The office was the size of a penthouse. Deliciously executive, strewn with lines of purity, dark - almost black mahogany in its desk and dressers. Behind me were sixty-four flatscreens displaying live camera feeds from around the world. #4 within a black Formula One ride. #18 as seen from the collarbone of a socialite in a secret party at Moscow. #31 located somewhere in the Grand Canyon. Colors and viewpoints changed and flashed in a dizzying, unsettling fashion, switching from one place to another, describe me as I casually existed here and there and a little everywhere. I had a glass of water that I'd filled up in the morning and it had remained there for the whole day without ever getting touched. I'd spent so much time absorbing vodka and rum that I was starting to fantasize about going cold turkey. It was like everyone had talked to one another and agreed to hold their high-class soirees on the same Friday. I hadn't thought much of it and I'd accepted them all, and so I was left trying to make uninteresting small talk with two dozen diplomats and CEOs who all wanted a piece of my money for their new business venture in some faraway third-world country. None of what I heard made sense. I smiled my mischievous smile, I grinned my devilish grin, and I made it all look forced enough to pass on the message that the whole thing was a waste of time and I disagreed with their ideas from top to bottom. I'd gotten rid of most of them save for one nerdy individual of my age who touted himself a system administrator slash professional hacker, completely out of his league among suits that each cost no less than three thousand dollars. Remembered him from high school. Badly. I threw cigar smoke in his face and told him that's as close as he'll ever to get to Cuba. He was the last person in the world to realize his boss was paying him peanuts to do the work of three. No business deals to make today. That month truly was a cursed one. Or I'd hit the top and hadn't noticed. I glanced around myself. Paris, Milano, Prague, Moscow, Istanbul, even in Dubai they looked away from my eyes and seen I'd switched into ruthless mode. They'd all fallen once to the predator and lived to regret the tale. They'd all sold me a corporation or a plot of land they were certain would never amount to anything, and I'd gone and turned that into a money printer. I had Monte Cristo'd my ascension into the business stratosphere and the biggest chore that threw itself in my face was having to convince everyone that they were not my targets. Business was business, they had to simply watch out for themselves and I did the same, only they hadn't outsmarted me yet, that was all. I put my attention back into Manhattan and gave the wolf before me a glance. I hadn't answered his question and I wasn't listening anyway. I'd caught him staring more than once at my cleavage. He hadn't lost any of his old instincts. That boy had been grabbing asses since age eight and he'd only gotten worse from there. Amazingly, spent time in the joint for a series of armed robberies to fulfill a worsening addiction to crystal meth. He'd only just begun to straighten up. I'd remembered him as handsome and a little ripped. The new him was a freeze-framed train wreck. His skin was smaller than his skeleton. He violated physics simply by wearing his set of clothes. His eyes were pleading to me as if I was a living goddess. He might just have a fighting chance if I did take him in for that custodian job he'd applied for. Let him go, and he's as good as homeless. Seeing his puzzled face at being summoned to the office belonging to the highest of the high had been a delight to watch. I'd inserted a few key words and mannerisms to rebuild his memories of me. Made a reference about his football injury back in ninth. He asked his question again. I still wasn't listening. I wanted to savor my final lap at the Mexican Grand Prix. Told him offhandedly that I'd just finished second place and sighed as I complained of having to settle things on the last and final race of the season. When I saw his face scrunching up in confusion, I dismissed him. He didn't close the door, so I had to yell at him and throw out the same insult he'd given me in the corridors of the olden days. The boy had been a shame to interview. He hadn't even grown into a remotely handsome thing. He'd gotten himself damaged and broken all on his own without anyone else's help. No bad luck or anything. There was no point in salvaging him. He would have been a corrosive agent within the whole machine I'd put together. Would not matter much, in the end, a janitor's a janitor, but I did not want to see things done half-assed. I had been laying there with my eyes closed for the past few minutes. Drinking, driving, parking, visiting, walking, climbing. People in St-Lucia gave me interrogative stares as they witnessed two identical girls in a skimpy bikini, snuggled up far too intimately for it to be entirely correct. Kind souls in the south suburbs of Nantes gave me a taste of the local Muscadet wine. I was preparing my bed in Tel Aviv and wishing good night to the old friend who hosted me for the week. People who didn't know me treated me like any stranger and I conquered them with smiles and wits. People who knew me a little were acquaintances who might just become good contact to be with. People who knew me a lot realized the sheer gravity of who they were with, that I was not just an uncanny lookalike of the business mogul, the F1 driver, the busty socialite, the Olympic athlete. I was them all. And if they were malleable enough, I