On Monday evening, Chlöe Bishop perched on the edge of an expensive oak desk and tried not to look uncomfortable as it dug into her backside. The inner flesh of a woman’s upper thigh was incredibly sensitive to touch, and no one knew this better than she. She shifted hers away from the man’s clammy fingers with a nervous titter, but it only succeeded in shifting his focus to another spot under her skirt.
She didn’t need to check the time to confirm what she already knew, that she was horribly late for a date. It didn’t matter how late she was, or whether she showed up at all. She and her ex would only go around in circles. It was time she accepted that she’d been dumped, and begging was only crushing the market value of her self-esteem.
What choice did she have, though? Her living situation had gone from loving and financially supportive to broke and hugely uncomfortable, since two people who’d been romantically entwined couldn’t carry on living under the same roof without friction. Not when one of them (Not me, she thought bitterly) kept bringing random losers home for casual sex and calling it ‘processing heartbreak’. This was how she found herself putting in a little extra something into her job search, seeing as how a killer CV wasn’t getting her anywhere.
‘So …’ She slid off her tank top to reveal a lacy bra, thrusting her breasts into his chest. This creep was old enough to be her father. Nope, no father thoughts right now. Her parents were disappointed enough in her. She pressed herself into his chest and turned a flinch into a light kiss on his neck. Did women really do this; did it truly work for men? It seemed so. Mr Cohen was practically panting.
‘Am I in, or not?’
‘Oh, you’re in, Miss Bishop,’ he breathed into her ear, flicking his tongue around the cavity. Chlöe summoned the willpower not to retch. ‘You’re definitely in. I’ve already made the call and sent the email. You can start at the beginning of next month.’
Chlöe did her charming laugh, casting her tinkle around the massive office and hoping the edge of desperation she picked up on was perceptible to her ears only. Never mind that it was well past 7 p.m. and no one else was in the building to hear or witness her performance. She slid off the desk.
‘End of the month isn’t good enough,’ she said, keeping her back to Cohen as her top went back on. ‘I need to start as soon as possible. You said there was a good chance of an opening, the only thing was to apply pressure in the right places. Thought you could make that happen.’
He chuckled into her hair, his lips and breath tickling her scalp. ‘What do you want, my blood? I said–’
Chlöe turned and cupped the swollen front of his pants, the sugar in her smile letting him know his prize handful was all she was after. ‘I’ll take something in writing, too,’ she whispered, lips brushing his.
‘Oh, you’ll certainly get it in writing,’ Cohen said in her ear. ‘But first …’
Five minutes later, Chlöe lay on the floor, divested of everything except the skirt. She averted her eyes in horror from his erect penis, glad its latex sheath gave her one fewer thing to worry about. No one warned girls like her strenuously enough about heterosexual encounters, and for that she was grateful. Prior knowledge would have made soldiering through impossible. Her sentiments on phalluses – revulsion – had been cemented early on in life and weren’t likely, ever, to change. Cohen held her panties to his nose and inhaled with reverence before entering her. Chlöe shuddered and tried not to clench up, turning gags into soft moans. She would keep her eyes closed the whole way through; there was nothing else for it.
Now I get why it’s called a carpet interview, she thought, stealing a peek at the pricey carpet under her head. At least she wasn’t on her knees. The weather was hobbling towards spring and she had to protect her knees if she wanted to show them off. She adored pencil skirts.