She does

You catch the flicker of resignation in her eyes the moment she gets it, and it tells you everything: she’s done this dance before, knows the steps by heart, and still hates the music. That mix of surrender and sharp-eyed clarity is your favorite; these are the ones you can push, stretch, break open, because they’ve already cataloged every dirty trick in the book and will do it all again for even the slimmest whisper of a callback from a studio this size.

You lean in once more, breath warm against her ear. “Come on, sweetheart, I don’t have all day. If you’ve got something to show me, now’s the moment. I’m sure those ‘previous jobs’ gave you plenty of ideas about what the company really wants.”

You press forward, letting the full weight of your cock nudge harder against the curve of her ass. Her eyes flare wide for a heartbeat most girls you’ve had say the same thing: there aren’t many casting directors under forty walking around with something this thick. You’ve never had complaints about the ride itself, which keeps things smooth; they leave satisfied even if the part never materializes, unlike the wheezing old-timers with beer guts and cocktail-shrimp dicks.

You grind a slow circle, and she turns, meeting your stare. “Well, Ricky, you’re right,” she says, voice steady. “I do know what’ll set me apart from every other girl you’ll see today. My willingness to learn, plus a few natural gifts none of them can match. Hope you don’t mind if I demonstrate right now.”

She sinks to her knees without waiting for permission, fingers already working your zipper. The second the fabric parts, your ten inches spring free and smack her cheek hard enough to leave a faint pink mark. Even though she felt you back there, the sight steals her breath for a second; she just stares, lips parted.

You arch a brow. “Well? You gonna do something with it, or is fishing it out the grand finale of your audition?”

She steels herself, wraps one hand around the base, and slides her mouth over the head. You tip your head back, eyes half-lidded, letting the first lazy throb of pleasure roll through you. She’s got decent rhythm for an amateur bobs steady, takes you halfway, tongue working the underside. In this town you’ve had pros who could tie a cherry stem with their throats, so this isn’t rewriting any record books, but you keep that to yourself. Telling her that tends to make them clam up, and you still need her cooperative.

Instead, you let out a long, theatrical yawn.

Her pace falters for a split second, then doubles. She hollows her cheeks, pushes deeper, gags just enough to let you know she’s trying. When that still doesn’t wipe the bored look off your face, she…