The two wandered down the beach in search of the next challenge the beach would present them.  It was alive with the thrum of activity, the golden sand dotted with booths and challenges designed to titillate and amaze. But nothing caught Wesley’s attention quite like the glowing sign over the booth they now approached: “Flex Fest: Instant Buff Magic!”

The scene around the Competition” pulsed with raw, electric energy as Wesley and Emily edged closer to the newest spectacle of Bikini Week’s science magic.

The competition wasn’t just any ordinary flexing booth. No, this was a full production, complete with makeshift gym equipment, glowing protein dispensers, and an array of outrageously beautiful “scientists” in lab coats so tight and cropped they barely qualified as clothing. Each "scientist" carried trays of neon-colored protein shakes, their every movement calculated to draw the eye.

Contestants lined up at a series of weights, their bodies trembling with anticipation as they prepared to take on the increasingly heavier barbells that waited for them. The rules were simple: lift as much as you could, chug a protein shake handed to you by a science babe, and then… let Bikini Week’s infamous science magic take over. With every rep and every drink, their bodies swelled visibly, their muscles surging in size before the crowd’s cheering eyes.

Emily stood rooted to the spot, her amber eyes fixed on the stage. She wasn’t blinking. Her gaze darted from contestant to contestant as a wiry man stepped forward and gripped a modest barbell. One of the science babes, a voluptuous blonde with a megawatt smile and impossibly tanned skin, sidled up to him with a glowing orange shake in hand. As soon as the man chugged it down, he began lifting heavier and heavier weights.  And that’s when the transformation began.

It started slow—his biceps trembling under the strain of the lift, veins popping along his forearms. Then, with a sudden jolt, his shoulders expanded, his chest ballooning outward as if filled with helium. His back broadened, the tight tank top he wore stretching to the brink of destruction as his thighs thickened like tree trunks beneath him.

“Holy shit,” Wesley muttered under his breath.

But Emily? Emily wasn’t saying a word.

Her amber eyes were locked on the newly transformed guy, her lips parted slightly. She wasn’t gawking like the others in the crowd, though. No, Emily was composed—too composed. Her nails traced lazy patterns against her bare midriff, her breathing just a little uneven. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a coy move that made Wesley glance over at her with suspicion.

“You okay, Bunny?” he teased lightly, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his tone.

Emily snapped out of it, blinking as if caught in the act. “What? Yeah. Totally fine.” She smiled, her cheeks a little pink. “It’s just… interesting, isn’t it? The, uh, science-magic.”

Wesley raised a brow. “The science-magic?”

“Yes! It’s… fascinating.” Emily gestured toward the booth, her movements a little too hurried. “You know, like, how does it even work? The lights, the… the... whatever’s happening in there.” She trailed off, her gaze wandering back to the next contestant—a lanky teen nervously stepping inside.

This time, the science babe was a curvy brunette with glasses perched provocatively on the bridge of her nose. She leaned in close as she handed the boy his glowing pink shake, her ample cleavage almost spilling out of her barely-there lab coat, and the boy began to pump and pump and pump.  

Emily’s jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing as the boy pushed and strained.  The results were instantaneous—his wiry frame exploded outward, pecs inflating like balloons, deltoids rounding out into perfect spheres. His swim trunks clung desperately to his thickened thighs, threatening to rip as the crowd erupted into cheers.

Emily shifted on her feet, her bare thighs brushing together. She adjusted the waistband of her shorts, her fingers lingering on the frayed edges as though they needed fixing. Wesley couldn’t help but notice how fidgety she was. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, her gaze locked on the teen as his silhouette swelled inside the chamber. When he finished moments later, his lankiness was gone, replaced by broad shoulders and bulging thighs that strained against his too-tight swim trunks.

Emily exhaled audibly, her hand fanning her face.

Wesley chuckled. “You sure you’re not overheating or something?”

“What? No, I’m fine!  It’s just … really hot right now” she said quickly, her voice a touch higher than usual. She tried to play it cool, but the way her fingers toyed with the edge of her crop top betrayed her.  Emily shot him a look, her cheeks flushing deeper. “It’s… impressive, okay? You don’t see stuff like this every day.”

Wesley smirked. “You wanna give it a try?”

“What? Me?  That wouldn’t be right.  I—” Emily paused, caught off guard by the question. She laughed nervously, her fingers brushing against his arm. “I mean, maybe you should. It’d be... fun.”

“Fun, huh?” Wesley leaned closer, his grin widening. “You really think I need it?”

“No! Of course not!” Emily said, a little too quickly. Her fingers squeezed his bicep lightly, as if testing him. “You’re already, like… great. But it’s for saving the beach, right? Given this world, imagine how much money you could raise if you looked like…” She trailed off, her gaze drifting back to the last contestant, who was now flexing for the cheering crowd.

Wesley stared at her, his grin fading slightly as realization dawned. “You’ve got a thing for muscles, don’t you?”

Emily’s eyes snapped to his, wide and defensive. “What? No! That’s ridiculous!” she said, but her voice was already betraying her. She paused, visibly flustered, then straightened her posture, as if drawing on some deeper reserve of intellectual strength. “Okay, listen,” she began, her tone shifting into a practiced rhythm, the kind she might’ve used during a particularly heated college debate.

“Muscles, like, in the cultural sense,” she started, gesturing broadly, “are a construct of the white supremacist patriarchy. They’ve been weaponized for centuries to enforce ideals of dominance, oppression, and control, you know? Think about it—the way media glorifies this hyper-masculine ideal. It’s all tied into this toxic framework that equates physical power with societal power.”

Her hands moved as she spoke, her words spilling out faster, almost like she was trying to convince herself as much as him. “It’s designed to keep certain groups at the top, Wesley. Like, you see it in colonization, right? Western ideals of beauty and strength? Muscles were fetishized to represent superiority. It’s this visual shorthand for dominance, for ownership, for—”

Her voice faltered for just a second, and her gaze flickered toward the booth again. A new contestant started to lift —a wiry guy with a confident swagger. Emily caught herself staring a beat too long as the neon lights swirled around his silhouette, his frame ballooning outward. In time to the pump of the weights his shoulders stretched wider, his chest expanded like a sculptor had carved it from marble, and his arms thickened with veins that pulsed visibly beneath his sun-kissed skin.

“—for control,” she continued, though her voice had softened slightly. She crossed her arms tightly, as though trying to physically contain the fluttering in her chest. “I mean, it’s obvious, right? The way it’s used in advertising, in sports, in movies. It’s all about projecting this unattainable image of power. It’s exclusionary. It marginalizes anyone who doesn’t fit the mold.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but her words kept tumbling out, almost involuntarily. “And yet...” She hesitated, her gaze shifting, her tone dropping slightly, “there’s… something primal about it, isn’t there? Like, it taps into this base instinct, this… this evolutionary drive to recognize strength as, you know, protection. Capability. A... presence you can’t ignore.”

