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There's a small part of you that wants to toy with this girl, drag it out, make her squirm, but the way she’s carrying herself, cocky yet clued-in, sharp as a blade, you sense she could actually be the next big thing in Hollywood. She’s got that rare mix: arrogance balanced with street-level savvy about how this machine really runs, plus a tight little body and enough on-camera experience to back it up.

You let your gaze crawl over her slowly, taking in the soft sheen of her skin under the office lights, the faint scent of vanilla and coconut drifting from her hair as she shifts. You lean back in your chair and say, “There’s one thing you forgot, and you’d better burn this into your brain if you want to survive out here: always get it in writing. A signed letter stating you’ve got the job. Without that, someone like me can bend you over this desk, use you raw, and walk away clean. No proof. No leverage. You go crying to HR or some producer? They’ll laugh in your face. You’ll be left with nothing but sore knees and a ruined reputation.”

She smirks, the corner of her glossy lips curling, and you catch the faint click of her tongue piercing against her teeth. “Wow,” she says, voice low and smoky, “an actual knight in shining armor in this cesspool? I’m shocked. So by giving me that little pearl of wisdom… does that mean we have a deal?”

You grin, slow and wolfish, and roll your chair back from the desk. While you two were talking, you’d already slid your zipper down, the metallic rasp barely audible over the hum of the AC. Your cock springs free, thick, flushed, and already throbbing, the scent of warm skin and faint musk rising between you. Her eyes drop to it and widen, just for a second, before she catches herself. “Jesus,” she breathes, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one that big. Usually it’s just these sweaty, fat old pricks with cocktail sausages and breath like stale coffee.”

You chuckle, deep in your chest, and spread your thighs wider. “Nope. One of a kind, babe. I’ve got an hour before my next meeting, and I’ve only nutted once today, so there’s plenty in the tank. You want this role? Clock’s ticking. Get to work.”

She flashes you a wicked little smile and says, “I think you’re forgetting something.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Unlike you, sweetheart, I’m a veteran. I’m never unprepared.” You reach into the file, pull out a crisp letterhead, Disney logo embossed at the top, and slide it across the desk. The offer’s printed in clean black ink: a salary, signing bonus, per-episode rate. It’s lowball, way below what her agent would’ve fought for, but still six figures for a newbie. You’re skimming the difference, pocketing a clean thirty grand while still saving the studio a bundle. They gave you a ceiling; you’re staying under it and looking like a hero.

She snatches the paper like it’s gold, folds it with manicured fingers, and tucks it into the back pocket of her jeans, the denim stretching tight over her ass as she bends. The faint rustle of paper, the soft creak of the leather couch as she shifts, you drink it all in. Then she drops to her knees in front of you, the carpet muffling the impact, and wraps her warm, wet mouth around your cock without hesitation. The heat of her tongue, the slick slide, the faint vibration of a moan in her throat, she starts bobbing, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, her blonde hair spilling over your thighs like silk.