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Chapter One – The Interview

Tessa Truman entered the elevator adjusting her tight black mini skirt and wondering if she should have worn such a ensemble on this, her first job interview in three years. She decided that being well under 30—24 to be exact— it was still allowable and now in fashion again to wear minis, always her favorite. Also, she felt the tasteful black sequined sweater complimented her long black hair and green eyes and altogether made the outfit. The $58 sweater Simon had given her such fits about, the sweater and ensuing argument that no doubt necessitated her seeking employment again in the first place. That and her “idle time”, as Simon referred to it, being taken up in ways and means that did not at all please him.

The elevator was rather crowded. Tessa made her way toward the back, sighing inwardly, “another stinking secretarial job,” she thought, as the elevator doors closed. Before they reached the second floor, Tessa felt someone’s hand moving up beneath her tight black mini skirt. Easily manipulating her flimsy black panties, a probing finger made its way inside her. She instantly became wet, getting wetter as the floors came and went, doors opening and closing, people getting off and no one getting on. Tessa couldn’t help herself. “Oh, God,” she thought, “Simon’s right.”

Soon the stranger’s thumb joined his pleasure-giving finger. Gaziantep Elden Ücret Alan Escort Moistened, the thumb parted Tess’s well shaped buttocks and drove in. Tessa gasped slightly, quickly covering it with a slight cough. No one turned to look. No one ever did in elevators.

“And no one ever does this in elevators!” Tessa thought, more and more excited and wet, as the finger and thumb went in and out, in and out, expertly and in perfect unison. “Maybe I am a nymphomaniac. Just like Simon said.”

As the elevator rose, the stranger from behind raised his free hand, holding an expensive looking umbrella, and with it punched the 18th floor. Tessa had earlier pressed 19, the top floor, location of the FNS Bank. What FNS stood for Tessa had no idea, but her friend Linda had suggested the Bank needed a secretary, and Tessa had phoned for the interview just that morning.

“What’s going to happen when we reach my floor? Or his?” Tessa wondered and soon found out. As the final passenger vacated the elevator on the 17th floor, Tessa remained frozen, breathless. The elevator stopped at 18, but the doors remained shut.

“Please kneel down,” the stranger commanded in a crisply distinct and pleasant English accent.

Tessa did as she was told, “Thank God it’s carpeted,” ran through her mind as she knelt down on all fours.

The stranger, laying aside his elegant umbrella and briefcase, lifted Tess’s mini skirt and pulled down her flimsy black panties, never for a moment removing his massaging digits. Tessa heard the inevitable “zip” and rustle of fine suit material. “He smells good, too,” she noticed. Polo she guessed.

Tessa was oozingly wet as the stranger easily entered her, keeping his thumb in place.

“Oh God, Oh God,” Tessa murmured, as she also could not help doing in the throngs of orgasm after orgasm. The stranger pumped away, thumb and penis. Tessa could not decide which felt better. Simon would never consent to any anal sex, no matter how many times she begged him to do so.

Finally reaching a dramatic climax the stranger quickly removed himself, emptying semen into a silver vial and snapping shut its cover.

Tessa remained stationary on all fours. Exhausted. On impulse the stranger braced Tessa’s taunt abdomen upon his knee and spanked her bare bottom three times with his now gloved hand. Tessa moaned one more “Oh, God!” and came again.

“I thought as much,” the stranger mused in his crisp English, gentlemanly tone, dabbing his handkerchief at Tessa’s wetness and helping her into the panties and brief skirt.

Tessa turned to look at her molester and saw Roger Moore standing before her, or at least a facsimile of Roger Moore, when he was forty, that is. “Fits the accent,” she was thinking.

“Miss Truman, I presume,” he spoke, helping Tessa to her shaky feet.

“Why, how did you …”

“You’re hired.”

“But …”

“Oh, so sorry. How rude of me. Dr. Samuel Johnson, President, FNS Bank. I assume you are the Tessa Truman with whom my institution was to interview within, let us see,” looking at his intricately beautiful, obviously expensive, gold watch he took Tessa’s hand, long red nails glistening, in his perfectly manicured hand, “fifteen minutes?” Tessa could only node in the affirmative.

A good handshake, a grand lay, Tessa thought. And now what? What have I gotten myself into this time? So many things ran through her mind. What eventually emerged from her full, red-lipped mouth, however, was simply, “Why didn’t the doors open?” She noticed Dr. Johnson punching the 19th floor again and the elevator moving.

“There is no 18th floor.” Again slightly amused and confident and suave. “We’ve reserved that floor for just such circumstances as these. Once punched for 18 the doors will not open. Time is, as it were, at a standstill for all practical purposes. And, my darling, these are the most practical of purposes. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Tessa agreed. If only Simon could, just once, be that way. Tessa thought, straightening her mini, making certain no telltale residue was seeping down her black, thigh high stockings. It was not. The good doctor had done a good job. And he mopped up well, too, afterwards.

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