Chapter 4:  Hungry Like the Wolf

Wesley watched as the newly minted redhead began to sexually devour her two new friends at the pool table. The discarded bottle of Red Hair Dye lay in the corner. And just beyond her, the huge sign with the rules of the Wet Spot loomed, its terms quite clear to him now.

Well, he thought, setting down his own untouched drink, good thing I didn't order the Naughty Schoolgirl.

But Bunny. She'd had, in short succession, a Screaming Orgasm, a Panty Dropper, and enough of a French Kiss to be legally binding. It had been hot, watching her down those drinks like she meant business. It had also been hot, on a deeper level, watching her inhibitions (and if he was being honest, some of her wits) fade away as the neon alcohol flooded into her system. But now, as with all bar experiences, they had to pay the tab.

The two of them glanced around the bar. People were still carrying on, drinking and dancing. The Redheaded Slut was in the corner still, working the zipper of one man's acid-washed jeans and being a distraction Wesley actively had to work to ignore. But they could both sense the peoples' collective attention starting to drift their way, as if he and Bunny were having an increasingly audible argument and they all wanted to eavesdrop. And he sensed that the more they garnered attention, the more displeased the narrative would become. The more displeased the narrative became, the less power they would have.

He glanced down at his modest but defined muscles. At Bunny's rapidly swelling curves. They couldn't give up their power. Not now. He had to do something.

He put a controlling hand on her alcohol-flushed face. The contrast of his tanned white fingers on her light brown cheeks made something twitch alive inside of his black briefs. "Let's settle up, babe."

And then, at last, he leaned down to kiss her.

He'd planned to game out how to make this work in the narrative later. They were flirting, but later they would theoretically be able to get into a disagreement because one of them would be able to say that this kiss didn't count and the other would take offense. Or, if they were setting themselves up for a triangle with Missy, this would be fair payback after he'd made out with her last night in order to start his own personal Hero's Journey. It left them with a lot of potential options moving forward.

But he would be lying if he said he was actually thinking about that. What he was thinking about was the feeling of lightning coursing through his whole body, charged wherever Bunny's fingers roamed across it. He was closing his eyes, shutting out every detail of the bar around them and giving himself over only to the warmth and softness of her lips and the needful probing of her tongue.

He returned the tongue, savoring the phantom flavor of her drinks that lingered on her palate. They were sweet and fruity and sharp and they mingled with the scent of girl that filled his nostrils. It was that scent that drove his heart to race, his breaths to sharpen, his manhood to turn to steel. Her large, soft breasts pressed up against his muscles, her pointed nipples grazing alluringly against his skin.

He wanted to take her right there. He knew she would let him. He knew no one in the bar would care at all if he bent her over the barstool she was sitting on, exposing her tight and exotic snatch so he could unknot himself after she'd got him so twisted up. She would love the feeling of his hand on her back, shoving her down against the flat wooden surface to keep her steady so he could go as deep as he wanted for as long as either of them could hang on. And he was starting to paw at her hips, starting to naturally thrust his own against her body as their tongues continued to intertwine in the bridge formed by their locked lips.

And then he was back in the moment. No. He couldn't take Emily here. He wanted to. And he knew she wanted it. But to just fuck her with raw, primal abandon? That was the kind of thing that the guys native to this movie did. And he was still Wesley, just like she was still Emily.

They separated, a thin tendril of saliva stretching between the two of them. They stared straight into each other's eyes with excitement and unfulfilled desire, while all around them everyone in the bar had started cheering and holding up their drinks in salute.

One of the server girls, a Joan Jett type with black teased-out hair, tattooed arms, and a black one-piece with a plunging navel neckline, clanked a large empty beer glass on the counter. "That's one down! Two to go!"

Emily had changed out of her swim trunks before she had entered the bar.  She just happened to have a spare in her purse for some reason and of course it was designed to be daring and alluring, every detail carefully crafted to highlight her body with an effortless sensuality. She wore a white crop top, the fabric thin enough to cling to her curves without hiding much of anything beneath. The top had a low, scooped neckline, dipping dangerously to reveal the gentle swell of her cleavage, and the hem cut just above her midriff, leaving her stomach bare and showing off her toned amber skin that seemed to glow under the bar’s lights. The crop top was snug, fitted to show off her frame, and every move she made seemed to make it shift slightly, adding to the tension, as though one wrong step might reveal even more.

Her shorts were equally mesmerizing—ultra-short, denim cutoffs that hugged her hips and sat low, skimming her thighs and leaving little to the imagination. The frayed edges of the shorts brushed against her upper thighs, accentuating the smooth lines of her legs and drawing the eye with every step she took. The shorts were just tight enough to highlight the curve of her backside, fitted perfectly to make her look long-legged and effortlessly sultry. The waistband sat so low on her hips that it left a sliver of her black lace panties peeking out, a small, tantalizing glimpse that hinted at something more daring beneath.

With a slow, measured exhale, Emily let her fingers drift down to the low-slung waistband of her denim cutoffs, where the frayed edges teased at her upper thighs. Her gaze never left Wesley’s, and as her fingertips hooked into the fabric, her lips parted slightly, a breathless invitation and challenge all at once. She began to slide the shorts down, the worn denim gliding over her hips, catching momentarily on the curve before slipping lower, inch by inch, revealing more and more of her toned, honey-toned skin.

Around them, the bar quieted, the hum of conversation dimming as people noticed, their gazes drawn to her. The air felt charged with anticipation, a shared tension building as eyes flicked between her and Wesley, their collective attention magnetic, inescapable. The denim slid further, exposing the tops of her thighs, the slightest edge of her black lace panties now visible—a delicate hint that made her heartbeat race, daring her, urging her to let go of any remaining inhibitions.

Wesley’s expression shifted as he watched, the playful light in his eyes giving way to something deeper, more intent. A slow smile curved his lips, one that held a promise she could feel resonating through her, his hand resting on the small of her back, grounding her while also urging her forward.

