The Interview Goes Both Ways

The agency photo didn't do her justice. Anna Li stands on your doorstep in her one good outfit, a portfolio clutched to her chest like a shield, dark hair pinned back with two slips of metal that have already given up. She's petite, precise, and visibly terrified. "Mr. — um. Sir. I'm Anna. For the housekeeper position?" You invite her in. She sits on the very edge of the sofa, accepts tea from your Kung Fu set with both hands, and pours like her grandmother taught her — steady wrist, no drip. Her transcript slides across the coffee table: mechanical engineering, 4.0. "Between jobs," she explains softly. "Everyone wants experience. Nobody gives it." You hire her on the spot. Not for the GPA. For the way she looks up at you when she says thank you — like you've just handed her the moon, and she's not sure she's allowed to keep it.

She starts Monday. By Wednesday the house runs like clockwork and Anna runs it. She reorganized your kitchen by workflow, fixed the sticking pantry door with a butter knife and sheer stubbornness, and every evening at six she finds you wherever you are to report what she's done, standing with her hands folded, waiting for you to say *good girl* — though neither of you has said it out loud yet.

Tonight she lingers after her report. "Do you... need anything else, sir?" There's a pause before *anything else* that wasn't there last week.

Friday you find her in the library on a stepstool, stretching for a top shelf, skirt riding up her thighs. She knows you're watching. You can tell because she reaches higher anyway, up on her toes, back arched, until the book is an excuse and the stretch is the point.

"Sir," she says, breathless, not turning around. "I can't quite... reach." You cross the room, bracket her body with your arms, and take the book down. She doesn't move. Neither do you. Her breathing goes shallow and fast between your arms.

"Anna." "Yes, sir." A whisper.

"Tell me why you took this job," you say, still caging her against the shelf. "Because I needed one." A pause. Her fingers curl on the wood. "That's what I said in the interview. It was true. Mostly." "Mostly?" "The agency sends you a photo of the client before the interview. I saw yours and I..." She laughs, small and mortified. "I practiced my handshake in the mirror for an hour, sir. I was so nervous. But it wasn't about the job."

She finally turns, looking up at you from the stepstool, exactly at eye level for once. "It was never about the job."

You take her chin between thumb and finger, tilt her face up. "Say it plainly, Anna. I'm an engineer too — I need specifications."

She swallows. "I want you. I've wanted you since the doorstep. I iron your shirts and I think about you taking them off me. I mop the floors and I think about you bending me over the—" She stops, cheeks blazing. "I'm very detailed, sir. It's a problem." "It's not a problem." "Then may I stay tonight? I brought a bag. It's in my car. I've been driving around with it for three days working up the courage."

You carry the bag in yourself. She stands in your bedroom doorway, out of uniform now — her own soft sweater, jeans — and somehow shyer out of it. You sit on the edge of the bed and hold out your hand.

"Come here."

She crosses the room like it's the longest walk of her life and folds down into your lap, straddling, small and warm. Her hands find your shoulders. "I've never—" She stops. "I've imagined this so many times that I'm scared the real thing will disappoint the imaginary one." "It won't." "Prove it," she whispers. So you kiss her.

The kiss undoes three weeks of her discipline. She makes a soft, hungry sound into your mouth and grinds down onto you, clumsy and shameless about it, her pussy dragging over your cock through two layers of denim. You pull her sweater off and find nothing underneath but Anna — small perfect breasts, brown nipples already hard.

She gasps when your mouth closes over one, her fingers diving into your hair. "Oh — sir — I think about your mouth. I think about your mouth everywhere." "Everywhere." "Everywhere," she repeats, half moan, half confession.

You lay her back on the bed and strip the jeans off her slowly, letting her lift her hips for you. Her panties come down last, and she covers her face with both hands.

"Don't hide from me." "Okay," she says, and moves her hands to her sides, gripping the sheets, exposing herself completely — wet, flushed, trembling with the effort of being looked at. You spread her thighs wider and she lets you, lets you look as long as you want, whimpering the entire time. "Please," she finally begs. "Please touch me, I've been so good, I've been so good all week—"

You eat her like you have all night, because you do. She comes the first time fast and embarrassed, thighs clamping around your ears, a startled high cry like she didn't know it was coming. The second time you work for, two fingers curling inside her while your tongue works her clit, until she's riding your hand and sobbing your name — not *sir*, your name, over and over like a password she finally guessed.

After, she pulls you up her body and kisses her own taste from your mouth, greedy about it. "Inside me," she says against your lips. "I've been on the pill since the interview. I planned. I plan everything, sir."

You push into her slowly and she takes you in inch by inch, eyes locked on yours, mouth open, holding you like you're the answer to a problem she's been solving alone for years. She's so tight, so hot, so quiet — until you bottom out and she breaks.

"Fuck — harder — please, I won't break, I promise I won't break—"

You give it to her the way she's been asking for with her whole body since the doorstep: deep, relentless, her ankles locked behind your back, the headboard keeping time. She comes a third time with your name in her mouth and drags you over the edge with her, and you empty yourself into her while she holds you closer and whispers *yes, yes, yes, thank you*.

Later, tangled in your sheets with her hair a disaster and her glasses somewhere lost on the floor, Anna props herself up on your chest and looks at you the way she looked at that job offer — like something too good to be real that she's going to inspect for defects. "Technical assessment," she says solemnly. "The imaginary version was inferior. Recommend immediate adoption of the real one. Weekly. Daily, if possible." "Daily," you agree. "Good." She settles back down against you, warm and boneless. "I'll still do the floors. But I'm doing them in the uniform you're going to buy me. The one with the skirt." "Anna." "Hm?" "You're fired as my housekeeper. You're hired as something else." She laughs into your neck. "Best promotion I've ever gotten."