Breaking In The New Girl

Karlie Montana walks into the suite pissed off already. Her date bailed. She shows up anyway, clutching the confirmation email, voice sharp when she calls the front desk. Megan Rain answers. 8 p.m., the appointment’s on. Megan’s voice is light, almost bubbly, saying she’ll handle everything tonight. Karlie hangs up feeling the exact opposite of relaxed. She strips down fast in the candle-lit room, skirt kicked to the floor, thong tossed on a chair, every muscle tight. Megan knocks, steps in, polite smile ready. Karlie doesn’t smile back. The first rub is too light. Karlie snaps. The second hits a spot wrong again, and Megan starts apologizing, fixing, trying harder, making it worse. Karlie’s patience cracks open like cheap glass. “Enough chatter,” Karlie barks. She rolls onto her stomach, spreads her thighs, the order blunt: “Hands on my ass, my boots, my feet. Now.” Megan obeys but stumbles again—one shaky movement too high, a fingertip brushing skin too close. Karlie freezes, then grins slow and mean. She lifts her hips, reaching back to pull Megan’s wrist down between her legs. “Use those fingers. Run the length of me. Slow. No talking.” One more second of hesitation and the threat drops like a guillotine. “Do it right or you’re out. Your call.” Megan’s breath shudders, but she moves. The pad of one finger drags along slick folds, traces the tight knot of Karlie’s clit, circles, presses, drags again. Karlie exhales low, grinding back. “Tongue next. All the way inside.” Megan sinks, lips parting, mouth meeting heat. Karlie’s hand curls into the sheets. She keeps Megan there—fingers gripping hair—until the tremors hit hard, until orgasm crashes through her like a snapped wire. Karlie doesn’t thank her. She just stretches, smirk cutting across the low light. Megan kneels silent, job still hers, lips wet, pulse racing.