I own the motherfucking world.

Seriously, sometimes it just feels like I am the fucking prince of all fucking creation.

Never more so than when I'm looking out the fucking window of my condo in the fucking clouds high above New York City.

I live in One57. That's right. Right in the center of Manhattan on a street they call Billionaire's Row. You don't get much more fucking materialistic and pretentious than this.

"Your Highness," Pressly, my manservant says to me, coming into the large living room with floor to ceiling windows of the sky. "Your motorcycle is ready. Are you quite able to ride today?"

That's just like Pressly. Always watching out for me. Ever since my mother died when I was thirteen, he's become more like my primary guardian than anything else. He gives off the look and feel of Alfred from Batman, but I know Pressly's had his fun in life. He used to fight for my Kingdom, St. Livy, when we gave forces to the Americans in Vietnam. He lost his wife to cancer - same as my mother, only earlier. I guess we have that going for us. But the number one thing that makes him invaluable is that he doesn't fucking judge me like the rest of the world.

And the world would be fucking judge me right now if they could. I feel like shit. I only got in about fifteen minutes ago - around 5 am. I was at my nightclub in the Meatpacking District, having a fucking orgy with three Russian models in town for one night. Try drinking a bottle of vodka with some Russian birds and then cumming countless times on their eager faces and you'll understand what I mean when I say that I’m fucking tired enough to go mental.

"I've prepared some breakfast for you, Sire," Pressly continues, "It'll help you get some energy for the day ahead."

I turn to look in the mirror. Even for a night of heavy drinking, you’re going to think I’m a cocky fucking asshole when I say I look fucking good. My ice blue eyes are soulfully distant. They can look right into your soul. I have a strong as fuck jawline and a sculpted face. That’s the product of 2000 years of royal fucking blood flowing through me. My chest is cut. My shoulders are fucking broad. I may be a prince, but I look like a King. My arms are the product of over a decade of working out. And my abs. Fuck. Let’s just say that I’ve defined them so well that even if you’re blind, tracing your finger along them will get you fucking hot.

I’ve gotten you fucking hot now too, haven’t I?

Admit it. You’re fucking smiling.

No?

How about now?

Whatever. I’ve never let a bird get me down if she wasn’t feeling me.

Why am I calling girls ‘birds’ you’re wondering? I don’t fucking know. The Brits do. And St. Livy is close enough to them that I guess that shit rubs off.

But enough about me for now. Breakfast sounds like a very good idea after the night I’ve had. I pad over to the breakfast room and sit down at the clear and sleek glass table - a present from my brother in arms, Silas D'Avington. We fought together for St. Penares in Afghanistan - I was in his group and we were trapped in the mountains near Kandahar for close to a week, surviving on our own. Everything I learned about being a fucking badass came from that fucking guy. After Afghanistan, I came to New York, determined not to lose a single day of my life. My goal - simple - indulge in everything that I ever desired. Whether that was liquor, women, or anything else -- it was all fair game. Never really did any drugs though - it would have made it hard to keep my physique. That's right. My fucking body. What drives the birds fucking wild. 6 feet 4 inches of cut, ripped, and sculpted muscles and sinew. A set of abs that was chiseled by fucking Apollo himself. But let’s not forget the raison d'être of this marvelous body - it was all for the 11-inch cock that was swinging between my fucking legs. People call it an organ. I call it a fucking muscle for what I'm able to do with it. For the absolute bliss that I'm able to inflict upon the female population of this fine city.

And right now, I'm wolfing down my eggs and bacon, washing it down with some hand squeezed juice and running out the door. The Royal Press Secretary, a woman named Samantha in St. Livy, had booked a spot for me on Today, USA. I fucking hate Samantha. I know she’s fucking my Dad. But I don’t say anything because she’s the mother of Alicia. And Alicia…Fuck, we’ll talk about her later. Anyways, Samantha has me on some fucking morning show for people who slept well enough the night before to be up and at 'em at 6 in the morning. My interview is scheduled for 6 on the dot, and if I ride fast, I'll be there in fifteen minutes.

I bound out of the elevator and out of the steel and glass superstructure that I live in and hop on the motorcycle that the valet had brought out for me. It roars to life and I take off down 7th Avenue heading south to Rockefeller Center.

But first, I have to get through fucking Midtown traffic. Lucky for me, I'm on a bike. Not in a cab or on two feet like the pathetically weak pedestrians.

"Hey buddy, watch where you're going, will ya?" a Bangladeshi cabbie yells at me as I skirt by between two lanes and zip past him. Whatever. I give him the middle finger and dive forward. The light's yellow, but I put my foot to the gas. I'm going to fucking making it.

A fucking MAC truck blares its horns at me, just barely missing me as I zoom down 7th Avenue. I laugh to myself and yell as pedestrians get out of my way. Oh yeah, I may be driving on a sidewalk now.

"Fucking asshole!" some guy in black hoodie yells at me.

I stop the bike. Did I just hear what I think I heard? I'm maybe twenty feet past him but I get off the bike and turn around. I look at him. Wannabe gangsta. Thinks he Jay-fucking-Z.

"What did you say, mate?" I say.

