The Titan of the Top Floor (Patreon)

I still remember the first day I met Ms. Kwan. It was my first week at Apex Consulting, and I was a nervous wreck, fumbling with my tie as I stepped into the glass-walled conference room for orientation. She was there, standing at the head of the table, a petite woman no taller than 5’2”, her delicate frame wrapped in a tailored blazer and pencil skirt. Her black hair was pulled into a neat bun, and her almond-shaped eyes scanned the room with a quiet intensity that made my stomach flip. She was beautiful, but in a subtle, understated way—like a porcelain doll with a mind sharper than a blade. “Welcome to the team, Daniel,” she’d said, her voice soft but firm, and I’d nodded mutely, already intimidated by her presence.

That was three years ago. Now, as I sit at my desk in our open-plan office on the 45th floor, I can barely reconcile that memory with the woman standing before me. Ms. Kwan—Lina, though I’d never dare call her that to her face—has become something else entirely. She’s a titan, a goddess, a force of nature. At 7’4”, she looms over everyone in the room like a skyscraper of muscle and power. Her white blouse strains against her massive chest, the buttons barely holding on, her breasts so large they seem to defy gravity. Her arms bulge with every movement, veins snaking across her biceps, and her thighs—God, her thighs—are thicker than my waist, rippling with strength beneath her tight navy skirt. She’s wearing heels, too, which push her well past 7’6”, her calves flexing as she shifts her weight, her head nearly brushing the ceiling of the office.

I can’t stop staring. I never can. I’m sitting at my desk, pretending to review a spreadsheet, but my eyes keep drifting to her as she stands in the middle of the office, reviewing a report with one of the senior analysts. Her long black hair is pulled into a high bun, a few strands falling loose to frame her face, and her glasses perch on her nose, giving her an air of authority that makes my knees weak. She’s barking orders now, her voice deeper than it used to be, resonant and commanding, echoing through the office like thunder. “I want those projections on my desk by noon, or you’re working the weekend,” she says, and the analyst scurries off, practically bowing as he goes. She gets whatever she wants—always has, always will—and I’m no exception.

I think back to how it started, this transformation that’s consumed my every thought. About a year after I joined the company, Ms. Kwan started hitting the gym. At first, it was just a casual thing—she’d mention a new personal trainer or a protein shake she was trying. But then it became an obsession. She’d come into the office each month looking a little taller, a little broader, her suits getting tighter as her muscles grew. By the end of the first year, she’d shot up to 5’8”, her arms starting to fill out, her legs gaining definition. She’d laugh about it sometimes, flexing her bicep for the team and saying, “Not bad for a former bookworm, right?” But there was nothing funny about it to me. I was mesmerized.

Now, three years in, she’s unrecognizable. The petite woman I met on my first day is gone, replaced by this 7’4” Amazon who dominates every space she enters. She’s a fortress of muscle—biceps that could crush me, abs I’ve seen her flex through her shirt, thighs that could snap a chair in half. Her chest has grown too, her breasts so large they strain every blouse she wears, a perfect contrast to the hard lines of her physique. She’s a paradox of power and femininity, and I’m utterly devoted to her. I’ve heard whispers around the office—rumors about experimental treatments, growth hormones, something to explain her impossible height and strength—but I don’t care. To me, she’s a goddess, and I’m her willing worshipper.

I worship her. There’s no other word for it. I live for the moments she calls me into her office, her voice cutting through the hum of the office like a siren’s song. “Daniel, I need you,” she’ll say, and I’ll jump up so fast my chair spins, my heart pounding as I follow her. Her office is a sanctuary of glass and steel, her desk piled high with reports, a single orchid in a vase the only touch of softness. She’ll sit on the edge of her desk, her skirt riding up to reveal more of those impossible thighs, and I’ll stand there, barely breathing, waiting for her orders. My head doesn’t even reach her waist when she’s seated like that, and I feel like a child in her presence, small and insignificant. Sometimes she’ll catch me staring—my eyes lingering on the swell of her chest or the flex of her arm—and she’ll smirk, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Focus, Daniel,” she’ll say, but there’s a teasing edge to her voice that makes me think she likes it. She likes the way I look at her, the way I tremble under her gaze.

Today, she’s called me over to her side of the office, and I’m standing next to her now, my head barely reaching her hip. She’s reviewing a client proposal I put together, her glasses sliding down her nose as she scans the pages. “This is good work,” she says, and my chest swells with pride. Her approval is everything to me. “But I want you to rework the financials. I need them tighter, more aggressive. Can you handle that?” I nod quickly, my voice catching in my throat. “Yes, Ms. Kwan. Of course.” She looks down at me—way down, her neck craning to meet my gaze—and I feel like I’m shrinking even more under her scrutiny. She’s so massive, so powerful, her presence filling the room like a storm cloud. I can smell her perfume—something spicy and warm—and it makes my head spin.

She shifts her weight, her skirt stretching tight over her thighs, and I can’t help but glance down. Her legs are a work of art, every muscle defined, her stockings doing little to hide the sheer power beneath. I imagine what it would be like to touch them, to feel that strength under my hands, and my face flushes hot. She notices—of course she does—and her lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile. “Something on your mind, Daniel?” she asks, her voice low and teasing. I stammer something incoherent, my eyes darting to the floor, but she laughs softly, a sound that sends shivers down my spine. “Get back to work,” she says, but as I turn to go, she adds, “And don’t be late with those revisions. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

I spend the rest of the day at my desk, my mind consumed by her. I can’t focus on the numbers in front of me—all I can see is her, standing there like a goddess, her body a testament to her discipline, her power, her will. I think about how she gets whatever she wants, how the entire office bends to her command. Clients sign contracts the moment she walks into a meeting, her towering 7’4” frame enough to intimidate anyone into agreement. Colleagues scramble to meet her deadlines, knowing she won’t tolerate failure. Even the CEO defers to her, calling her “the backbone of this company” as he ducks to avoid hitting his head on her elbow. She’s unstoppable, and I’m caught in her orbit, a willing satellite to her sun.

At night, when I’m alone in my apartment, she’s all I can think about. I picture her in that white blouse, the fabric stretched tight over her chest, her arms flexing as she gestures during a meeting. I imagine her towering over me, her shadow swallowing me whole, her voice commanding me to kneel. I wonder what it would be like to be hers—truly hers—not just her employee, but her devotee, her worshipper. I’d give her anything, everything, just to feel her strength, to be close to her power. She’s my obsession, my muse, my goddess, and I’m powerless to resist her.

Back in the office, I finish the revisions just before her deadline and bring them to her office, my hands trembling as I knock on the glass door. She looks up from her desk, her glasses catching the light, and beckons me in. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” she says, and I hand her the report, my heart in my throat. She reads it in silence, her expression unreadable, and I stand there, waiting for her judgment. I’m eye-level with her desk now, her seated form still towering over me, her knees alone taller than my waist. Finally, she looks up, a rare smile breaking across her face. “Well done, Daniel,” she says, and I feel like I could float. “You’re learning to keep up with me.”

As I leave her office, I glance back at her one last time, watching as she stands and stretches, her muscles flexing under her blouse, her 7’4” height making the room feel like a dollhouse. She has to duck slightly to avoid the ceiling lights, her presence so overwhelming it feels like the walls might buckle. She’s a titan, a queen, a force of nature, and I’m hers—body, mind, and soul. I’ll never stop thinking about her, never stop worshipping her. Ms. Kwan is my everything, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.