chairs on each side of the table, and one at the head. With his hand in that perfect spot in the small of her back, he guided her toward the end of the table without the chair. The touch of his fingers had the same effect on her as it had the first time, only stronger.

He wasn't particularly tall, but he had a commanding presence when he walked. And when he walked beside her, his hand on her back, she felt protected, yet under his control -- safe, but at his mercy. She couldn't help feeling aroused.

Under the end of the table was a dark box, made of the same marble as the table, it appeared. He pointed to it.

"Pull that out from under the table," he told her, "and open it up."

She moved to do so, bending from the waist. He was standing directly behind her as she bent over, making her feel vulnerable. She couldn't see him, but she imagined that his view was like what she'd seen at a zoo once, when a female ape bent over in front of a make, raising her ass high in the air and backing toward him, "presenting" herself.

The dress Jamie was wearing was short, and she wasn't sure how far it would ride up with her bending over. The box was heavy. She dragged it out slowly, thinking maybe she should squat down, but then thinking she'd look undignified in that position.

A flush came to her face again as she tugged at the heavy box, not from the exertion, but from knowing Mr. Dickens was enjoying his view.

When she got the box out and pulled at the top, the end near the table came up, and she realized the box was a set of steps held together by a hinge and folded back on itself. To drop the steps into place, she had to back up, and when she did, still bent from the waist, her hands almost on the floor, her hips high, she felt her bottom press into Dickens.

"Excuse me. I'm sorry," she said, pulling away.

Dickens smiled at her. "You've no need to be."

He looked down at the steps.

"Push the steps in so the top one is slightly under the table. That way you won't slip into the crack," he smiled. "I think that's what the Brits mean when they say, Mind the gap."

Jamie was a bit confused, both by what was happening and her response to it. She was definitely getting aroused, and he was clearly causing it, though he wasn't doing anything overtly sexual. She did as directed, and when she stood back up, Dickens took her hand.

Standing beside the table, he gently led her up the steps.

"Our Board of Directors finds many uses for this marvelous table. This is my favorite one. Now stand up straight."

The marble surface was slippery under her leather shoes. Jamie felt a bit off-balance. She hadn't noticed Mr. Dickens pick up a yard stick, but suddenly there was one in his hand. Though this was a conference room, the light was subdued. Some of the corners were nearly dark.

"I want to find out just how closely you followed my instructions," he said, placing the yardstick by her shoes. "Stand up straight and face the end of the table where the chairman sits."

Jamie did as she'd been told, throwing her shoulders back and holding her head up. Looking at the empty chair, she wondered what the view would be with the chairman in it, looking back at her. He'd have a good view of her legs, she thought. But quickly that thought passed and she looked down to see what Mr. Dickens was doing.

He was measuring the height of her heel, the yardstick pressed against her shoe and running up her leg. The yardstick presses the flimsy dress against her leg.

"It's five inches, just like you said," she blurted out.

"I see that," he answered, looking directly into her face with a look that seemed almost stern, almost displeased, though he continued to speak very pleasantly. "Again you have pleased me. But I must insist that from now on you only speak to me when I ask you a question or direct you to speak. This is an interview, not a cocktail party."

His choice of words seemed odd again, almost pointed, because the dress he'd asked her to wear would have been perfectly acceptable at a cocktail party . . . and so would the shoes.

Dickens pulled the yardstick out a bit so the black skirt fell away from her leg. He held the stick close to the free-hanging dress, but not touching it, and looked closely at the mark next to the bottom hem.

Jamie tensed. She wanted to explain that she knew the dress was longer than he'd requested, but only an inch or two, and she only bought it this afternoon because she didn't have one exactly like he'd asked for, and she wanted it to be exactly what he asked for, but they didn't have time to alter it, so she just threw it on and came in.

But even as all these thoughts were racing through her head, Mr. Dickens spoke softly as though to ease her welling panic.

"It's a lovely dress," he said. "I might have wanted something a bit shorter . . . well, in fact I requested something a bit shorter . . . "

His pause might have held a hint of scolding in it, but his voice remained very pleasant.

"But there are ways to remedy that." He looked into her face. "Any woman can hike her skirt a few inches, when it is needed." He smiled mischievously.