He looks at me. I'm at least a foot fucking taller than this guy. He's got dreads but that's no match for the fucking skull and rose tattoo I have or the rose and thorns adorning both my arms. You can see them because I'm wearing a wife beater. But you can see my fucking muscles too, and right now, I don't mind flexing them.

The gangsta-wannabe looks at me for a second, then drops his eyes. "Nothin' man," he murmurs slowly.

"That's what I thought, mate," I say, and get back on the bike. It roars back to life and this time I fucking peal into the traffic.

But traffic is intense. And I'm fucking hungover. So I do the only thing I can to get some open road.

I head over to the other side of the street. With the oncoming traffic for the last block coming right fucking at me.

It's not a problem really. Most of the cars honk at me but I don't fucking care. They swerve out of the way, but I've already made my turn onto 51st street.

Life is fucking grand.

"Sir, you can't park that here," the building security rent-a-cop is telling me when I park in the ‘Reserved For Loading’ section.

I wave him the fuck off. I don't have time for this. It's 5:45 am and I need to fucking get upstairs.

"Sir! Sir!" he yells like a fucking parrot.

Luckily for me, my security contingent who was struggling to keep up catches up just as I head into the building. I'm not worried. Pressly leads the security detail. He'll deal with the rent-a-cop.

I head up the elevator, not giving two shits that I look so out of place with the rest of the people in there – dressed in their suits and uniforms of corporate slavery. What the fuck do I care? The women are staring me up and down. Hunger in their eyes. Lust in their hearts. Their husbands forgotten. The men are shrinking away from me - afraid when an Alpha is among them. Just the way I fucking like it.

"The interview is in Room 3, Prince Blaine," the receptionist who meets me outside the elevator is telling me as I walk out. She recognizes me instantly. I'm not surprised. Most people would, with the number of times the Post and the Daily News have my face splashed on there. "Mindy Friedman is waiting for you. They'll do hair and makeup as she preps you for the interview."

I'm not paying much attention to her, because we've just walked into the studio that's going to host the interview segment. The receptionist actually never came into the room - her job was done so she just gives fuck all about me. Leave it to the next schmo to take it from there.

The studio is empty except for a cameraman manning a camera and the interviewer - world famous Mindy Friedman.

"Where's the hair and makeup?" I ask, walking over.

Fuck me, this bird is fine. She's wearing a dark blue short skirt and a blue silk blouse. She blushes when she sees me. I give her an evil smile right back at her.

"You must be Prince Derrick," she says to me, a blush creeping across her face as she gets up. I can tell she's flustered.

Her tits are nice. Could be nicer. Body okay. Definitely fuckable.

I don't know what I'm doing but in times like this I usually just go with it. I reach over and pull off my wife-beater.

"What are you doing, man?" the cameraman exclaims.

Fuck. I had forgotten he was there. Mindy's looking at me with a look of shock as well.

"Get the fuck out," I say strongly to the camera man, pointing towards him.

"Excuse me?" the incredulous cameraman asks. He can't believe this shit. Neither can I. Which makes it hilarious.

"You heard me," I say. "Get the fuck out of here. Now."

I flex my upper body. My muscles glisten under the light and ripple. Mindy is entranced.

I smile to myself as the cameraman scurries away, more used to listening to orders than standing up to orders that are bollocks.

I mean, I know what you're thinking. Who the fuck am I? Why am I such a fucking asshole.

Well, I'll tell you who I am. I'm Prince fucking Derrick Blaine from St. Livy. I'm heir to the 10th largest economy in the world after my father. And I truly am a fucking asshole.

I'm also still rather drunk.

But let's go back to Mindy, shall we? Her mouth is hanging open and she's looking at me like I've gone fucking mental.

"We got some time, love," I say. "Follow me into bliss, or stand back and watch me get naked."

"Are you crazy?" she asks - her mouth agape. She's trying to be indignant. But I can see where her eyes are looking.

"Not at all, love," I say. "But we can argue, or we can fuck. Which one do you want?"

She hesitates. I undo the belt buckle of my pants and let them fall. My cock is twitching being around the presence of a female and my boxer briefs are showcasing my 11-inch bulge quite nicely.

Mindy begins unbuttoning her blouse.

So much for high minded morals or professionalism, eh?

"Faster," I say with a glint in my eyes.

Her face is blank, as if she's hypnotized. The blouse comes off and falls to the floor. I walk over and unzip the skirt, letting it fall too. I move her so she steps out of it.

She's wearing black lace boy shorts and a black lace bra. Nice. I reach over and squeeze her tits, kneading them like dough. My cock is alive. Her hands are on my boxer briefs and they go underneath the waistband. I feel her hand brush against my cock and then wrap around it. She grasps my shaft and her eyes go fucking wide.

"Jesus, Prin-" I cut her off before she can continue.

"Call me Derrick, love," I say softly. "Derrick Blaine."

My boxer briefs are on the floor now and my 11-inch anaconda is pointing at her. Thick and fucking hard. I unclasp her bra and she unceremoniously casts her panties aside. I let my eyes wander over her hourglass figure, and I just know there’s no escaping this - I have to fuck her, come hell or high water. And this is going to have to be fast. I turn her over and she gets on her hands and knees on the chair that she was sitting in not five minutes ago.

