The Job Interview

34253452urlBy Christopher Wyatt

After moving into The Manor, I immediately began looking for a job. Having a degree that basically set me up for either being a librarian or a future high-school teacher did nothing to pay the everyday bills. And no one was looking to hire someone just to write gay erotica — no one I could find, anyway. Not having any practical work experience in anything other than being a barista at an off-campus coffee shop didn’t help much either. Every job I applied for either rejected me before I even got an interview or the position was filled by the time I sent in my application.

One afternoon I was in the living room, staring at the ceiling and contemplating how far my savings could stretch, when my roommate Stefan came in after seeing out one of his clients. His real name was Stanley, but he called himself Stefan when he entertained his johns — all of whom were carefully screened corporate types through some sort of agency he worked for. While I figured it was just a fancier way of being a hooker, the few clients of his I had met were well-groomed, polite older men I would have given it up for for free. He was about the same height as me, his skin a deep, unblemished milk-chocolate color, and his hair was cut close to his head. His frame was the same as mine, only his swimmer’s build was more taut. But when it came to what was in his briefs, he lived up to the stereotypes of a black man. His massive cock was at least eleven inches long and thick as a paper towel tube, and his butt was so perfectly round it was almost hypnotizing to watch him walk.

He plopped down in a large recliner across from me and looked me up and down. “Okay … what’s wrong?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Still haven’t found a job.”



“What kind of jobs are you applying for?”

I chuckled. “Everything. Publications, coffee shops, office assistants — I even applied for construction work today.”

“Sweetie, construction guys are hot and I admire what they do, but you are too young and too pretty — and too pale — to be out in the sun all day gettin’ skin cancer.”

How does one respond to that? “So what do you suggest?”

“Weren’t you a waiter in college?”

“I managed a coffee shop.”

“Yeah, same thing.”

“Not really.”

He ignored me, grabbing his cell and dialing a number. “Hey, Martin, it’s Stef — it’s Stanley. I’m good, hon. Your husband still own that restaurant? … Cool. My roommate is looking for a job. Are there any openings? … Girl, your opening ALWAYS needs filling. … Awesome, who does he talk to? … Thanks, hon!” He hung up the phone and texted me a number.

“Call that number and ask for Frank. Tell him Martin said to give you a priority interview.”

“For …?” I asked.

“Being a waiter.”

“Okay. I’ll do anything at this point.”

“No, boo. You don’t get it. This is one of the top restaurants. It’s about 30 minutes from here, but completely worth it. You can make serious bank off your tips if you’re good.”

“Why wouldn’t I be good? You take orders, you bring them food, you shake your ass for better tips.”

He guffawed, rolling his eyes at me. “No. Come with me.”

Over the next few hours Stefan taught me that being a “professional service person” wasn’t just going through the motions, it was about reading your customers and knowing what their needs were going to be before they even asked. “It’s like sex. You need to find a connection and treat every individual like they are the only person in the room.” Eye contact, confidence, humility and control. “If they have to constantly get your attention, they can’t relax and enjoy themselves. It’s up to you to make them feel carefree.”

At 2:00 p.m. the next day, dressed in a perfectlyironed white button-up shirt, black slacks and tie, I sat in a small office in the back of the restaurant waiting for the operations manager. From what I had seen of the restaurant, Stefan had been right — it was not only upscale, but large and intimidating. The host had been polite to me until he found out I was there to interview as a waiter. I was tersely pointed toward a back hallway and told to wait in the operations office. After half an hour, I was still waiting and my stomach was knotting with nerves. One of the waitresses entered the office hurriedly and saw me.

“Hey there, you interviewing?” she asked, looking through some paperwork on the desk.

“Yes,” I replied, smiling.

“Great! The lunch shift is winding down, so Lee should be here soon.”

“Thanks,” I said, then added, shifting uncomfortably added, “Is there a restroom I could use?”

“Sure. The staff ones are down the hall to your left, all the way in the back.” With that she exited the small office.

I waited a few more moments, not wanting to leave and miss the manager, but as the pressure from my bladder worsened, I finally made the trip down the hall and into the men’s staff bathroom. The room was rather large, three stalls and five urinals, and though it smelled fresh and looked well kept, one of the ceiling lights was out, making the back half of the room dimly lit.

On top of having to pee, my head was buzzing, so I entered the stall farthest in the back. I dropped my pants, sat on the toilet and pointed my pecker toward the water, releasing the built-up pee. As I urinated, I closed my eyes and took deep breaths, willing myself to relax. My eyes flew open as I felt something touch my leg. I looked down to see a large hand coming from under the stall to the left of me, rubbing against the bare calf of my leg. I didn’t move — I didn’t know what to do — but before I could make up my mind, the hand disappeared.

As I sat there, staring at the space under the stall, I thought I must have imagined it. But then two pale bare knees appeared just under the divider and a raging hard six-inch penis was pushed under the divider and pointed directly toward the ceiling. I stared at it as it just waited there, a drop of precum forming from the piss slit. The cock, which was cut, was a slightly deeper color than the person’s knees, its shaft average and head large and swollen. Under the shaft hung two very hairy red balls.

After at least 30 seconds of staring at it, the hand appeared once more and pointed up at me, then pointed to the leaking cock. I had an interview — I didn’t have time to suck a stranger’s cock in a bathroom stall! But as the person pointed again at his cock and twisted his palm upwards in a “what are you waiting for” fashion, I decided I’d already waited half an hour, what was a few more minutes?

