Flashback to the first conquest

The office is smaller back then, a cramped cubicle tucked behind the casting suites at a mid-tier studio in Burbank. Nicole is twenty-five, fresh out her own failed career and a chip on her shoulder the size of the Hollywood sign. She’s been Ricky’s assistant for three weeks, still learning the rhythm of his appetites.

The girl is named Marisol, nineteen, a former pageant kid from Fresno with big brown eyes and a resume that lists “background extra” on three different sitcoms. She’s wearing a sundress the color of ripe peaches, the hem fluttering against her thighs as she shifts nervously in the waiting area. Nicole watches her from behind the reception desk, noting the way Marisol keeps smoothing the fabric, the way her knuckles go white around her portfolio.

Ricky’s voice crackles over the intercom: “Send her in. And hold everything.”

Nicole stands, heels clicking on the linoleum. She leans over Marisol, close enough to smell the girl’s strawberry lip gloss. “He’s ready. But first…” She lets the pause stretch, watches Marisol’s pulse jump in her throat. “You want this bad, right?”

Marisol nods, too fast. “Yes. More than anything.”

Nicole’s smile is slow, predatory. “Then you’ll do exactly what I say.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She just crooks a finger and leads Marisol down the hall, past the closed office door where Ricky waits, to the supply closet at the end. The air inside is thick with the scent of toner and old paper. Nicole flicks on the single bulb, the light harsh and yellow.

“On your knees,” she says.

Marisol hesitates, the dress pooling around her calves as she sinks to the carpet. Nicole steps forward, hikes her pencil skirt up just enough, and threads her fingers through Marisol’s hair. “You’re going to learn who really runs the gate here.”

The girl’s first taste is tentative, a shy flick of tongue that makes Nicole’s breath catch. She tightens her grip, guiding, demanding. Marisol learns fast (too fast), her mouth eager, **** to please. Nicole’s hips rock forward, the shelf behind her rattling with bottles of Wite-Out and spare staplers.

When she comes, it’s with a sharp, stifled gasp, her thighs clamping around Marisol’s head. She holds the girl there until the aftershocks fade, then steps back, smoothing her skirt like nothing happened.

“Good,” she says, voice steady. “Now go in there and don’t fuck it up.”

Marisol wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes glassy, and stumbles out. Nicole watches her go, already tasting the power on her tongue.

That was the first. There would be dozens if not hundreds more.