She cleared her throat, suddenly looking anywhere but at Wesley. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it?” she pressed on, her words gaining a frantic edge. “It’s manipulative. It’s reductive. It reduces people to their bodies. But at the same time…” Her gaze flicked back to the contestant, now striking a pose for the cheering crowd. Her eyes lingered, just for a moment, on the ripple of his biceps as he raised his arms triumphantly. “…it’s also... a language. A way of... communicating something... visceral.”

Emily caught herself again, blinking rapidly as though trying to reset her thoughts. “But it’s all shallow,” she concluded hastily, her arms crossing even tighter over her chest. “Totally shallow. It’s designed to appeal to the lowest common denominator, to reinforce these outdated power dynamics. And that’s... that’s not something I’d ever... personally... endorse or anything.”

Wesley watched her, his grin growing wider with every word.

“What?” she snapped, her face glowing red.

“Nothing,” he replied smoothly, his hands slipping into his pockets as he leaned back against the booth. “Just thinking about how you’ve clearly never thought about this before.”

Her mouth fell open. “I—! That’s—! You—!” She huffed, flustered, then turned away with a dismissive wave. “Shut up, Wesley … or should I just call you Blaine now?”

“You’re blushing.”

“It’s the sun!”

“We’re in the shade and you were also biting your lip, Bunny.”

Emily’s face turned a deeper shade of crimson. “Shut up!” she muttered, shoving him lightly. But she didn’t pull away from his arm.

“Alright, alright,” Wesley said, still grinning. “But I’m starting to think you’d really like it if I stepped in there.”

Emily hesitated, her gaze flickering to the booth, then back to him. She bit her lip again, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her crop top. “I mean… it couldn’t hurt to try, right?  For.. for saving the beach?”

Wesley tilted his head, studying her. “You’re really into this, aren’t you?”

Emily huffed, crossing her arms. “Can we just drop it?” But the way she avoided his gaze, the way her body leaned just slightly toward the booth, said everything.

Wesley laughed, ruffling her hair. “Fine, Bunny. But if I ever do it, you’d better be ready for what comes next.”

Emily’s breath hitched, her eyes flickering to his chest for just a moment before she quickly looked away. “I think I will be…” she mumbled, her voice softer than before.

—

Emily was giving off…interesting mixed signals to Wesley. On one hand, there were the signals of her mouth and mind. They told him she thought of muscles as patriarchal, oppressive, and shallow. She certainly probably didn’t think much of the artificial way these were gained, when the most positive interpretations of musculature were supposed to be emblematic of hard work.

But then there were the signals of her body. Her wandering, fidgeting fingers. Her flushed cheeks. Her shallow breaths. The ease with which he could prod at her and be rewarded with the sight of her cute face, all flustered and defensive. How much of that was this place’s effect on her, he wondered? How much of it was the real Emily, either poking through the artifice of Bunny or else melting down into it to create some fascinating new alloy?

“Well, that’s settled, then.” Casually, he began to stroll around to the front of the Flex Fest booth, hands in his pockets with exaggerated nonchalance.

“Wait!” Emily burst out, following him. “What’s settled?”

“You’re right. It’ll give us an edge in fundraising. And besides,” he added, gesturing to the toned six-pack he hadn’t had as a nerdy loser yesterday, “I think the narrative was pushing me in this direction anyway. If it’s offering us a nice, easy fast track, who am I to argue, right?” But while he kept his tone light and teasing, he felt a thrill of excitement run through him at the thought of what might come next.

Emily’s hands wrapped around his forearm. She looked up into his eyes with fond concern. “I just don’t want you to feel like I’m forcing you to do this, Blaine.”

Wesley smiled down at her. “Bunny,” he said with the simple confidence of a man, the confidence a man earns just by being a man, “you can’t force me to do anything.”

He gave her a peck on her softly sculpted cheek before stepping up onto the stage, where the mad scientist gals were cavorting about with their vials. Their tits were nearly spilling out the tops of their ridiculous labcoat costumes. “Hey,” he said to them. “I want to take a shot at it.”

The crowd cheered as if this was some exciting new development, and not just the latest iteration of the same thing that had been happening for the last few demonstrations. Wesley happily soaked up their applause anyway. At the very front of the crowd, Emily was watching up at him with–admiration? Excitement? Concern? Her face was hot, but sometimes it did verge on inscrutable.

“Right this way, hot shot,” simpered one of the mad scientist girls. She tottered along on neon-green heels, leading him to the display of weights. He chose the heaviest dumbbells he thought he could manage and attempted a few bicep curls. The beach winds from last night had given him improved performance in that category, but not enough. After only a few, his muscles were already throbbing in protest.

The first scientist girl was about to offer him a bright orange serum when the big-titted blonde scientist stopped her. “Hang on. If my calculations are correct, I think this is the formulation for you.”

Wesley looked at the formula she’d just handed him. The angry red vial had a label that literally read, “Main Characters Only.” He glanced down into the audience where Emily was still watching him. This was his last opportunity to go back. And for half a second, he considered it. This would represent a daunting change, after all.

But it would also give him the power he really needed to make it further along. And then they could get out. Which was what they both wanted.

So he grinned at her, and then drank down the red formula in a single gulp.

A jolt of vitality hit his system. He’d never done cocaine before, but he had to imagine this was what it felt like. The gain in energy was both immediate and immense. With the singlemindedness of a machine, he immediately set down the dumbbells he’d selected and instead jumped up nearly thirty pounds apiece. Recalling what he remembered from high school gym class, he began to furiously pump out curl after curl.

With each rep, his biceps began to swell. The lines defining their boundaries etched themselves more and more deeply as subcutaneous fat was abruptly burned for fuel, or perhaps just violated the laws of physics by disappearing from the universe entirely. Rapidly, his bicep was shifting from a rounded shape to one with a defined slope and peak, veins increasingly visible beneath his tanned skin. And with each countermotion, his triceps grew to compensate, working in concert to stretch the tensile strength of his short sleeves to their limits.

He wasn’t directly working out his delts or his pecs, but they were growing, too. With each heaving breath, his chest muscles inched outward in every direction, the graceful lines becoming increasingly obvious beneath his shirt as their mass began to strain each button. His deltoids weren’t just broadening, but rounding out like fucking cannonballs that flowed elegantly into the increasingly slanted traps that gave him a thick, powerful neck.

His lats all but exploded, rapidly redefining his silhouette from a gentle trapezoid into a sharp triangle. All along the side stitches of his shirt, seams began to come apart, peeks of tanned skin increasingly visible as strained thread zigzagged across it and the large panels of fabric drifted apart like continents.