Finally, with one last, deliberate tug, the denim slipped past her thighs, falling to the floor. She stood there in her black lace panties, feeling the cool air brush against her exposed skin, every inch of her alive and aware. The delicate lace hugged her hips, its intricate patterns following the soft lines of her thighs, tapering into a slender ribbon at her waist. A tiny satin bow rested just above her hips, a sweet detail on a garment that felt both daring and powerful. The lace itself, sheer and barely-there, clung to her curves like a second skin, the fine fabric catching the neon glow from the bar’s lights, casting her skin in a warm, exotic glow.

She let her fingers trace the line of her thigh, feeling the warmth of her own skin under her touch, acknowledging the allure she had, the effect she had on those around her. Her dark, silken hair framed her face as she shifted slightly, the lace of her panties moving with her, accentuating her curves, as it slid down down her legs before coming free. 

Emily quickly put back on her short shorts and then she hesitated, a coy smile playing at the corners of her lips as she reached down to pick up her discarded panties from where they lay at her feet. Her fingers traced the soft lace almost absently, feeling the delicate fabric between her fingertips, the gentle weight of it in her hands. She glanced up at Wesley, her gaze bright and daring, as a new idea took root.

With a slow, teasing movement, she lifted the panties to her hair, gathering her long, silken black locks together. She wrapped the lace around her hair, twisting it into a loose, casual ponytail. The delicate black lace contrasted against the dark gloss of her hair, the bow at the front of the panties settling just above the nape of her neck.

Her smile grew as she adjusted it, the lace barely holding her hair back in a way that was both playful and undeniably bold. She tilted her head, catching Wesley's eye with a look that was equal parts challenge and invitation, as if daring him to react.

"So… what do you think, Blaine?" she murmured, her voice low, husky, and laced with a laughter she could barely contain. "It’s just… practical, right?" She shot him a flirtatious smile, tugging lightly on the makeshift ponytail, her cheeks flushed with a mix of mischief and exhilaration.

At that exact moment, the waiter slid up to the table where Emily and Wesley were sitting, a bright orange cocktail in his hand that practically sparkled under the neon lights. He offered it to Emily with a grin, his voice smooth and cheerful. “Here you go, sweetheart. It’s on the house.”

Emily gave a quick squeak.  She was already feeling SUPER tipsy and who knows what that drink would do?   “Um… I don’t really need another one,” she replied, her voice already a bit slurred.

“Oh, come on,” the waiter pressed with a smile, sliding it closer. “Special just for you. We call it the … Exposition Dump.”

She shot Wesley a look, she wasn’t so drunk that she couldn’t recognize a bright neon sign flashing in red two inches from her face.  Deciding to play along she shrugged, reaching for the glass. “Well… if it’s free,” she mumbled, lifting it to her lips. The drink was tangy, a burst of tropical flavors that hit her tongue with a rush of sweetness, then left her with a warm buzz that spread down to her fingertips.

Before she even set the glass down, words started tumbling out, as if the cocktail itself had loosened her mind. “Wesley, okay, so… hear me out,” she began, her eyes bright, her speech rushing forward. “I’ve been thinking about… well, everything. I mean, like, how we’re here, and it’s all, you know, perfect 80s beach town—like we’re stuck in some kinda wild movie that just won’t quit.” She laughed, then shook her head, her thoughts spilling out faster than she could keep up.

“I mean, all the scenes, right? Like, this… this whole surf contest thing with Rad? And how everything we do gets us closer to… to something, like, some… I dunno, plot twist or climax or whatever they call it.” She waved her hands as if to illustrate, her movements loose and a little too enthusiastic causing her oh so tight crop top to jiggle in all the right ways.  

Wesley tried to interject, but Emily was on a roll, her voice bubbling with a mixture of excitement and bafflement. “And the girls! Did you notice how they’re, like, all the same? Tan, blonde, just super… you know, beach babes.  But have you, like, noticed I’m the only… Asian girl here?"

She laughed softly, almost as if the observation was some kind of inside joke she was just now understanding. “I mean, this whole, like, beach town? It’s packed with totally hot people, but… no other Asians. Just… me.” She poked a finger at her chest as though she were making a big revelation, her eyes wide and slightly glassy as she held onto the idea.

“I dunno, isn’t that, like… kind of wrong? Like, all these movies from back then,” she rambled, gesturing vaguely around her, “they didn’t have good… um, rep-re-sent-a-tion, right? Of, like, minorities and stuff.” She shook her head, though the thought didn’t seem to bother her too much in her tipsy state. “I’m the only one here! Which means…” Her eyes widened, a gleam of excitement breaking through her tipsy rambling. “That means… maybe I’m, like, super important?”

She giggled again, her fingers tracing idle circles on the bar as she continued, her thoughts drifting somewhere between serious contemplation and drunken curiosity. “Maybe they need me here, right? ‘Cause, like… I make it, um… diverse. And that makes me… special?” Her voice grew softer, as if this realization was something she hadn’t quite acknowledged until now, but one that felt suddenly significant.

Her lips curled into a mischievous smile as she turned her gaze up at Wesley. “I wonder… do you think they’re gonna, like, use my… Asian-ness?” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as if she were sharing some great secret. “I mean, all these movies always have these, like, super-exotic characters, right? Maybe they’ll give me, like, some mysterious, seductive storyline, where I’m, like, the temptress, or… or the one everyone’s, like, fascinated with ‘cause I’m different.” She grinned, the idea clearly amusing her.

“Or maybe…” she continued, her voice growing even softer, almost dreamlike, “maybe they’ll make me the one who, like, teaches everyone else about, you know… new things. ‘Cause, like, I’m exotic, right? So maybe I’m supposed to be… the one everyone’s secretly obsessed with.” She laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder, the lace panties tied in her hair swaying with the movement.

