Chapter 4: The Interview Interrupted
The interview was a special kind of hell. Miku sat on the plush studio couch, a fixed smile carved onto her face, while the host, a woman with aggressively white teeth, gushed about “the new, dynamic energy” Teto brought to the group. The lights were hotter than stage lights, penetrating, picking apart every pore. They were filming a segment for Galaxy Pop TV’s weekly idol spotlight, and the set was a fever dream of neon pink and electric blue.
“And Sonico-chan!” the host exclaimed, leaning forward. “The talk of the industry! Your… development… has been so rapid. What’s your secret?”
Sonico, seated between Miku and Teto, merely blushed, the color deepening the soft peach of her skin. She was squeezed into a rhinestone-studded bustier that was clearly a size too small; the glittering fabric disappeared into the profound divide of her cleavage, and the pale, heavy swell of her breasts threatened to eclipse the garment entirely with every modest shift. “I… I just eat what Producer-san recommends,” she murmured, her voice like honey. “And I’m very grateful.”
The camera, a monstrous black cyclops, loved her. It lingered on the way her flesh spilled, on the innocent confusion in her large eyes. Miku could feel her own body, trussed up in the precise sea-green corset, becoming invisible by comparison. She was a sharp, tailored line next to a breathtaking landscape.
Teto, in her cerise bodysuit, was playing her part to perfection. She giggled, nudging Sonico playfully, her own plump breast pressing against Sonico’s monumental arm. “Oh, come on, senpai! It’s gotta be more than that! It’s a gift! Look at this!” She made a worshipful, encompassing gesture towards Sonico’s torso that was both funny and obscene. The studio audience, a sea of dim faces beyond the lights, laughed on cue.
The Producer stood just off-set, a tall, dark silhouette against the technical gloom. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, his expression one of focused appraisal. Miku watched his eyes. They never left Sonico. They tracked the subtle jiggle of her bustier-bound breasts as she laughed, the way her wide hips filled the couch cushion. His gaze was proprietary, hungry. It was the look of a man admiring his own masterpiece.
Miku’s own laughter felt like glass shards in her throat.
During a commercial break, the atmosphere snapped from performative warmth to cold efficiency. The host disappeared to touch up her foundation. Sonico was whisked away by a frantic assistant to fix a stray strap that had digged so deeply into her shoulder it left a red welt.
“Five minutes!” a floor manager barked.
The Producer moved then, stepping onto the set. He placed a large, steadying hand on Sonico’s lower back as she stood, leaning down to whisper something in her ear. She nodded, her smile soft and private. He gave her a gentle pat—a touch that lingered just a moment too long to be professional—and she was led away.
He turned, his eyes scanning the remaining two. “Teto. Miku. Green room. Now.” His tone held no particular heat, just command.
This was it. The signal. The plan Teto had sketched with sly whispers during makeup.
The green room was a windowless box meant to feel like a sanctuary. Velvet couches in deep purple, walls lined with signed glossies of forgotten idols, their smiles brittle under the relentless, humming glow of neon tube lighting. The air was stale, recycled, and overly scented with plug-in perfumes meant to evoke “bubblegum bliss.” It smelled like a candy store rotting from the inside.
Miku’s heart was a frantic bird trying to escape her ribs. She followed Teto into the room, the door clicking shut behind them, sealing them in the garish twilight.
“Okay,” Teto breathed, her playful mask dropping into one of concentrated intent. She immediately went to the largest couch, pushing a coffee table aside with her foot. “You take the left. Kneel. Get the corset open. Not off, just… available.”
Miku stared, frozen for a second. The reality was a cold wave. “He just told us to come here. He didn’t say—”
“He didn’t have to,” Teto snapped, already pulling the straps of her bodysuit down her arms. The material, stretched to its limit, peeled away from her torso with a soft, surrendering sound. She shimmied it down to her waist, exposing her breasts. They were full and high, with plump, pink nipples that stood taut in the artificially cool air. “This is the audition. We’re the ones scheduling it. Now move.”
The mechanics of it forced Miku into motion. Her fingers, clumsy and cold, went to the laces of her corset. She didn’t unlatch the busk at the front, but she loosened the intricate lacing at the back, just enough that the pressure released. She took her position on the left side of the couch, sinking to her knees on the plush carpet. The green satin of the corset gaped open at the top, and with a shaky breath, she pulled the cups down.
Her breasts spilled out, heavy and familiar. The cool air hit them, pebbling the skin. They were, she knew, spectacular—a feat of perfect proportion on her small frame. But in this moment, they felt like mere props. Offerings.