I reached down and took hold of the dick at the base, moving my fingers up the shaft to push the precum out and watch it drip onto the floor. I could feel the man attached to the cock shake slightly, and the hand disappeared. As I began slowly stroking, the cock began moving back and forth to meet the rhythm of my movements. The hand appeared again, took me by the wrist and moved my hand down to his balls. I took them in my hand, wrapping my thumb and forefinger around the top of the sack and squeezed gently until both nuts were tight against the smooth bottom of the ballsack. I gave them a slight pull and the man jerked, his cock twitching and his voice moaning low in the next stall. I kept up the steady pressure for a bit longer — tugging, then releasing — then moved my hand back to his cock.

It was only a few strokes before I heard a low whisper tell me to “suck it.”

I looked at the floor, and it seemed clean, so I slid off the toilet seat and onto my knees. It took me a few minutes to figure out how to angle myself in the small stall so my legs weren’t obviously sticking through, but crouching on all fours, I finally managed to have my face inches from his once again leaking cockhead.

The smell coming from his crotch was a mixture of male muskiness and spices. It was intoxicating, and as I licked the precum bubble from his dickslit, I suddenly felt fuzzy-headed and sex drunk. It was a surreal feeling to be in the staff bathroom of a fancy restaurant, about to give head to a stranger. But as I took the length of his shaft into my mouth, that’s exactly what I was doing.

“Oh, damn!” the low voice from the other side hissed.

I suctioned my mouth around the base of his cock and slowly moved upward, pressing my tongue into his shaft and swirling it in a circular motion. When I reached the head of his dick I felt a pool of precum hit my tongue and I swallowed it. Making sure my suction was tight I sliped my mouth back down the shaft until the head of his hard meat was in my throat. On the other side of the partition, the man panted and whimpered, his knees trembling slightly. I continued this slow, tight-suction movement for several minutes, each time feeling his reactions telling me he was enjoying it.

Once he stopped reacting so intently, I began sucking him faster, and again was met with renewed sounds of moans and quiet sighs. I saw his balls begin to tighten and my hand once again gripped them tightly, pulling them downward. He let out a sharp noise that echoed off the stall walls and slammed his cock into my mouth several times in rapid succession. I went back to steadily blowing him, keeping his balls pulled tight, but I could feel his cock thickening and knew he was about to blast.

His hands suddenly appeared under the stall. One pulled my hand from his nuts and then both hands grabbed the back of my head while I still had his dick lodged in my throat. He began mouth fucking me like a wild man. His panting from the other side getting louder, I was prepared for him to blast his load in my mouth.As his cock thickened ever more and his nuts pulled tight to his body, I could feel him start to come. But not into my mouth. He drove his cock into my throat and I felt him start to unload his jizz. I couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move — I just rode out the sensation of having a man shoot his load into me farther than any man had before, and tried to stay in the moment.

When he pulled out, I couldn’t help but start coughing. His cock disappeared behind the partition and I rose from the floor, taking my seat back on the toilet. I looked down to see my cock swollen and pulsating. It was covered in precum. I took a sizeable wad of toilet paper from the dispenser and as I started to dry my cock, I tensed up, not having realized how close I was to my own orgasm. I gasped as I helplessly watched wad after wad of cum flying from my cock a good three feet or more in front of me. I sat there, trying to catch my breath and watching my sperm slide down the inside of the bathroom stall door.

When I could function coherently again, I cleaned myself up, straightened out my clothes and wiped the cum off the stall door and flushed it. I opened the door and walked out to the sink to wash my hands. A man was standing there rubbing a dry washcloth over his face.

“Baby,” he spoke in a low, deep tone, “I don’t know what got into you today, but you have never sucked that good before.”

I felt myself flush as I began lathering the soap I had just pumped into my hands. This was gonna be awkward.

He lowered the washcloth and turned to me, his grin fading to a look of shocked surprise. Yup, definitely awkward. He was an attractive, dark-haired man of about 40, with a thick dark moustache. I smiled politely at him as I began to dry my hands and wipe my mouth. As I threw the washcloth into the bin and turned to see him still staring at me, dumbstruck, I could only think of one thing to say. “It’s actually, ‘you have never sucked that well before. And thank you.”

I went back to the small office as quickly as I could, hoping to avoid the man once he got over his shock. As I entered, I found the manger I had been waiting for sitting behind his desk. He gave me an annoyed look.

“Sorry, I had to use the restroom,” I explained.

He glanced at my resume, asked me several questions about how to properly wait tables — which I answered correctly, thanks to Stefan’s training — and then said I was to report for training the next day. I stood and thanked him, and as we shook hands the door opened. The dark-haired man from the bathroom entered and then froze as he saw me.

“Roger, this is Chris. He’ll be starting tomorrow. Chris, this is the owner.”

Just then the door swung open wider. An effeminate man with red hair entered and without hesitation gave Roger a kiss on the cheek. “Sorry I’m late, honey, I was having lunch with Stanley.” He then looked at me and smiled, extending his hand. “Are you Chris? I’m Martin. I’ve heard so much about about you. Did you get the job?”

“Yes, thank you.” I shook his hand.

“I hope the boys took good care of you,” Martin said kindly.

I looked at his husband, my new boss, and as if the universe was getting in one last laugh at the situation, I quietly burped and tasted the backwash of Roger’s cum in my throat.