04 Erotic Story: The Interview
Sara and Tom had been talking about it for months — what would it look like to play with power, just once, just to see. On Saturday afternoon they wrote the rules down at the kitchen table. He was to wait in the spare room at nine.
[The interview]
The rules, they wrote down together at the kitchen table on Saturday afternoon. Safeword. Soft limits. Hard limits. What was on the table and what wasn't. Sara, who ran an HR team, took it as seriously as a contract. Tom signed it like a man amused at himself and not entirely sure why his hand was shaking a little.
She told him to wait in the spare room at nine. To wear what he'd wear to a real interview. To leave his phone in the kitchen.
He sat in the spare room in his white shirt and his good trousers and felt ridiculous. Then he heard her heels in the hallway and stopped feeling ridiculous.
She opened the door.
She was in black. A pencil skirt and a fitted blouse and the kind of heels she hadn't worn since the office Christmas party three years ago. Her hair was up. Her lipstick was red.
"Mr Walsh," she said. "Thank you for coming in."
She didn't smile. She walked past him to the chair behind the small writing desk they'd dragged in from the office and sat down with her ankles crossed. She didn't look at him until she was settled.
"Sit."
He sat.
"You're here for the position."
"Yes."
"Yes?"
He hesitated for half a second. He saw her eyebrow lift. He felt something inside him tilt forward.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Better."
She took her time. She pretended to look at a folder that was actually empty. She asked him questions about himself, none of them about a job. Tell me what you're good at. Tell me what you'd do for the right opportunity. Tell me what you'd say no to. Each question slower than the last. He tried to keep his hands still on his knees.
"Stand up."
He stood.
"Take off your jacket."
He did.
"Your shirt. Slowly."
He undid the buttons one at a time. He felt her eyes on his hands, on his chest, on the way his breath was already shorter than it should have been. He let the shirt fall on the chair.
"Trousers."
He took them off. He stood in his underwear. He'd never felt this exposed in his life, not even the first time they slept together, fifteen years ago.
She stood up. She walked around him in a slow circle. He couldn't see her face when she was behind him. He could only smell her perfume and feel the air shift when she moved.
"You're nervous."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good."
She picked up the black bag from the floor by the desk. She took out a black silk blindfold. She held it up.
"Tell me your word."
"Red."
"Tell me your word means stop."
"Red means stop."
"Good."
She tied the blindfold around his head. The world went dark. He heard her breathing. He heard the soft sound of fabric. He heard her open the bag again.
The cuffs were soft. Lined inside with something warm. She turned him gently to face the desk. She bent him forward over it until his chest was against the wood and his hands were where she wanted them. She fastened one wrist, then the other, to the legs of the desk.
He was breathing fast now.
"Tom," she said, in her real voice, soft. "Still good?"
"Yes. Yes, please."
"Back to ma'am."
"Yes, ma'am."
She walked behind him. He felt her fingers trail down his spine, slow, deliberate, all the way to the small of his back. She stopped at the waistband of his underwear.
"These too."
She slid them down. He stepped out of them when she told him to.
She stood behind him for a long moment without touching him. He could hear her breathing slow and even. Then her hand was on him — a single warm palm flat against him. Not a slap. A claim.
"This is the position you applied for, Mr Walsh."
"Yes, ma'am."
She slid one hand around to the front and took him in her fist. She stroked him slowly. Just once. Twice. Just enough to make him groan into the desk.
"You'd do well here, I think."
"Yes — fuck — yes, ma'am."
She didn't stop. She kept her hand moving on him while her other hand traced down his back, his thigh, between his legs. She cupped him there too, her palm warm. She kept him on the edge of the desk with one knee against the back of his thigh.
He was already shaking.
"You're not allowed to come without permission."
He nodded, but he wasn't sure he was capable of obeying.
She took her hand off him. He whined — actually whined — and felt himself flush all the way to his chest.
He heard her behind him. He heard her unzip something. He heard a wet sound — her own hand, between her own legs, slow. She was touching herself. She made a small sound, just for herself, and it travelled straight up his spine.
"Please."
"Please what."
"Please let me."
"Let you what, Mr Walsh."
"Let me — let me make you come. Anything."
"Hm."
She walked around the desk. She lifted his blindfold just enough. He saw her — flushed, hair coming out of the pin, her fingers wet. She held them to his mouth.
"Open."
He opened. She slid her fingers into his mouth and he tasted her, and he made a sound that was half a moan and half a prayer.
She put the blindfold back down.
She undid one wrist, then the other. She turned him over against the desk. She climbed up onto him — skirt up, no underwear now, he didn't even know when she'd taken them off — and she lowered herself onto him in one slow movement, all the way down.
He shouted into the blindfold.
She rode him. Slow at first. Then not slow. Her hand wrapped around his throat lightly, not enough to scare him, just enough to remind him whose room this was. She was coming first, on him, around him, and the sound she made was nothing like the sound she made on a normal night.
"Now," she said.
He came so hard he forgot his own name.
He felt her slide off him gently, lower him back against the desk, untie the blindfold with careful fingers.
She kissed him. Soft, real. Just Sara.
"You did good."
"Sara — Christ —"
"I know."
She helped him stand. She walked him to the bed. She lay down next to him, brushing his hair back, kissing his shoulder. They didn't speak for a while.
"Tom?"
"Mm."
"You're hired."
He laughed into her neck so hard he shook.
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Sara and Tom have been married a decade. Tonight was supposed to be just dinner — they were ready to call it an early night. They didn't. What happened next is the kind of evening every long-term couple secretly wants.
Sara and Tom finally ordered the toy they'd been joking about all year. When the package landed on the kitchen table, neither of them quite knew what to do. So they did the only sensible thing: they took it upstairs.
Sara and Tom had the house to themselves for the first Friday in two months. The kids were at a sleepover. He came home from town with a small brown bottle in his coat pocket and a quiet plan for the evening.
