The man interviewing me was a good looking man. Not a gorgeous man, but a good looking man. His musculature showed he worked out, but still he carried about ten pounds more than his ideal weight. Brown hair, a couple of inches shy of six feet, good nose, thin lips. He did have beautiful blue eyes.
I had just finished my sophomore year in college and was looking for a job. The yogurt shop where I’d worked the previous summer had invited me back, but I was looking for something different, especially in the way of avoiding a balding overweight boss who, when he wasn’t pawing me, was leering at me. My Mom, who worked in the clerk of court’s office, heard that the filing clerk for Richard & Richard, a local husband and wife law firm, had left and mentioned me to Ron Richard. I was in his office being interviewed.
His office was a mess. The paperless revolution had not made it to this guy; books, papers, and files were piled everywhere. His furniture and decorations seemed as if selected at random. His clothes matched his office. His tie and a couple of buttons on his shirt were undone and it had been several hours since he’d checked his hair. He did, however, have an “aw shucks” kind of charm and, according to Mom, was great in front of a jury; jurors instantly identified with him. Big city lawyers in their three thousand dollar suits and matching trial bags had, Mom said, often left the courtroom on the short end of million dollar verdicts wondering what had just happened.
I figured if I interviewed only with him, I had the job. My name is Amber Church. At the time I was nineteen years old, attended a throughly mediocre local college, and was considered a party girl. It was true; I liked to party, hit the bars, tease the boys. Guts loved to buy me drinks, dinner, or most anything else I wanted; I was a shameless and talented flirt. My looks didn’t hurt. My Cajun ancestry had left me a dark complexion, brown, almost black, hair that cascaded in long elegant waves past my shoulder blades and although no gym rat, I had a great figure and inherited my Mom’s ample chest. I liked wearing short skirts or slit dresses to show off my legs. Don’t get me wrong, I was no slut. I’d been with far fewer men than most people supposed.
However, while I was pulling my flirt on Ron, he didn’t seem to be buying into it. It was more like he was watching me, evaluating my technique. I kept plowing ahead, I didn’t have a Plan B. If guys were not buying my looks and personality, I wasn’t sure what else I had to sell.
Our interview was interrupted by a knock on the door. A woman entered. Ron’s face lit up. Completely focused on her, he popped up from his chair, took her hand in his, and kissed her on the cheek.
“This is Michelle, my wife and the brains of the operation.”
Fuck, no wonder he wasn’t buying my act, she was fricking gorgeous. My mother had said she was pretty, but Mom was being catty; Michelle left pretty in the dust a county or two back. Michelle was, I would learn, seven years younger than her thirty-three year old husband. She was five feet five inches tall with long straight blond hair. She had a round face with pronounced cheek bones, large emerald eyes, and a wide mouth which featured a set of thick luscious lips.
She was wearing a gray Armani taffeta pencil skirt and a matching melange jacket that accented her curvy figure. She walked, almost glided, across the room. Her perfume was a light floral, sexy but appropriate for the office. After I stood to shake her hand she sat down next to me. She brushed her hair back with her small hand, which featured perfectly manicured nails bearing deep red nail polish, and looked me in the eye, capturing my attention. Her skin was a pale white and her make-up, except for bright red lipstick, understated. My eyes were drawn to her full lips. She smiled at me, flashing a perfect set of teeth, and crossed her legs.
“It’s good to meet you,” she said. There was a hint of a Southern accent in her soft spoken voice. I leaned forward to ensure I heard every word.
She was direct, to the point. Each word was enunciated precisely. “Much of what we would ask you to do is boring, but it must be done right. A piece of evidence filed in the wrong file may never be found again. If you mistakenly stuff a letter intended for a client into an envelope addressed to an opposing lawyer, we could lose a case. If we miss a hearing date because you did not correctly calender it, we commit malpractice. More than anything else this job requires someone with the right personality, someone whose focus is on doing the job, no matter what job, right.”
She wasn’t describing me. I was a good time girl. Yet, I wanted to impress this woman.
She saw my hesitation.
“You have doubts?”
“Yes,” I confessed, wondering why I was admitting that in a job interview.
“Why don’t we get to know each other better. Ron is cooking out tomorrow. Can you drop by for lunch, around 1:00.”
“I’d like that very much.”
“Good.” She handed me a card. “Send illegal bahis a text to this number. I’ll forward the address.”
