She felt great, confident and healthy, sexually stimulated by the eyes on her body, her jutting breasts, her beautiful butt, and her long legs. She knew she looked good, stretched and let her hips roll, and she was very glad she had worn her high boots. Her four-inch heels drew looks that her ripe body and busy mind enjoyed. Even the men with babies or toddlers looked at her, and she could feel, actually feel, their longing, they wanted to fuck her, all of them. She knew what they wanted to do and it made her wet between the legs. She could actually feel her outer labia quivering and briefly closed her eyes to enjoy that thrill as her clitoris trembled, the wonderful little stalk.

In the check-out line her deep cleavage drew admiring stares and the clerk smiled and licked his lips as he gave her change. Her full breasts rubbed each other gently under the pressure of her push-up bra. It was as if the purple thong tightened and its knobby fabric pleasured her sensitive vulva as she strode from the store, her short skirt whipping about her muscular thighs, her soft belly tensed, clitoris erect. Her full breasts, barely restrained, bobbled and jiggled against each other, the nipples hardening as they stretched the loosely woven wool of her short sweater that often left a few inches of bare flesh showing at her waist and dipped well down over her chest.

The scoop-necked sweater had been a great choice and she liked the wide belt too. It was, she knew, a great look, and she lifted the chin and held back her shoulders, thrusting her 36D's out proudly. Classic, exciting, she was doing her thing, her favorite thing - teasing men, displaying what they could not have, could never have. She shook back her now-auburn hair and grinned, ready for the interview as she sipped her coffee and then backed out of the parking space. Tonight, she decided, I'll take out my Super Rabbit and give him some exercise. She wondered if fresh batteries would be needed. She had been using it a lot lately after kicking Roger out of her life, the simp, the queer.

When she gave her name to the receptionist, the woman looked at her in an appraising manner, lifted an eyebrow and nodded toward the line of chairs. Three other young women were already waiting, she assumed for interviews. None of them looked as good as she did, she decided as she sat and crossed her long legs, enjoying the pressure on her pulsing vulva. She began a series of deep Kegel exercises. Maybe I'll give old Roger another try; he's well-hung but basically incompetent, perhaps teachable; she had trained several boys while she was still in junior high, taught them cunnilingus and how to delay ejaculation with their balls in her hand, whimpering as she clamped their urethras closed.

She just loved to hear men moan and cry. In most cases, she could ride a man until he begged her for mercy, and she was multi-orgasmic and had been for years. She picked up a magazine and thought about the last man she had mounted and ridden, teaching him gaits and patience. It had taken several hours. She loved the look they had when she tightened her Kegel-trained vaginal muscles on their striving boy muscles, almost astonishment as she crushed their proud cocks and then twisted. It often brought screams.

While she waited, she did a hundred contractions in groups of ten, holding each one at least ten seconds, willing herself not to groan as she stimulated several pleasure centers. Her Kegels were almost always stimulating, and she could sometimes bring herself off without touching her pudenda. She felt her nipples hardening.

Twenty minutes later, it was her turn and she entered the man's office proudly, knowing the job was hers as soon as she saw his face. She knew that look, the look she called avarice or hunger; right on the border of lust and rapine. She knew he wanted to mount her, screw her, right then and there. She sat, pulled down the hem of her stylishly short skirt, smiled, sat up very straight and answered questions, thrusting out her impressive chest and crossing her booted legs, chatting happily about her good education and her skimpy work experience.

"Now, Miss Taylor," the man was saying as he shuffled papers and tried not to look at her dark green eyes, "you understand this job will probably involve some travel."

She nodded. "No problem. I'm not married or anything." She had tried living with a couple of men, boys really, little more than boys, wealthy ones, college boys,, but they couldn't take it, couldn't keep her satisfied in bed or pay her bills.

She never bought anything cheap and seldom looked at a price tag. The angora sweater she had on cost more than $200 but she hadn't paid for it. She had been the part-time mistress of a very wealthy man for several months, but decided his odd tastes in sex were more than she wanted to put up with in order to pay for high-class charge-cards, particularly after he showed her his whips and chains.

Now, at age nineteen, she was back home and on her dear old daddy's tab. And since dear old dad had a thick cock she was usually satisfied, even if he could only manage a single coupling every other night. It was enough, along with her collection of toys and her list of ardent suitors. She got her mind back on the interviewer.

"This may seem, well impolite let's say, but are you sexually active?"

She smiled and licked her lips. "I suppose so; yes, you could say that."

He smiled and checked a box on the form before him. "You're let's see, how many partners have you had this year?" He raised an eyebrow.

"I don't count them. Several, let's say several." She licked her lips and pursed them, knowing how good that looked and counting lovers in her head, perhaps a score she decided.

He laughed and nodded. "Very well. Mr. Price will finish this interview." He pushed a button and the door behind her opened. Susan stood, feeling her jugs bobbling and her pussy trembling, and faced a smiling man who looked like a professional football player, in fact just what he had been until he blew out his left knee. He offered the young woman his hand and led her into the next room and closed the door. Her quim trembled; her pussy pulsed; her heart beat faster when she saw the examination table. He was, by far, the biggest man she had ever touched, six foot-five and almost 300 pounds of hard flesh.

"Disrobe," he said, pulling his polo shirt over his head and revealing his hairy and muscular chest and belly. He was, she thought, twice as wide as her last lover. She trembled to think of what lay in his groin.

Susan sat and he helped her pull off her boots while she removed her light sweater and raked back her hair. She stood, gracefully doffed her half-bra and felt her firm jugs dangle as she took off her Versace skirt and silken thong together, and the man put his hands on her and turned her about, smiling as he pawed her.

Susan blinked at him, wondering when he had gotten as naked as she was. She looked down and inhaled sharply when she saw his fat and extended penis hanging atop the softball-sized scrotum between his bulging thighs. It looked to be a foot long and it wasn't even hard.