The Audition

Rilynn Rae walks into that casting room knowing the script is bullshit. The producer’s eyes are already undressing her. He doesn’t ask her to read lines. He tells her to strip. She peels everything off—blonde hair tumbling down, body tight from years of training—and he just nods like this is normal. He unzips. She gets on her knees without being told. Her mouth works him over, slow at first, then deeper, until spit runs down her chin and he’s gripping her hair like reins. When he’s hard enough he hauls her up, spins her around, bends her over the desk. No warm-up. He pushes straight into her ass. She bites her lip, breathes through it, takes every inch because that’s the price. He fucks her hard, hips slapping, one hand pinning her wrists behind her back. She doesn’t fake the moans. They’re real, raw, torn out of her with every thrust. By the time he’s done she’s shaking, sore, and dripping. He zips up, tosses her the role like it’s a bone. She takes it. That’s how she got famous.