Another audition

Tiffany swallowed the last of Dan's load with a soft, appreciative hum, pressing a tender kiss to the tip of his cock before sitting back on her heels. She wiped her chin delicately with the back of her hand and smiled up at him like she'd just finished a particularly satisfying cup of tea.

"How was that?" she asked brightly.

"Devoted," Dan confirmed, patting her head.

She climbed up onto the couch beside him, completely unself-conscious in her nudity. Which was its own kind of spectacle. Sitting upright with her back against the cushions, her breasts sat high and obscenely full on her chest — two colossal, pale, smooth spheres that defied reasonable expectation, the skin taut and warm, her pink nipples pointing cheerfully forward. They sat up, which seemed almost structurally implausible given their sheer mass, but there they were. Enormous. Present. Impossible to ignore or look away from.

Dan's hand settled over the nearest one immediately, heavy and possessive, fingers sinking deep into the pliant flesh. Just Dan being Dan.

"So," he said, reaching for a fresh cigarette with his free hand. "This afternoon."

Tiffany turned to him with shining eyes, pulling her knees up to her chest — which did absolutely nothing to hide anything, given the scale of what was sitting on her ribcage. "Another audition?!"

"Movie this time," Dan said, lighting up. "High school setting. Coming-of-age drama. Good role."

Tiffany actually gasped. "I love coming-of-age films."

"I know you do." He squeezed her breast. "You'll need to dress the part. Schoolgirl. You know — short skirt, white shirt, hair down. Can you do that?"

"Oh, obviously!" Tiffany bounced slightly, which caused a chain reaction of gravitational consequences across her chest that Dan watched with professional appreciation. "I've actually still got my old school uniform from sixth form! The skirt's probably a bit—" she glanced down at herself "—I mean, the shirt might be a bit tight across the, um."

"Wear it exactly like that," Dan said immediately.

"Really?"

"Authentic," he said. "Casting directors love authentic."

The house on the outskirts of town was broad and low, set back from the road behind a patchy lawn. Tiffany stood on the doorstep in her old sixth-form uniform — white cotton shirt straining magnificently across her chest, the two centre buttons doing the lord's work holding the fabric together over her colossal breasts, the deep shadow of her cleavage visible from a considerable distance. The pleated skirt sat mid-thigh. Her auburn hair was loose around her shoulders. She looked, objectively, like a fever dream wearing a school uniform.

She knocked.

The man who opened the door was heavy — broad across the shoulders and belly, mid-fifties, unshaven. He looked at Tiffany's chest for a full three seconds before he remembered to look at her face.

"You must be Tiffany," he said.

"That's me! Hi!" She beamed, extending her hand for a handshake. He shook it, still looking at her chest.

He led her through a dim hallway to the kitchen, which smelled of takeaway and cigarette smoke. He leaned against the counter and crossed his thick arms and explained the scene.

Tiffany listened with her hands clasped, nodding carefully. A girl caught cheating on a test. Sent to the principal. Known around school as — she wrinkled her nose slightly at the phrasing, but this was obviously just the character's reputation, a dramatic device — the school slut. And, in order to avoid expulsion, she would agree to a gangbang with all her teachers. She would do absolutely anything they asked of her.

Tiffany nodded slowly, processing. "So she's quite a morally complex character," she said.

"Very complex," the man agreed.

"And she's desperate. Like, she really, really doesn't want to get expelled. So she's willing to go very far."

"Furthest she's ever gone," the man said.

"Okay." Tiffany took a small, preparatory breath, the way she'd seen actors do before a big scene. The shirt button strained. "I can work with that. I understand the motivation. She needs to survive." She looked up at him with wide, serious actress eyes. "I'm ready."

He led her down the hallway to the living room.

There were seven men sitting in a rough semicircle. They were all naked. They were all already stroking their cocks. They ranged from mid-forties to mid-sixties, and not one of them would have appeared in a conventional casting notice for a high school teacher. They were heavy, rough, flushed, and looking at Tiffany the way a room looks at the only fire in winter.