See? All I needed to do was smile, use my accent, my reputation, and my body to get her to fucking take off her clothes.

But even if that didn't work - there was always the secret weapon.

My monster fucking cock.

I reach into my jeans on the floor and grab a condom. Never fucking leave home without them. I waste no time in slipping the rubber on my shaft. This is no time to being coy and sexy. We probably have at most fifteen minutes.

"Prince...uhmm, Derrick, we shouldn't be doing this," Mindy protests.

Bingo. They always protest. The wife of the mayor protested once just as I was about to enter into her. So I pulled back. She realized what was happening and wrapped her legs around me. We fucked for hours on his bed.

"Have it your way, love," I say, slapping her ass and pulling back.

That's too much for her. She reaches over and grabs me by the hand. I come willingly. She places my hand on her breast, the warmness of it spreading to my skin. I squeeze it, grabbing at its firmness with an eagerness I can’t even fucking control.

"Don't go," she whimpers.

That's all the invitation I need and, thrusting at her, I push my cock deep into her cunt. She's not tight. I can tell she's a slut. But I'm not a choosy man this morning. Who the fuck cares if she’s not a virgin? I didn’t roll out of bed looking for one anyway.

"Oh, fuck!" she moans lewdly as my balls start slapping against her ass, my cock making a lewd suction sound as it goes in and out of her.

She's moaning loudly. Maybe too loudly. As the sound of her moans hit my ears, her whole body starts to tremble - she's cumming, and she’s cumming hard. To be honest, I don't really care. Good for her, I guess. I reach over and squeeze her tits again. I look over. Her face is too contorted by lust to care about anything else.

This is going to have to be quick. I speed up my thrusts, my thighs slapping against her ass harder. Is she going to cum again? It’s an idle thought. It makes no difference to me.

I hear a beeping and I look around. Not sure what's going on.

The camera is blinking red. What the fuck does that mean?

"Derrick," Mindy's moaning. "Harder."

I thrust harder, an undeniable tension filling all of my muscles. I'm not going to last much longer.

"Fuck!" Mindy's moaning.

I can hear commotion outside. I need to finish. I can feel the electric tingling in my balls. I'm about to cum.

Three more thrusts.

Two.

One.

I grunt savagely as I cum into the condom, a shiver going up my spine as pleasure hits me like a fucking brick. Mindy's panting. Her eyes are closed and she's cum at least two times. My body's shivering slightly and I feel my cock convulse as it keeps spurting cum.

I usually cum in quarts - but I don't get a chance to look at the Magnum because the door bursts open.

"What the hell is going on here?!" an elder man shouts loudly. He's wearing a suit. Must be a network executive. Two other suits are following him. Most likely his flunkies.

I pull out of Mindy who's still splayed on the chair. She briefly registers that someone is yelling something.

The network executive is gesticulating.

"Turn off the fucking camera!" he's yelling at the cameraman who isn't there. "We're live!"

I turn around to face him. "Cameraman's gone," I smirk. My cock's hanging out.

"Do you know what's going on?" the man yells out. "We're live in front of America!!"

Holy fuck.

I grin and turn to the camera, and nod. "Hello, ladies of America," I say out loud. Fuck it. If I'm in this deep anyways, might as well go all the way.

"Jason, call the control room. Shut this down!" the network executive is yelling. His face is red and he's sweating. All of a sudden I worry that he's going to have a heart attack.

"Calm down there, mate," I tell him, concern on my face. I don't want to be the cause of this guy kicking the bucket.

"Calm down?" he asks me incredulous. He lunges towards me and I take a step back. Too quick for him and he misses me as he reaches out. His hands move past my chest grazing my skin. And somehow they land on my giant cock. I swear that thing has its own fucking gravitational pull.

We both pull back at the same time, but the condom sticks to him and it comes off with him.

With all of my man juice in it. It doesn’t stay in the condom either. It splatters. All over Mr. Network’s suit. On his clothes. On his face. Jesus, on his face. For America to see.

Can you say mess? With all my fuck juice spraying his face?

Yeah. Bad luck, mate.

I look over at the camera.

"Take a good look, everyone!” I yell, waving my crotch in a circle and holding my cock out. I've lost respect for this network - where the fuck is their security? “You want a piece of this, America? I’m right here, waiting for you!”

I grab my cock and point its glistening head at the camera.

“Eleven fucking inches!” I boast, as I wave my cock in circles in front of the camera.

The network honcho's going apoplectic, trying to wipe himself off.

Maybe time to go. Besides, I've had enough. "See you all later," I say, reaching down and grabbing my boxer briefs. I slip into them and jump into my jeans and grab my wife-beaters as I head out the door.

I run to the elevator. People are standing up staring at the televisions all over the floor. They stare at me as I go by. Shock is on everyone's faces.

Outside the building, there are some people who seem blissfully aware to what's just transpired.

I run to the motorcycle, hop on, rev up the engine and peal out down the street as I hear sirens in the distance.