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The Job Interview

I'm sitting on a plastic chair of an office lobby. I'm suppressing the knot of fear in my stomach, trying to keep my hands from fidgeting. It seems nearly impossible, my entire body screaming for me to run, to take some kind of action. Yet somehow, miraculously, I manage to keep my hands neatly folded in my lap. I breathe deep, counting the breaths as I do so, trying to remember how to breathe on my own.

One. Two. Three...

I slowly pan my gaze across the room. I'm careful not to make any sudden movements, not even with my eyes, as I survey the room. At the end of the lobby, a receptionist's desk is decorated with freshly cut flowers. The receptionist is busy at her computer, typing away at paperwork or Facebook, I can't tell. I'm flanked by two other applicants, each waiting their turn to be interviewed. Neither of them seem to be nervous in the slightest; the very pictures of serenity. I look away and down at my own shoes for a bit.

Four. Five. Six...

I see my brand new black pumps, the ones that complement my grey business suit suit I bought just for the occasion. I see my, slender legs clad in black stockings that disappear under my knee length skirt. I remember how hard it was to find these things in my size. Women aren't expected to have feet as big as mine, it seems, even though I know plenty who do.

Seven. Eight. Nine...

Looking at my legs and my skirt makes blood rush unbidden to my cheeks. Despite my earlier attempts to not show my anxiousness, my eyes dart, from the receptionist to the applicants. I scan their faces, try to see their eyes. I'm sure they can see right through me, that they know what I am, that they are secretly judging me. The applicants are probably glad I'm there, they know no matter what they do or say in the interview, they'll still be a shoe in over the freak they're competing against.

I bite my lower lip and try to slow my breathing again, once again taking up the count.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

I'm not a freak, I remind myself, as I do every morning when I look into the mirror. It's been almost a year since I started transitioning, but I still find myself repeating the mantra in the mirror every morning. My five o'clock shadow and dirty, naked skin and Adam's Apple taunt me, try to destroy my confidence. I remind myself that I'm a beautiful woman, that this body is mine to mold into the shape I want, that I feel inside. Then I clear away the stubble, put on my makeup, and take my meds, and go out and face the world.

Truth be told, I'm pretty passable. My hips are full and lush, my legs tapered and smooth, my voice soft and lilting, and my breasts, though still small, noticeable enough that no one looking at me would read me as anything other than the woman I am. It's been long enough that the initial anxiety I had going out in public as myself has faded to a distant memory.

Normally, that is. But today is anything but normal. Today is the first time I've interviewed for a job since I've transitioned. Today I face the most intense scrutiny I have since I first timidly told my doctor that I wanted to explore hormone therapy.

Legally, I still bear the burden of my old name, and that's what is written on my CV. And while that name shortens to something wonderfully gender-neutral, employers look down on nicknames on applications, I understand.

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen...

I have a plan in my head. I'll walk in, shake the interviewer's hand firmly, and introduce myself. If they address me with the wrong pronoun, I'll gently correct them. And if they don't catch on... I find myself biting my lower lip again, thinking of all the things that could go wrong, all the names and hurtful words that could be hurled at me. I feel sweat begin to bead on my forehead. I forget how to breathe again.

Sixteen. Seventeen. Eight...

I hear my name called, and I look up. The door to the interviewer's office is open, and a middle-aged man is standing in it, holding it open and beckoning to me. I quickly stand up, adjust my skirt, grab my bag and follow his lead.

His office is decorated with a spartan air. Along one wall, windows look out into the street three stories below.

The light from the overcast sky illuminates the office in a dim haze. A pair of freestanding lamps, that look to be carved of oak or teak, keep the dimness from being oppressive.

I breathe and follow his gesture, taking a seat in one of the leather-upholstered chairs facing the heavy wooden desk. I cross my legs as he takes a seat on the other side, facing me.

