"I know I could do the job, Uncle Pete. It's the interview I'm frightened of. What if he asks me loads of difficult questions?"
Sally was the girl next door and as girls-next-door go she was hard to beat: a slim 19-year-old brunette with dazzling blue-green eyes, full lips, and the cheekiest tits I've ever seen – perky as anything and swelling just that little bit more every time I had the chance to sneak a look.
I wasn't Sally's uncle at all but she'd called me Uncle Pete since I'd moved in six years before and I'd never tried to stop her – it seemed to bring us that little bit closer together. We'd always got on well; she was always bright and cheerful. And she'd become increasingly flirty around me in the past year or two, especially since my divorce, sometimes giving me a hug or kiss for no apparent reason. But I was more than 10 years older than her and though she lit up my loins every time she walked into the room, Sally had always been out of bounds. The most I ever got was to have those lovely tits brush against me when she decided to give me a hug.
That day, when I met her in our street, she was telling how she really wanted an office manager's job that was going in a little software business in our town, much like the company I ran myself. She'd just finished a business course at college and although I knew she'd done very well at it, there were half a dozen women going for the job and she was easily the youngest and least experienced at job interviews.
But I had an idea, one that could help her and give me the chance to spend some quality time alone with this sexy young thing.
"If it's the interview that's worrying you, I can help," I said. "I know exactly what kind of questions you'll be asked, so why don't I just interview you first?"
The next day she arrived at my office shortly after five, just as old Mary, my own office manager, was knocking off for the day along with the other staff. I'd been thinking things over as I lay in bed the previous night and decided I definitely didn't need Mary around.
Sally had followed my instructions to the letter. She rang the doorbell, introduced herself and asked politely for Mr Jackson – the name of the man who would be interviewing her the following week. I'd put on a suit for the occasion and shook her hand formally after buzzing her in.
"Good afternoon Miss Harris. Please take a seat."
She was dressed in a grey business suit that I remembered her buying for a part-time placement the previous year. It was neat enough, but she'd clearly grown a bit since she'd bought it and her tits, encased in a crisp pink shirt, were pushing hard against the jacket. She'd put her hair up, her long, tanned legs were bare, and she was wearing a pair of black shoes with a moderate heel.
Sally had put her CV and application through my letterbox that morning and I spent the first few minutes of the interview going through them, complimenting her on her marks at college (she'd got a distinction) and the clarity and presentation of her letter.
I then asked her a few obvious questions, why she wanted the job, what she knew about the software business and so on. Easy ones at first, then steadily a bit more probing.
I was impressed, very impressed. Every answer was pretty much spot on and none of them sounded rehearsed. She gave the impression that she really wanted the job and would be perfect for it.
If it were up to me I'd have hired her there and then. But this wasn't a real interview and I wasn't planning to let her off that easily.
"You are clearly very well qualified for the job, Miss Harris," I said. "But I do see one major problem."
"My age?" she asked quickly.
"Your age? That is of no concern to me, as long as you're up to the work," I said, in the most pompous tone I could muster. "No. What concerns me more is your looks."
"My looks? But Uncle Pete..."
"Mr Jackson," I said, interrupting her harshly. "Yes, your looks. It's not enough that you simply have the qualifications to do a job. You also need to fit in with your colleagues, especially in a small people-based business like mine."
"But what do my looks have to do with it?" she asked, clearly surprised by my change of tack.
"Miss Harris, please take off your jacket and hang it over the back of your chair. That's right, thank you."
I breathed in deeply and took a long look at her as followed my instructions. She really did have the most perfect tits – they seemed to have almost a life of their own, even in that stiff pink shirt. The time had come to try to get a much closer look.
"In any business, productivity is what counts, and it's my job to ensure that nothing is allowed to interfere with it," I said. "I won't be the first person to have told you, Miss Harris, that you are a most attractive young woman, and not just for your pretty face or nice long legs. You also possess a most magnificent chest, and that, I think, is a major part of the problem."
"But Unc... I mean, Mr Jackson, why would my chest be a problem?"
"Think of its effect on the male members of staff," I said. "I appreciate that today you've made an effort to dress conservatively, but you're young, as you pointed out yourself, and I can't imagine that you'll wear a stuffy old suit every day. Like any young woman, you'd be tempted to wear shorter skirts, perhaps the odd low-cut blouse or T-shirt. And with a body like yours, the result could be a marked increase in frustration among the male members of staff. Productivity could suffer."
Sally stared at me in silence for about 10 seconds, before the sparkle came back into her eyes and a smile played over her shapely lips.
"Can I ask you a question, Mr Jackson? I don't know your business well, not yet anyway. How many male members of staff do you have exactly?"