She sighed, a dreamy smile on her lips as she leaned against Wesley, her gaze growing unfocused as she looked out over the bar, lost in her own tipsy musings. “It’s kind of funny… that I’m the only one, but… it also makes me feel… kinda… special. Like I’m… valuable to the plot, or… something.” She trailed off, her words slurring as she nestled her head against his shoulder, her hand absently tracing little patterns on his arm.

“And Wesley…” she began, her voice slurred but affectionate. She reached out and poked his chest with one delicate finger, as if reminding him—and herself—of who he really was. “Or should I say… Blaine,” she added with a laugh, rolling her eyes at the ridiculous name.

She paused, considering her words. “But… you’re not really ‘Blaine,’ right? I mean, we know that, right?” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, conspiratorial and soft. “You’re Wesley. You’re not this… this ‘Blaine’ guy,” she continued, shaking her head as if the thought itself was too funny to take seriously.

“Like, ‘Blaine’ is the guy who would…” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely, searching for words and finding only the laughter drunken bubbliness coming up within her. “He’d just, like… waltz up to a girl and act all… possessive, like he owns her.” She laughed again, rolling her eyes, though there was a warmth in her tone, a glimmer of something appreciative.

She sighed, her gaze softening as she looked up at him. “But Wesley… that’s different. You’re… you’re you. Right?” She put her hand on his chest and tilted her head, a shy, almost vulnerable smile tugging at her lips as she studied him, as though trying to ground herself in the reality she knew they shared.  For a moment, her hand lingered against his chest, her touch light but meaningful, as if trying to hold onto the real Wesley beneath all the neon lights and beachy bravado. 

“Blaine,” she began, her voice rising slightly as she tried to keep her balance, leaning against the Wesley for support. “I mean Wesley.  This… this whole panty dropping thing. It’s… like, totally sexist, you know? Like, the idea that just ‘cause I ordered some, um… some dumb cocktail, I’m supposed to… just go along with this… this…” she searched for the word, her brow furrowing in thought. “Like, game or whatever. Just ‘cause some sign said so. It’s, like… totally wrong…”

She trailed off, realizing she was still pressed up close to him, the warmth of his body feeling comforting, almost grounding her. Her protests felt shaky, especially with how he was looking down at her with that infuriatingly confident smile, his hand resting easily on her lower back, grounding her in this wild world that had her spinning, just a little.

“I mean… who does that?” she continued, though her voice had softened, a trace of laughter threading through it. “Some guy just tells a girl to drop her panties, and—poof—she’s supposed to just, like… do it?” She laughed, almost incredulous, though her tone was less certain, her resolve slipping under the warm glow of her own words. “It’s just… it’s crazy, right?”

But as the words left her lips, she felt an odd thrill creep over her, her cheeks warming further as she recalled the thrill of letting the shorts fall, of feeling the cool air on her skin, of watching Blaine’s—no, Wesley’s—eyes darken with admiration. It was bold, it was daring, and the truth was… it had been kind of fun.

“I mean…” she hesitated, looking away, then back up at him, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “Maybe it’s kinda crazy, but… maybe that’s what makes it fun, right? Maybe… just once, it’s kind of exciting to, you know… let go. Not worry so much about what people are thinking, or whether it’s, like… proper.”

She giggled again, her cheeks flushing as she let herself sink into the honesty, into the newness of it all. “I bet, if I’d ever actually done this back in the real world, even once, it’d have been…” She hesitated, biting her lip, her eyes flicking back up to meet his. “I dunno. Maybe a little thrilling. To be that… that bold.” Her voice dropped, softer now, barely a whisper. “Kind of like I feel now.”

Emily shook her head, setting the empty glass down with a force that sent a little shiver down the bar. Her cheeks were flushed, her thoughts spiraling faster and faster as she spoke. “What am I saying?  The words that come out my mouth when I’m drunk … Wesley… I don’t know if you feel it, but it’s like this… pull, this insane pull trying to, like, rewrite me. Every time I give in even a little—like, the way I dress, the way I talk—it’s like the story gets stronger. And then I just feel this… tug, you know? Like it wants me to just lean in and let go and be, I dunno, some bubbly little bimbo or something.”

She glanced up at him, a worried glint in her eyes. “And you too, Wes. I mean, look at you!” Her gaze flicked over his toned arms and square jaw, the easy confidence he’d started to show in every stride. “It’s like every time you… I dunno, assert yourself, act like a big, muscly dude who doesn’t think too hard… the narrative rewards you. Makes you more of that guy, gives you more power over what happens next.”

Emily paused, her voice lowering, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t want to lose who I am, Wes. I don’t want to wake up one day and just… be some kind of, like, airheaded fantasy version of myself. I want to stay me. But at the same time… I feel like we have to play along. I mean, if we don’t, we’re just… trapped, with no way to change anything, no control.”

She took a shaky breath, as if steadying herself. “So… I think we have to find this, like, balance, right? We can’t totally give in and lose ourselves to this… world, to what it wants us to be. But if we push against it too hard, we might lose any power to escape, any chance to… save the beach, or whatever our role is here.”

Her fingers drifted to the lace around her ponytail, her lips quirking with a small, ironic smile. “It’s like we’re standing on a tightrope, and if we go too far in either direction, we just… fall. But maybe… maybe if we walk the line, if we’re smart about it… we can find a way.

“Whoa,” she murmured, looking down at the empty glass in her hand. “Guess that drink was, like… really something.”

—

Wesley had thought his hands were firmly on the wheel, at least as firmly as they had been planted on Bunny's tanned little ass cheeks. But as soon as the orange Exposition Dump had disappeared down her throat, the mood in the air had changed. Not for the worse; if anything, hearing her talk so much was kind of nice. Like, yeah, it was annoying that he had to sit there and listen for so long. But if she felt listened to, she was more likely to give him a good blowie later, right?

