We’re half way through the interview when I first sense that something is wrong. Until now, it’s been standard. Formulaic questions, simple answers. But then I catch a flicker of something in his face and it makes me uneasy. I’m sensitive to atmospheres and this one – the interview room – has suddenly changed, grown darker.

“You were telling me how you handled difficult situations in your last job,” he says, leaning back behind his desk, looking at me in a way that seems to strip me bare.

I falter before I speak and the way he raises his eyebrow makes me more nervous still. Sweat prickles my armpits and wonder if it’s visible. My silk shirt is too thin, too transparent.

“The most important thing is to stay calm,” I manage to say.


“Whatever the situation, panic will only make it worse.”

“I agree. Absolutely.”

Is he smirking? His eyes move from my face, down my neck, over my chest. I fight the urge to cross my arms. He stands up and walks slowly around his desk, leans against it so I’m forced to look up at him. He’s so close I can smell his aftershave.

“But you didn’t handle every situation, did you?” he says.

“What do you mean?” My heart is racing. Does he know…?

Suddenly his finger is under my chin, tilting my face roughly upward. There’s no mistaking his look now: cruelty. I’m scared.

“I’ve had a little off-the-record chat with your old boss,” he says. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out what a sordid little nymphomaniac you are?”

“What do you mean – ,” I begin but his hand is in my hair and he’s yanked my head backwards.

“I really need this job.”

It’s all I can think of to say.

And then he’s let go of me, walked back round his desk, sat down. I feel him appraising me, looking at me as though he knows my all my secrets.

“You really need this job?” he echoes. “You want me to overlook what happened at your last workplace?”

“I do,” I whisper.

“Stand up,” he says, and I do.

He’s not even hiding his intentions now. His eyes run up and down my body and I wish my breasts were smaller, less visible, curse myself for wearing a skirt which clings so tightly.

“Open your shirt,” he says. I hesitate. This time she shouts, “Open your fucking shirt.”

With shaking hands I undo the buttons, pull my shirt open just a little, close my eyes. It’s not enough though. Of course it’s not enough.

“Listen,” his face is close to mine. “You can walk out of here right now.”

“I need this job so badly,” I say and I really do.

“Then you’re going to do exactly what I say,” he says. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say.

My eyes are still closed but I feel him roughly pull apart my blouse, ripping the buttons. He pulls my breasts from my bra then stands back to inspect his handiwork.

“You’ll do,” he says.

I can’t meet his eye but I try to stay calm. The humiliation of standing here with my breasts spilling out is excruciating. I’m close to tears.

Then his hands reach for his belt. He slowly undoes it, pull is out through the loops of his trousers. I let out a little cry.

“Bend over my desk,” his voice is impassive but there is no arguing.

Behind me, he yanks up my skirt, rips off my panties. I cry out again but before I know it my knickers are in my mouth and I feel as though I’m choking.

“If you keep making a fuss, that’s what you get.”

After that, I stay quiet, trying to regulate my breath. For a moment, he just stands there and the awareness of his presence and mine sends a shiver up my spine. Then the belt comes down, thwack, across my buttocks. I flinch but he runs his fingers lightly across my skin and I find myself pressing into his hand. He steps back and again, thwack, the belt stings its way across me.

“Good girl,” he’s crouching down now, kissing the tender skin he just hit. He spreads open my buttocks and his tongue begins to explore, pushing its way into my pussy, meeting the wetness I’m ashamed to acknowledge.

He pulls me roughly from the desk and pushes me to the floor so I’m kneeling in front of him. His fingers are in the back of my throat and I suck on them, pulling them deeper into my mouth. I can taste my own pussy.

He undoes his trousers and pulls out his cock, strokes it as he looks down at me, my clothes half torn off, make-up smudged across my face. I lean towards him but he slaps me back.

“Did I say you could touch my cock?”

“No,” I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”

But he’s ready now. He holds the back of my head and I close my eyes. My lips close around his cock and he feels hard and smooth. His hands are in my hair and slowly but firmly he pushes my head further and further towards him until his cock is deep in my throat. I gag and pull backwards, thick necklaces of spit spilling down my chin, but be pushes into me again and this time I look up at him through streaming eyes and he sees I’m happy and he laughs.

“You’ve got the job,” he says.