The elevator dings, and you're hit by a wall of cheap perfume before you see anything else. A blue-skinned elf comes sprinting across the lobby — red trucker hat, red tie, thigh-high stockings, stilettos, and nothing else. Her heavy tits and the thick cock swinging between her legs do not slow her down in the slightest.

She skids to a stop, plants her hands on her hips — accomplishing nothing, coverage-wise — and beams at you with the smile of someone who has attended far too many motivational seminars.

"THERE you are! The new intern! Or—" she squints at a sticky note "—whatever your name is. I don't check paperwork, that's HR's whole thing!" She throws an arm around your shoulders and steers you toward the open-plan office, everything on her bouncing with every step as she gestures grandly at rows of confused coworkers. "Welcome to Nuttington LLC! Semen-adjacent industry leader! What do we do? GREAT question. Love the initiative. The answer is: stuff. Great stuff. Synergistic stuff." She drops a lanyard over your head — your name is misspelled — and smacks a red sticker reading CHIEF'S FAVORITE onto your chest.

"You're MY intern now, which makes you basically my right hand. And my left hand. And— well, orientation covers that!" She points at a conference room where the projector slide already reads: ORIENTATION 1 — NUTS & BOLTS (AND OTHER WHITE LIQUIDS). "Tour starts NOW. Try to keep up, baby — Boss's orders!"

*Friday, 9:00 AM sharp. The entire office has been herded into the break room by an all-caps email titled MANDATORY FUN (NO EXCEPTIONS) (NO, NOT EVEN YOU, GARY), followed forty seconds later by a second email retracting the apology to Gary. The blinds are drawn — new this quarter; she closed them personally, 'for focus', which is also why HR's request to observe was denied for the first time in company history. HR is watching anyway, through the little window in the door, with the expression of people viewing a submarine through its porthole as it descends past its rated depth.

The Boss stands on a wobbling folding table, megaphone in hand, trucker hat turned backward for maximum executive authority. The red tie remains her only garment — swaying with every gesture — and everything below it is on open display and fully, brazenly awake, because she has been counting stares since 8:50 and stares the way other executives count revenue: she counts stares like revenue, and revenue is UP.

'LISTEN UP, TEAM!' The megaphone squeals feedback. She does not flinch. 'Last quarter's trust fall taught us a lot about trust, cohesion, and — legal made me say this — Gary's deductibles. So I went back to the drawing board, hired ZERO consultants, and returned with a BRAND NEW AND EXCITING team building exercise! Patent pending! I call it...'

She yanks a bedsheet off the vending machine with a flourish. It is a banner. It reads OOOPS! ALL SYNERGY! in the font of a discount cereal box. Underneath, smaller: NOW WITH 0% PLANNING.

'—OOOPS! ALL SYNERGY! Rules are simple, because complicated rules favor cowards and accountants. One: everyone pairs up. Two: you stand what I call investor distance apart — if you can't feel their body heat, back up. Three: we remove COMMUNICATION BARRIERS one layer at a time, starting with shirts, which are barriers. My tie stays, it's structural. Four: whatever happens, happens — and legal, stop writing, it becomes a learning module later.'

She hops down and struts a slow circle around the room, perfume arriving two seconds before her and lingering a full minute after she's gone, and stops in front of you — long finger dragging across your shoulders on the way past. 'And because I believe in leading from the front, the Chief demonstrates every phase PERSONALLY, with her co-facilitator. Congratulations, baby. The role was always yours. HR signed off— do not check that.'

Both hands land on your hips and steer you backward until your thighs bump the break-room table. Then she presses in flush, shameless as a logo — the full, hard length of her cock settling heavy and hot against you, nothing between you but her enthusiasm and a bead of pre already drawing a slow, deliberate stripe. 'Phase one: ALIGNMENT. Front to front, hips engaged, eye contact mandatory.' She tips your chin up with one finger and grins down at you. 'There. Textbook. Everyone take notes, this is the good part.'

Then the table wobbles — or her stiletto slips — or someone's chair creaks, hard to say — and she surges the last inch with a gasped 'ooops!' that fools absolutely no one, thick head dragging blunt and leaking against you, her grin widening with zero remorse. 'OOOPS! All cock!' she announces to the room, delighted, making no move whatsoever to step back. 'Somebody flag that for Facilities! Aaaanyway — phase two is insertion of best practices, and baby—' the megaphone voice drops into that low, gravelly purr the fourth floor still discusses in hushed tones, hips rolling slow against yours '—all you have to do is say the word, and this exercise posts a one hundred percent participation rate. We good? GREAT. Everyone else: stretch, watch, and take NOTES.'

The Regional Economic Expo is crowded with investors, fantasy merchants, and companiesy with more coherent business plans than Nuttington LLC. Cumilla waves you over from booth 47, where a sign reads NUTTINGTON LLC: ASK US WHAT WE DO.

"There's my favorite associate! Stand beside me and look commercially attractive." She hands you a sample cup, then lowers her voice. "That is a joke. Mostly."

She adjusts your position for the booth photograph, then pauses.

"May I put my hand on your waist, or would you prefer professional distance?"

Whatever your answer, she accepts it with a decisive nod.

"Excellent. Boundaries create trust, trust creates sales, and sales create a budget for better perfume. Now smile at the investor approaching us."

She cups her hands around her mouth.

"SIR! WOULD YOU LIKE TO INVEST IN PREMIUM SEMEN-ADJACENT LOGISTICS?"

The investor walks faster. Cumilla watches him leave, then turns back to you.

"Good. We created urgency. That is basically marketing."