The Interview

The camera lights flared. Victoria Vale sat perfectly composed behind the glass desk, her tailored navy blouse stretched taut across an enormous, heavy chest that strained the fabric with every controlled breath. The buttons fought a losing battle. Her skirt hugged a massive, wide ass that spilled over the edges of the chair. She crossed one thick thigh over the other with professional grace, the motion making the fabric whisper. Makeup flawless, voice smooth and clipped, the same tone she used for market reports and election coverage.

Across from her sat John. Eighteen. Five-foot-four. Soft gut pressing against a wrinkled button-down that was too tight in the wrong places. Thin hair already receding at the temples. Acne scars. Shoulders slumped. He kept his eyes on his own knees and wiped his palms on his jeans every few seconds.

Victoria smiled for the camera—warm, practiced, never breaking.

“Good evening. Tonight we continue our special series on the phenomenon reshaping private life across the country. My guest is John. Eighteen years old. No athletic background. No modeling career. No particular social skills to speak of. And yet, by every verified account, he has deposited semen inside every sexually available woman of note in the nation—and a great many who were not previously available. That includes, as viewers are already aware, the entire on-air and production staff of this network, my own sister, my daughter, and a long list of friends, colleagues, students, wives, and mothers. John, thank you for joining us.”

John mumbled something that might have been “thanks.”

Victoria continued without missing a beat, hands folded neatly on the desk, cleavage rising and falling with each measured inhale.

“Let’s begin with process. You are not especially large. Multiple medical and anecdotal reports place you at approximately average to slightly below average in length and girth. You rarely last longer than a few minutes once penetration begins. You do not employ sophisticated technique. You do not dirty-talk. You often finish with a strained, almost apologetic sound. And yet the record shows you have filled every hole—vaginal, anal, oral—of women ranging from celibate college sophomores to married executives to my own daughter, repeatedly, in offices, lecture halls, dressing rooms, hotel corridors, and private residences. How, exactly, does that happen?”

John shifted. His voice was thin. “I… I don’t really know. They just… let me. Sometimes they ask. Sometimes they just… pull me in.”

Victoria nodded as if he had given a coherent policy answer.

“They pull you in. Let’s take a concrete example. Last Tuesday, 4:17 p.m., Conference Room B on the fourteenth floor of this building. You entered with a production assistant named Elise—thirty-one, engaged, previously monogamous. Within eleven minutes you had her bent over the conference table. You ejaculated inside her vagina. She remained in that position for several additional minutes while your semen leaked down her thighs. She then walked back to her desk, sat, and continued editing a segment on infrastructure spending. She later stated on camera that the creampie felt ‘necessary.’ Can you describe your contribution to that encounter?”

John’s ears turned red. “I just… stood there. She put me in. I came pretty fast. She didn’t seem mad.”

“She did not seem mad,” Victoria repeated, still professional. “In fact she described the sensation of your semen coating her cervix as the most grounding experience of her week. Similar language has been used by my sister—married, two children, yoga instructor—after you finished inside her rectum in the locker room of her studio while clients waited outside. She returned to class with your load still inside her and taught a full ninety-minute session. She told producers the warmth made her more present with the students.”

John stared at the floor.

Victoria leaned forward a fraction. The movement made her breasts shift heavily against the desk edge. The camera caught the soft compression and the way the fabric strained.

“My daughter is nineteen. She is currently enrolled in a competitive university program. She had remained celibate by choice until three weeks ago. On a Thursday afternoon you met her in the campus library stacks. She guided your hand under her skirt, positioned herself against a shelf of econometrics texts, and instructed you to penetrate her. You lasted less than two minutes. You came inside her. She kept the evidence of that climax inside her for the remainder of the afternoon, including during a seminar. She has since stated that the creampie was the first time she felt fully occupied. She has returned to you six additional times in various campus locations—study rooms, the stairwell outside the chemistry building, once in a faculty restroom. Each time the pattern is identical: brief penetration, rapid orgasm on your part, prolonged retention of your semen on hers. She describes the aftermath as clarifying.”