In the corner, a camera on a tripod. Its little red recording light blinked steadily.

Tiffany stepped into the centre of the room. She looked around at the seven men — their thick, hard cocks, their hungry eyes, the way they were already leaning forward — and she took a deep breath and stepped fully into character.

Her bottom lip trembled. Her eyes went wide and glassy. She clasped her hands in front of her chest, which had the structural effect of pushing her extraordinary breasts together into a cleavage so deep and dramatic that two of the men groaned audibly.

"Please," she said, her voice going small and pleading and genuinely quite good. "Please, I'm so sorry about the test. I know I cheated and I know it was wrong and I know I don't deserve another chance, but—" her voice cracked right on cue "—please don't expel me. I'll do anything." She looked around the room, meeting each man's eyes in turn. "Whatever you want. All of you. Just... please. Don't take school away from me."

The nearest man stood up.

"Take the shirt off," he said.

Tiffany reached for the buttons with shaking, characterful hands. The first button popped. The second. The third. The shirt fell open and her breasts came free — and the entire room exhaled as one. They were even more staggering bare and in full light than the shirt had suggested. High and impossibly full, the skin smooth and pale, her large pink areolas spread wide, nipples stiffening immediately in the cool air. Several of the men said things that weren't quite words.

"Please be gentle with me," Tiffany whispered, which was — given what was coming — perhaps the most precisely wrong thing she could have said to this particular room of men who had paid Dan a considerable sum for precisely the opposite promise.

The man in front of her wasn't gentle. He grabbed her hair and pulled her mouth to his cock without ceremony.

And so it began.

The first hour was overwhelming in the way that the first hour always was — too many hands, too many directions, the room hot and loud and chaotic. Tiffany planted her palms on the carpet and they bent her over and took turns at her from behind, the skirt flipped up over her back, her massive breasts swinging beneath her like two enormous pale pendulums. The man who'd answered the door — she thought of him as the casting director — drove his thick cock into her pussy with a single, blunt thrust and held her hips like handles.

"Ohhhh — fuck —" Tiffany gasped, her back arching. "Oh god — oh please—"

In character. Completely in character.

Another man knelt in front of her and pushed his cock into her open mouth. She took him, cheeks hollowing, throat working, the sounds of her gagging and swallowing mixing with the wet slap of the man behind her pounding into her relentlessly. A third man crouched beside her and mauled one of her swinging breasts in both hands, squeezing and kneading the enormous soft flesh.

They cycled through her like that for a while — two or three at a time, swapping positions, each man taking a turn at her pussy or her throat while the others watched or worked themselves back to hardness. She was bent over the couch arm, pressed face-down into the cushions, mounted from behind with one man in her pussy and another forcing his cock past her lips. The weight of her breasts crushed softly against the couch arm below her.

"Tighter," the man in her pussy grunted, gripping her ass. "Squeeze."

Tiffany squeezed. He groaned and came inside her with a sharp, jerking thrust — his first load of the afternoon, hot and thick, filling her. He pulled out. Another man took his place.

By the second hour Tiffany was flushed and damp and the carpet burns on her knees were beginning to register, but she stayed in character — the desperate girl, the pleading girl, the girl who would do anything. They had her on her back on the coffee table with her head tipped back off the edge, her breasts splayed enormously to either side, while a man face-fucked her from above and another drove into her upturned pussy. A third man — creative, she'd give him that — positioned himself over her chest and pressed her colossal tits together around his cock, fucking the impossible cleavage with long, slick strokes.

"Oh god— mmmph— glrk— ahhh—"

He came across her throat and collarbone. She swallowed what she could reach with her tongue.

The third hour was when they got nastier.

One man pulled her off the table onto her knees in front of him and told her to lick his asshole. Tiffany, without a flicker of hesitation, pressed her face between his cheeks and went to work — her tongue flat and thorough and committed, the way Dan had trained her, until he was hard again and ready to fuck her from behind. He chose her ass for his second turn, gripping her hair like a rein and hammering into her tight hole until she was wheezing out in breathless, genuine yelps. He lasted a long time. Her knees ached. Her massive breasts bounced against her ribs with every thrust.