These weights were too light. He needed more. He set them down with an almighty clang and jumped up another fifty pounds. He was curling over a hundred pounds in each hand now. But he couldn’t stop. He just couldn’t.

The memory was not really a memory, because he didn’t recall living in it or inhabiting it. But it was a feeling: powerlessness. The world was big and complex and it was so easy to do wrong, be wrong. He recalled feeling adrift, wondering what a man’s place in this world could possibly be. And specifically, a man like him? One who was mindful and thoughtful and tried to be respectful?

But in the iron, there was power and purpose. There was a clearly defined role: to be the strongest. To be the best. To win against that asshole Pearson, and then to win at everything else he put his mind to. To get what was his, what he deserved. And, he thought with a fleeting glance at Bunny down in the crowd, to keep it and use it.

So with a masculine grunt, he lifted anew. The sweat trickling down his brow and body wasn’t the ugly sweat of hard exertion; it was the glowing sweat of a magazine ad, glossy and unattainable. Though he was doing absolutely nothing to work on his legs, he felt them rapidly expanding just the same. His quadriceps and hamstrings achieved beautiful separation, his calves becoming bigger than some mens’ biceps. And they were growing longer, too, because he was growing taller. The shorts he’d worn this morning were now increasingly short on him, even as his muscles threatened to tear their seams, too.

He grinned as he felt every seam he was wearing stretch within an inch of its life. Yes. He wanted this. Yes. He deserved this.

Yes. This was him.

At that acceptance, that realization, his shirt and shorts sundered as he let loose a triumphant, masculine roar.

The tatters of his clothes fell off him in tatters, revealing a body that surpassed any other at the demo so far. His six-pack had become a hyper-defined eight-pack, framed on each side by a fully realized adonis belt. His pecs bulged out like a shelf of pure muscle, separated by a canyon-like ridge. His thighs were as thick as watermelons, his biceps like footballs, his back a vast and tanned ocean of sculpted muscle.

And there were other ancillary changes. His tan had deepened, while his blonde hair had brightened slightly. As Wesley looked down at his body, he watched the hairs on his legs and arms disappear entirely, leaving him hairless and gleaming. His face had grown movie-star handsome, while still remaining boyish and youthful rather than steroid-rugged. His glutes had swollen so powerfully that they had swallowed his black briefs, turning them into a de facto thong. And their front strained with the bulk and girth of a heavy white cock that yearned for release.

He looked down at his new self in disbelief. And then, rapid acceptance. This was who he’d always been. Even when he hadn’t looked like it.

As the crowd erupted in rapturous excitement, he grinned cockily down at Emily and flexed every muscle of the new Blaine.

The moment Blaine—no, Wesley, though his new form seemed to demand a name as grandiose as the body that now bore it—descended from the Flex Fest stage, Emily could feel her resolve cracking like the seams of his clothes. The crowd’s cheers still thundered in her ears, the adoration for this new sculpted god almost palpable. Yet none of it compared to the way her own heart pounded as she watched him approach, each step radiating confidence and power.

His muscles didn’t just move; they flowed, a symphony of sinew and strength that seemed to play in harmony with the pounding synth music of the beach. His shoulders were broad enough to block the sun, each deltoid rounded to perfection, the definition so sharp it looked as though it had been chiseled by the gods themselves. His pecs jutted out like a proud shelf, the deep valley between them glistening with a sheen of sweat that caught the light just so. Every inch of him screamed masculinity, strength, dominance—and it was doing dangerous things to her composure.

Emily folded her arms tightly across her chest as he drew closer, her legs crossing as though she could physically hold herself back. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes darting up and down his form, trying to look unimpressed while clearly failing. She forced a scoff. “So… I see you’ve gone full-on toxic masculinity now. Great. Love that for us.” Her voice wavered on the last word, and she cringed inwardly at how unconvincing it sounded.

Blaine smirked, his boyish charm now paired with a devastating confidence that made her knees weak. “Toxic? Really? I feel fantastic.” He flexed casually, lifting one arm to strike a bicep pose that made the muscle swell to mountainous proportions. A thick vein snaked along the peak, pulsing slightly, and Emily’s breath hitched audibly despite her best efforts to stay composed.

“Y-Yeah, well,” she stammered, her cheeks flaming, “just because it’s… aesthetically pleasing doesn’t mean it’s not a tool of, of oppression!” She waved a hand vaguely at him, though her eyes betrayed her, lingering on the ripple of his abs as they contracted with his movements. “I mean, do you even know how many women have been, like, conditioned to find… that attractive?” Her finger pointed at his chest, which rose and fell with his steady breaths, each pec flexing faintly with the motion.

Blaine raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “This?” he asked, placing one massive hand on his chest and giving it a deliberate squeeze. The muscle tensed under his grip, the motion so exaggerated it looked almost obscene. “You mean these big, oppressive pecs right here?”

Emily’s resolve shattered. “Okay, yes, fine!” she blurted, throwing her hands in the air. “They’re—ugh—they’re amazing, okay? But that doesn’t mean I’m impressed! I’m just… I’m acknowledging the… craftsmanship.” She bit her lip, her eyes glued to the deep line running between his pecs, glistening and inviting. “It’s like… like admiring a sculpture. A really problematic sculpture.”

She took an unsteady step closer, her gaze flicking over his body. “Like… your deltoids, for example,” she said, her voice softening despite herself. “They’re just so… perfectly round and… and they connect so seamlessly to your …” Her fingers twitched at her sides as if resisting the urge to reach out. “It’s like… like a damn marble statue.”

“Uh-huh,” Blaine said, his voice dripping with amusement. “And what about the arms?”

Emily’s breath caught as he raised his arm again, his bicep bulging with exaggerated slowness. The peak rose higher and higher, the skin stretched taut over the muscle, veins webbing across its surface like a roadmap to every sinful thought she was trying desperately to suppress.

“They’re… excessive,” she said weakly, her voice trembling. “I mean, who even needs arms like that? It’s just… impractical. And—and patriarchal! Like, why do you need biceps that are… that are…” Her voice trailed off as she stepped even closer, her gaze locked on the muscle before her. “…that big?”

Blaine chuckled. “Maybe it’s to carry stubborn little bunnies like you around when they get all worked up.”

Emily’s cheeks flamed. “You are insufferable,” she hissed, though the words had no heat. Her hands twitched again, and before she could stop herself, she reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against the peak of his bicep. The warmth of his skin was intoxicating, the solid mass beneath it making her head spin. “It’s just… so firm,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. “Like granite… but warm.”

Blaine flexed, and Emily let out an involuntary squeak as the muscle swelled under her touch, pressing into her palm. Her fingers instinctively traced the curve of his bicep, following the thick vein that pulsed with each beat of his heart. “I mean… it’s for understand the science-magic of this place, right?” she mumbled, her words tumbling out in a flustered rush. “Like, I have to… to understand how it’s possible. For… educational purposes.”