She stood up and kissed my cheek with her full sexy lips, her hand on my shoulder. My stomach fluttered. “I look forward to talking with you further. Ron will tell you more about the job.”
She turned to her husband. “I made 6:30 reservations at Cochon’s,” an award-winning restaurant in the city. “We’ll need to close early today. I’ll let Denise know.”
She left the room. I watched. She had a great ass.
* * * *
I lived with two girls. Dana’s gorgeous, a blonde whom everyone notices when she walks into a room. Kathy is sweet and pretty, but has a little trouble keeping off the weight. The three of us and Jenny, who was living with her boyfriend of the moment, went to high school together. We were BFFs. There used to be five of us. Then Corrine slept with my boyfriend.
Dana, Kathy, and I hit the college bars that night. I told them about my job interview. Somehow, however, it felt like a private experience and I didn’t, as I normally would, share everything. I didn’t describe how striking Mrs. Richard was or tell them about tomorrow’s lunch or of the generous hourly wage Ron had mentioned.
It was a typical Friday night. I flirted with guys, they flirted back and bought me beers. I wasn’t really into it, which meant I drank more than I should. I thought about Mrs. Richard in a place like this. It seemed unworthy of her. At some point Dana left with a guy I barely remembered. It was about two in the morning when Kathy poured my alcohol-soaked body into bed.
I opened my eyes to 11:30 on the alarm clock. Shit, I had to be at the Richards in ninety minutes. I stumbled to the kitchen, gulped down some stinky coffee Kathy had made who knows when, and crawled into the shower. My head hurt; I was some hung over. As I tried to wash the feeling away, I silently thanked the landlord for the large hot water heater. I considered straightening my hair for a more mature look, but realized that I didn’t have the time. I chose my best pair of blue jeans, a matching pink silk shirt, and some wedge sandals. While putting on my make-up I noticed my blood shot eyes, I grabbed the Visine.
The Richards lived north of town on a semi-rural road known for its ostentatious homes. Theirs was not visible from the road. I was only five minutes late when I started down a long driveway through a wooded lot. When I arrived I was struck by the home’s elegance. Smaller than most on the road, it featured high ceilings, large windows, and plenty of outdoor living space. When I got out of the car I heard Mrs. Richard’s call, “Amber, over here.” She was sitting on a side deck built around the trunk of a large oak, which shaded half the house.
My impression of the previous day was right on; this was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She wore a designer oversized tee shirt whose sheer fabric revealed a Helmut Lang asymmetric bra, black leggings, and black leather platform ankle boots. Her hair was pulled back in a french twist. She met me at the edge of the deck and kissed me on the cheek.
“How was the opera, Mrs. Richard?”
“Good, not great. The company is not world class, but I always love the evening out. And please, call me Michelle. Why don’t we sit down.”
She guided me to some outdoor furniture. Crackers, pate, and Evian bottled water were waiting on an antique silver tray. “Unfortunately my husband’s at the office dealing with an emergency. I’m afraid our cook-out will be delayed.”
We had chatted for only a few minutes when Michelle asked, “Too much to drink last night?”
“Yeah, I mean yes. Is it that obvious?”
“No, not really. You are moving gingerly and Visine is not a 100% fix. I also noticed the direct sunlight was bothering you and you wouldn’t touch the pate but loved the water. Let’s move inside.”
She picked up the tray and we headed towards the house, entering a large living room. It was elegant and livable, full of beautiful, but comfortable, furniture and art work.
I sat down. Michelle, her face sympathetic, said, “My family has a secret hangover cure. I’ll whip one up for you.”
While she was gone I wandered the room, looking at the art. Michelle returned with a glass full of a brown liquid. I noticed she had replaced the previous day’s bright red nails with a French manicure. The concoction smelled surprisingly good and, while short of delicious, was fully palatable. As Michelle had promised it was effective; I soon found myself feeling better.
Embarrassed that I had appeared hung over for an interview with this perfect woman in this perfect house, I began an explanation.
“I and two girlfriends went to a nightclub last night. I really wasn’t enjoying myself all that much, but guys kept sending me drinks. I should have stopped sooner.”
Michelle leaned forward, leaving me some dignity, “I remember those days. I let it happen more than I should.” Her perfume, which I could smell now that illegal bahis siteleri we were indoors, was fresh and sweet. “Flirting for beers I called it.”
