Thoughts while getting to work

As I cruise through the city in my simple black Ford, New York unfurls before me like a living, breathing entity. The smells—a pungent mix of exhaust, street food, and the underlying scent of the city's grit—**** my senses, each one unique and distinct. I wonder if the void, that ethereal realm I command, could ever capture this raw, unfiltered reality. Could it recreate the stark beauty of a crumbling tenement or the neon glow of a bustling street corner? I pull into my parking spot, my mind racing with the possibilities.

Stepping into the elevator, I ride it up to the 39th floor, my thoughts drifting back to the climax of my latest "performance" in the void. They—the voices of the void—had been impressed, their voices echoing with a hunger I could almost taste. "Your orgasms, yours, Buffy’s, and Faith’s, produce energies far beyond our calculations," they'd said, their tones laced with a dark, almost reverent awe. The memory of Buffy's pleasured scream, "Please cum inside me," echoes in my mind, so vivid and clear that I half-expect the people outside the elevator to hear it too. I shift uncomfortably, trying to will my body to calm down. The last thing I need is to walk into the office with an erection.

Most of the guys in my office are jealous of the beautiful women I work with—models from the fashion industry, actresses from Hollywood, and singers from the music world. They don't also need to know that I'm very well endowed.

My reputation precedes me, grounded in a proven ability to orchestrate visually stunning photoshoots that blend artistry with intention. Every set is carefully curated not only to achieve cinematic visual impact but to foster a safe, collaborative space where models feel empowered and confident. With a meticulous eye for composition, lighting, and styling, I consistently craft imagery that captures both beauty and emotion in a single frame.

As the elevator doors slide open, I'm greeted by Iris, my personal assistant, standing poised with tablet in one hand, a box in the other. Her sharp green eyes flash with a hint of impatience—subtle, but unmistakable. Her golden-brown hair is pulled back into a sleek clip, highlighting the clean lines of her face, high cheekbones, and warm caramel complexion. Dressed in a tailored black power suit that hugs her frame just enough to suggest the strength beneath, Iris moves with the kind of quiet confidence that tells you she’s always two steps ahead, even when the rest of us are still catching up

“Iris, always a pleasure,” I say, taking the box.

“You’re late,” she fires back without missing a beat.

I flick my wrist, checking the time. “It’s 9:07. The elevator can only go so fast.”

We head toward the office, weaving past cubicles, nodding and tossing out “good mornings” like political candidates on a campaign trail. I glance down at the box in my hands. It’s unmarked. Plain. Heavier than it looks.

“What is this?” I ask.

“It belongs to your visitor,” she says, pausing just outside my office. “A potential client.”

She crosses her arms, one eyebrow arching ever so slightly. There’s a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth—small, but definitely there. She knows something. And if I know Iris, she’s not telling me until she absolutely has to.

I smile back thanking Iris as she sits herself at her desk outside my office. “I’ll call you if I need anything,” I say to her. I turn and open the door to -