His eyes travel up and down my figure, and I can see his mind working. I'm sure he's trying to resolve the discrepancy between the name on the CV and the person sitting in front of him. A few moments of silence tick by, my earlier plan to introduce myself having somehow dissolved into the autumn air. I watch his eyes flick to the picture in my file, and back to me, then back to the picture. Yes, I enclosed a picture with my resume. My therapist said it was a bad idea, that it might scare away potential employers. But, I reasoned, better that than I end up working for an employer who would take less kindly to my showing up as I am without any forewarning. Or at least, that was my reasoning at the time. Now as I sit here, I wonder if that was such a good idea after all. If I hadn't enclosed a picture, I could claim I wasn't the applicant, that it was one huge misunderstanding, bolt for the door and never come back.

But I couldn't bolt now if I wanted to. All I can do is watch him watching me, feel him undressing me with his eyes, examining every inch of my body...

I bite my lower lip again. Where did that come from? I mean, the interviewer wasn't bad looking by any stretch of the imagination, but not exactly my type.

Then why, as the silence grew between us (it can't have been more than a few seconds, but it felt like much longer) did I picture his big hands on my shoulders, his breath heating my cheeks as he slides them down my sides...

I physically clench my eyes shut for a moment. Focus, I tell myself, not now.

Finally, he breaks the silence. "so, miss.." my heart skips a beat when I hear him address me as the right gender. I almost miss his question, asking to tell him more about myself. I launch into my rehearsed spiel, my mouth more or less running on autopilot. This leaves my brain to admire his broad shoulders, the graying at his temples, the slight paunch at his belly that somehow makes him more attractive to me...

I picture him continuing the interview. "so, miss, why don't you show me exactly how much you want the job?"

I gulp, following his gaze down to his crotch. Overcoming a brief hesitation, I slide off the chair and onto all fours. I slink along the ground, crawling under the desk until my head is between his knees. I slide a hand up each leg, noticing the bulge forming where they meet. I'm painfully conscious of my own hardness straining against my panties. I always hate that part. I press the dysphoria to one side as I focus on the man in front of me. I slide my hands upward ever further, along either side of the hardness straining at his finely tailored pants. Then, I use them to undo his belt and zipper.

His erection springs out of its prison, hard and thick and larger than I expected. I caress it in my palm, feeling his hardness as I gently slide my palm along his shaft. I can barely fit my hand around it, I notice, as he leans back with a sigh. His hand gently cups my chin, more gentle than I expected, and he tilts my head upward and towards his crotch. I take his meaning immediately and, sitting up on my knees, I move my mouth to his tip and gently take it into my mouth.

His member seems to stiffen even more, and I find myself tracing the contours of his uncut cock with my tongue, from the tip of his glans, down his length to where his balls are barely spilling out of his boxers, then back up again. I feel a fire beginning to ignite in my chest and, looking into his eyes, proceed to show him exactly how much I do, indeed, want this job.

I lick his tip one more time before, with a bit of apprehension, plunging his thick cock into my mouth as far as I can go. Which isn't, as it turns out, very far; I barely have half his cock in my mouth before I find myself straining. My gag reflex is fighting against my desire to taste every inch of him. I do the best I can, my mouth working his shaft up and down, as my hands take over for where my mouth fails. I look up at him, watching his eyes and his smile. The flush on his cheeks tells me he likes what I'm doing, so I return to it with even more vigor. He tastes salty and sweet, and I smell his aftershave even as I slide my tongue in my mouth over his hardness - freshly cut grass and musk, the smell of it making the fire in my chest ignite even hotter.

A small moan escapes his lips, the first sound he made since he asked me how badly I wanted the job, and I can tell he's close. I want to taste him, to feel his hot cum pooling in my mouth and dribbling down my chin, but instead of letting me finish him off, he places a hand on my shoulder and gently presses me away. His chair rolls back against the wall. He stands, and his hand squeezes my shoulder, guiding me to my feet as well.