John’s voice cracked. “I didn’t force anything. She—”

“No one is alleging force,” Victoria said evenly. “The consistent testimony is enthusiastic consent and, more remarkably, post-coital satisfaction despite the brevity and the lack of reciprocal climax in many cases. Multiple women—my coworkers, my friends, strangers who approached you in public parks and office elevators—report that the physical sensation of your semen flooding their holes overrides other considerations. Size, stamina, skill—these appear secondary. The deposit itself seems to be the operative factor.”

She glanced at her notes, then back at him with the same calm expression she used when interviewing central bankers.

“Let’s discuss implications. You have left creampies inside women who were actively trying to conceive with their husbands. You have left them inside women who were practicing celibacy for religious reasons. You have left them inside women who were mid-cycle and not on contraception. In at least seventeen documented workplace cases, the women returned to their desks or cameras with semen still leaking, completed their shifts, and later described a sense of completion. Several of my own colleagues—anchors, producers, the woman who does our weather segment—have sat in this very studio after receiving you, still wet with your load, and delivered flawless broadcasts. One of them told me privately that the slow drip during a live segment made her more focused.”

John rubbed his face. “I don’t… I don’t understand why they keep wanting it.”

Victoria’s tone remained clinical.

“That is the question the country is asking. You are not impressive by conventional metrics. You are short. You are soft. You are awkward in conversation. You blush and look away when addressed directly. And yet the data is unambiguous. Every hole of every woman surveyed in the metropolitan area—wives, mothers, students, executives, athletes, the celibate, the promiscuous—has received at least one of your creampies. Many have received dozens. The pattern holds across age groups, relationship statuses, and prior sexual histories. The common variable is the presence of your semen inside them.”

She paused, letting the silence sit the way she would after a difficult policy statement.

“My sister still texts me after each encounter. She says the weight of it inside her ass makes the rest of the day quieter. My daughter has begun scheduling study sessions around the times she knows she can get you alone for five minutes. Elise from Conference Room B has requested a standing weekly slot in the same room. The women do not claim you are a skilled lover. They claim the creampie itself rearranges something. They keep returning.”

John finally looked up, voice barely audible. “What am I supposed to do?”

Victoria’s professional smile never wavered.

“You continue. The public interest appears to require it. The women appear to require it. And the record shows that when you finish inside them—quickly, messily, without ceremony—they leave the encounter marked and, by their own repeated testimony, satisfied in a way that more conventional partners have not achieved. The implications for marriage, for workplace norms, for reproductive planning, for the simple logistics of daily life are still unfolding. What is not in dispute is the outcome: your semen is now a regular presence in the bodies of the country’s most visible and accomplished women, including every woman associated with this network, including the women in my own family, including me.”

She shifted slightly in her chair. The movement made her heavy breasts settle and her wide hips press more firmly into the seat. A faint, private awareness flickered behind her eyes for half a second—memory of a late-night studio corridor, of him pressed against her from behind, of the sudden heat flooding her—then vanished under the polished anchor mask.

“We will continue after the break with more specific accounts and with the broader sociological questions raised by a single unremarkable eighteen-year-old who has, without apparent effort, filled every available hole in the country. John will remain with us. Stay with us.”

The red light blinked. Victoria held the smile for the camera until the producer called cut. Then she turned to John, still fully professional, and said in the same measured voice,

“We’ll pick up with the segment on workplace incidents. Be ready to answer about the three production assistants in Makeup on Monday. They still have residual evidence on their clothing from last week.”

John nodded once, eyes down, already looking smaller in the chair.

Victoria adjusted a single button on her blouse that had begun to protest, smoothed the fabric over the heavy swell of her chest, and waited for the next segment with the same composed expression she brought to every story—except this one was about the fact that every sexy woman in the country, herself included, had already taken his load in every hole and kept coming back for more.