I walked over to the tripod, adjusted the camera slightly to focus clearly on her face, and then pointed a finger directly at the lens.

​"You said this was for your portfolio, which means it's content for my studio," I continued. "Under federal law, I need to complete the 2257 verification process right now on camera, while the evidence is fresh. This is non-negotiable."

​I looked directly at her. "For the camera, Dickslayer, state your full legal name, Lisa Rhodes, confirm you are over the age of eighteen, and confirm you willingly consented to this entire recording for commercial use by Digital Media Holdings LLC. Say it clearly."

​Her triumphant smile faltered for the first time. The shift from pleasure to paperwork was jarring, but she was a professional. She took a deep breath, looked straight into the camera lens, and recited the necessary legal words in a clear, strong voice.

​Once she finished, I hit the 'stop' button.

​"Welcome to The BangHouse, Dickslayer," I said. "You're hired. Now, we negotiate the contract Sasha promised you. What is your required minimum guarantee, and when can you begin shooting your first paid scene?"

​She smoothed her leather skirt and sat back on the couch, the raw dominance in her eyes replaced by sharp business focus. The immediate rush of adrenaline was gone, and now we were back to the cold reality of money.

​"Sasha said you are offering a high-paying, stable retainer structure," she began, crossing her legs. "My standard rate for a feature scene like the one we just recorded—which you can now use, by the way—is $5,000. That includes the explicit rights release and a four-hour commitment."

​I shook my head, my face serious. $5,000 was too much for the launch phase. I needed to control costs until the MRR stabilized.

​"Your performance quality is $5,000-level, no question," I said. "However, the studio is in its high-risk launch phase. We need to prove the revenue stream before we commit to those figures."

​I leaned forward on the desk. "My offer is structured like this. I will pay you $700 per scene for the first ten scenes you shoot with us. After you complete the tenth scene, if the content's revenue performance and your professional reliability are strong, your pay per scene will be immediately raised to $5,000."

​She narrowed her eyes, calculating the risk. "$700? That's barely minimum wage for a professional of my caliber. That is a massive drop from my standard rate."

​"It's an investment in your future rate," I countered quickly. "You get two major benefits, volume and exclusivity. You get a guaranteed ten scenes in the next three weeks, which is stable, guaranteed work, unlike the slow pace of other new studios. And you get the exposure of being the lead face of The BangHouse during our official launch. $7,000 guaranteed immediately, with a clear path to $5,000 per scene very quickly. No one else is offering that clean path."

​She hesitated for a long moment, clearly weighing the certainty of $7,000 now versus the possibility of waiting weeks for a higher-paying, one-off job elsewhere.

​"Done," she finally agreed, the ambition overriding the initial disappointment. "I'll take the $700 per scene guarantee. But I need the first payment after the first scene is uploaded. And I'm ready to shoot tomorrow morning."

​I pulled a single sheet of paper from my desk—a basic, legally sound independent contractor agreement drafted by my lawyer.

​"Sign this agreement with Digital Media Holdings LLC," I instructed. "This ensures all payment is processed legally and protects both our interests. Once signed, you are on the clock. You are my lead talent."

​Dickslayer took the pen, read the brief document quickly, and signed with a flourish.

​"The contract is effective immediately," I confirmed, setting the document aside. "Welcome to the team, Dickslayer."

​She stood up, the professional conqueror once more. "Good. Now that I have the job, I need to know the mission. What is the theme for tomorrow's debut scene for The BangHouse?"

​I smiled. "You will be notified. I will send you the script and the call time shortly."

​"Okay, so can I go now?" she said, gathering her small black clutch and standing up. She looked back at the messy room with a hint of disdain.

​"Yeah," I said, walking around the desk to escort her to the door. "I have more girls coming in for interviews."

​She gave me a slight, professional nod and walked out, her high heels clicking loudly on the concrete floor until the sound faded.

​As soon as the door closed, I looked down the corridor. Sasha had kept her word. There were two more women waiting near the entrance of the building.

​The first was striking because she truly looked like a sophisticated woman, not a girl. She looked to be in her early thirties, with long, dark hair and an intensely curvaceous figure. Her body was full, with large, natural breasts straining the fabric of her tailored red dress, and wide, powerful hips. She carried herself with the heavy confidence of someone who knew exactly how to use her body to dominate a room. Her style was classic and expensive, hinting at an established career.

​The second recruit was the opposite: petite, energetic, and seemingly younger. She was slim, almost tiny, with bright blonde hair cut into a playful bob. Her outfit was deliberately sweet and revealing—a short, pleated schoolgirl-style skirt and a tiny cropped top that showed off her tight stomach. Her small frame made her breasts look surprisingly large by contrast. She had a mischievous, almost innocent look, but her eyes were already sharp and focused on the money.

​I needed to see both of them. They offered the perfect contrast to Dickslayer: maturity versus youth, extreme curves versus slim agility. This variety was key to quickly building a wide subscriber base.

"Are you Mr. Hart?" The curvaceous woman asked, her voice rich and deep.

​Mr. Hart. No one in this business had ever called me that. It sounded completely formal, a stark contrast to the mess we were in. I chuckled in amusement.

​"Yes," I said, flashing her a welcoming smile. "I am. You're next, Miss...?"

​"Yolanda... Yolanda Adams," the brunette said, her eyes maintaining firm, professional contact.

​"You are next, Miss Adams," I said, inviting her into the office. She walked in, her hips moving with a commanding slow sway that immediately reminded me of the powerful potential revenue she represented.

​The blonde, who was still waiting outside, waved shyly. "I'll just wait here, Mr. Hart!" she chirped.

​I shut the door and took my seat behind the desk, signaling Yolanda to take the couch Dickslayer had just vacated.

​"Miss Adams, thank you for being punctual," I began, immediately starting the professional vetting process. "I'm looking for long-term, high-volume talent. Tell me why The BangHouse should hire Yolanda Adams."

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