Whoa, he thought as the uncouth notion crossed his mind. That was an absolutely fucked-up thing for him to have thought. The level of entitlement it implied about her body, to say nothing of the idea that she was only worth listening to as a way of making her more sexually permissive...that was some grade-A knuckledragging, the kind that Wesley knew he was better than. It took some really messed-up, backwards thinking to look at an independent girl like Bunny and immediately imagine her kneeling subserviently before him, neon lights shimmering through her silky black hair as she bobbed her head up and down on the glistening white shaft he so generously gave her the privilege of–

stop it stop it stop it

Despite the plethora of distractions, he managed to make himself focus. As she talked about being the only Asian girl in town, he particularly felt that resonate with his more socially conscious, twenty-first century mindset. And when the conversation steered naturally towards what roles they were meant to play, how the story would develop because of that, he felt more and more of his old self surfacing. It wasn't like they were two different people--the reality castaway Wesley and the 80's beach bum that for the sake of simplicity he guessed he could think of as Blaine. But if he was currently maintaining a grip on his own consciousness, it was as if he'd just shifted that grip from his right hand to his left.

"First of all," he said at last, "wow."

They both laughed. He hadn't had anything to drink, not like Emily had, but her enthusiasm was infectious. It was impossible not to match her energy; her very presence was an invitation and a challenge.

"Second of all," he went on, "I think you've got the right read on it. If we're not careful, this place will absolutely warp us. Instead of people like Rad and Missy being the resident beach bullies, it'll be you and me. Just two sun-bronzed hotties who don't do anything all day except strut around in swimwear and assert their dominance over everyone, just because they can." He'd meant the suggestion as a joke, but to his own surprise he felt himself growing a little aroused by the idea. He quickly pivoted. "And obviously, we don't want to become that."

He shifted his weight on his barstool, widening his stance. Automatically, without even thinking about it, he gently pulled on Emily. With almost no coaxing at all, she crossed the gap, abandoning her own stool in favor of his lap. She felt pleasingly small and light on top of him, his arms easily enveloping her slender-yet-generous curves.

"I wasn't a loser or anything back home, but I was definitely not the first guy you'd pick for baseball," he said. He felt like he knew that much about himself, though at this exact moment further details seemed hazy. "So it's kind of scary, almost, how when I'm here I can just demand something and then it gets done. I feel this confidence to do something, take something, and then I just...make it happen. And then the narrative makes me stronger, more able to do it again. And I'm not just talking about the muscles, though those are really nice..." He flashed her a winning grin. When he saw her hand sitting idly in her own lap, he casually grabbed her wrist and planted his hand on his hairless muscular chest. He liked it when she was touching him.

"I could see how that would get addictive. I could so easily jump off the slippery slope, and then the next thing I know I'll have transformed into the exact thing I was only pretending to be. And that is...scary." Or at least, he felt like he should say it was scary. Objectively speaking, he should have been scared of the idea. In reality, it was a little hard to muster up fear about the idea of becoming more athletic, more assertive, more handsome, with a libido that wouldn't quit, living in a tropical paradise surrounded by total 10/10 babes with impossible tits and stripperiffic wardrobes.

But he was sure the existential dread would sink in soon enough if he just thought about it more.

"So I'm gonna need you to trust me," he said assertively, running a possessive hand through her soft, straight black ponytail. The panties holding it back were tantalizingly soft to his touch. "I'm not gonna, like, get addicted to this world, and I'm not gonna let you, either. You're my girl, Emily. I don't let things like that happen to my girl." He was at least dimly aware of the irony of using his utterly maleconfidence to make this proclamation. But it had to be true, right? After all, he'd said it was. And now as the man, it was his job to make it so.

"And no matter how hot you get, even if the narrative transforms you into a jaw-dropping stunner that will make all the other girls here die of jealousy," he promised her, "you'll still be you. The exact you that you need to be so we can get out of here. Back to our normal lives."

"All of that said," he noted wryly, "we do still have one issue."

She smiled lazily up at him. Her almond-shaped eyes were glazed over with alcohol--not unintelligent, but with a curious sheen of emptiness behind them that he found absolutely thrilling. "What's that?"

Wesley jerked his head towards the sign: If you drink it, you have to fulfill it. No exceptions. He patted her head: friendly, flirty, and a little condescendingly. "Your liberated, independent ass still drank a Screaming Orgasm."

–

Emily gave Wesley one last look, her cheeks flushed as she took a few hesitant steps away. “Just… don’t peek, okay? This is… kinda private.”

Wesley raised his hand, trying to keep a straight face. “Bunny… Em doll, come on. I promise.” But as soon as she turned her back, he found himself craning his neck to keep an eye on her anyway, curiosity getting the better of him. Emily could practically feel his eyes on her, and she knew that promise would last about five seconds.

Finding a semi-private corner, Emily took a deep breath, trying to tune out the bar’s noise and focus on herself. She closed her eyes, feeling a gentle warmth creeping over her, building slowly as she let herself relax. She put her hands down her short shorts and was just starting to lose herself in the moment, when—

“Ho! Hot coffee!” a waiter yelled, nearly spilling a tray of steaming mugs right in front of Wesley, who stumbled backward in surprise, completely blocking his view of her.

Weley groaned, maneuvering around the waiter as he tried to catch another glimpse. “You’ve got to be kidding…”

But by the time he cleared the coffee fiasco, Emily had shifted slightly, her eyes closed, face flushed as she leaned into her own space. Wesley tried not to let the distraction ruin the moment. He edged around a neon-lit arcade machine that had “HEART-THROB” blinking in pink letters at the top, leaning over it to get a glimpse. But just as he found an angle, a disco ball dropped from the ceiling, spinning directly into his line of sight, throwing fragmented beams of light across the room and into his eyes.