gave them a taste of it. Oh, I couldn't make them be like me, but I could sure invade and fill their bedroom, unnerve them, caress them, overwhelm them and make them scream in a half-and-half of ecstasy and fear. Despite what they saw, they could not fully believe this was happening. It was all too unreal, all too surreal. There was a trick, those were actors, there were special effects, there was makeup. Any excuse was valid. I giggled, I made them come and I demanded they apologize. If they froze in place, I repeated my demands with two dozen voices at once and they always, always answered. From then on, they would do anything for my sake. They would claim it was loyalty, out in the open. But close the door, and they'll tell me how much they'd been wanting to see all of me naked so they could worship me inside and out, finally admitting that they could not live without me giving them one last fling. Said they last time, and the time before as well. Sometimes I told them to just get on with it since I already had two other scenes well into body contact by now and they were the slowest of my night's bunch. Sometimes, this taunt wasn't true and I just said that to urge them on. *"Mr. Langelier for you."* I opened my eyes, squinted as I remembered I had LCDs bright as spotlights behind me. My receptionist. She wasn't me. I left the menial jobs to other people. I wanted headwork and challenges. "He hasn't an appointment. Have him take one." *"He insists. He says to relay the codeword 'Bengals Tenth'."* There wasn't any codeword. But the Bengals were my team name in phys-ed during the volleyball section. He's from high school. "Okay. The numbers, please." *"Terry Langelier, twenty-five years old, red panda, five feet and six inches, one hundred and twenty pounds, L'Assumption Elementary, Cadillac High."* "Uni?" *"No higher education."* The numbers checked out. A red panda, just like I. I had him brought in with a five minute delay prior. I prepared the stage. Took out the remote and had all the screens retract into floor, walls, ceilings. Behind me was the magnificent sunset of Manhattan, bathing the office in a welcoming shade of lovely orange. I took my suit jacket off. I let my hair down. I replaced the diamond studs in my ears with impressively abundant sets of fine golden chains. I ordered everyone on my floor to leave and go home. I pulled out of the entertainment center I'd set up a floor below and replaced all the presences at each desk. Right on time, he showed up. He went out the elevator and walked into the situation of being stared at all the way to the double doors at the far, far, far end. He'd have to open them himself. The hinges would creak omniously - I had an oil flush system set up for the purpose. Expensive, wasteful, but it was for a necessary detail. I could see his nerves bunching up. His footsteps became shaky. He nearly tripped and fell over thanks to a recycle bin along the way. From then on, I gave him a slight, but endearing smile. I tucked my chin in the palm of my hand. I appeared to consider him, study him, quite nearly undress him. He had shown up in clothes a little tight on his effeminate body. His hair was pulled into a ponytail that he'd tucked into his shirt. His frame was incredibly slender. Give him panties and he'd be going from zero to flamboyant in a heartbeat. The welcome I gave him was a lot better than what I'd done for the wolf. The meth-head had gotten the surgical absolute-zero treatment. Now, this wah... looked a lot like I during my youth. Tiny inside and outside, in body and mind and soul alike. Insecure, blushing at anything, offended by everything, looking for any threat in sight so he could defend himself like the barbarians were at the gates. His walk was slow enough that I had time to find his exposition in Seattle and gaze at his works. He'd painted cars, landscapes, stylized impressions of celebrities, imaginary characters. His talent came from a heart of gold and a hopeless devotion to his craft. He'd probably eaten ramen noodles like they were a delicacy. He wouldn't sustain the rhythm for long. No one could. Inevitably, he would end up an embittered lackey in retail hell and would forever curse himself for failing to make it. He had begun at the bottom of the ladder, and the local appraise placed nothing above fifty dollars, not even the thirty-by-sixty that most assuredly took a whole month to get just right. And because of this, his works lost all prestige. People wanted to buy something expensive so they could flaunt their wealth. They feared being considered lowlifes if they could furnish their home in artwork for a grand total of less than at thousand dollars. He'd gotten in. The door had made the most dreadful noise. I had already prepared my laptop with a live feed of whatever remained of the Grand Prix. Everything was perfect. I was jumping and squealing like a little girl. My hair was wet, the champagne was amazing. My day's highlight was in Mexico where I had pretty much taken a shower in my suit and fought a battle I'd remember for years. I understood that alcoholic ceremony on the podium: it was meant to mask the odor of sweat. "I took second place." I said with a smile, eyes still on the feed. *"Congratulations. I was listening along the way."* "On the radio?" *"Yes."* "Neck to neck with the handsome Alfonso Gagliardi. He's a rare specimen isn't he? One of the last good knights of the modern world, hmm? I wouldn't mind him in my bed sometime. Watcha think?" *"He is a very fine racer, yes."