The Interview

I'm a bouncer at a lap dancing club in Reading. Well, I was, until management decided that because I was shagging one of its best dancers, I had to go. Something fucking stupid about "staff shall not fraternise with the dancers", or some similar crap. I mean, what's the point of being a bouncer at a lap dancing club if you're not allowed to test drive the goods, if you follow me?

Anyway, since I got the DCM – the old Don't Come Monday - I'm having a fine time with Candy and lounging around the house all day, having the odd bonk and going out for the odd lager lout night and beef vindaloo. And then Candy gets all sniffy.

"Brad," she goes, "I'm earning all the money and you're pissing it up against the wall, why don't you get a job, for fuck's sake?" Well, she wasn't sniffy, so much as whiny and I don't know about you, but whiny I don't do.

But since she's such a great shag, I decided I'd do something about it. So I got the evening paper and that's where I found this ad, in the jobs vacant column. Well, not so much in the column, it was a display ad, all by itself. I've got a clipping of it somewhere, oh yeah, here it is:

WORLD-FAMOUS photographer seeks male, between 25 and 30 to model for erotic publication. Must be well-muscled, tanned, toned. Dark hair and brown eyes not a disadvantage. Must be a an unknown. Apply with CV to Glamour Productions, Maidenhead.

I threw it over to Candy, who was struggling into her clothes ready to go dance her arse off at the club. "What d'ya reckon, babe?" I asked her. "Look like me or what?"

Candy sniffed. "Well if by 'well-muscled' it means the dangly bit, then you certainly qualify," she said, "and the rest of you's not too bad either. And you are most definitely an 'unknown' my darling, Brad. Dark hair, brown eyes too – yup, go for it, tiger."

And she swooped down on my naked body, I was lying on the bed, smooched the tip of my cock – it's eight inches long and it was standing to attention because she has that effect on me – and was out the door. I thought about tossing myself off, then thought "Fuck it" and I went out for a gallon or two of lager and a vindaloo.

The next day, I called Glamour Productions and a lady name of Wanda answered and I introduced myself as Brad Billingsgate, and said I was after the job. "Can you get here later this afternoon?" she said, in a snooty little voice, which I think was supposed to impress me.

So that's how I turned up at Glamour Productions, which was based in a large old house down by the Thames in Maidenhead. Wanda turned out to be a mousy little brunette with acne and heavy-lensed glasses.

I sat down opposite her desk and she said: "Miss Nairobi will see you shortly." So I passed the time reading some garbage magazine about how to get the most out of your PC, or some such crap. How do these things sell?

After about 10 minutes, Miss Acne's phone rang and she answered, then put it down and said: "Miss Nairobi is ready for you, sir. Upstairs, turn right, office facing out onto the street."

So I went upstairs and entered this office looking out across towards Boulter's Lock and that's where I saw this dream. Miss Nairobi was tall – I'm six foot, exactly, and when she stood she was at eye level with me. But it wasn't her height that impressed me.

She was wearing a black sort of jacket-cum-skirt arrangement with zips across it, in very strategic places, but the outfit did nothing to hide the fact that she went in and out in all the right places. And it wasn't the outfit and the fact that she was built that impressed me either. It was that she was brown-skinned, and when I say "brown-skinned" I mean like Cadbury's milk chocolate.

Don't know about you, but black women – well gorgeous, black women - do something for me. She was black and she was beautiful, and she had gleaming, lustrous black hair which was pulled back into a tight ponytail and it looked sensational. And she had deep pools of brown eyes that sparkled and she was pretty. And – oh, what the fuck, I was in love.

"Good afternoon, Mr Billingsgate," she said in a cultured voice – nothing stuffy, nothing stuck up, just a voice that spoke of oodles of money being spent on her education. Her handshake was firm, but smooth and it made me want her hand all over my cock.

"Please take a seat and give me a look at your CV," she said, resuming her own seat at a wide and almost empty desk. All it had on it was a computer screen and keyboard, one of those space-age fucking telephones and a little note pad. She held a smart-looking pen, one of those fat, expensive chunky jobs, you know the kind. She was stroking the pen along her cheek. I wanted to stroke my cock along her cheek.

I cleared my throat, and coughed. "Er, CV," I said. "Well that's a bit of a problem, Miss Nairobi. You see, lap dancing clubs don't exactly hand out CVs when they fire bouncers for playing hide the sausage with one of their dancers."