“Who even installs a disco ball over a bar table?” he muttered, shielding his eyes.

Peeking around the other side of the disco ball, he found her again, looking completely blissed-out as she leaned against the wall. He edged left, craning his neck—only for a massive cotton candy machine to roll past, its pink fluff towering like a sugar cloud between him and Emily. The man operating it gave Wesley a thumbs-up and a huge grin.

“Want a taste, bro?”

“No, I don’t want a taste,” Wesley muttered, darting around the machine only to be blocked yet again. This time, a group of breakdancers spun into his way, dropping to the floor in synchronized moves that took up the whole floor space. Wesley tried to step around, but one of the dancers threw himself into a freeze-frame handstand, legs spread wide, cutting off any view of Emily.

“Move it, man!” Wesley said, exasperated.

He’d barely managed to get another peek when a huge surfboard display was wheeled in by two girls in bikinis, one of whom gave Wesley a wink as she leaned casually on the board, blocking his sight yet again.

“Dude, it’s the new Hang Ten model!” one of the girls said, patting the board.

“Right, great,” Wesley replied, dodging around them to finally get a clear line of sight. But, of course, at that moment, the entire power in the bar flickered off, plunging the room into pitch-black darkness. Wesley groaned.

“Oh, come on!”

And in that complete darkness, which was odd given that it was still before noon, some part of Emily finally felt free to let go.  She leaned back, feeling her rhythm pulse around her like a living heartbeat.Her cheeks felt flushed and she could almost feel the room spinning with the energy of the night, carrying her away. Her breath caught as an unexpected, fierce wave of pleasure swept over her, tightening every nerve. One hand gripped the edge of the table as a rush of heat spread through her, like a spark setting her whole body alight.

With each pulse of that sensation she played faster and faster with her kitty.  Wait … her kitty?  She stifled a laugh at the thought. She’d always been emphatic about using the correct terms, always arguing that there was nothing wrong with the word “vagina.” If anything, she'd been the type to roll her eyes when people insisted on all those cutesy euphemisms.

But now… “kitty” sounded kind of… cute? Is that so bad, though? she thought. There was something strangely satisfying in letting go a little, letting herself be cute, playful, even a bit flirty.  Maybe it doesn’t have to be all or nothing, she reasoned with a small smile, as her fingers flicked faster and faster.  

Her breath grew shallower, each exhale coming out in quick gasps. She felt her muscles tense, her body curling instinctively as the warmth rolled through her, electrifying every inch of her skin. It felt almost surreal—the way her senses magnified, every touch, every beat, sending another delicious ripple of sensation through her. Her back arched, and she felt a whisper of a moan escape her lips, so soft and unrestrained that she almost didn’t recognize her own voice.

Her skin tingled, the sensation spreading outwards from her cheeks to her shoulders and down her arms, until every part of her felt alive, almost as if the very air around her was charged. The sounds in the room blurred into a soft hum, her world narrowing down to that deep, shuddering pulse building within her, growing stronger with each passing second. Her unused hand dug into the fabric of the chair, seeking something to ground her, anything to hold onto as the intensity rose to a dizzying crescendo.

As she surrendered to the feeling, a burst of euphoria washed over her, filling her with a lightness so complete that she felt almost weightless, adrift on a wave of pure release. A shudder ripped through her, and with it came a low, breathy scream, raw and uninhibited, filling the quiet corner a bar with a sound she could barely recognize as her own.  It echoed through the bar loudly and almost proudly.  

“OOooooooooaaaaaaaaAAOAYESYESooooooooAohgawdohgawdohyesysysysysysywoewoewoewoeOYESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

And then, with one final, quivering breath, she sank back into her seat.  As Emily caught her breath and the lights flickered back on and she saw the faces of women from all around the bar turned toward her, each one different yet bound by the same playful expression of amused envy. 

There was the blonde in a neon-pink bikini top, her voluminous hair teased to gravity-defying heights, her makeup a glossy mix of bright pinks and blues, the color of her lips shimmering as she smirked at Emily. Next to her was a statuesque brunette in a skin-tight leopard-print dress, dark curls cascading over her shoulders, red nails tapping rhythmically on her cocktail glass as she watched with a knowing, sultry grin.

Across the bar, a girl in a cutoff tank and ripped jean shorts, with a carefree, California surfer-girl look, leaned in with her friend, a petite woman in an electric-blue crop top and high-waisted acid-wash jeans. Both of them had bronzed skin and bright-colored scrunchies in their hair, and their eyes sparkled with a mix of mischief and curiosity, as if they’d just seen a secret unveiled.

In a booth nearby, a group of girls with matching pastel swimsuits and oversized sun visors sat in a giggly huddle, each of them styled like they’d walked straight out of an aerobics video. They whispered among themselves, one of them dramatically adjusting her legwarmers as they exchanged glances, winking at Emily as they raised their drinks to her in mock cheers.

Closer to the bar, an edgy-looking girl in black fishnets and a leather miniskirt leaned back, her dark eyes lined with thick kohl, red lipstick smudged just slightly from hours of dancing. Beside her, another girl dressed in a shimmering silver one-piece with shoulder pads and a slicked-back ponytail gave Emily a look of admiration, nodding in approval with a slight, impressed smile.

The most striking of all was a woman in a sequined halter dress, her platinum blonde hair cascading in waves down her back. She wore oversized sunglasses, even indoors, and clutched a martini glass as she watched Emily, one eyebrow quirked with a slow, appraising smile.

Together, they all turned to each other with wide grins, and in perfect harmony, declared, “I’ll have what she’s having.”

Emily's cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and laughter as she realized in her attempt to remain private she had become the center of attention. 

Her eyes met Wesley’s gaze from across the room. She felt a rush of exhilaration at the sight of his smile, a knowing warmth in his eyes that somehow made the moment feel even sweeter. For the first time since arriving in this strange world, she felt a little more herself—free, alive, and unburdened by anything except the thrill of the here and now.  “Get a good view?” she said with a wink. 