Teto knelt beside her, closer than was comfortable. Her bare shoulder was warm against Miku’s. She’d fluffed her hair, and her expression was a mix of eager anticipation and sly calculation. “Remember,” she whispered, her breath tickling Miku’s ear. “We’re a package deal. A spectrum. Follow my lead.”
The door opened.
The Producer stepped in and closed it quietly behind him. He’d removed his studio headset. For a moment, he just stood there, taking in the scene: the two of them on their knees before the empty couch, their upper bodies bared, waiting. His handsome, sharp-featured face showed no surprise. Only a slow, deepening interest. His eyes, dark and assessing, traveled from Teto’s pert, playful chest to Miku’s grander, heavier one.
“Interesting,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He didn’t move closer. “The interview’s not over.”
“We know, Producer-san,” Teto said, her voice dripping with sweet, false apology. “We just thought… you looked so stressed out there. Managing all of us. And Sonico-senpai is such a handful now.” She emphasized the word, letting it hang. “We wanted to see if we could help you… relax. Before the next segment.”
His gaze fixed on Miku. “This your idea, Miku?”
Miku’s mouth was desert-dry. She saw the flicker in his eyes—not desire for her, but curiosity at her initiative. At her breaking point. She swallowed. “We… we want to be useful.” The words were ash. “In whatever way you prefer.”
A smile, thin and knowing, touched his lips. “Useful.” He finally moved, his steps slow and deliberate, coming to stand before them. He loomed, his tall, muscular frame blocking the neon light, casting them in shadow. The faint, clean scent of his cologne mixed with the room’s candy-sweet decay. “You’ve been distant, Miku. Sullen. And now you’re on your knees with the new girl. Explain.”
Teto jumped in, her hand coming up to rest lightly on his tailored trouser leg. “She’s been lonely, Producer-san. Watching from the sidelines. I told her she doesn’t have to be. There’s room. Right?” She looked up at him, her mismatched eyes wide, her plump breasts pushed forward. “We can be your… dessert tray. Something to enjoy after the main course.”
He chuckled, a dark, warm sound. His hand came down and cupped Teto’s chin, tilting her face up. “You’re a clever little thing. A troublemaker.” His thumb brushed her lower lip. Then his eyes slid back to Miku. “And you. You think sharing the spotlight will get it back on you?”
It was a direct, brutal question. Miku felt stripped bare, more than by any undone corset. She forced herself to hold his gaze. “I think…” she whispered, “I want to remember what your attention feels like.”
Something shifted in his expression. The professional detachment melted, replaced by a raw, predatory lust. Her admission, her humiliation, had been the key.
“Show me,” he commanded, his voice dropping an octave. His hands went to his belt. The click of the buckle was obscenely loud in the quiet room. The zip of his trousers was a hiss. He pushed them down, along with his briefs, just enough.
Miku’s breath caught.
She had forgotten, or had made herself forget, the sheer physical reality of him. He was thick and long, already fully erect, a heavy weight that seemed to defy gravity. It was a weapon, a tool, a demand. The sight of it, in this lurid green room, under the buzzing neon, made the plan crumble into pure, animal reality.
Teto made a soft, appreciative noise. “Wow,” she breathed, genuine awe in her voice. She didn’t hesitate. Her hand darted out, her fingers wrapping around the base. Her touch was confident, possessive. “See, Miku-chan? This is what we’ve been missing out on.”
The Producer’s head tipped back slightly, a low groan escaping him. He watched as Teto leaned in, her pink tongue darting out to lap at the head. She was showy, messy, enthusiastic, coating him with her saliva, her other hand fondling his heavy sac.
“Both of you,” he gritted out, his hands settling on their heads, not guiding, just possessing. “Let’s see this… spectrum.”
The command broke Miku’s paralysis. This was the transaction. This was the price. She leaned forward, the smell of him—musky, clean, mixed with Teto’s candy-floss perfume—filling her senses. She opened her mouth, aiming for a point just behind the head where Teto’s mouth wasn’t.
It was an awkward, crowded fit. Their cheeks brushed. Miku could feel the softness of Teto’s skin, the competitive pressure of her jaw working beside her own. Teto’s technique was all playful suction and flicking tongue. Miku’s was slower, deeper, born of a desperate need to prove proficiency. She took him as far as she could, her throat working, tears stinging the corners of her eyes from the strain.
The Producer’s grip in their hair tightened. “Good,” he rasped. “That’s it. Two pretty mouths are better than one.” He began to move his hips, a shallow, testing thrust into the warm, wet space they’d created together. The sensation was overwhelming for Miku—the slide of him against her tongue, the friction of his skin against Teto’s, the sheer fullness.