* He'd just stood there. I had two wonderful chairs to offer and he'd taken neither of them. He did not dare do anything he wasn't told to do. Wouldn't be the first time I'd have to actually put a backbone into someone. "Let your hair out." *"Huh?"* "Hair." I made a tossing motion with my hand. Gingerly, he reached behind his neck, pulled the band away, and let it out. On his back. "Shake your head. Do like those Herbal Essence models. Put it everywhere." His reaction was deliciously obedient. A jerk of his body forward, then upward. His hair shot up and fell all over him. A shake to each side, and it settled into its respective parts. Into three amazing cascades that reached his waist, no less. Below chest level, the vibrant red of his hair faded into a bright, dusty, artificial pink. Went better with his blue eyes than the red did. Seriously, that blue of his was dazzling. I could put this doll on a runway! "You legally changed your name." I said matter-of-factly. He did not answer. But he blushed. The very fur of his cheeks glowed a deep pink. "Why?" *"...I disliked my other name."* "I agree. At ease. There are good chairs for you." He did so. His legs joined together. His hands on his lap. My kingdom for a handbag. I shut off the laptop and killed the live feed. Simultaneously, I had the sound system emit some lazy piano. Just audible enough. "You are here to beg. None of your paintings have sold." *"What makes you say that?"* Surprise? "You are staring at my eyes, not my tits." *"Well... no."* I leaned forward. I had my fingers in an L-shape on my lips and my cheek. I could not feign my interest. The only reason he had escaped the taunts was because I was taking the brunt of them. He had not acted upon them, he had not rushed to my defense, but he was one of the few who was not strong enough to do so. He was the sort of person who would end up getting defended, if that ever happened. Too meek, too mild-mannered to stand up for themselves. Most never amounted to anything much. He was different. As I looked upon his gallery, I noticed each of his pieces had been made last month. The numbers did not add up. He *never slept*. "When did it happen for you?" *"Twenty days before my nineteenth birthday. And you?"* "Same." Silence. The connection was done with body language. I could see him slumping. He felt like he was in familiar territory. Okay. I could concede that. I smiled. "You haven't been blessed much, have you?" *"What way?"* "You tell me, girl." *"Compared to you... no."* "And the others?" *"It didn't cross my mind."* "Carpe diem?" *"Kind of. I don't have much ambition. I'm just thankful I have time to do what I like."* He was bursting with energy. It was five o' clock in the evening and he looked bright and alert. "Have you any questions about me? Now's the time, but just one. Make it count." *"How... um..."* "Three hundred eighty-five thousand, two hundred and nineteen." *"Okay. Thank you."* "What do you hope to accomplish with this information?" He had that split-second hesitation that told me his mind was elsewhere. "Shut up." I put my hand up to dismiss whatever he was about to say. My question had no sensible answer and he would tell something uninteresting for lack of telling a lie. "My fair lady..." I muttered as I considered him. He blushed anew, fiercer than before. I realized he'd forgotten to close the door behind him. From the cube farm, I went and did so. Hard. Quick. Slammed it good and startled him almost right into the ceiling. He was not getting away. That was the message. I kept up a bittersweet demeanor about the situation. I could not allow myself to drop all my shields just because he was an exception and he was finally something worth writing home about. I would be betraying myself if I did so. And I would be betraying him. He expected the ubiquitous me. He was here for this reason, no other. He knew who I was. He believed, through and through. He'd accepted it. He was nervous because of his own self, and not because of whatever power I held over him. He stared at me with a certain defiance in his eyes. That same challenging look I remembered giving myself in the mirror one fine day. He was putting up a gamble. No. A gambit. Sacrificing himself for... No. Oh, no. Son of a *bitch*. "Am I your sexual fantasy?" I did not convey offense. I made my words sharp and I left him with confusion. If he was worth his salt and seed, he'd tell the truth. If he was as spineless as I imagined him, he would lie and put an end to our high school reunion right there and then. He chose neither. He remained silent. I clicked my tongue. "You are not leaving until I get an answer. No food, no drinks, and I'll lower the bullet screen so I can go to sleep. You'll be making a whole lot of people wait and I'll be telling them you are the cause of their appointments being bumped. They will not like you for it. By the time you hit two in the morning, you will be bored out of your chicken skull. I will not make assumptions just because you are being a pissant about the subject. If you puke your beans within the next five minutes, I'll offer to buy you a pretty dress. Go on. Speak." I did not expect him to have enough resolve to shut himself off. He would squeal quickly enough. He had ideas in his head and he wanted to paint them. He could not afford to stay here all night long and refuse to go on after getting past the point of intimacy. But whatever he was thinking of now, I could not make out. He had no reason to be a stick in the mud. His lip trembled. If he said anything now, he would stutter and mentally fall flat on his face. Poor thing could not hold himself up. His body language