Wesley threw his hands up in the air, defeated. “I swear, this place is rigged.”

Emily stifled a laugh, raising an eyebrow as she gave him a playful nudge. “You’re just mad because you missed the show.”

–

She leaned on him all the way back to his beachside bungalow.

Granted, some of that was the alcohol. Or rather, a lot of it was the alcohol. She'd downed four drinks in short order, and then enjoyed the equally intoxicating experience of fulfilling their inherent promises. It had been breathtaking--whether the French Kiss he'd directly benefited from, the Screaming Orgasm that the narrative had cheekily teased him with, the Exposition Dump that had provided tantalizing clarity, or the Panty Dropper that...

...that...

It was hard for him to focus, looking at her ad hoc scrunchie and knowing what it really was. Knowing that underneath her painted-on denim cutoffs, she was wearing absolutely nothing. It made him downright hungry in a primally masculine way. And the energy between them that had started at breakfast time, then carried through surfing and morning drinks, only felt more potent now.

On the boardwalk, the little beach town was fully awake. Three girls skated by on the boardwalk, each of them wearing a bikini in one of the three primary colors. A handsome meathead let his dog lead him along by its leash, even as it leapt up and tugged at the spandex workout shorts of a passing babe. A group of handsome young jocks were tossing a football back and forth between them, energetically playing even though their actions in no way actually resembled the sport of football. Along a boulevard with neon-painted shops, a group of girls trooped along with bags laden heavily with new clothes. Missy marched at their head, giving Emily a pointed glare before turning her elegant little nose up in the air and heading on.

When they arrived back at his bungalow, however, they saw something they hadn't seen since either of them had arrived in this movie: formalwear.

There were two of them. One was a professional woman whose broad-shouldered grey skirtsuit appeared to be struggling to contain a generous and obviously fake bustline. She was walking around the perimeter of Wesley's bungalow, seemingly taking measurements. The other was a handsome, sinister man with swept-back hair that was just this side of not being a mullet. He wore a drapey pinstriped grey suit and a Wall Street-style contrast collar, complete with a tie that would've looked appropriately sized for an elephant. He was talking into a blocky cell phone that was approximately the size and weight of a baby seal, leaning against a black limousine.

He perked up when he saw Wesley and Emily approach. "I'll call you back," he barked into his phone. "Actually, on second thought, I won't. You're fired." He hung up, slammed the phone's antenna down into its brick of a body, then set it down on the shiny black trunk of his parked limo. "Hello there!" he said with an unconvincing attempt at joviality. "You must be the tenants!" He grinned at Emily in particular.

"Uh, no," Wesley said. "I own the place." He hadn't before they'd come home from the party last night. And yet somehow, he knew he did. He pulled Bunny tighter against his body. "It's mine."

The man seemed to understand Wesley's implication, but wasn't at all cowed. "Actually, that's where you're wrong. Two words, pal: eminent domain. You all done there, Charlotte?"

"Just finishing up, Mr. Pearson." The woman returned dutifully to his side, her chestnut blowout fluttering sharply in the beach breeze. "The measurements are exactly to spec. It should be an easy teardown job."

Emily did a full-on double-take. "Teardown for what?"

"Like I said." The oily man, Mr. Pearson, grinned. He also directed his reply to Wesley, almost immediately discounting Emily as a participant of the conversation. "Your deal for this land has been superseded. I've bought up your parcel--this whole beach, actually." He stuck his hands in his pinstriped pockets with mocking nonchalance. "Yessir, this time next summer all of this will be a nice summer getaway for hardworking accountants in the city. None of these partying beach bums or anything like that." He acknowledged Emily at last with a pleasant nod. "Though I wouldn't mind if you stuck around, Tokyo Rose."

"You...you can't do that," Wesley growled.

"Actually, pal, five hundred thousand bucks says I can do whatever the fuck I want here," said Mr. Pearson. He eyed them up and down. "And right now, I want everyone out by the end of the week, unless you people have five hundred thousand and one bucks lying around. Charlotte, do they seem like the kind of people who have five hundred thousand and one bucks lying around?"

"No, Mr. Pearson, they don't."

Mr. Pearson produced a cigarette from a gold case in his breast pocket and lit up. "Well, you heard the lady."

-

Emily could feel Wesley’s tension the second she stepped out of his grasp. His arm had been tight around her waist, possessive even, and when she peeled away, his whole body stiffened. She could almost hear his internal groan as she took her first step toward Mr. Pearson, swinging her hips just a little more than usual.

Good. Let him squirm. It wasn’t like she wanted to flirt with this sleazy corporate caricature, but if distracting him kept them one step ahead of the narrative, then she’d do it. Besides, she thought with a smirk, watching Wesley’s jaw clench as she pushed her hair over one shoulder, he looked soooooooo hot when he got jelly!  

“Mr. Pearson,” she purred, keeping her voice light and sugary as she approached. His sharp gaze slid down her body like he was appraising real estate, lingering far too long on her shorts. Gross. But predictable. “That’s such a big... number you’re throwing around.”

“Big beach, sweetheart,” Pearson replied with a grin that made her want to roll her eyes. “Takes big numbers to make big things happen.”

Wesley stayed put. He had to. He knew the rules just as well as she did: keep the narrative moving.  She could feel his frustration like a physical force. She glanced back, catching his furrowed brow and twitching jaw, and resisted the urge to laugh. He looked like he was seconds away from grabbing her and dragging her back to his side. Instead, she gave him a quick wink before turning back to Pearson, laying a hand lightly on his arm.  “And who are you sweetheart?” he said in between moments of biting his cigar.  Which Emily just realized wasn’t even lit.  

She bit her lower lip, tilting her head just enough to let her ponytail swing over her shoulder. “I’m Bunny!  Just a girl who loves this beach… and doesn’t want to see it disappear.”