With her on the table in 5-inch heels and him on the floor beside her, the hem of her dress was nearly level with his face. Using the end of the yardstick, he raised it an inch or so.

"You have lovely legs," he told her. Laying the yardstick down on the table, he took the hem of her dress in both hands and began lifting it slowly, the skirt stretched tightly between his hands so his view was like that of a theatergoer watching the curtain rise slowly when the play is ready to begin.

That's how he liked to think of it, anyway.

"Oh, God," she was thinking. "He's going to see everything. Of all days to decide against underwear. . . but then, hadn't he requested that? No. It was Jenny, helping her buy the dress. She'd said Jamie shouldn't ruin the lines with a bra or panties, and since neither of them had a thong with them, maybe she could just . . . And Jenny had grinned. Oh, God. Jenny had grinned the way she always did when playing a trick on someone."

And Jamie hadn't even noticed.

She could see Mr. Dickens's smile grow brighter as the hem rose, exposing her thigh. He was standing beside her, so at least he wouldn't be viewing her straight on from the front, she thought.

He continued to raise the hem, slowly, up past where the bottom leg of her panties would have been, further up . . . exposing the side of her hip, the curve of her bottom . . . and he kept going . . . above her hip socket, and then above her hip.

If he'd been standing in front of her, he would definitely have seen everything, but on the side as he was, she wasn't sure. Had she been wearing a thong, the view would not be much different. It's okay, she thought. But her heart pounded in her chest. She felt humiliated, yet somehow exhilarated, too.

"You have a lovely shape," Dickens told her. It was as if his voice were coming from far away. "Your bottom and thighs are well-muscled. You must be an athlete."

There was a brief silence before Jamie looked down to see he was no longer admiring her naked body from the waist down, but was looking at her face, waiting for a response.

"I'm . . I dance," she said. "I'm a dancer."

"That explains the flat tummy," he said, letting the dress fall back down and walking to the end of the table.

She waited for a sign as to what she should do. Dickens sat in the chairman's chair and told her to stand up straight and face him. The table hadn't seemed so long, nor so high, but with Dickens seated in the padded leather chair, she felt he was a long way away . . . and a long way down.

"On my command, I want you to walk directly toward me very slowly, never taking your eyes of my eyes, understand?"

"Yeh . . yes." A foot started forward.

"Not yet!" His voice was a clipped bark, but not loud, not angry. "On my command."

He indicated his eyes with a finger. "Look straight at my eyes, nowhere else. Walk as slowly as you can. Understand?" Jamie nodded, her mouth dry. "Okay, then. Begin."

Jamie lifted a foot and put it down as slowly as she could manage. Then another. And another. Moving toward Mr. Dickens at a snail's pace. He said nothing, staring into her eyes and smiling like the Buddha.

The marble was slippery, and she was afraid she'd lose her balance. For some reason, she seemed to be shaking. Her face was hot. Her heart was pounding.

As she drew close to him, she began to think more about how low he was in relation to the table. Her hips would be quite a bit higher than his head. She wasn't sure how much the dress flared in front, but the action of her walking would definitely lift it some.

Would he be looking up her skirt? she wondered. He could, she thought. Her breath was shallow and she felt herself growing moist in the crotch.

But he kept his eyes glued on hers. When she was nearly to him, he finally spoke. Softly.

"Don't stop until I tell you to. I won't let you step over the edge, but I will bring you close. You must trust me. You can stop looking at my eyes now. Look straight ahead, not down at me."

She lifted her eyes to look at the wall behind him. A large, framed picture hung on the wall there. It was dark, and in the dim light, she couldn't make out what it was. The glass covering it shined, even in the dark.

"Just one more step," she heard him say. Now stop."

Jamie stopped and started to look down at Mr. Dickens, but he stopped her with one wave of his finger.

"Straight ahead," he told her. "Don't look at me. Now please stand with your feet about 12 to 15 inches apart. It's a relaxed pose. You needn't be tense."