“F-A-P purposes, huh?” Blaine said, his voice teasing. He flexed again, and Emily gasped, her other hand flying up to cup the muscle. “And what’s the lesson so far?”

Emily didn’t answer. Her hands were everywhere now, trailing over his shoulders, brushing against his pecs, pressing lightly against his abs. Each muscle was firm and unyielding, the definition so sharp it felt like tracing the edges of a masterpiece. Her lips parted, her breaths shallow and quick, as her fingers lingered on the ridges of his eight-pack.

“And these…” she whispered, almost to herself, her hands splaying across his abdomen. “It’s like… like they’re carved out of… out of…” She paused, her gaze hazy as she tried to find the right words. “Out of pure… oppressive… masculinity.”

Blaine grinned. “Oppressive masculinity, huh? Sounds like you’re into that.”

“I am not into that!” Emily snapped, though the way her hands caressed his muscles betrayed her. She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the deep V of his adonis belt. “But… maybe I need a closer look. You know. For… academic …. reasons.”

Without waiting for an answer, she leaned in, her tongue darting out to trace the edge of his abs. The salty tang of his sweat made her shiver, and she let out a soft, involuntary moan as she tasted him. “It’s just…” she murmured between licks, her voice breathless, “it’s for science-magic reasons… I … I’m just trying to see if you’re giving off pheromones that make me feel this way … and stuff.”

—-

Veronica Valmont adjusted the diamond-studded strap of her liquid silver bikini, her reflection gleaming in the mirrored panel of the Flex Fest booth. The lights caught every curve, every perfect angle of her figure. The bikini left almost nothing to the imagination, the metallic fabric catching every spark of sunlight and reflecting it like a spotlight directly onto her. This was her moment to SHINE!

She’d timed it perfectly. As Wesley—no, Blaine—emerged from his muscle-enhancement transformation, looking like a chiseled Greek god, Veronica would glide into the scene, all sensual allure and effortless command. The contrast would be irresistible: his raw masculinity in contrast to her sophisticated seduction.  And then the girl would choose and choose rightly.  

And… and … It HAD to work this time!  

She tilted her head back, her cigarette burning low between her fingers, though she hardly needed its heat. Her body was already alive with fire—an inferno sparked by thoughts she couldn’t control, couldn’t name, though they centered around one girl.

And for some reason that girl was no longer Candy.  

Candy had been her plan, perfect in every glossy, shallow way. The blonde with the kind of curves that demanded attention, her playful giggles and eager, pliable nature practically begging Veronica to take her apart piece by piece. Candy had been a game, an indulgence, someone Veronica could toy with and leave breathless, begging for more. She’d seen it so clearly—the way it would play out, the way she’d unravel Candy until the girl was nothing but a shell of her former self and would actively WANT to surrender to Veronica’s command.

But now Candy was somewhere inside, sulking and draped over some interchangeable Tad or Chad or Brad, and Veronica had almost forgotten about her.  Instead she was out here, pacing the boardwalk, her thighs clenching, her chest tight with an ache that wouldn’t ease. Her cigarette trembled in her fingers as her mind betrayed her, wandering back—inevitably, uncontrollably—to Emily.

Emily, who wasn’t supposed to matter.

Emily, whose dark, straight hair had fallen like a silken curtain over her golden skin, framing eyes wide and sweet but sharp with an unexpected mischief. Emily, who wore denim cutoffs so short they were practically against the law, and a crop top that rode up every time she moved, teasing the soft, taut skin of her stomach. Emily, who had fumbled through a bikini contest earlier with a shy smile and an awkward charm that had left the crowd—and Veronica—hanging on her every goddamned move.

Veronica closed her eyes, exhaling slowly, the memory of Emily’s scent still clinging to her senses. Coconut, sunlight, and something faintly floral, mixed with the salty tang of skin kissed by hours in the sun. It had hit Veronica like a drug, heady and intoxicating, during a moment that hadn’t meant anything. Or shouldn’t have. Just a brush of her hand against Emily’s arm, a fleeting connection, and yet she’d felt the warmth of it lingering, searing, long after Emily had turned away.

She pressed her palms hard against the railing, the wood biting into her skin, trying to hold onto something solid while her mind betrayed her again. She pictured Emily laughing, that sweet, breathy giggle that made Veronica’s chest ache. She imagined the way her body might tremble if Veronica stepped closer, let her fingers ghost over that soft, sun-warmed skin, let them dip lower, under the edge of those ridiculous cutoffs, teasing the wetness she knew would be there, waiting, aching.

Fuck.

Emily wasn’t supposed to be her type. Veronica craved blonde bombshells, girls who radiated confidence, who knew how to use their bodies like weapons, who could meet Veronica’s intensity head-on and make her burn for it. Emily wasn’t that. Emily was smaller, softer, a quiet force that unsettled Veronica in ways she didn’t know how to name. And ASIAN!  The only Asian Veronica could remember seeing in this town … ever!  But maybe that was why she couldn’t stop thinking about her. Why every stolen glance, every shy smile, every casual brush of skin against skin felt like it was pulling Veronica closer to the edge.

Her lips parted, the cigarette forgotten, her breath hitching as her mind conjured the image of Emily beneath her—those wide eyes darkened with want, her body arching into Veronica’s hands as she slowly, deliberately stripped her bare. She imagined the way Emily might gasp when Veronica kissed the delicate line of her throat, let her lips trail lower, lower, her hands gripping Emily’s thighs, spreading her sweet tight yellow pussy open and then —

Veronica bit down on her lip hard enough to taste blood, her thighs pressing together as the heat between them grew unbearable. She wanted—God, she wanted—Emily. Wanted to see her blush, hear her breath catch, watch her melt as Veronica unraveled her with slow, calculated precision.

At the muscle growth booth, Emily would be smiling, oblivious to the storm she was stirring in Veronica’s chest. Maybe she was laughing with Wesley (No… it was Blaine now … why was that so fuzzy to her?).  Emily’s gaze would be lingering a second too long on the line of his jaw or the curve of his arm. But Veronica had seen how Emily looked at GIRLS!  She HAD seen it;  the way Emily’s eyes flicked, curious, intrigued, when she thought no one was watching.

“She could look at ME like that,” she thought with an intensity like gasoline on the fire. Veronica straightened, her dress clinging to her in the night air, her lips curving into a slow, wicked smile. She had decided then, the moment electric with possibility. Candy would have been easy. Emily would be a challenge.

And Veronica had never been able to resist a challenge.  It was just why did it have to be this difficult?  Nothing was going as it was supposed to..