would speak in his stead. He was frozen in a state of panic. It was probably the most stressful thing to happen to him in six years and a half. "Do you want my cock up your ass?" No answer, but he gulped. The music paused at just the right moment. I heard a squeal. " **Do you** want my cock up your ass?" His thighs became hard, tense. His body was answering louder and clearer than he wanted to. Everything in his head was going wrong. Beneath the desk, I lifted my skirt. He heard a muted thud. The squeal returned. There was a crack in the power face. His eyes were being a rave party. "Do you want me to take you and throw you on the floor? Do you want me to get balls-deep that I poke a bump in your chest? Do you want me to stretch you? Do you want something bigger than the toys you brought home? Do you want me to pick you up, have my fun and put you away when I'm done? Do you want me to destroy you from behind between bed and breakfast? Do you want me to remind you every morning that I'm four times your hard-on before I get started?" My nourished fire was chipping away at him. First in morsels. Then in enormous, disgusting chunks. "Wanna be my trophy wife?" My voice taunted him. Nagged him. I spoke on the tip of my lips. He seized the armrests and got to his feet. The piano had wandered far away from its laze. He loomed despite his short stature. His head sunk between his shoulders, his teeth clenched. He wanted to yell an insult, but he couldn't. He wanted to act the fight part of his fight-or-flight instinct but he'd never had any. He couldn't pick out the right thing to say. He threw a senseless, insane question, the first thing he could catch. *"Can I see it?"* "No." I sounded annoyed. *"Please?"* What a shaky voice. What a high pitch. "No! **You** make me see it." He froze in place. He'd been caught off-guard. The music had become experimental, bordering on the edge of dissonant. I stared him down. I was stone-faced. He stared back. He wanted to cry. I reached for my shoulder strap. He gasped. I only straightened it on myself. Silence. I grabbed the armrests. His eyes opened wider. I crossed my legs. Broke the stare. Eyed the laptop. Began to reach for it. Thank goodness I'd chosen the right song. The pause. The crescendo. The assembling harmony. Pants down. The climax. He at last let all his rage into throwing pants, socks and underwear against the wall. He faced me, breathing hard, furious inches protruding, as understated as the remainder of his body. I got up, likewise, and my skirt hid everything he wanted to see. One last chord. The moving synesthesia died with the last of the song. This piano should have been picked up and smashed on-stage before a delirious crowd. His muscles relaxed. His expression softened. Creak. Throw. Creak. Click. "Put this on." He eyed the frilly dress I'd tossed on the chair. *"This your revenge?"* I shrugged. No. But he didn't need to know that. Like a good girl, he wore nothing underneath. He looked like a French maid. All he needed was the apron. That soft shade of pink would be his for life. This was as good as he would ever get. I would bring him to my suite, push him in and close the door. I would not leave him a key. I would let him explore and make his own snack. I would let him discover that my wardrobe was under lock. I would let him wear only what I wanted him to wear. I had prepared my home in New York for that express purpose. For him. For when he would show up, when my old crush would at last be safe and secure not under my guidance, not under my counsel, but between my legs. I would ignore him plainly, royally, until I had something to do with him. I would make him go on for days without even a grope. I would make him come when he least expected to. I would interrupt him in the middle of a painting. I would drag him along to a restaurant and make him sit at the sushi bar on those glass chairs. On the second floor. Right next to the ramp. I bent over slightly and gathered myself up. Secured, safe, decent, I walked around my desk and left my suit jacket behind, standing in sleeveless button-up shirt that revealed much of my expansive cleavage. I walked past him, and my tail brushed between his legs. "I am going for a dinner out. I will be back in two hours." I opened the doors. "Use this floor as you like, once I'm gone." Fifty identical red pandas stood in classy, expensive evening gowns, fur coats, urban shirt and pants and jacket, made up, hair arranged to match. I walked with an exaggerated sway to my hips. I caught up to the rest of myself slowly. I made him stare, I'm sure. I had no need to watch. He had not moved. He was following my instructions to the letter. I turned around, simultaneously. I made my way to the elevators at the far, far, far end. I let him gaze at countless rumps in their nigh-skintight dresses. I hypnotized him with tails that took one another on a dance. I parted eight ways and disappeared into the elevators. From then on, I guess, he would move. I figured I would come back to the sight of a raving lunatic, ready for the picking. A needy, desperate individual who would pray for satisfaction. He would be in Heaven and Hell simultaneously. That wasn't my wish. It was his. He wanted to be nothing more than nothing. Nothing before everything. The match was more than perfect. He would wander the cube farm and work himself to a life-threatening heartbeat from watching the monitors. Two hours was plenty enough entertainment for him to think of next month's paintings and this soon torrid night. I'd left the entire floor displaying my homemade pornography.