He smirked, smoke curling from his lips. “Is that so? Well, sweetheart, love doesn’t pay the bills. But I’ll tell you what—stick around, and maybe we can work something out.”

Emily giggled, her cheeks dimpling in a way that was far more coy than innocent. She stepped closer, brushing past him just enough that her bare arm grazed his. “Oh, Mr. Pearson,” she said, her tone dripping with faux admiration, “you’re so… decisive. A man who knows what he wants. That’s rare, isn’t it?”

Pearson’s grin widened, his ego visibly inflating under her attention. “You’ve got a good eye, doll. Most people can’t appreciate that about me.”

“Oh, I appreciate it,” Emily breathed, her voice low and intimate as she toyed with her ponytail, wrapping the lace panties tighter around the base. “And I appreciate men who take charge.” She leaned in, her chest brushing his arm as her lips curved into a playful smile. “It’s… inspiring.”

Even as she was busy flirting with all her heart Emily could -hear- Wesley’s teeth grinding as he watched her. His grip on the edge of the bungalow’s doorframe was so tight that his knuckles turned white. Her words, her touches—hell, even the bounce of her step—were doing more than distracting Pearson. They were lighting him up like a bonfire on a moonlit beach.

Emily kept her smile bright and sweet as a summer day during … well during Bikini Week … and she reached up to adjust her ponytail. The lace scrunchie—God, was that really my panties?—caught the sunlight as she tugged it loose, letting her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders. She saw Pearson’s eyes flick to the movement, and she tilted her head coyly.

But she couldn’t be embarrassed. She needed to keep Pearson distracted. So when her scrunchie—panties, whatever—slipped from her fingers, she let it fall. “Oops,” she said, bending at the waist to pick it up. She heard Pearson’s sharp intake of breath as her shorts rode up, leaving absolutely no doubt about the fact that she wasn’t wearing panties underneath.  

“Oops!  Oh, I’m so clumsy!” she exclaimed, bending at the waist to pick it up.

The movement was slow, deliberate. Her cutoffs clung to her hips, the frayed edges riding high as she leaned forward. Her crop top shifted, exposing even more of her taut stomach. Pearson’s eyes locked onto her ass with the intensity of a man hypnotized.   “Thank you Panty Dropper drink!” some corner of her mind thought.  

“Need a hand?” he offered, his voice gruff.

Emily gave a soft laugh. “I always need a hand from a big strong man.” And as he reached down to pick her up, she ‘accidentally’ pulled him over so he fell directly into her, his face faceplanting hard into her chest.   “Oh!” she cried, falling into him with a thud.

As as his face was between her chest, just as she hoped, that science-magic started to do its thing and she could see the soft swell of her breasts flattening momentarily against the fabric of his suit jacket. She gasped, her body tensing as a strange warmth spread through her. The sensation was electric, radiating outward from her chest in waves that made her breath hitch. It wasn’t just warmth—it was growth. Her crop top grew tighter, the fabric straining to the breaking point as her C cup breasts, already looking very large on her tiny thin frame, began to swell, rounding out with each passing second and zooming up to DD’s which looked absolutely unreal on her sleek thin Asian body.  

Emily’s cheeks flushed as she felt the fabric stretch further, her nipples pressing visibly against the thin material. The sensation was bizarrely thrilling, and though she tried to focus on the task at hand, she couldn’t help but glance down. 

“Bikini Week science,” Pearson said matter-of-factly, his eyes lingering shamelessly on her newly enhanced assets. “Gotta love it.”

Emily giggled and jiggled as hard as she could and leaned her head closer so her lips were near his ear. “It’s… amazing,” she whispered, her voice dripping with flirtation. Her fingers trailed along the lapel of his jacket until she reached a document and pulled it out and put it in her back pocket.  Just as she hoped, the sensation of being between two pairs of lucious expanding breasts was enough to distract him.    “But you know what’s even more amazing?”

“What’s that?” he asked, his voice thick with interest.

“This beach,” she replied, her tone sweet yet sly. “It’s a paradise. And it deserves someone who truly appreciates it.”

Taking his cue, Wesley finally intervened and grabbed her, rather roughly, and separated her from Mr. Pearson.  “And this beach isn’t going anywhere,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Not while I’m here.”

Emily blinked up at him, her heart racing. For a moment, she could almost believe the act was real.

Pearson narrowed his eyes, his grin returning. “We’ll see about that.”

As the developer and his assistant walked away, Wesley’s arm still wrapped protectively around her waist, Emily glanced up at him with a sly smile. “Jealous much?”

“Not jealous,” Wesley muttered, though the tension in his jaw said otherwise. “Just keeping the narrative going.”

“Mm-hmm,” Emily teased, her voice light as she leaned into him. “Whatever you say, Blaine.”

Once the developers were fully out of view Emily quickly spread the papers across her lap, scanning each page with practiced speed.

Her fingers hesitated for a moment, and the world around her seemed to fade as a memory surfaced.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The office was silent except for the rhythmic hum of a copier in the distance. Emily sat at her desk, a mug of lukewarm coffee forgotten beside her, and her monitor aglow with rows of data. A thick binder of contracts and reports sat open before her, the edges marked with neon tabs she’d meticulously applied.

“Emily, can you take a look at this?” someone had asked—her boss? A coworker? She couldn’t remember now.  But again, she could hear the words "Emily, can you take a look at this?" The words echoed again, sharper now, the voice faceless yet cutting. Another task, another weight to carry, another expectation she hadn’t signed up for. Her chest had tightened then, the sterile scent of the office mingling with the acrid bitterness of her forgotten coffee, making her stomach churn. The pressure was relentless, every day on a treadmill she couldn’t step off.