***

She almost heard a sound in her mind as she began to flashback to all her failed attempts so far…

Doododoloodooodldodoldodlododldododldooo 

***

Veronica Valmont stepped into the shadowed corner of The Wet Spot, her sequined black dress clinging like a second skin to every sinful curve. She adjusted the neckline, tugging it just a touch lower, enough to reveal the tops of her creamy, perfect breasts. A strand of her platinum blonde hair fell artfully across one eye as she angled her body just so, leaning against the wall with one long leg peeking through the dramatic slit of her gown. She smirked, watching the crowd, waiting for her moment.

But instead of gasps or admiring whispers, there was nothing.

No one even turned.

Veronica’s painted red lips twitched in irritation. She scanned the bar and spotted Wesley and Emily laughing by the jukebox, completely oblivious to her dramatic entrance. She’d been practicing that pose for hours.

***

And then there had been the dawn surfing incident 

Doododoloodooodldodoldodlododldododldooo 

***

She’d stood on the boardwalk in a flowing black silk robe, the kind that parted scandalously with every gust of sea breeze. Beneath it, she wore a daring black one-piece with a plunging neckline that nearly kissed her navel. She’d been the picture of sultry mystery, perched like a predatory bird, waiting for the exact moment to descend the steps and approach Wesley and Emily.

But just as she began her slow, dramatic descent, Emily had burst into laughter, clutching Rad’s stolen surf trunks in one hand while striking a victory pose atop her board. The crowd’s roar drowned out Veronica’s heeled footsteps entirely. Her carefully orchestrated reveal had been reduced to an unnoticed specter in the background.

***

And then there had been the pool party fiasco 

Doododoloodooodldodoldodlododldododldooo 

***

She’d slipped out of her electric-blue cocktail dress with theatrical flair, revealing a scandalously sheer mesh bikini that left little to the imagination. Her long legs shimmered as she stepped into the pool, every movement slow and deliberate.

Her plan had been simple: wade to Wesley, dripping water and allure, and deliver the kind of line that would make him hers instantly. Something like, “Looks like the water isn’t the only thing wet around here.”

But before she could even get halfway, Emily had “drowned.” The crowd’s focus had shifted entirely to Wesley leaping into the pool, and Veronica’s smoldering walk had been completely ignored. She’d ended up treading water awkwardly in the background.

***

And then there had been the bikini party boondoggle  

Doododoloodooodldodoldodlododldododldooo 

***

Her pièce de résistance had been a black string bikini that was almost criminal in its design. When she stepped onto the stage, she’d unfastened the top’s halter ties just enough to suggest it might fall at any moment. She’d even used her lipstick to write “Call Me” across her thigh, the red letters blazing against her pale skin.

But Wesley had been too busy coaching Emily through her awkward runway walk to notice. The crowd had gone wild for Emily’s nervous little giggle as she tripped onstage and accidentally ripped Missy’s sash in half.

 ***

But this time at the Muscle Flex would be DIFFERENT!  

Veronica stepped into the crowd's edge, the air thick with the scent of sunscreen and sweat. Her hips swayed with hypnotic precision as she approached the muscle growth booth. Every step was calculated, her heels clicking against the wooden planks of the boardwalk like a metronome of temptation. She reached the spotlight zone, and—

“Oh my God, he’s doing it!” someone shouted.

All heads turned away from her, including Wesley’s, as a wiry, bespectacled guy lifted a massive dumbbell above his head. The crowd erupted in cheers as the “science magic” kicked in, his spindly frame bulging with new muscles. The sight of his swim trunks splitting along the seams drew howls of laughter, and the crowd pressed forward to watch him strike clumsy poses, utterly oblivious to Veronica.

She froze, her sultry smirk faltering.

“Okay,” she muttered under her breath. “Improvise.”

Veronica turned her back to the booth and bent over as if to pick up something she’d “accidentally” dropped, her silver bikini bottom riding up scandalously. The move was guaranteed to catch Emily’s eye—or anyone’s eye.

But instead of appreciative murmurs, she heard—

“Whoa, check out that seagull fight!”

The crowd surged away, pointing at a pair of gulls squabbling over a discarded corn dog. They flapped and cawed, wings and mustard flying everywhere, completely stealing the show.

Veronica’s fingers curled into fists at her sides.

She stood upright, flipping her platinum hair over her shoulder with a dramatic flair that should’ve turned heads. Still nothing. Her teeth clenched, and a faint vein pulsed at her temple.

Time for the nuclear option.

She sauntered onto the stage, positioning herself directly in front of the crowd. She stretched languidly, arching her back as if basking in the sun, her silver bikini gleaming like a beacon. Slowly, deliberately, she untied one side of her bikini bottom, letting it dangle precariously.

“Oops,” she purred loudly, her voice dripping with feigned innocence.

No one noticed.

Instead, there was a loud “WHOMP!” as someone at the smoothie bar accidentally spilled an entire vat of a glowing protein shake, sending a fluorescent tidal wave cascading across the boardwalk. People screamed and scrambled to avoid the mess, leaving Veronica standing on the stage, her seductive tableau utterly ignored.

She stomped her heel.

“WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO GET SOME FUCKING ATTENTION AROUND HERE?!” she shrieked.

She grabbed the nearest weight and hoisted it over her head in a move that would’ve been impressive—if anyone had been watching. Instead, a vendor’s cart collapsed in the distance, sending a cascade of beach balls rolling toward the crowd. People laughed, scooping up the balls and throwing them around like children at a carnival.

“YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!”

In her frustration, Veronica hurled the weight toward the sand. It landed with a muffled thud, completely anticlimactic, as one of the Flex Fest “scientists” sidled up to her, smiling brightly.

“Ma’am, would you like to participate in the muscle-enhancement demonstration?”

Veronica gaped at her. “Are you serious right now?”

The scientist cocked her head, unperturbed. “We have a new pink serum for participants looking to enhance their thighs. It’s been very popular.”

Veronica’s eye twitched. “Enhance. My. Thighs?”

“Yes, ma’am. Or you could—”

“NO! I don’t need your stupid serum! I’m trying to—UGH!” Veronica spun on her heel, storming off the stage, her silver bikini gleaming like a lighthouse of rage.

She stopped in front of a mirror near the booth, her reflection mocking her. She looked perfect. She looked better than perfect. She looked like a goddamned sex goddess dropped onto this stupid beach to rule it.

So why wasn’t anyone looking at her?

Her lip trembled, then firmed into a sneer. “Fine,” she hissed to her reflection. “You want to ignore me? Go ahead. But when this beach burns, don’t come crying to me.”

With a dramatic flourish of her silver bikini, she stomped away—right into a volleyball net.

“SON OF A—!”

Her legs tangled in the net as the ball plopped unceremoniously into the sand beside her. The crowd cheered for the accidental point.