She looked at me sharply. It was a look which said, quite clearly, "What the fuck have I run into with this schmuck?"

"But hey," I said, quickly, "I can tell you all about myself, I don't lie, I'm pretty straight. What do you want to know?"

She let go a little sigh, a sigh that said "This is against my better fucking judgement, but I'll hear him out".

"All right," she said, pointing the stubby pen to her note pad. "Tell me about yourself. Name, age, where educated, ever modelled before, any drug habits, you know the score. Shoot."

So I gave her chapter and verse. Age 27, six foot tall, weight 12 stone 10 pounds, educated grammar school in Reading, worked for a security firm there for seven years, then as a bouncer at the Purple Pussy for two years, currently unemployed, no drugs, drink in social quantities (ha, ha) and as fit as a middleweight world champion.

Then I paused for breath.

"And you have no portfolio of pictures to show me?" she said.

"Nah," I said. "But I'm built like a brick shit house, look."

And before she could say anything, I stood up and pulled off my T-shirt to reveal my upper torso. And it was here that I started to grab her attention. At first I thought she was going to scream the house down, but then she smiled, a slow smile, but it was a wonderful smile.

Then she stood up and walked to the front of her desk and perched her arse on it. Her legs – and they were great legs – were encased in shiny black stockings and she was wearing patent leather high heels a strap just above her ankles. Honest, they were "Fuck me" shoes if I've ever laid eyes on any.

"That's a nice torso, Mr Billingsgate," she said. "Very well muscled, nicely toned, beautiful tan."

"So's yours," I said, and immediately felt like biting my tongue off.

And then I went and made things worse. "Sorry Miss Nairobi – but hey, Nairobi, that's a strange name, ain't it?"

I think that took her mind off my awful crack about her being, well, you know, "dark", as it were.

"Yes, it is, I suppose," she said. "But more and more people these days are called after the place where they were conceived – you know, awful names like Brooklyn.

"Well, my mother is an African, and my father is white – he's a university professor. He was visiting Nairobi, met my mum, proposed to her on the second night he took her out, they made love, I was the result. Name – Nairobi Carruthers. It's that simple."

Then I fucked up again. "Betcha you're glad you weren't conceived in Timbuktu," I said, rather pleased with the line.

"Oh, that's so funny," she said, "I've never heard that line before."

Well, I may be no Alfred Einstein, or whoever the fuck he was, but hey, I know when someone's taking the piss out of me, but before I had a chance to apologise, the lovely black bird was speaking again.

"And tell me, Brad, were you conceived in a fish market?" she said, cheeky like.

I looked sharply at her. "What the ..." And the "f" word was on my lips, but I thought it best to choke that back after my crack about her "tan". "How do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, Billingsgate," she said, "it's a famous fish market – it's in the City, has been a fish market since the 1600s, maybe even earlier. You must have heard of it."

Well, she had me there. I've got no interest in London, I can get into all the trouble I can handle in Reading and environs, thank-you very much.

"No, means nothing to me," I replied, in all honesty. And then I decided to move things on a bit.

"The ad said 'well muscled'," I said, and I dropped my Levis and kicked off my scruffy Nike trainers so I was just wearing a black satin thong. I knew I looked big in it – I choose them in medium sizes because of the way they mould around my old fella real tight.

Miss Nairboi looked at me calmly – very calmly. "Turn around, slowly, very slowly," she said.

I did, presenting what I know is a great arse to her view – it's nicely tanned, too.

"Great buns," she murmured, and I couldn't detect one iota of sarcasm in that remark. "Ever been spanked, Brad?"

I shook my head. "No, why?"

"Oh, it's just that the photo shoot you're auditioning for involves a male slave and a dominatrix – a real dominatrix, actually, she's one of the most popular in Paris."

I didn't mind, I've yet to meet the woman who can boss me around. "Sounds like fun," I said.

Miss Nairobi grinned. "You could say that," she said, then picked up her phone and pressed Miss Acne's number.

"We've no more applicants today, have we Wanda?" I heard her ask. After a pause, she said: "You can knock off now, Wanda, I'll shut everything down and lock up."

And it was then I knew I was going to fuck her. Like I said, I'm no Einstein, but a nod is as good as a wink to a blind donkey, or whatever the fuck it is they say.

