Chapter 3: The Manager's Evaluation
The door clicked shut and the store's silence receded into a deeper, velvet softness. The VIP fitting room was smaller than she remembered, or maybe it was the mirrors that made it feel like a closed circuit. They lined every wall, angled to catch each other, reflecting back an infinite corridor of Megans in torn stockings and dark lace. A plush bench sat against the far wall, draped in a cream throw that looked expensive. The air was thick with furniture polish and something floral, a perfume she couldn't place.
Mr. Garth stood by the bench, his back to her. He was unbuttoning his cuffs with slow, deliberate movements. The sound of his shirt fabric shifting was loud in the quiet.
"Lock it," he said.
She turned and slid the bolt. The metal click was final. She stayed facing the door for a second, her hand pressed flat against the cool wood, then turned to face him. He had finished with his cuffs and was rolling them up to his elbows, exposing forearms dusted with dark hair. He looked at her in the mirror, his gaze meeting hers in the glass.
"Come here."
The command was mild, almost offhand. She crossed the room. The heels she was wearing made her walk awkward, a little unsteady on the plush carpet. She stopped in front of him, close enough to smell his cologne again, woody and sharp, mixed with something warmer underneath.
He didn't move. He just looked at her, taking in the whole picture. The garter belt, the torn stocking, the hair that had escaped its careful arrangement. His gaze was unhurried, an assessment.
"You did well with the client," he said. "Good instincts. Good follow-through."
"Thank you."
"But that was a baseline. What I need to see now is whether you understand the full scope of your role here." He sat down on the bench, spreading his knees. The movement was casual, but it put him at her eye level. He looked at her. "Do you understand what this is?"
"Yes."
"Then show me you understand."
She knelt. The carpet was thicker here, softer against her knees than the thin industrial pile of the other fitting room. The fabric of his trousers was close to her face, expensive wool, a dark charcoal. She could see the faint outline of his cock straining against the zipper, and her mouth went dry.
Her hands were steady as she reached for his belt. The leather was soft, worn. She unbuckled it with a click, then the button of his trousers, then the zipper. The sound was sharp and intimate. She pulled the fabric down over his hips, and he lifted his ass to help her.
She pulled his boxer briefs down, and he was free. He was uncut, thick, already half hard. A thin line of precome gleamed at the slit. He smelled like soap and skin and underlying musk.
She hesitated for a second. The training voice was there, a steady hum behind her eyes, but this time it was quieter. The voice in her head was her own.
She closed her hand around him. He was warm, heavier than she expected. She stroked him once, twice, feeling him thicken and lengthen under her palm. His breath hitched, a small, gratifying sound.
She leaned forward and took him in her mouth.
The taste was salt and skin, familiar from the client but different too. More deliberate. She found a rhythm, slow and steady, her tongue tracing the vein along the underside. His hand came to her hair, gentle at first, a resting weight, then tightening into a guide.
"Slower," he said. "Earn it."
She obeyed. The rhythm got deeper, more measured. She made herself take him farther, feeling the head of his cock press against the back of her throat. She gagged slightly, a reflexive clench, and she felt him twitch in her mouth.
He made a low noise, approval more than pleasure. "Better. That's it."
She looked up at him. Her lipstick was smeared across her mouth, and she could feel the mascara clumping at the corners of her eyes. He was watching her with a focused intensity, his jaw set. She felt the heat flood through her, low and liquid. The training voice said this was expected. The real voice said something else.
She wanted this. She wanted his approval, his praise, his acknowledgment that she was good at this, that she was valuable. The want was a physical thing, a pulse in her chest, a warmth between her thighs.
She drew back, letting him slide nearly out of her mouth, then took him deep again. She made a small hum, and he groaned, his hand tightening in her hair.
"Fuck," he said. The word was quiet, almost surprised. "That's it."
Her hand drifted down, sliding over the garter belt, finding the damp lace beneath. She pressed her fingers there, rubbing in rough, needy circles while she kept working his cock. The rhythm broke as she bucked into her own hand, the dual sensations scattering her focus. She took him deeper, forcing past the gag reflex, and the burn in her throat matched the burn between her legs. He groaned above her, his grip in her hair tightening until it pulled at her scalp.
She couldn't catch her own wave. It kept receding just as it crested, a frustrating, teasing edge that left her hot and desperate. Her fingers slipped past the lace, inside herself, and she whimpered around his cock at the sudden stretch.
Mr. Garth pulled her off him with a wet sound. She gasped, the air rushing into her empty mouth, her chin slick. He was breathing hard now, his composure cracking at the edges.
"Hands here," he said, guiding the lace aside until her breasts spilled free. He gathered them together, the flesh pressing up and around his cock as he slid it between them. The warmth of him was shocking against her skin. He started to move, slow at first, then rougher, his hips snapping as he fucked the valley of her tits.
The sight of it, the thick head of him emerging from the top of her cleavage with every thrust, sent a fresh wave of heat through her. Her hand stayed between her legs, working herself in time with his rhythm, chasing that elusive edge. He was getting faster. His breath came in ragged bursts.
"I'm going to come," he said, his voice strained. "You're going to take it."
She nodded, her eyes fixed on his face, on the way his jaw clenched, the vein in his forehead. She was so close. The edge was right there, shimmering, just out of reach.
He pulled out, his fist closing around his cock, and the first hot stripe hit her chin. The second splashed across her chest. The third landed across her mouth, thick and warm, dripping down her neck as he pumped himself with a low, guttural groan.
The sight undone her. The heat on her skin, the weight of his approval in the air between them, the knowledge that she had caused this, that she had earned it. Her orgasm hit like a wave crashing through her, a hard, clenching thing that curled her toes and tore a raw cry from her throat. Her body arched off the carpet, her hips grinding into her own hand as waves of release pulsed through her.
It went on longer than she thought possible, ringing and bright, leaving her limp and trembling when it finally faded. She blinked up at the mirrored ceiling, her vision blurred. Cum was cooling on her chest, sticky on her chin. Her hand was soaked, her stockings ruined.
Mr. Garth tucked himself away with methodical care. His breathing was already settling back to normal. He looked down at her, and there was a satisfied glint in his eyes.
"Clean yourself up," he said. "There's a wash station by the counter. Tomorrow, you're on the floor at ten."
He walked out, leaving the door ajar behind him. The mirrored room held her reflection in an infinite chain, one Megan after another, rising to her knees and reaching for a towel.