Veronica sighed, sprawled in the sand, her silver bikini shining like a broken star. "I hate this beach," she moaned.  And somewhere in the distance a beach musician played a sad trombone.  

—

Tad stared blankly at the volleyball in his hands, the surf crashing lazily behind him. His chiseled jaw clenched as he scanned the nearly empty beach, his usual easygoing grin replaced by a furrowed brow. Next to him, Candy—her name as fitting as her glittery pink bikini and bubblegum-popping demeanor—was reclining on a lounge chair, her improbably long legs stretched out in front of her.

The sun glinted off her golden skin, but even her natural radiance couldn’t distract from the sheer aimlessness they both felt.

“I don’t get it,” Tad muttered, tossing the volleyball in the air and catching it. His golden blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight, perfectly tousled in a way that seemed to defy all natural physics. “This morning, I woke up ready for, like, the most epic volleyball game ever. You know, dives so sweet they could almost be in slow motion,, sweaty pecs, girls cheering. Classic stuff.”

Candy glanced over at him, sliding her oversized sunglasses down her nose to reveal sparkling blue eyes that were perpetually just a little wide, like she was constantly surprised by everything. “So why didn’t you, like… just do it?” she asked, her voice syrupy and sweet, though tinged with confusion.

Tad gestured around them. “Because nobody’s here, Candy! An epic game isn’t EPIC if NO ONE IS HERE, right? It’s just me... hitting a ball... alone.” He huffed, spinning the volleyball between his hands. “I even tried getting a group together earlier. I was all, ‘Yo, dudes, who’s up for some gnarly spikes?’ But everyone just kinda… drifted off. Like, they weren’t into it.”

Candy pouted, twirling a strand of her platinum blonde hair around her finger. “That’s, like, totally weird. You’re Tad. People always wanna hang out with you.”

“Exactly!” Tad said, his tone rising with frustration. “And you—you’re Candy. You’re supposed to, I don’t know, bring the bubbly vibes. Get the party started. But lately, it’s like…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at her.

Candy sat up straighter, arching her back in a way that made her already impressive cleavage strain against her bikini top. “What? What is it?” she asked, her glossy lips forming a perfect pout.

“I dunno,” Tad said, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s like… you’re not sparkling the way you used to.”

Candy gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. “Tad! That’s, like, the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I’m sorry!  But…I’m also serious!” Tad insisted. “When’s the last time you started a pillow fight, huh? Or, like, jumped into the pool just so everyone could see how great your boobs look when you come up out of the water? That’s your thing, Candy. You’re the queen of sexy-but-totally-innocent fun. But now, it’s like you’re just… sitting there.”

Candy looked down at herself, frowning slightly. “I mean, I did try to do that thing where I squirted sunscreen all over myself earlier,” she said, her voice dipping into a sulky tone. “But I just got all gooey … and not in a sexy way.  Nobody even noticed! Usually, the boys are, like, all over me when I do that.”

Tad threw the volleyball to the ground, his frustration boiling over. “That’s what I’m talking about! Something’s off. It’s like the whole vibe of this place is… broken.”

Candy nodded slowly, though her gaze was fixed on her own chest as she adjusted her bikini top. “Do you think it’s, like… us?” she asked, a rare flicker of self-awareness in her voice. “Like, maybe we’re not hot enough anymore?”

“Impossible,” Tad said immediately, flexing his biceps for emphasis. “Look at me. I’m peak Tad. And you—well, you’re Candy. You’re perfect. It’s not us. It’s…” He paused, struggling to articulate the strange feeling that had been gnawing at him for days. “It’s like the energy’s been… sucked out of our world.”

Candy tilted her head, her expression blank but curious. “Do you think it’s, like… aliens?”

Tad sighed. “No, Candy. It’s not aliens.” He squinted out at the horizon, his square jaw tightening. “But something’s definitely changed. It’s like… we’re not important to Bikini Week anymore.”

Candy’s head snapped up, her oversized sunglasses sliding down her nose. “What? Don’t be ridiculous, Tad. We’re, like, totally important.”

“Are we, though?” Tad gestured at the empty court and the boardwalk beyond it. “Where is everyone? Why isn’t there a crowd here watching me practice my spikes? And why haven’t you done... you know... one of your things yet?”

Candy blinked, her fingers tightening on her hair. “My things?”

“You know!” Tad waved his hand vaguely. “Like, you accidentally trip and end up flashing everyone, or your top gets caught on something, or you do that thing where you walk out of the water, and everyone just stops and stares.”

Candy frowned, her nose wrinkling adorably. “I can’t just make that stuff happen, Tad. It’s supposed to, like, happen naturally.”

“Well, it’s not happening now!” Tad groaned, sitting down heavily on the sand. “And when’s the last time someone asked me to pose for a beach calendar? Or challenged me to a volleyball match? It’s like we’re... I don’t know, just here.”

Candy leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Okay, yeah. It does feel kinda... weird. Like, remember last night at the bonfire? I was dancing, and... nobody even noticed.”

Tad nodded solemnly. “Yeah. And I was showing off my pec bounce. Nothing. Not even a single cheer.”

“Maybe it’s Them,” Candy asked with real fear.  

“Them?” Tad asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You know. Them. That new guy and that girl he’s always with. What are their names again? Wes and... Emmy? Emily?”

Tad snorted. “What, them? Come on. That guy was a total nerd last week, and that girl...” He trailed off, frowning. “Actually, she’s kind of hot now. Did you see her during that chicken fight? Those... those things of hers nearly knocked Missy off the guy’s shoulders.  Yea … Yeah!  Now that you mention it did you notice how everyone keeps staring at them? Like, everywhere they go? It’s like... they’re the ones everyone’s watching now..  Emily was, like, nobody last week, and now she’s got every guy staring at her like she’s the hottest thing since Jessica Rabbit.”

Candy pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. “Ugh, her boobs aren’t as big as Jessica’s.”

Tad nodded fervently. “Exactly. And yet, somehow, she’s stealing all the attention. It’s like the attention has shifted to them.”

Candy furrowed her brow, a rare moment of thoughtfulness crossing her face. “So… what do we do?”

Tad fell silent, his jaw tightening as he stared out at the ocean. After a moment, Candy reached out and touched his arm, her nails skimming over his bronzed skin. “Hey,” she said softly, her voice uncharacteristically serious. “Maybe... maybe we just need to remind everyone why they used to watch us.”

Tad looked at her, his brow furrowing. “How?”

Candy bit her lip, a slow, mischievous smile spreading across her face. “Well, we could, like... do something. You know, together. Something that’ll get their attention.”

Tad’s eyes lit up, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. Like what?”