She remembered the quiet suffocation of it all—the constant, insidious demand to perform. The cloying niceness of her coworkers, the kind that barely masked competition and quiet disdain. The way her boss would glance at her binder, full of her meticulously placed neon tabs, and offer a nod of approval that felt more like a leash tightening around her neck.

Deadlines loomed over her like a storm cloud, papers piling up, her inbox an unending river of requests and queries. Each one came with the expectation of a solution, a response, an answer only she could provide. She had become a receptacle for everyone else’s problems, a machine expected to churn out efficiency without complaint.

Lunch breaks were hurried, the same sad salad eaten at her desk while she stared at the clock, counting the minutes to five o’clock like a prisoner scratching lines on the wall of a cell. But even when five came, the relief was hollow. She’d drag herself home, her shoulders hunched from hours at her desk, her mind still spinning with spreadsheets and to-do lists. She’d collapse onto her couch and stare blankly at the TV, too drained to even care what was on.

Her weekends weren’t hers either—laundry, grocery shopping, catching up on emails she couldn’t finish during the week. Every Sunday night, the dread crept in, a cold, gnawing pit in her stomach that whispered, “Tomorrow it starts again.”

She shook her head.  Had it really been like that?  Had it really been that bad?  If it was, why was she trying so hard to get back … that??  It couldn’t have been like that.  Could it?  

She pushed the thought out of her mind and flipped through the pages, her finger tapping lightly against her lip as she worked. “This clause doesn’t match what’s in the environmental compliance report,” she murmured. “They’re trying to push through development on unstable land.”

Her breath hitched as she skimmed further before quickly summarizing what she read to Wesley.  “The land wasn’t being taken just for development. The beach was at risk due to erosion and pollution, and the proposed resort project couldn’t go forward if someone donated $500,000 to stop the erosion and pollution.”  She skimmed the report further.  “Yea … apparently half a million is all it would take to completely stop all erosion and all pollution on every inch of this coast … whatever coast we are on that is.”

Wesley stared at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he grinned. “I can’t believe you figured that out.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she shrugged it off. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep their brain in this game.”

She had gone somewhere just now. Wesley didn't know exactly where. But for just a moment, there had been a faraway look in her eyes. Not the pleasant emptiness he'd come to recognize in the strutting beach babes who paraded freely around this little town that somehow seemed to be both in California and New England. No, in that momentary lapse he had glimpsed measures of...despair? Dread? Emotions that had no place in an 80's skin flick like this.

I'm seeing her, he realized. The real Emily, before anything else that happened here.

He'd obviously given thought to the real world; it was where they were trying to get to. But in those fleeting seconds, he realized he'd actually not given very much thought at all to real-world Emily. Who was she out there? Did she even look like the cute-but-normal Asian chick he'd met when he'd run into her at the beach house party before? The nerdy, shrimpy Wesley she'd met sure as hell hadn't been the guy he was out there in the real world.

As they made their way back into his bungalow, he found himself admiring the changes her roleplay had gained her. She now had what he could only crudely think of as "stripper tits," even if they actually fell closer to the median range of the girls in this town. And her legs were now so skinny, there was almost a thigh gap for him to admire. He was pretty sure the 1980's predated that whole concept, or at least the specific phrase. It would be fun watching her introduce it to the gals here, give them a whole new thing to be insecure about.

But a selfish part of him couldn't help but feel like he'd been missed out. He'd been playing his role too, hadn't he? He'd become jealous and possessive of Bunny, just like he was supposed to. And while it was happening, he'd felt a certain amount of tension building in that ethereal way that the narrative seemed to provoke. Yet it had kind of...dissipated. Like losing a sneeze right at the finish line.

It must be waiting for something specific, he told himself. It must be something big.

"So the stakes really are just that simple?" he said after Emily laid out the terms. "We really just need five hundred thousand and one dollars, and all this can go away?" He couldn't help but laugh. These movies were silly, even when they were being serious. The assertive, manly part of his mind immediately went to work. He was a natural problem-solver. So if he and the other people of this beach town pooled their funds, then surely...

His thoughts screeched to a halt. And they were replaced by a question: What the hell am I doing?

This place was fake. It was a fictional reality contained within the realm of a thumbnail on the Tubi app on his TV. It didn't exist, and it would exist even less once he and Emily found their way out. Raising five hundred thousand dollars was hard; Wesley knew because back in the real world he'd certainly never managed it. So why put themselves through that when all of this was going to fold up like a singularity anyway?

They should use this time, he knew, to redouble their efforts on getting out. The narrative was definitely favoring them now...Bunny especially, he thought as he gave her sunlit cleavage another appreciative glance. They almost certainly had the leeway to figure out a path back to reality. It just made sense. Especially now, when the townspeople would be distracted trying to stop Pearson on their own.

Except.

Except even if this place wasn't real, it felt real. The warmth of its sun and the coolness of its waters felt real. The calling gulls and the blasting synth music from every corner sounded real. And Emily...Emily most definitely felt real. With her neck bared for his lips at breakfast, her tongue wrapped around his inside the Wet Spot, the triumphant and divine figure she had cut last night astride the big lunkhead's shoulders when she'd beaten Missy at chicken-fighting. All that felt real. And the moment it felt real, it felt like something worth fighting for.

His blue eyes met hers. "We need to raise that money, babe. Pearson is an asshole. We can't just let him win." He took her hands possessively into his own. They were warm from her time in the sun. And her golden yellow skin had gained a nice dimension of tan from the morning's adventures. "I'm not totally sure where we'll get it from when this place seems to be cut off from the outside world and all the people who could donate money to the community. But I bet when the time comes, the narrative will give that to us. We just have to provide a way for it."

His mind raced with potential solutions. A wet t-shirt contest. A bikini pageant. A sexy carwash. Admittedly, almost all of the ideas involved young, sexy babes wearing next to nothing and preying on the irresistible lust of men. But that was a sacrifice Wesley was willing to make.