Chapter 3: The Understudy's Audition
The heavy door clicked shut, sealing Megan into the cathedral silence of the entryway. The air was warm, scented with sandalwood and something else—something musky and deeply familiar that made her stomach flip. She could see the great room ahead, the dying fire casting long, dancing shadows across the polished concrete.
Mandingo stood before her, a silhouette against the city-light. He’d put on a black robe, loosely tied. He just looked at her, taking in the oversized sweatshirt, the leggings, the nervous way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“Sally’s crashed,” he said, his voice calm. “Down the hall.”
“Yeah,” Megan squeaked, then cleared her throat. “She, uh, she said you needed a… a follow-up study.” The phrase sounded ridiculous aloud, a silly relic from their diner bet.
A slow smile touched his lips. “That’s one way to put it. She needs a break. I don’t.” His gaze was patient, but utterly focused. “You don’t have to do this, Megan. You can turn around, call your car back. No hard feelings.”
The out was offered cleanly. She thought of Sally, utterly spent and glorious on that rug. She thought of the first time, the shocked, painful awe of it. Then she thought of the secret, shameful thrill that had coiled in her for days after, the memory of that impossible fullness visiting her in quiet moments. Her voice, when she found it, was small but clear. “I’m here.”
“Then lose the costume.”
Her fingers felt thick and clumsy. She gripped the hem of the sweatshirt, the soft grey cotton she’d lived in for two days. With a tug, she pulled it up and over her head, her blonde ponytail catching for a second before freeing itself. The cool air hit her skin, raising goosebumps. She stood in a simple, white cotton camisole. It was thin, clinging to the small, pert swells of her breasts. Her nipples, tight from nerves, were visibly outlined against the fabric.
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her black leggings and pushed them down her legs, stepping out of them one foot at a time. The firelight painted her pale skin in gold. She was a study in delicate proportion. A tiny waist, cinched and narrow enough for his hands to nearly span it, curved into subtle, narrow hips. A distinct, sexy gap showed between her taut thighs, evidence of a runner’s leanness. As she bent to pick up the discarded clothes, she turned, revealing the feature that always surprised people—a killer little bubble butt, perfectly rounded and high, a dramatic curve on her otherwise petite frame.
She straightened, placing the clothes neatly on a nearby chair. Her back to him, she reached behind and unclasped her plain, practical bra. It fell away, and she let it drop. She turned to face him again, her arms coming up almost reflexively to cross over her chest before she forced them down to her sides. Her breasts were small, but perfectly shaped, upturned with pale pink areolas and nipples that pebbled tightly in the open air. She was breathing shallowly.
With a final, deliberate slowness, she hooked her fingers into the sides of her white cotton panties and slid them down. She stepped out of them and stood before him, completely naked and utterly exposed. Every instinct told her to cover herself, but she held her ground, one hand twitching then falling still. The difference between her and Sally was almost comical. Where Sally was a voluptuous monument, Megan was a polished figurine—every line compact, every curve taut and efficient.
He didn’t speak. He simply untied his robe and let it fall. Her eyes widened, the memory from the hotel surging back, more visceral now without the buffer of champagne or her cheering friends. It was still a shock. A breathtaking, impossible fact.
He took her hand. His was warm, engulfing hers. He led her to the deep, cream-colored rug in front of the fireplace. The fibers were soft against her knees. She lay back, the wool tickling her skin. Her blonde hair fanned out around her head like a halo. She looked up at the soaring ceiling, then at him as he knelt between her legs.
“Just breathe,” he said, his voice low.
He guided himself to her. The first touch of the head against her entrance made her flinch. It was already too much, a broad, insistent pressure. She was so small, so tight. He pushed forward, just an inch.
A sharp gasp tore from her throat. Her head rolled left on the rug, then right, as if seeking an escape route that didn’t exist. Her hands flailed beside her, fingers scrambling against the dense pile, trying to find purchase, something to grip, something to ground her against the sensation.
He pushed another inch. A yelp, high and involuntary. The stretch was a bright, burning line of feeling. It wasn’t pain, not exactly, but an overwhelming fullness that her body had no reference for. Another inch. Her back arched off the rug, her small breasts lifting, nipples pointed to the ceiling. A short, choked scream escaped her clenched teeth.
“Jesus,” she whimpered, the word fracturing.
He paused, buried about halfway, letting her shuddering body adjust. Even perfectly still, the sensation was monumental. She could feel every detail, every ridge and vein, a geography of immense pressure mapping her insides. She felt impossibly filled, stretched to a taut, humming limit. He began to move then, a slow, deep retreat and advance. Each thrust drew another sound from her—a gasp, a whimper, a sharp cry that echoed in the quiet room. Her hands finally fisted in the rug, knuckles white. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back, anchoring herself to the rhythm of it.
Her orgasm built under the sheer, relentless pressure, a coil of heat tightening in her core until it snapped. It rolled through her in a silent, shocking wave, then voiced itself as a long, ragged scream. Her whole body clenched around him, a series of frantic, fluttering pulses. He groaned, slowing but not stopping, riding out the grip of her climax.
When her spasms subsided into trembling aftershocks, he pulled out. The sudden emptiness was a shock of its own, a cold, hollow feeling. Before she could process it, his hands were on her, turning her with easy strength.
“On your knees,” he murmured.
Dazed, she complied, pushing herself up. The fire warmed her front. He positioned himself behind her, his hands on the dramatic curves of her bubble butt, spreading her open. The head pressed against her again, slick from her own arousal. He pushed inside, and she cried out, a raw, guttural sound.
It was different this way. Deeper. Tighter, if that was even possible. The angle changed the pressure, made it more acute, a focused, breathtaking stretch that felt like it reached her spine. A choked sob vibrated in her throat as he sheathed himself fully. He gripped her narrow hips, his fingers indenting the soft flesh, and began to move. This pace was not slow. It was driving, purposeful, each thrust rocking her small body forward. Her breasts swung heavily beneath her, her face pressed into the wool of the rug, her cries muffled.
She came again, sooner than she thought possible. This climax was less a wave and more a seismic shudder, a silent, total convulsion that locked her muscles and stole her breath. It triggered his own. With a final, deep plunge, he buried himself to the hilt. A low, guttural roar broke from him as he pulsed inside her, his grip on her hips iron-tight.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the pop of the fire. He slumped over her, his weight pressing her down into the rug. His breath was hot against her ear.
“My God, Megan,” he panted, the words filled with a kind of reverent exhaustion. “You are so fucking tight.”
A slow, weary smile touched her lips. She turned her head, looking back at him over her shoulder. Her face was flushed, her eyes glazed, but the smile was real. A knowing smile.
She did her job. Her tight cunt, the novelty, the contrast, had drained the energy from this amazing stud.
At least for now.
He pulled out and collapsed onto his back beside her on the rug. They lay there in a heap of tangled, sweating limbs. The city lights beyond the glass twinkled, indifferent. Megan’s body hummed, a complex symphony of ache and lingering pleasure. She felt thoroughly used, comprehensively opened. A strange sense of pride cut through the fatigue. She had taken it. All of it.
From down the hall, faintly, she heard the soft click of a door closing.