Next woman waiting

You look down at her, the office air thick with the scent of sex and her coconut shampoo, and say, “I’ll send a driver to pick you up tonight. My assistant will text you what to wear. We’re going to The Britely. I’ll have the contract ready, and we’ll toast your big comeback. For now, I’ve got more girls to see, so get dressed and get out.”

You scoop her discarded clothes off the floor (panties still warm from her body, bra dangling from your fingers) and toss them at her chest. She catches them without flinching, the fabric slapping softly against her skin. To her credit, she doesn’t argue; she just steps into the panties, the lace rasping over her thighs, then snaps the bra into place, the elastic snapping against her back. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch her lifting those same panties to her face, the cotton darkened with your cum, and dragging it across her cheek to mop up the mess.

You don’t even turn fully. “I didn’t say you could wipe that off your face,” you say, voice flat, amused. “What the hell are you doing?”

She freezes, the panties hovering an inch from her chin, a glossy streak already smeared across her cheekbone. For the first time since she strutted in, real nerves flicker in her eyes. “I… I can’t walk out there like this,” she whispers. “People will know.”

You chuckle, low and lazy, the sound curling in the quiet room. “Sweetheart, they already know. You’re not the first to leave my office dripping, and you won’t be the last. Wipe your face if you want, but that load in your hair stays until you’re in your car. I want a picture texted to my phone the second you’re behind the wheel, proof it’s still there. You don’t send it? Contract’s ash.”

You flick a business card onto the desk (matte black, your personal cell embossed in silver) and watch her snatch it up, fingers trembling just enough to make you smirk. She stuffs the panties into her purse, folds the offer letter with reverent care, and tucks it beside them. Then she’s at the door, hand on the knob, shoulders squared like she’s walking onto a red carpet instead of out into the fluorescent glare of the lobby with your cum drying in her hair.

You follow a step behind, catching the door as she slips through. Nicole’s already waiting, mid-conversation with the next girl, but her eyes flick to Brittney’s hair and the faint white crust at her temple. Nicole’s lips twitch, barely, the tiniest smirk. Brittney’s cheeks burn crimson.

You clear your throat. “Nicole, next file. Looks like our last appointment’s early.”

Nicole straightens, all business. “Yes, sir. She just arrived. Didn’t want to interrupt.” She hands you a fresh folder, the paper still warm from the printer. “This is Isabella. Final interview for the morning. I’ll make sure Miss Ames gets to her car safely.”

You nod, already flipping the folder open. “Good. Miss Beltran, with me.”

Isabella rises long dark hair, sun-kissed skin, the faint scent of jasmine and citrus trailing her like a signature. She glides past Brittney and Nicole, heels clicking sharp on the tile. As you step aside to let her into your office, you catch Nicole’s hand sliding up Brittney’s thigh, fingers pressing into the damp spot blooming through her jeans. Brittney’s eyes dart to you, wide, pleading. You meet her gaze, slow and deliberate, and tilt your head: *Do whatever she wants.* Then you close the door behind you, the click loud in the sudden hush.