I follow his gaze to between my legs, where my own member has made itself very it's noticeable beneath the pleats of my skirt, and I blush in sudden shame. He doesn't seem to notice my blush, though he does notice the bulge. He grins and uses his grip on my shoulder to am me against the bare wall behind the desk. I let out a squeak, but don't resist as I feel his other hand reach under my skirt, grabbing a hold of my remnant where it managed to emerge from my panties. He gives it a few strokes, and I cringe. I never want to be touched there, to be reminded of what I'm not, and to my relief he senses my discomfort. He quickly lets his hand wander to the elastic waistband of my lacy panties. With a swiftness that impresses me, he has them down around my knees. I feel suddenly exposed, my ass bare and helpless. I can feel the cool wall against my breasts and cheek.

I completely give way to his touch as his hands explore my body, from my small breasts to my hips to my round and flush ass. One of his hands briefly leaves its exploration of my body and is rummaging in a drawer.

I don't dare look behind me, but I hear the familiar sound of a condom wrapper being opened. I feel the sudden cold trickle of lube against my rear end. I gasp as the wet feeling rolls down to my asshole. I brace myself for what's coming, closing my eyes tightly.

Sure enough, before long I feel the tip of his hard member pressing against my slick asshole. I gasp. I want nothing more than to feel him inside of me, even though there's a cold feeling at the bottom of my stomach as I recall how thick he is.

He's mercifully gentle, at least at first, making sure not to overwhelm me with his thick cock. I do my best to relax. Christ, he's big! I think to myself as he begins to rock his pelvis against mine. I let out a cry of ecstasy and anguish in equal measure as he begins to thrust harder, forcing his way even deeper into me, hitting me in the prostate with every rocking motion. It's all I can do not to scream out. His cock inside me feels so good. But instead I just dig my teeth into the flesh of my arm, not wanting to risk being caught.

He braces against the wall with one hand and grips my waist firmly with the other, and begins thrusting in earnest now. I let out another strangled cry as he forces his cock all the way into me. My body feels on fire, every nerve ending charged with electricity. I smell his aftershave as he fucks me harder. I feel his breath hot against my neck, his hands, coarse and commanding, grasping me and pulling me onto his cock roughly. My arm remains firmly against the wall, the other already beginning to turn an angry red around where my teeth are clamped on it to silence my blissful cries.

He fucks me hard and I feel I can barely stand his width anymore. His breathing becomes ragged and shallow, letting out grunts of exertion and pleasure more and more frequently. I feel lightning shoot through my body as I cum for him from his fucking me. I gasp; I've never cum from being fucked before, I didn't even know I could...

There's a dizzy rush of sensation and fire in my mind as I cum, his fucking not abating into the slightest. I deflate a little, but still wanting to please him, maintain my position, and even rock my hips against his, helping to speed him to orgasm as best I can.

It's not too long - all too soon - before he makes one last, powerful thrust into me, and his grip on my waist tightens. His breath catches in his throat. He holds me tight as he cums, then collapses on top of me.

"And where do you see yourself in five years?"

I blink. I'm still in my chair. I haven't moved. Somehow, the interview is almost over. Somehow, among all the thought of this man fucking me and using my body for his pleasure, I've managed to overcome my nervousness. I answer his questions without hesitation, calm and collected. A small smile forms on my lips as I snap out of my reverie, and I bite back the answer to that question that left unbidden to my mind. He really isn't bad looking, I imagine we could get up to a lot in five years. But instead I give him my rehearsed answer, and the interview wraps up.

When I leave his office, I look at the other two applicants. This time their disapproving glares are unmistakable, but I don't care. I'm floating on air. I don't even care now if I get the job - truth be told, I'm horribly overqualified. But I didn't feel secure enough in who in was to try for a higher placement when I sent out my CVs. But now that I've gotten through my first interview, I feel like I can take on the world.

And besides, if I did get the job, I might be able to date the good looking boss, and see if he really is as big as I imagined...

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