Every television in the city seemed to sing the same name: Zed.
His face owned the airwaves, polished, sharp, impeccably composed. The opening bars of the evening news theme might as well have been written as a hymn in his honor. Viewers across the city paused whatever they were doing when that familiar music swelled, turning toward their glowing screens like loyal disciples answering a call to worship.
Zed was there. Always there.
Viewers trusted him. Adored him.
To the city, Zed was the moral compass pointing true north. A reliable constant in a world spinning out of control.
Fathers quoted his reports over breakfast. Mothers nodded at his closing statements as if they'd been personal reassurances. Children heard his voice in the background and equated it with adulthood, with certainty, with truth.
But none of them knew him.
Not really.
Behind those camera-perfect smiles and designer suits was something else entirely.
A man who crafted charm like a blade. Who wrapped lies in velvet tones and served them to millions without blinking.
Beneath the layers of professionalism, beneath the practiced intonations and sympathetic eye, crinkles, something darker lurked.
An itch he couldn't scratch on air.
A craving for something unscripted. Raw.
Something that didn't come with a teleprompter or applause.
Night after night, after the cameras dimmed and the studio lights cooled, Zed would retreat to the dressing room that smelled faintly of hairspray and artificial leather. He'd sit in front of the mirror, peeling off the day like a snake shedding its skin, first the jacket, then the tie, then slowly unbuttoning the crisp shirt that had hugged his frame too tightly all day.
And tonight, as always, that hunger stirred.
His phone buzzed on the marble counter. A message lit the screen: "Are we a go tonight?"
His lips curled, not for the sender, but for himself. A smirk born of ritual.
He didn't bother replying. The silence was answer enough.
Later, in the hidden loft far from the flashing cameras, the door creaked open. Two men stepped in.
They started touching each other, on the bed in front of Zed, as he watch everything unfold. One of them, on his knees, in between the thighs of the other, hungrily sucking on a crotch.
Both groaned and moaned, with every thrust, every movement, while checking on Zed's reaction.
Eager. Trying too hard. Their voices filled the room before their shoes even left the threshold.
Too loud. Too fake.
Zed watched from his chair, shadowed in the corner like a judge cloaked in velvet. He let them perform, let the show unfold for a few minutes. Then, with a single flick of his fingers, he tossed a stack of crisp bills toward them.
"Leave," he said.
Startled glances. A stammered protest. But the money said more than words ever could.
They took it. Left. Door clicking shut behind them.
Zed sighed. The craving lingered, unsatisfied.
He didn't want a performance. He wanted the spark. The unscripted. The undeniable chemistry that made his blood roar and his nerves shiver. That exact tension between two bodies that didn't have to act, it just was.
He didn't want to direct. He wanted to command.
And when it was real, when the pair clicked, he didn't even have to lift a hand. Their pleasure became his. Their every moan, every gasp, every drop of sweat, it played across his senses like a symphony. Not voyeurism. Not detachment. No. Zed felt it. Every gush, every tremble. That was the addiction. That was the truth he kept hidden behind the suit.
And he would keep searching, keep bringing in pairs until he found another match worthy of his hunger.
Tonight wasn't it.
But the night was still young.
And he was still watching.
Another night, another pair.
"Tonight, you'll feel everything," the woman had whispered. Her partner stood still, stoic, almost statuesque. Intriguing for a second. But when they moved, it was robotic. Predictable. Mechanical.
Like every thrust was just meant to enter. The woman's moans where too forced. The way her body arched, her grip, her grind was deliberate.
Zed sighed.
He dismissed them before they could finish.
Another pair came in the next night. It started off well, he felt it. Both women, found their way to each others folds. Licking, and flicking. He could hear how each lick would echo throughout the room.
He felt it. He watched their every tongue work wonders. Their head pressed against each others folds. His crotch reacted. Throbbing under his robe.
One of the woman positioned herself above the other. Aiming her wet fold against the other, and started rubbing against it. Their moans where addicting. Both grinidng against each other, intensifying every second. The one on top started thrusting, with every friction, lewd sounds echoing giving him that static feeling he wanted.
Zed's head leaned back, the urge, building up. But then, one mistake. One of the women climbed her way up to Zed. Reaching for his thighs, her tongue tracing her way to his stiff crotch.
Zed flinched, and pushed her away. Cold eyes glaring, he tossed crisp bills on her way.
"I never allowed you to touch me!" he growled and both women stumbled picking up the bills before hurriedly leaving.
He sat back, sighed, and his once hard crotch immediately became lifeless.
Weeks turned into months. Dozens came and went. Some performed like machines, some fumbled like virgins. None gave him what he sought.
It was no longer a thrill. It was a search. A hope.
Until, one night, Zed didn't even bother preparing the bed. He just sat, lights off, untouched whiskey in hand.
He was done searching.
Or so he thought.