The silky tick of a Regency mantle clock and the drifting calls from a nearby rookery are the only sounds to break the opulent silence of the panelled library.

You breathe in the atmosphere of a carefully created man cave.

There's the smell of freshly cut flowers, polished walnut and antique books. You can smell expensive leather armchairs and faint echoes of single malt Scotch whisky and Havana cigars.

The room has an intoxicating, almost seductive masculinity about it. You know this is not a normal job interview. Then again, it's not a normal job. You know that too. Anticipation clutches at your stomach.

The man who greets you has a matter-of-fact air of easy confidence. You guess nothing you might say or do would surprise him. You shake hands and he says his name is Robert - no surname, just Robert. His grip is firm and businesslike; you think, nice cool hands belong to a nice warm heart. You hope.

He asks if he can call you Amanda. You tell him, of course he can. The smile he gives you is boyish, almost shy - and utterly lethal. Your chest tightens and you wonder if anyone has ever told him ...

You wonder if he's married. You hope he is, for all the wrong reasons. Married men can be infectiously exciting with the right encouragement. You feel relaxed: you're almost enjoying yourself. You know you look pretty damn good and that makes you feel pretty damn good too.

Robert says he's a freelance HR consultant brought in to make the final selection. You'll never see him again. That's a pity, you think. He smiles that smile again and you want to touch his cheek. Company policy he says. You're curious but say nothing.

The look in his eyes remind you of the lazy gaze of a big, tawny cat. It's cool and respectful with a sparkle of admiration that might be something more. But you can't be sure. It lasts a moment too long so you look away and then wish you hadn't.

This is a man who expects you to give as good as you get. And you decide this is the man who's going to give you the job you really want.

You know in the split second after you look away, his eyes are on you. All over you, like the hands and kisses of a hungry lover who won't be denied. You sense his gaze flickering from your mouth to your face and to your hair. It lingers like fingers over your breasts before moving down to your hips, legs and ankles. Most men are annoying and clumsy like that, but not him.

Instinct tells you he likes what he sees. It's not wishful thinking - you just know he does. And so he bloody well should, you think indignantly. You didn't get to look this good by accident. You're only surprised by the sharp buzz of pleasure you feel at the realisation you've made a huge impression.

He points to the chair in front of his desk. You wait for him to sit before you do. That's partly out of politeness, but mainly because you want him to hear your bare, summer legs whispering together as you cross them.

Stockings are good for that, but bare skin is better.

You thought hard about shoes as you dressed earlier.

Anyhow, men never notice shoes unless you wear them in bed. Then they notice. You worried about your skirt as well. It was a perfect match with the jacket but maybe a touch too cheer leader and swirly. And definitely too short by an inch or two. But in the end you thought, WTF.

You unbutton your jacket without a fuss. It's dark, formal and the fit is perfection. You pull back your shoulders like a child under orders to sit up straight at the dinner table. And, of course, you want your breasts to strain hard against the heavy, white cotton blouse.

It's expensive and carefully chosen: just like the bra underneath which plunges prettily and fits you like an old glove. But more importantly, it's a deception designed to give you an extra cup size. You don't really need help in that department but it makes you feel good.

You know he's noticed because he lowers his eyes like a guilty schoolboy. And he shuffles papers that don't really need shuffling.

You smile to yourself and think about warm breath on your naked nipples. And how it makes you want to shiver inside. They've hardened like hazelnuts because you're excited by the idea of manipulating this guy into giving you the job you want.

Not surprisingly he gives you a very hard time for the entire forty minute interview. You feel almost violated. Despite that, it's a turn on: like being fifteen again and back at the Convent School. And getting yet another slipper spanking from Father Francisco. It never hurt you - quite the opposite - but it seemed to leave him thoroughly out of breath.

You wonder does he give a hard time - a hard ride, more like - to the women he beds. The women who aren't his wife: assuming he has one.

Sure he gives the girls a hard ride, you tell yourself lecherously. You picture them tipped onto their bare backs, all writhing and panting with uncontrollable lust. He'd bewitch them completely with his mouth and his fingers. He'd whisper disgraceful things that no girl could possibly resist.

You think, does he wonder if you could be bedded? Is he imagining what you'd be like between the sheets? Are you as good a fuck as you look?

Finally there's a silence and you know the interview is over. He smiles that smile again and you decide immediately he can violate you anytime he likes.

He tells you to help yourself to a soft drink from the trolley by the bay window overlooking the gardens. Then without a word he stands up and leaves the room...