Let her win for now

As Tiffany's fingers work their magic, you feel yourself teetering on the edge. Instead of fighting it, you let out a soft moan and arch your back, putting on a show for the camera.

"Fine," you breathe, your voice husky. "You win this round."

Tiffany's smile turns triumphant, her fingers slowing but not stopping. "Smart girl, knowing when to surrender."

You lean close to her ear, letting your lips brush against it as you whisper words only she can hear. "I just realized something. When I win later, and you're taking those three extra loads... I'm going to request they use you in positions that guarantee conception. I've researched the angles that maximize sperm retention."

You feel her fingers falter against you as you continue, your voice impossibly soft. "And I'm going to make sure they test your fertility every day afterward, on camera, for two weeks. Imagine the views if you actually get pregnant from losing our competition."

You pull back slightly to see her face. Though she maintains her professional smile, there's a flicker of genuine unease in her eyes.

"You wouldn't," she whispers back.

"Try me," you murmur, trailing your fingers along her collarbone. "I've got nothing to lose. You've been doing this for years."

The producer's voice cuts through the tension. "And we're clear! Great chemistry, ladies. The comment section is blowing up."

Tiffany pulls her hand away, studying you with new respect and wariness. "Not bad for a novice," she says, reaching for a tissue to wipe her fingers. "But don't think getting in my head will work. I've been doing this too long."

"We'll see," you reply with a smile that mirrors her earlier confidence.

A production assistant appears at the door. "Five minutes until the main event. The men are ready in position."

As you stand to follow the assistant to the main studio, Tiffany catches your wrist. "That thing about the pregnancy testing afterward... That wasn't in the contract."

"No," you agree, enjoying the rare moment of seeing her composure crack. "But imagine how popular it would make you. The fans would love the authenticity."

You leave her there, momentarily speechless, as you stride toward the main set where eight men wait divided into two groups. The competitive fire inside you has become an inferno. Whatever nervousness you felt earlier has been replaced by determination—not just to win, but to dominate.