Candy stood up, brushing the sand off her legs, and stretched, her arms arching over her head in a way that made her curves stand out even more. “I dunno. Something sexy. Something fun.” She glanced at the volleyball net, then back at him. “How about we play a little game?”

Tad’s grin widened. “You’re on.”

They moved to the net, Candy tying her hair back in a high ponytail that swished enticingly with every step. Tad handed her the ball, his fingers brushing hers for just a moment longer than necessary. She tossed it up, testing its weight, before serving it over the net with a surprising amount of force.

“Not bad,” Tad said, diving to save it. He popped the ball back over the net, and Candy leapt to meet it, her lithe body stretching in a way that made Tad momentarily lose focus. The ball hit the sand behind him, and she let out a victorious laugh.

“Point for me!” she said, twirling in place. “Come on, Tad. You’re not gonna let me win that easy, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Tad shot back, grabbing the ball. They kept at it, their movements growing more animated, more playful, as the game went on.

Candy’s bikini top slipped slightly as she lunged for the ball, exposing just a hint of skin. Tad couldn’t help but stare, and she noticed, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “See something you like?” she teased, tossing the ball back to him.

“Maybe,” Tad replied, his voice lower than usual. He served the ball hard, forcing her to dive for it. She hit the sand with a laugh, her hair spilling out of its ponytail and her bikini bottom riding up just enough to draw attention.

Candy stood up, brushing herself off, and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Think that got their attention?” she asked, glancing around.

Tad followed her gaze, but the boardwalk was still mostly empty. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t get it. We’re doing everything right. Why isn’t anyone watching?”

Candy shrugged, though her smile faltered. “Maybe... we just need to try harder.”

Tad nodded, determination hardening his features. “Yeah. Let’s make them look. Let’s remind everyone why we’re the best damn thing to ever happen to Bikini Week.”

Soon Tad and Candy were standing at the edge of the boardwalk, their gazes drifting over the beach as they tried to brainstorm a new plan. The volleyball game had fizzled, their usual charm had fallen flat, and the uneasy sense that something was off had only grown stronger.

“We need something big,” Tad said, pacing back and forth. His golden hair caught the sun perfectly, but not a single passerby stopped to admire it. “Something wild, something... unforgettable. The kind of thing everyone talks about for weeks.”

Candy twirled a strand of her hair around her finger, her lips pouting thoughtfully. “Like... what? Should we, like, climb onto the roof of the surf shop and do a backflip into the ocean?”

“That’s it!” Tad’s eyes lit up. “That’s the energy we need! Let’s do it.”

The two of them raced to the surf shop, their movements full of the kind of exaggerated excitement that should have drawn a crowd. But when they reached the roof and Tad stood at the edge, arms spread like a daring stuntman, the energy fell flat.

“Here we go!” Tad shouted, his voice ringing out over the beach. He leapt off the roof, expecting to land in a dramatic splash in the ocean below. Instead, he landed awkwardly in knee-high water, splashing around like a flailing toddler. Candy slid down a nearby ladder to join him, but by the time she got there, he was just standing there, dripping wet and scowling.

“That was it?” she asked, her voice filled with disbelief.

“I don’t get it,” Tad muttered, trudging out of the water. “That should’ve been epic.”

Candy followed him, brushing sand off her legs. “Okay, maybe stunts aren’t our thing. What about... I know! A spontaneous dance-off! People love a good dance-off.”

Tad nodded, his spirits lifting slightly. “Yeah, yeah, we can work with that. Let’s do it!”

They made their way to a small platform near the boardwalk, where a boombox sat abandoned. Candy turned it on, blasting a lively, bass-heavy beat, and they both launched into their best moves. Tad threw in some impressive breakdancing spins, while Candy’s hips swayed hypnotically, her body moving in perfect rhythm to the music.

But no one stopped to watch. The people walking by barely gave them a second glance, and the few who did just looked confused.

Candy slowed her movements, her confidence wavering. “Why isn’t anyone joining in?”

Tad stopped mid-spin, his arms dropping to his sides. “This doesn’t make any sense. Are we invisible or something?”

“No,” Candy replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “They can see us. They just don’t... care.”

The two stood in silence for a moment, the music from the boombox still playing faintly in the background. Then Candy’s eyes lit up again. “I’ve got it! A food fight! Those are always fun and messy and, like, super chaotic.”

“Genius,” Tad said, grabbing her hand. “Let’s hit the snack shack.”

A few minutes later, they were armed with a pile of burgers, fries, and milkshakes. Tad started it off by lobbing a fry at Candy’s forehead. She squealed in mock outrage, grabbing a milkshake and hurling it at his chest.

Within moments, they were covered in food, laughing as they threw ketchup packets and burger buns at each other. But instead of escalating into the messy, wacky chaos they’d imagined, it just felt... sad. A few bystanders stopped to watch, but their expressions were more bemused than entertained. One old man muttered, “Kids these days,” before wandering off.

Candy wiped a glob of mustard off her boobs, her shoulders slumping. “This isn’t working either.”

“Okay, okay,” Tad said, trying to stay upbeat. “We’ll go bigger. Let’s stage a daring rescue!”

Candy perked up slightly. “Ooh, like a lifeguard thing? Someone drowning?”

“Exactly! Let’s fake it.” Tad grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the water.

Candy waded in up to her waist and began waving her arms dramatically. “Help! Help! I’m drowning!” she cried, her voice shrill.

Tad ran in after her, scooping her up in his arms with a heroic flourish. “I’ve got you!” he declared, carrying her back to shore.

But as they reached the sand, the only reaction they got was from a small child who pointed at them and said, “Mommy, why is that lady pretending to drown?”

Candy groaned, burying her face in her hands. “This is so lame.”

Tad sighed, setting her down gently. “Okay, what’s next?”

Candy thought for a moment, then gasped. “A wardrobe malfunction! Those always get attention.”

“Perfect,” Tad said, his eyes gleaming.

Candy grabbed the string of her bikini top, tugging on it as if it were about to come undone. She leaned forward, giggling as she prepared to make a dramatic show of “accidentally” losing her top.

But just as she tugged, the knot refused to budge. She pulled harder, but the string stayed firmly in place. “What the...?” Candy muttered, yanking at it with both hands.

“Uh, maybe it’s a sign,” Tad suggested, watching her struggle.

Candy finally gave up, her cheeks flushed with frustration. “Even my bikini won’t cooperate! This is ridiculous!”

Tad sat down beside her in the sand, staring out at the ocean. “What are we doing wrong, Candy? This is our week. Our beach. Our moment. Why isn’t anything working?”

Candy sighed, leaning against him. “I don’t know, Tad. I just... I feel like something’s missing..”