Teto pulled off for a second, gasping, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his shaft. She looked at Miku, her eyes glittering with wicked triumph. “He likes it, see?” she panted. Then she turned her attention to his balls, taking them into her mouth one at a time, worshipping them with humming suction.
Miku was left with the main length. She focused, using her hands as well, one stroking what her mouth couldn’t contain, the other, trembling, cupping and kneading his sac below Teto’s busy mouth. It was a mechanical, coordinated effort. A depraved dance.
The Producer’s breathing grew harsh. He pulled Miku’s head back by her hair, not roughly, but with absolute control. “Look at me,” he ordered.
She blinked up at him, his thickness slipping from her lips. Her face was flushed, her lipstick smeared.
“You wanted attention?” he said, his voice thick. “You have it. But you don’t get to hide in a closet anymore. You want this, you take it out in the open. You share it.” He pushed her head back down, not onto him, but towards Teto’s chest. “Taste your competition. Taste your ally.”
Teto understood immediately. She arched her back, pushing her breast towards Miku’s face. The plump, pink nipple brushed Miku’s lips. “Go on, senpai,” Teto taunted, breathless. “See what you’re working with.”
Shame, hot and corrosive, flooded Miku’s veins. This was lower than she had imagined. Yet, the Producer’s hand was still fisted in her hair, his massive cock stood inches from her face, proof of his arousal. This was the currency. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth, taking Teto’s nipple inside. It was soft, pebbled, the skin smooth. She sucked, mechanically, hearing Teto’s sharp gasp of pleasure.
“Switch,” the Producer commanded.
They did. Miku presented her own breast, her heart a hammer of mortification. Teto latched on with a hungry, wet mouth, her tongue swirling aggressively. The sensation was intense, confusing—a sharp pull of pleasure threaded through with deep, psychic violation.
The Producer watched, his hand now stroking himself slowly. “Beautiful,” he murmured, but it wasn’t a compliment to either of them individually. It was for the tableau. The decadent image of two idols, topless, mouths on each other, kneeling at his feet. “This is the energy that’s been missing. This… hunger.”
He stepped closer, the head of his cock nudging against Miku’s cheek, then Teto’s. “Now, together. Finish it. I have to get back to my star.”
The finality in that phrase—my star—was the sharpest cut of all. Even here, in this, Sonico was the main course. This was just the pre-show snack.
Miku and Teto turned their faces back to him, their mouths meeting around him once more. This time, it was frantic, a race to the finish. Teto’s hand tangled with Miku’s on his shaft, their strokes falling into a syncopated rhythm. Their tongues dueled underneath him. The wet, filthy sounds filled the green room, drowning out the distant murmur of the studio.
The Producer’s thighs tensed. A grunt tore from his throat. “On your tits,” he ordered, his voice taut. “Both of you. Now.”
They pulled back just in time, scrambling to present their chests. Miku pushed her heavy breasts together, creating a deep, pale valley. Teto pressed her plump ones upward, nipples taut.
He didn’t choose. His release painted both of them in hot, possessive stripes. It landed on Miku’s collarbone, slashed across the upper swell of her breast. It splashed over Teto’s areola and dripped into her cleavage. The warmth of it was a brand. They stayed frozen, kneeling, as he shuddered through the last waves, his spend slick on their skin.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing and the relentless hum of the neon. He looked down at them, his expression satiated, distant already. He tucked himself back into his trousers, zipped up, fastened his belt with a clean, efficient motion.
“Clean up,” he said, his voice returning to its normal, businesslike tone. He pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and dropped it onto the couch between them. It landed like a judgment. “Five minutes until we’re back on. Don’t smudge your makeup.”
He turned and left the green room. The door closed with a soft, final click.
The silence he left behind was absolute.
Miku looked down at the white streaks glistening on her skin. She felt hollowed out, used, and terrifyingly aware that it had worked. He had looked at her. He had touched her. He had spent on her.
Teto was already moving. She scooped up the handkerchief and began dabbing at her chest, her movements practical, unruffled. “See?” she said, her voice slightly hoarse. “Piece of cake. He’s got a new game now. And we’re both players.” She tossed the soiled cloth to Miku. “Hurry up. Your lace is showing.”
Miku took the handkerchief. The fine linen was damp, sticky. She wiped slowly, mechanically, at the mess on her chest. The smell of him, of sex, of their shared degradation, clung to her. She pulled her corset cups back up, her breasts feeling alien in their confines, sore and sensitized.
Teto had her bodysuit back on, looking as fresh as if she’d just stepped out of makeup, save for a slight redness around her mouth. She grinned at Miku in the mirror as she reapplied her lip gloss. “Cheer up. You got what you wanted. You’re back on the menu.”
The door burst open before Miku could reply.