The show must go on

Tammy-Lee Rutherford’s wrists burned.

Three hours. Seventeen men. Each one staring at her like she was the last steak at a Baptist barbecue. Her lower back ached from straddling the line between medical professionalism and whatever the hell this was supposed to be.

The curtain rustled. Another donor shuffled in this one short, wiry, with calloused hands and a grin that made her skin crawl. Until today, this man wouldn’t have been allowed to polish my shoes, she thought. Now, he was unbuckling his pants with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning.

From out with the room The translator rattled off instructions in Spanish. The man’s eyes never left Tammy-Lee’s chest.

Why am I doing all the work here?

A spark of rebellion flared in her gut.

Slowly, deliberately, she unbuttoned the top of her nurse’s uniform. The man’s breath hitched as her breasts spilled free still perky, still magnificent, thanks to that $12,000 surgeon in Dallas.

"Mira, pero no tocas," she purred, pointing to the floor. Look, don’t touch.

He dropped to his knees like a penitent sinner.

Tammy-Lee hiked up her skirt, revealing bare skin beneath. No panties those had been "confiscated" by a particularly enthusiastic donor earlier. The man’s fist flew over his cock, his grunts accelerating.

"En la taza," she ordered, thrusting a specimen cup at him. In the cup. Then, with a smirk: "Y te muestro mi coño." And I’ll show you my pussy.

The man whimpered. Tammy-Lee spread her legs, the thrill of power humming through her veins. This wasn’t humiliation. This was control.

The cup overflowed.

She kicked the man back through the curtains, covered herself and shouted, I'm taking my break.

The break room smelled of stale nachos and industrial cleaner. Tammy-Lee collapsed onto a plastic chair, her forehead hitting the sticky table. Somewhere between the third and fourth donor, she’d crossed a threshold this was no longer surreal. It was just Tuesday.

A tap on her shoulder.

Director Vance loomed over her, his expression as warm as a tax audit. "An impressive performance, First Lady. Your adaptability is… remarkable."

Tammy-Lee’s spine stiffened. "What the hell do you—"

"But." Vance’s voice dropped. "Forty-seven men arrived. Seventeen have been processed. The press outside will notice if we fall short."

She stared at him. "You want me to do thirty more? In four hours?"

Vance’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "We’ve devised a solution. Group sessions. You’ll perform while they… contribute."

Tammy-Lee’s nails dug into her palms. Then—

"We?"

A shadow moved in the observation booth above. The silhouette was unmistakable: her husband, the President of the United States, watching through one-way glass.

That spineless, hypocritical—

Vance leaned in. "He’s been here all day. Quite engrossed, from what I hear."

Tammy-Lee’s rage crystallized into something colder. Sharper.

"Get me a bourbon," she said softly. "Then bring in the boys."

Several shots later Tammy-lee walked back to her work area.

The "clinic" had been transformed. The medical bed now centre stage. A thirty men, she was sure were probably illegal, day laborers, her panty thief from earlier stood in a semicircle, naked and clutching cups.

Tammy-Lee reclined on the bed, legs spread.

"Rules," she announced. "No touching. Everything goes in the cups."

Then she let her fingers trail down her stomach.

The room erupted in groans.

She played them like a fiddle arching her back, pinching her nipples, moaning like she hadn’t moaned for Hank in years. One by one, the cups filled.

But the last group was different.

The panty thief tall, broad-shouldered, with hands that could span a steering wheel stepped forward. Tammy-Lee’s gaze flicked to the observation window. Let’s give Hank a show he won’t forget.

She dropped to her knees.

The man’s cock hit the back of her throat before she could brace herself. Salt and musk flooded her senses. Rough fingers tangled in her hair, pulling, and for the first time all day, Tammy-Lee let go.

The bed creaked under their weight. Someone’s hands groped her breasts. Another cock nudged her lips. She took it all, revelled in it, her body singing with a feral, forbidden joy.

When the final man spilled across her stomach, Tammy-Lee lay breathless, sticky, alive.

The curtain yanked open.

Hank stood there, his face purple with fury. "Did you have to enjoy it so much?" he hissed.

Tammy-Lee rose, her husband’s arousal painfully obvious against his tailored slacks. She kissed him deeply, letting him taste the proof of her betrayal.

"Oh, Hank," she whispered, squeezing him through the fabric. "This wasn’t for them. It was for you."

Outside, the press waited. Tammy-Lee straightened her skirt, wiped her chin, and stepped into the flashbulbs

America’s newest fertility icon.