Miss Nairobi walked slowly behind her desk again, showing me great thigh, great arse, legs to die for. Then she leaned across her desk, providing me a great view of her skirt drawn taut across that great arse, and pulled a little digital camera from her drawer. She grinned at me.

"No CV, no portfolio. Looks like I'm gonna have to do everything, eh Brad?" she said, and then she walked around the desk and said: "Move back a bit, I want to get you in a full shot."

And then she started to remove her jacket and her skirt, tugging on the zips that held the things to her body. I thought I'd come in my thong, her figure was so fine.

Her breasts were nicely shaped things, slung up sexily in a shiny black satin bra, its material gleaming across her lush globes. At her pussy was a matching black thong. On her hips a black suspender belt held up stockings that I wanted my cock to rub all over. Fuck, she looked great.

Then she started taking snaps of me. Full frontal, side on, rear view. "Now for the most important pictures, as far as the baroness is concerned," she said. "Strip, Brad."

I pulled my thong off and stood in front of her, my eight inches of old fella proudly erect – well, who wouldn't be in front of Miss Black Bird 2006?

"Hmmm," she mused, clicking away with the camera. "Very impressive. The baroness will be extremely interested in you, Brad, you big boy you."

"The baroness?" I asked. "Who is the baroness when she's at home?"

Miss Nairobi told me. "Baroness von Stockhausen," she said. "Surely you've heard of her?"

"Listen, Miss Nairobi," I explained, "unless she's a porn star or a Page 3 girl I wouldn't know her from Adam, or Eve, for that matter."

"Oh," she said, disappointed like. Then: "She's the female Helmut Newton."

"And who the fuck is Helmut Newton when he's at home?" I asked, but she ignored me and snapped some more pictures.

"Let's see what we've got," she said, and I walked over beside her and inhaled a smashing aroma of perfume, which I couldn't put a name to, although it certainly didn't smell anything like what the dollies at the Purple Pussy slap all over themselves before they drape their tits all over the punters.

I looked at the back of her camera as she flicked through the pictures she'd taken. "Very nice, you've got a way with a camera," I said, then I took it from her hand and laid it on the desk.

"But fuck the pictures, Miss Nairobi," I said, taking her in my arms, "what about the real thing."

And I pressed my erection against her taut, toned belly and grabbed her shoulders before clamping my mouth against hers. She didn't resist, she didn't yell out, she just kissed me back, our tongues intertwined and she writhed her body against mine, her hands roaming all over my buttocks.

"Is this the real thing, Brad?" she asked, when we broke for air, and although she was trying to sound real cool, I could feel her heart going tippity-tap, tippity-tap like a jackhammer.

"Naw," I said, with a grin, "that's just an iddy biddy little warm-up."

Then I reached behind her back and unclipped her lovely black bra. I threw it behind her desk, and it hung on the arm of her high-backed leather chair.

Her breasts weren't the biggest I've ever lusted after, but her nipples were large and almost black and were surrounded by large areolae. They were firm, they hardly fell when I removed the supporting garment. I bent and sucked on her left nipple and she gave a sharp intake of breath. I felt her hand smoothly stroking my hard-on, playing with my foreskin, a finger flicking inside the lips, rubbing the pre-cum around the helmet.

Miss Nairobi pushed me back slightly and turned with her back was to me. She placed her hands on the desk so her arms were straight, and bent over slightly. Her arse was brown and beautiful, the only clothing just the little thin strip of black thong diving between her cheeks. It was begging for some adoration.

I placed my hands on her bum and started to stroke her there. But she came out with a plaintive little request: "With your tongue, Brad, with your tongue."

I knelt on the floor and pressed my mouth against her warm bum. Usually I insist on the bird doing the kneeling, but I decided to throw away my rule book for her – after all, she was black and beautiful and she was interviewing me for a job.

Her arse was firm, superbly rounded and tasted glorious. I pulled her thong down, to reveal a lovely little puckered anus. I kissed it, then ran my tongue around its tight little lips. She tasted good, just like I knew she would.

Then she straightened up, and spun around, placing her arse down on the edge of the desk. She placed her "fuck me" shoes about a yard apart and I got this great view of her pussy. She had lush, thick, dark brown labia lips, but she spread them with her fingers to reveal dark pink inner flesh. I could smell her gorgeous aroma flowing all over me.

I flicked out my tongue and began to lave her sensational snatch – and it wasn't just the smell that was bringing me on, it was the taste. She tasted earthy, musky and so gloriously perfumed, just the way I expected she would.