She had me nailed, “Yeah, something like that.” I imagined Michelle in the bar. She wouldn’t be accepting beers, she’d have the boys outside washing her car. Sitting next to her not a guy would notice me.
Our conversation quickly turned to less embarrassing topics. Michelle was smart and funny, attentive, witty and warm. I enjoyed her company; it didn’t feel like an interview. Unfortunately, I also started noticing something else. While struck by Michelle’s beauty on Friday, I had not paid particular attention to her breasts. The suit she had worn emphasized her curves, not her chest.
What she wore today flattered her bosom or, more accurately, her bosom flattered what she wore today. Her breasts were not only large, but perfectly shaped, round and full. I kept glancing at them; somehow I’d become one of the horn dog guys who couldn’t keep their eyes off my chest. I wanted to stop, but my eyes kept drifting down. Shit, I thought to myself, I’m the worst interviewee in human history. I show up hung over and now I’m ogling my prospective employer. I hoped Michelle didn’t notice, but Michelle seemed to notice anything.
She soon made it clear that she had. “You like my breasts, don’t you?”
“Uh, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”
“It’s a straightforward question, please answer it.”
“Yes, yes, I mean they’re beautiful.”
She raised her arms and stretched. Her chest moved up and out. “I spend a lot of time in the gym and practicing yoga. It helps.” My tear shaped boobs, which I had always thought one of my better features, seemed inadequate.
Then she said something wholly unexpected. “Think about it, do you want to kiss them?”
I don’t believe I had consciously entertained the thought, but suddenly my mouth was watering. The answer was yes, desperately yes. I looked into her eyes, did she really want me to say it? There was no doubt there, she was serious.
Almost nonchalantly – how often did this happen to her? – she removed her tee shirt and bra, laying them across the chair behind her. Her small pink areolas surrounded pert rosy nipples. I licked my lips, my sight and being focused on her breasts. I wanted to plunge myself in her arms, but found I couldn’t move.
“Come to Mama, baby.”
With that I sprang across the space between us, slightly catching my foot in the throw rug. I fell forward next to her.
“Amber, child, you never want to be desperate and, if you are, you never want to show it.”
She took my head in her hands, directing it to her breast. I latched my mouth to her areola, pressing my face into the firm flesh. I frantically licked her nipple. With my face pressed to her breast I imagined the contrast between my dark skin and the milky whiteness of hers.
After several minutes she, softly and gently, pulled my face from her breast and brought her lips to mine. Her tongue patiently explored my mouth, sensual, but also calming. My racing heartbeat slowed.
“Remember, woman like us are always in control.”
She cupped her breast, again offering it to me. I took the nipple into my mouth and dragged my tongue across it. She shuddered. I worked the nipple and areola with my lips, sucked them into my mouth, then released them and ran my lips across their firm sensual perfection, licking them with strong firm strokes. She ran her fingers into my hair, sending chills through me. She purred; her breathing deepened.
“That’s a good girl. Make sweet love to my breast. It feels so good, you make her feel so good. Now the other one.”
I leaned across her body and fastened onto her other equally gorgeous breast, latching onto her nipple and giving it the same treatment. Michelle cooed in delight. The thought that I was arousing her sent my libido into overdrive. I took both breasts in my hands, pushing them together and taking turns licking and kissing the nipples.
“You like Mommy’s breasts, don’t you baby.”
“They’re, you’re, so beautiful.”
I ducked back down to her nipples, but Michelle interrupted me.
“Baby, there’s more to a breast than a nipple.”
She was right, I had yet to celebrate their large round perfection. I ran my hands over them, enjoying their heft, weight, and shape, but couldn’t long resist the desire to have them in my mouth. I angled up her left breast, kissed it, and dragged my tongue along its bottom on a slow meandering trip to her nipple, which I licked with the flat of my tongue. Michelle shuddered. I was making her feel good! I gave her other breast the same treatment.
Her hand buried in my thick hair, she again angled me upwards and brought my face to hers. I had never experienced anything like the full sensuous softness of her lips. She captured my lower lip with her lips, caressed it, and then directed my head back to her breasts which I covered with kisses and nibbles.
“Time canlı bahis siteleri to get up, baby.”