Jamie was beginning to wonder what she'd gotten herself into, but a part of her didn't care. She was taking ragged, shallow breaths, fully aware that seated in the chair, Dickens's head would be well below her hemline. He could easily be looking up her skirt, and if he did, he'd see how wet she was getting. She didn't know why she was wet, nor did she know why right now, standing on a marble table in six-inch stilettos with a stranger's face only inches from her crotch, she was HOPING he was looking up her skirt. She'd shaved extra carefully that morning. She must have known he was going to do something like this. She wanted him to see how smooth her pussy was. How smooth and wet.

Suddenly her upper legs and pubic area felt cooler. He must be lifting my dress, she thought, but she stopped herself from looking down.

"Jenny was right," she heard him say. "You're an amazing specimen." He inhaled deeply and dropped her dress.

"Now please turn around."

She had thought he was going to touch her, maybe slide his hand up between her legs, or grab her ass and pull her pussy toward his face, so this new direction surprised her. Turn around? What? I'm not good enough?

At first she didn't move, but a tap of his finger on her thigh woke her up.

"I . . I'm sorry," she said and quickly turned around.

"You've no need to be," he told her for the second time. She wondered if he uttered those words to a lot of women. Probably. He'd gotten her wet without touching her, after all. He was probably always reassuring women.

Dickens asked her to stand with her legs slightly apart again, and when she did so, he put the backs of his hands against the inside of her ankles.

Slowly he began to slide the hands up, past her ankles, to the inside of her calves. Here it comes, she was thinking as he reached the inside of her knees.

But then the orientation of his hands turned. He was still using the back of his hands, but now they were sliding up the back of her thighs.

When he reached her bottom, he slowed down and turned his hands so he could cup her round cheeks and run his open hand across the tops of her buttocks, across her hip bones, and around to the front.

He was moving them too slowly. She wanted to know where those hands were going, and he wasn't moving them fast enough.

His hands came to a stop on her flat belly. He let them stay there a while, then slowly began moving them down, across her abdomen, until one hand came to rest on her pubic bone, barely an inch above the top of her vagina.

"You are so thin," he told her, "that your mons veneris truly feels like a mountain rising from the flat plain of those abdominus muscles . . . the transversus, the rectus . . . and of course, the pyramidalis."

His other hand traced a line upward a few inches from the pubic bone.

"If I were a sculptor, this is what I would sculpt," he said, running his hands slowly outward and back, up and across and down her flat belly and abdomen, the two hands independent of each other, moving slowly, but in such unpredictable patterns Jamie had no idea where one would go next, yet never dipping below that spot just above her clitoris, never dipping into what she wanted him to touch.

"Lean back," he said abruptly, and when she did, she felt his hand hard on her hips, lifting her and bringing her back toward him, guiding her slowly down. His hands were up near her waist, and so was her dress, and when her bare bottom came into contact with his bare hard-on, she gasped.

Staring into his eyes and straight ahead, she hadn't noticed Dickens was taking down his pants.

Now he settled her on the floor, still facing away from him, her dress still up at her waist, and told her to lean on the table and put her feet 15 inches apart. When she did, she felt his belly press against her butt and his penis slide between her legs, coming to rest against her vagina, slick with moisture.

He moved his hips forward and back a few inches, slow movements that rubbed the top of his erection lightly against her wet labia. His hands were still on her hips.

She felt faint and started to pull away, but his firm grip held her in place.

"Don't struggle," he told her, sliding his hands forward and across her belly again. This time he continued down, reaching between her legs to spread her lips with his fingers. She felt the top of his erection on her pussy again, and then the head made its way between the folds of her labia, pushing them apart like a plow. Suddenly feeling a panic, she tried to pull away, but he was too quick, pulling her hips back toward him as he entered her with one quick thrust.

His fingers dug into her hips as he rocked his hips back and forth, getting a little deeper with each thrust, until he was entirely inside her, his penis pulling out only a few inches, then pushing back in slowly but with force, until his pubic bone was against her butt and his penis as far inside has he could make it go.

"Stand up a little straighter," he told her, and when she did, she could feel the end of his dick pressing against the front wall of her vagina with each thrust. He kept this up for a few more thrusts before she felt a panic again.

God, what am I doing? she was thinking. I met him only ten minutes ago and already he's fucking me without a condom.