My name is Natalie Vanderhill, and I build sex toys for a living.

How’s that for an introduction? Short and sweet, right? Maybe you wouldn’t find it so sweet if you could see me now, hunched over another cardboard box as I prepare it for shipping. I’ve been packing countless toys since six in the morning, so don’t think all I do is sit back and count the money.

Still, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m in complete control of my life (and my finances) and that’s what matters. It’s funny how things go, though.

A few years ago I was another fresh face out of Stanford, ready to enter the high-rolling, dog-eat-dog world of finance. Which was exactly what I did; I packed my bags, grabbed a plane to New York City, and landed a job at one of these behemoth financial institutions.

It took me a week to figure out that I was heading in the wrong direction. Despite being attuned to detail (which means I know my way around a spreadsheet), and enjoying the responsibility of dealing with large sums of money, the world of finance was simply too hierarchical and slow moving for my tastes. I needed action and risk, and so I ended up becoming an entrepreneur.

It was a gradual change; during the days I kept working inside my small office cubicle like a good mindless drone, but during the nights I transformed into the Dirty Lil’ Angels CEO. It started more like a hobby, really—something to take my mind off how boring my day job was.

After three months of tinkering with a lot of sex toys—research has never been this fun, that much I can tell you—I started building my own prototypes. From there, it took me a few more months to become a full-time entrepreneur. Now, at 25 years old, I’m raking in more money than I’ve ever expected. Seriously. And all this while still working out of my own apartment.

“Okay, now that’s done,” I whisper to myself, piling the last box on top of the other ones. I look around the apartment, hands on my hips, and I realize that I’ll probably have to rent an office space and maybe hire some people. Business is booming, and I don’t think I can keep up if I do it all by myself.

It’s booming so much apparently, that I just got a major order from Penny Worlein Toys. They’re one of the largest distributors of direct marketed sex toys. And their order is roughly four times my annual volume.

I’m going to need an office. A manufacturing team. A factory. A crew.

I’m going to need financing. More than I have on my own.

Success. It comes with its own set of problems.

It seems like I tapped into some hidden market; women all around the world can’t have enough of what I produce. No wonder, though, my sex toys have pretty much revolutionized the industry. I have toys you can use while sexting, others you can use on a one-on-one sweaty session, and even a few geared toward women like me: voracious romance readers.

Stretching lazily, I saunter over to my balcony, the warm New York sunset painting the world with its sharp orange glow, and lie down on the patio recliner. Thank God it’s Summer; for a California girl like me, the winter cold here is almost intolerable.

Still, even though New York City isn’t a particularly warm city, the first thing I did when Dirty Lil’ Angels turned a profit was buy this apartment, and I chose it because of the large balcony. What better place to think about how awesome your life is than the top of the world? Because, right now, lying here while the New York denizens go about their daily lives hundreds of feet underneath me, I really feel like I’m on top of the world.

I reach for the table on the side, grab my Kindle, and power it up. Nothing better than a steamy read after a hard day’s work, wouldn’t you say? But there’s a trick to how I do my reading, and it has everything to do with the small box by my side. I reach for it, open it, and snag a small silvery bullet from the inside.

Now here’s the fun part: I bite on my lower lip, slide one hand under the hemline of my dress and take it all the way up to my thong. I flick it to the side and then sigh heavily as I push the small silver bullet inside my pussy.

I pair it wirelessly with my Kindle and then let the whole world around me fade away. The bullet inside me is so tiny I can barely feel it now, and that allows me to dive straight into the book I’m reading without getting distracted.

Now, you’re probably thinking that this isn’t as good as the real thing, right? Well, you’re wrong. My toys are top of the line, and I’ve tested them (intensively) to make sure that you can have as much fun with them as you’d have with a real man—perhaps even more. Okay, if you have one of these perfect men you seemingly only find in romance novels, my toys won’t quite cut it, but then again, these men only exist in fantasy land, right?

I could say I’ve never seen men like that, but that’d be a lie. All you have to do is take a look at my family—well, stepfamily, but who cares? I was in college when my mother married one of Wall Street's titans, Drake Carlton, and that not only gave me a stepdad, but a stepbrother as well.

Drake “the Shark” Carlton—if you keep up with the news, you’ve probably heard of him. Too bad I never really had the chance to meet him. Before that could happen, his marriage with my mother went belly up, and that means I never got to see him up close.

As for my stepbrother, you’ve probably heard of him as well. He’s the CEO of a venture capital company, and from what I’ve heard, he is a complete degenerate. There are only two things that he cares about: pussy and money.