The lovely tart was also on heat! It took me no more than a minute or two for her to start thrusting her quim hard against my mouth and with a yelled "Tongue fuck me, Brad, don't stop, you bastard!" and then she came on my face.

I waited for a moment while she recovered and then stood, picked her up in my arms and walked her to a long black leather couch pushed against a far wall. I laid her down as gently as I could but, to tell the truth, I couldn't wait to get my cock in her cunt. She lay back, her legs splayed wide, her pussy as inviting for my cock as it had been for my mouth.

Now I don't know about you, but I've seen all those fucking positions they publish in the lads' mags, but when it comes to doing "it", the good, old-fashioned, face-to-face fuck is the way to go. It means you can have a good snog while you're enjoying a good bonk – and when the bonkee is as good looking at Miss Nairobi, well that's a fucking bonus, if you get my drift.

Her cunt was just what I'd expected – smooth, slippery smooth, but also tight, very, very tight. I'd only got my helmet into her, when the tightness of her twat grabbed my old fella's foreskin and pulled it back down to the ring. I drove up her, and planted my pussy-stained mouth on hers.

Then I was driving away, bumping up and down, our pubic bones banging together, my cock going 19 to the dozen as I pumped away and then, after less than a minute, my fucking excitement got the better of me and I was shooting seed deep into her.

She must have gathered what had happened, because as cool as you like, she said: "Why Bradley, my dear, you've come – and come inside me. How very considerate of you." And by now I could detect her sarcastic voice and this, believe me, was her sarcastic voice.

"Sorry," I grunted, as the old fella dribbled a few more spurts of spunk into her, "but I couldn't control myself, you're so fucking gorgeous."

She gave me a faint smile. "That's rather obvious – that you couldn't control yourself, I mean," she said, snooty like.

"Hey, I'm sorry I didn't pull out," I said, "but you didn't tell me to wear a fucking rubber. You are on the pill, aren't you?"

"Sure," she said, with another faint smile, "but not everything's foolproof, my dear. Now, be a sweetie and let me go clean up."

I pulled out of her and she went to an adjoining bathroom. I heard water splashing as I got dressed. Then she walked back, still wearing the "fuck me" shoes, but the belt and stockings had gone, and sat as cool as the proverbial cucumber behind her desk.

I struggled to pull my socks and trainers on, then asked her a question that had been niggling at me.

"Nairobi," I said, "since it's always the woman who makes the decision as to whether she fucks or not, what was it made you decide to bonk me?
She smiled a smile which was either icy cold, or merely just frigid, and told me: "Well, Brad, since you ask, how can I put this? Shall I be diplomatic?"

I grunted, tying a trainer to my foot. "Try being honest," I said, "fuck the diplomacy."

"Well," she said, "you are a bit of a slob, Brad. You are foul-mouthed, you swear too much, but you've got lovely long, dark hair, brooding good looks and a great physique. Also your cock is extremely handsome. Remind me to suck it some time."

"Gezundheidt," I said, though not really knowing why.

Then she went on: "So I thought, well he's a slob, he's a loud-mouth, he's rude, he's cocky – pardon the pun – so he must be good at something. And I decided to find out."

"And what did you find out?" I asked.

"Good with his mouth, a fucking disaster – and I mean both words, Brad – with his cock."

I felt let down, but hey – I'd had a good fuck.

"Now," she said, all business-like, even though she was stark naked, "put your home and mobile numbers on this pad and, as they say, I'll get back to you."

I drove home to Reading on the minor roads, fuck the motorway at this time of evening. Back home, I found Candy propped up in bed, a cold towel on her head, moaning that she had an awful headache and she'd called her boss at the Purple Pussy and told him she wasn't coming in tonight. And where, she whined, had I been?

"I've been held up at the office," I said, which was no lie. I'd certainly been "up", if you count my cock in Nairobi's lovely cunt, and I was in an office – Nairobi's.

Candy ignored me, though, then I offered her a fuck, just to take her mind off her headache. She turned me down, which was just as well, 'cos I've got no idea how long the smell of a woman's pussy lingers on a mouth or cock, have you?

So I fucked off to the pub – otherwise, I'd have been running up and downstairs all night long, fetching her cups of tea and aspirin.

Anyway, the new barmaid at the local pub is a cute little blonde and I think she fancies me. And I reckon I'm making progress, there. You never know when you need another string to your bow, do you?