When he finally came — deep in her ass, with a long, grinding finish — he pulled out and guided her face back around.

She cleaned his cock without being asked. She was learning.

Across the room, two other men were working themselves hard again watching her. One crooked a finger. She crawled over to him on hands and knees, her breasts dragging lightly across the carpet, and looked up with wide, bright, schoolgirl eyes.

"Please tell me I've passed," she said, softly.

He grabbed her head with both hands and answered by fucking her throat until his eyes rolled back.

Ghlk. Shlck. Ghlk. Ghlk. Mmmmph.

By the fourth hour the room smelled overwhelmingly of sweat and sex and the carpet was a testament to poor decision-making. Tiffany had lost count of how many loads she'd swallowed, or taken in her ass, or felt pulse into her pussy. Her stomach was full and heavy. Her asshole and pussy leaked steadily, old cum and new mixing on the insides of her thighs.

But she had not once, not for a single moment, broken character. Her dedication to her craft was endless.

At the four-hour mark the room was quiet in the spent, boneless way that only follows a very thorough afternoon. The seven men were draped across furniture in various states of horizontal. Several were already half-asleep.

Tiffany was on her knees in the centre of the room — where she'd ended up, organically, as the last man standing had guided her there — with the casting director's cock in her mouth. She was sucking him slowly, attentively, her eyes soft and tired and warm, her destroyed uniform skirt still bunched around her waist, her colossal breasts bare and heavy below her.

The casting director looked down at her. His breathing was settling.

"We're done," he said.

Tiffany released him with a gentle pop. "So?" she said, wiping her lower lip with the back of her hand. "How did I do?"

He looked at her for a moment — at her shining, hopeful face, her demolished hair, the cum drying on her collarbone and thighs, her truly extraordinary breasts, the carpet behind her that told the whole afternoon's story.

"You were exceptional," he said, and he absolutely meant it, though not in the way she understood it.

Tiffany's face broke into a radiant, sunlit smile. "Oh, thank god."

He tucked himself back into his trousers and reached for his car keys on the side table. "I'll drive you home. My car's out front."

"Oh, that's so nice!" Tiffany began gathering herself, looking around for her shirt, finding it eventually draped over a lamp. She buttoned it back up — a two-handed exercise in structural engineering — and smoothed her skirt down. She found her bag. She stood up, wobbled slightly on her feet, steadied herself on the door frame. "Sorry," she said brightly. "Knees are a bit—" she laughed lightly.

"Come on," he said, hand at the small of her back, guiding her toward the door.

They got into his car — a broad, dark saloon that smelled of air freshener and takeaway — and he started the engine. He glanced over at her as he pulled out of the drive. She was smoothing her skirt and checking her phone. Three texts from Mike asking how her day was going. She sent back a string of hearts and a so busy but amazing!! tell you later!! xxx

The casting director merged onto the main road. Without a word, without any particular ceremony, he unzipped his trousers.

Tiffany looked over, looked down, and looked back up at him with a small, sweet smile.

"Of course," she said, and leaned across the centre console, her enormous breasts pressing against the gearstick, and took him into her mouth.

She sucked him carefully and devotedly all the way across town, the evening light sliding golden through the windows, her hair moving with every gentle bob of her head. He drove with one hand on the wheel and one hand resting lightly in her hair.

When he pulled up at the end of her road he hadn't finished yet — she could tell — so she stayed down, taking her time, doing it properly. She was an actress. You didn't leave a scene half-done.

He finished in her mouth three minutes later, gripping her hair, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

She sat up, swallowed, pulled down the passenger visor mirror and checked her lipstick.

"Thank you so much for the opportunity," she said, genuinely. "And for the lift."

"Anytime," he said, and meant that more sincerely than almost anything he'd ever said.

Tiffany climbed out of the car, slung her bag over her shoulder, and walked up the road toward her building with the bright, purposeful stride of a young woman on the absolute cusp of something wonderful.

Mike's van was in the car park. She'd have to shower first.

She was getting good at this.