Even though Drake and Sloane aren’t blood related, Sloane’s the son of Drake’s first wife, you’d never guess it. They both thrive in the finance world, and they’re competitive as hell. Which also means that they don’t get along. Not that I care, though; it seems that no one gets along in this dysfunctional family.

But enough of all this family talk. I want to get hot and bothered right now, and I can’t do that while thinking of family, can I?

I turn to the chapter I was reading; I stopped last night right before a sex scene, and grin as the words start unfolding before my eyes, my imagination pulling me down into dreamland.

I feel my whole body warming up, my pussy becoming wetter and wetter as my eyes run up and down the screen. And that’s when the bullet starts to vibrate.

It’s barely noticeable at first, but I programmed it to be smart; it picks up the vocabulary I’m reading, analyzes the sentences and paragraphs, and adjusts the intensity by itself. As the action becomes hotter on the page, the bullet vibrates more fiercely. Smart, uh? Yeah, you don’t revolutionize the sex toys industry without thinking creatively.

But I can’t think about business right now. Oh, no, not at all.

I’m reading Eddie Cleveland. I picked up his Bad Boy Collection and I’m only on Chapter One and already the words are getting the bullet worked up. I swear his book is so hot that the bullet is buzzing hard, sending tiny ripples of pleasure over my inner walls, and it’s picking up the pace with each passing second.

“God…” I whisper, closing my eyes for a second and throwing my head back. Noticing that my endorphin levels are up, the bullet kicks it up a notch and vibrates harshly, sending a jolt of pure ecstasy up my spine. I squirm in the recliner, opening my eyes again and forcing my tired brain to focus on what I’m reading.

Grabbing the Kindle with one hand, I slide the other one under my skirt and then flick my thong to the side. Pressing down on my clit with two fingers, I start rubbing myself as the bullet pulses steady inside of me, each time it vibrates making me feel as if I’m stepping on a live wire.

Tired of keeping the fabric of my thong out of the way, I take my fingers out of my clit and push my underwear down my legs. I let it fall on the floor and, spreading my legs, I go back to my clit.

The sex scene I’m reading has two tall, gorgeous men fucking a woman, their huge cocks filling her holes. I grit my teeth, breathing hard as I imagine it happening to me, and I feel a sickening pressure building inside my skull. My heart pumps boiling blood fast, and I’m so wet right now that my fluids are dripping down my inner thighs and staining the recliner.

“Oh…” I moan, swallowing hard as my insides start to clench, my inner walls becoming tighter around the vibrating bullet.

As good as this is, I can’t help but imagine how it would be for the scene I’m reading to turn into reality. Bring me a sex genie right now, because I already know what my three wishes are going to be.

“Oh, fuck, fuck,” I breathe out, the Kindle slipping out of my fingers and falling between my legs. I grit my teeth harder and, closing my eyes, arch my back as the bullet sends thunder and fire up my spine.

I squirm in place, pressing my legs together as I imagine two huge cocks hardening just for me, ravaging me so hard that I can’t even think straight. I rub my clit as fast as I can and the bullet reaches the zenith of its intensity, sending a jolt of ecstasy straight into my brain.

“OH GOD!” I moan loudly, not caring if any of my neighbors can hear me right now; I make sex toys for a living, it’s not like I have a reputation to safeguard. My muscles twitch and spasm, my back arched as I burn from the inside out.

For a moment my mind goes blank, not a single thought disturbing the here and now. Pleasure blankets me, wrapping itself around me like a long-lost lover, and I finally sigh heavily, my body relaxing at once.

I laugh to myself, opening my eyes and looking at the New York skyline, its jagged buildings casting their shadows over the grid of streets underneath them. I gaze at the rectangular glass slits on the skyscrapers, wondering how many people are having sex right now. How many of them are masturbating? And how many of them are using my toys?

I once read somewhere that around 250 million people have sex per day. That’s a lot of sex, if you think about it, but right now I’m thinking about the countless women that don’t have a man (or have a subpar one). They’re the reason I founded Dirty Lil’ Angels, because every women needs a friend called Pleasure.

I go up to my feet and walk over to the edge of the balcony, resting my hands over the rails. I close my eyes and breath in the New York atmosphere, feeling as alive as I’ve ever felt.

It feels good to be in control of my destiny, to be the one in charge of my own life. But there’s something in the air, as if the breeze carries the whispers of destiny straight into my ears.

Your life’s going to change, the wind seems to say. And you know what? I believe it. I really do.