CHAPTER 187: THREE GODDESSES OF CARNALITY

A/N: These next Chapters I want to dedicate them to my top fans most especially @sgtcwby.

Thank you, guys, for the support this far!

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The thing is, Madison didn’t know her aunt’s "agency" had a quiet hallway that bled straight into the Wellness Center’s private wing. I did. So, I didn’t waste time pretending this was a mystery. These women weren’t hunting résumés—they were calibrating appetite, discretion, control.

I knew if I passed the test here, they would just direct me results directly to Meridian Agency and I will then start getting tasks.

So, I wasn’t gonna hold back babe!

The first round was paper dressed as confession: lifestyle, boundaries, medical history, stamina, aftercare. Green, yellow, red. I ticked boxes like I’d already played this level, added notes in the margins that made the brunette evaluator—Victoria Sinclair—press her lips together to hide a smile.

I slid the clipboard back. She didn’t even pretend to read.

"Next is your physical assessment," the silver-haired one said. Her badge read Dr. Ortega,

clipped to a blouse that was more silk than lab. She gestured toward a frosted-glass door. "Locker room’s through there."

I changed, came back in the soft-issue shorts they’d provided. Thin fabric. Neutral gray. No hiding anything. Their gazes did that quick, involuntary slide—down, then up—professional on the surface, curiosity humming underneath. Noted.

I stood easy. Breathing slow. Heart a metronome.

We went through the motions: flexibility, grip, VO₂ estimate, heart-rate recovery. I hit their targets without breaking cadence, body moving with the kind of rhythm that implied endurance. The tablet chimed its polite little ding when the last metric logged, and Ortega tilted her head, studying me like she’d just found an outlier in her own data set.

"Numbers are promising," she said, voice low. "But numbers only go so far."

Victoria stepped forward then, perfume cutting through the cedar-scented air. Her clipboard lowered an inch. "This next part is hands-on," she said, tone professional, eyes anything but. "You’ll undress—completely. No modesty garments. We need to see the full form you’d be bringing into our spaces. After that, you’ll be tested on contact. First exercise: massage."

I didn’t flinch. Just nodded, peeled off the shorts, and folded them with the rest of my clothes in a neat stack on the bench. When I stepped back into the room, three pairs of eyes locked on me—clinical on the outside, betraying themselves in the dilation of pupils and the slow hitch of breath.

The air thickened.

Not an interview anymore. An initiation.

They didn’t say it, but I saw it: the subtle widening of pupils, the slow drift of their gaze down my chest, over my stomach, lingering low to the bulging cock in the tight pants before climbing back with that guarded-professional mask.

Victoria recovered first. "You’ll be assigned a single evaluator to work on—"

"Why not one of you?" I cut in, letting a smile edge my voice. "Better yet, all three at once."

A ripple passed between them—sharp, wordless. Anya, the silver-haired one, arched a brow. "Even if you were good, there’s no way you could keep three of us in rhythm at once."

I shrugged, slow and deliberate. "Then it sounds like the perfect test."

Ortega—tall, caramel skin, eyes like midnight shot through with storm—leaned forward on her elbows. "If you fail, we cut the evaluation short. No second chances."

"Deal," I said.

They vanished through a side door, leaving only the hum of the vent and the lingering echo of challenge in the air. I waited. Breath measured. Body loose. The calm before impact.

And then they returned.

They didn’t re-enter the room. They conquered it.

Victoria strode forward first, a vision of molten danger. Her towel was knotted high, but the terrycloth was a mocking joke against her body. Her breasts strained against it, full and heavy, the fabric stretched so thin over their dark, stiffened nipples it was practically transparent.

Each breath made them swell, threatening to spill free. Below, the towel ended dangerously high on her thighs, leaving long, sleek legs completely bare, oiled skin gleaming under the light.

But the true invitation was below: every step made the short hem flicker, granting stolen glimpses of the firm, rounded swell of her ass cheeks, barely covered, the deep cleft between them shadowed and intimate. Her hips rolled with a deliberate, grinding sway, the muscular curves glistening, practically begging for hands to grip, for lips to press against their yielding warmth. She moved like sin incarnate.

Anya followed, a study in corrupt elegance. Her towel was a crime against modesty, knotted scandalously low across her chest.

The high swell of her breasts was pushed upward, bulging over the top edge, the creamy tops of her areolas peeking out like secrets. Full, heavy curves threatened to burst the strained knots, the fabric clinging sweat-damp to her skin. Her shoulders were bare, slick with oil that highlighted every defined muscle.

But it was her hips that commanded attention: the towel rode high in the back, the hem barely grazing the upper curve of her ass, leaving the plump lower halves completely exposed with each silent, feline step. Long, endless legs stretched down, muscles flexing, terminating in toes painted predatory crimson.

Every sway was an invitation, a promise – her body whispered she knew exactly what she displayed, and she knew you ached to taste every exposed inch.

Ortega brought raw, earthy heat. Her caramel skin seemed to glow over dense, powerful muscle. The towel was stretched to its limit across her massive breasts, the thick fabric outlining their heavy weight and deep cleavage with obscene clarity.

Her nipples were hard points, clearly visible through the terrycloth, begging for attention. Strong, sculpted arms framed a torso that narrowed before flaring into wide, powerful hips.

The towel clung for dear life, riding up with every movement.

When she walked, the fabric pulled taut over the full, generous globes of her ass, then relaxed with a maddening rhythm, repeatedly revealing the shadowed valley between them and the smooth, dark skin just beneath the hem. Her powerful thighs flexed, the short towel drawing the eye relentlessly upward, to the barely-concealed promise between her legs.

Her eyes, black pits of hunger, locked onto you – not as an observer, but as a possession already claimed.

Three goddesses of carnality.

Bare legs slick with oil, from ankles to the dangerous curve of thigh meeting hip. Shoulders gleaming, sweat tracing paths down collarbones to the deep shadows above heaving breasts. Towels stretched like thin skin over straining nipples, taut across swollen mounds, hugging curves they were never meant to contain. Hips rolling, asses flashing bare and inviting with every step – plump, round, demanding to be grasped, bitten, worshipped.

They moved with purposeful grace, setting down clipboards with deliberate leans that made towels slip further, revealing deeper shadows, the swell of an ass cheek almost fully exposed, the damp curve where thigh met torso barely hidden. The air hummed with their heat, the scent of oil and arousal thick enough to taste.

And all three turned their gazes on you. Not evaluation. Ownership. Victoria’s lips parted slightly, tongue wetting them. Anya’s eyes narrowed, a predator sizing up its meal. Ortega’s dark stare promised devouring. I wasn’t an applicant. I was prey pinned in the spotlight of their hunger, and every inch of exposed, straining, gleaming skin on their bodies was a weapon designed to break me.

They had claimed the room, and now, they meant to claim me.