I stood on shaky legs. She, with graceful elegance, did the same. I followed her down a wide hallway to a short staircase. At the top was a door through which we entered a large feminine bedroom. One wall was composed of floor to ceiling windows facing the forest behind the house. The spacious bed featured a silk, off-white, bedspread and plenty of pillows. The wall behind it was made of brick. Track lighting accented a painting above the head board.
“Amber, take off your clothes.”
I started hurriedly unbuttoning my shirt when Michelle stopped me.
“Amber, as I told you, you never want to be desperate or frantic. You must always be in control. Now take off your clothes, but take your time. Let me know your body is worth waiting for. Fold your clothes and put them on the table behind you.” Her eyes directed me to an antique white dressing table. “Imagine you are performing for the world.”
As I took her advice I felt myself calm down. When naked I turned to face her.
“You are a lovely girl. Have you tried yoga?”
“Once, but I didn’t like it.”
“You must meet my instructor, she’s a dream. Now come girl, undress me.”
My first impulse was to sprint across the room, but I remembered her caution. Instead I strolled to her and knelt, removed her shoes, leggings, and underwear, and placed them on the dressing table. When I turned back around she had let her hair down. She pushed some pillows to the side and lay on the bed.
“Come to mama, baby.”
I crossed the room, suppressing the urge to run. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, fixated by her beauty. Her bush was neat and trimmed but not shaven, her skin silky, her body toned and fit. She knew she was beautiful.
Michelle spread her legs and touched her pubic hairs. “Bring mama off, baby.”
* * * *
I guess its time to say something about my sexuality. I and my three BFFs, and one former BFF, had done some fooling around. While teenagers, on a dare, Dana and I made out. The other girls, feeling left out, joined in. We all had to admit we kind of liked it and over the years, on occasion, when bored or drunk, we’d do it again. There had been a lot of sleep-overs; we were comfortable seeing each other naked and exploring each others’ bodies, determining such important teenage-girl issues as who had the firmest boobs, the hardest butt, and the prettiest pussy. However, while we talked about it, and even selected the girl we’d most like to do it with, none of us had taken the step into full-scale lesbian sex. That barrier was about to fall.
* * * *
I got on the bed and studied her pussy. The scent of her arousal, although subtle, was clear. Her pubes were moist and vaginal lips and clitoris swollen. Her clitoris, in my limited experience, seemed huge. I kissed and then buried my face in her sex; the smell and warmth of her flow was intoxicating. How could I do justice to such a magnificent pussy? I looked at her.
“I’ve never done this before. I’m not sure how.”
“Amber, you have so much to learn. Never acknowledge you don’t know what you’re doing. Most people don’t have any idea what they’re doing. If you act like you do, people will believe you do. Focus on my sweet vagina and her lips. You’ll get it.”
I took a deep breath. Her pussy was a perfume, palpable, thick and overpowering. I imagined it drawing me in, absorbing me, making me part of her. I licked the face of her vagina at first. I was tentative and gentle, but as Michelle shivered in response my confidence grew and I picked up the pace. Her flow was thick and copious. I thought about what I liked best when guys ate me. I stabbed my tongue into her as deep and aggressively as I could. Her pussy winked open and shut; her hips started undulating.
I thought of the spot which guys, with their obsession with cunts, too often forgot, the love bud; would hers, which seemed so big, be sensitive? I licked the length of her labia and when I reached her clit, wondered how much force to apply. I started carefully, tickling it with the tip of my tongue. Michelle’s gasp revealed that I was on the right track. I experimented with a host of different techniques, licking it hard, then soft, caressing it between my lips, sucking it into my mouth and lashing it with my tongue, staying attuned to her reactions. The more aggressive, the more forceful I became, the more she liked it. I attacked her sex.
Michelle slipped her strong fingers into my thick hair. “Sweet baby, you’re a natural, eat Mommy’s delicious pussy, you’re dong so well, that its sweet girl.” Her praise filled me with joy. My tongue was becoming numb, but I willed myself to continue, licking and sucking with devoted determination. I imagined a boxer working a speed bag, smacking her clit repeatedly with my tongue. And then her body tensed and she thrust her hips up; juice poured from her. Michelle didn’t scream and shout, but instead softly, almost in a whisper, purred. Her skin flushed and a placid look of ecstacy filled her face. I continued teasing her clit, although more gently, and then lazily, affectionately licked her pussy. Eventually, she drew me up to her, holding me to her full warm breast.