The hours passed and soon the empty beach held a strange stillness as the sun dipped lower, painting the horizon in soft hues of amber and pink. Tad and Candy sat together in the sand, the earlier sense of futility lingering in the air. Candy sighed, shifting closer to him, her glittery bikini catching the waning light.

“This feels… weird, right?” she murmured, her voice softer than usual. Her fingers toyed with a loose thread on her top, her nails painted the same bubblegum pink as her lips.

Tad glanced at her, his sculpted features etched with rare vulnerability. “Yeah,” he admitted, his deep voice quieter now. “Like we’re not enough anymore.”

Candy’s eyes met his, and for the first time, the usual spark of playful vanity was replaced with something raw. “Maybe it’s not about them,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. “Maybe it’s about us.”

Their bodies moved instinctively closer, the lingering silence between them thick with unspoken emotions. Tad's hand trembled slightly as he brushed his fingers against Candy's jaw, the warmth of her skin igniting a spark he hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever. The weight of the day, the emptiness of it all, dissolved in that simple touch.

Her gaze met his, blue eyes wide with vulnerability but flickering with something primal. She didn’t speak; she didn’t need to. Candy shifted, leaning forward until their lips met in a kiss that was hesitant at first, like testing the waters of a tide they couldn’t fight. But as soon as Tad felt the soft, sugary press of her lips against his, the dam broke.

The kiss deepened, his strong hands gripping her hips, pulling her into him. Her glittery pink bikini top slid askew as his touch roamed upward, fingers skimming over her ribs until they brushed the full swell of her breasts. Candy gasped against his mouth, her fingers tangling in his sun-kissed hair. Every nerve in her body came alive, electric, sparking under his touch.

“Candy,” Tad murmured, his voice low and rough with need.  

She whimpered softly, arching her back as his lips trailed down her neck. Her bikini top slipped loose entirely, baring her golden skin to the cool evening breeze. His kisses grew hungrier, tracing the curve of her collarbone and down to the sensitive peaks of her breasts. She shuddered as his tongue flicked over her nipple, his other hand kneading her flesh with reverence and fervor.

Their breathing quickened, synchronized, as if their hearts had found a new rhythm together. Candy’s hands explored Tad’s body, her fingers worshiping every ridge of his sculpted chest and abs. His muscles tensed under her touch, his golden skin hot and smooth. She’d always known he was beautiful, but now, with his body pressed against hers and his desire so palpable, he seemed godlike.

Tad’s hands slid lower, grasping the ties of her bikini bottoms and tugging them free. The fabric fell away, leaving her bare under the fading sunlight. His gaze swept over her, drinking in every curve and hollow, every glistening inch of her body. “You’re perfect,” he breathed, his voice reverent.

Candy felt alive for the first time in ages, every inch of her skin hypersensitive to his touch. She reached for the waistband of his trunks, pulling them down to reveal his hardness, his arousal proof of his overwhelming need for her. He pressed against her, the head of his cock teasing her slick entrance, and she moaned softly, her nails digging into his shoulders.

“Tad,” she whispered, her voice trembling with anticipation. “Please…”

He pushed into her slowly, stretching her, filling her. Candy cried out, her head falling back as her body adjusted to the delicious fullness. Tad groaned, his hands gripping her thighs as he began to move, his hips rocking in a steady, deliberate rhythm. Every thrust sent a shockwave of pleasure through her, her body arching to meet his.

The world around them faded away. The empty beach, the silent boardwalk, the lack of an audience—all of it became irrelevant as they lost themselves in each other. Their movements grew frantic, desperate, as if they could banish the emptiness with the intensity of their connection. Candy’s cries filled the air, her pleasure unrestrained, and Tad’s deep groans followed, his voice heavy with passion.

Her body tightened around him as her climax approached, the tension building until it snapped like a wave crashing against the shore. She screamed his name, her nails raking down his back as she shattered beneath him. Tad followed seconds later, burying himself deep inside her as he found his release, his body shaking with the force of it.

They collapsed onto the sand, their bodies tangled and slick with sweat. The sound of their breathing mingled with the rhythmic crash of the waves. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, their hearts pounding in unison.

Candy turned her head to look at Tad, a lazy, sated smile on her lips. “That… that was everything,” she whispered.

Tad chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “It was more than everything. It was you.  It was me.  It was us.”

She curled into his side, her head resting on his chest. The warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart, made her feel whole in a way nothing else ever had. They didn’t need the crowds, the attention, the validation. In each other, for the first time in what felt like forever, they’d found something real.

—-

The ocean’s salty breeze was powerless in the heat of the moment, failing to cool the air that crackled with tension. Behind the gleaming black limousine, Pearson lit his cigar with a smirk that spoke of power bought, sold, and taken at will. His gold lighter snapped shut, his eyes narrowing as he turned his attention to Charlotte. She stood a few paces away, the sharp tailoring of her suit doing little to hide the swell of her hips, the curve of her ass that defied the rigid professionalism she tried so hard to exude.

"Charlotte," he barked, stepping closer, his voice low and heavy with dominance. "How’s my empire coming along? Got this beach wrapped up in a neat little bow yet, or do I need to start cracking the whip?"

Charlotte’s fingers fumbled on the clipboard, betraying the composure she fought to maintain. Her skirt clung tightly to her thighs, the hem teasing her knees, but it was her trembling voice that really gave her away. "There are still negotiations ongoing, Mr. Pearson," she stammered, her lips parting in a nervous breath. "The locals are resistant, but we’re working on it."

"Locals?" He laughed sharply, tossing his cigar to the gravel. "Locals are ants under my boot, Charlotte. I didn’t put you in that pretty office so you could waste my time whining about ants."

He stalked toward her, the gravel crunching underfoot, his presence a wall of pressure. When he reached her, he ripped the clipboard from her hands with the ease of a man who expected no resistance and threw it onto the car hood without a second glance. "You’re supposed to be handling this. Are you telling me you can’t keep up, sweetheart?"

Charlotte barely had time to catch her breath before his hand shot out, grabbing her by the crotch, her pussy if she was being blunt, and pulling her flush against him. The motion was rough, unapologetic, his palm splaying possessively against her lower stomach. "What’s wrong, Charlotte?" His voice dropped to a growl, his lips brushing her ear as his fingers slid lower, teasing the edge of her skirt. "You seemed pretty damn eager to prove yourself back when you begged me for this job."

She gasped, the sound soft but sharp, as his fingers gripped her firmly, his hold unapologetic as he pressed her hips to the car.

Pearson’s grin widened, predatory, as his fingers slid further up Charlotte’s skirt. The fabric strained against the motion, the tailored material clinging to her curves as though resisting the invasion. But he was stronger, more determined, and the skirt yielded under his persistence. His fingers brushed the edge of her panties, the silk damp with a heat she couldn’t hide, and he chuckled darkly.

“Ah, there it is,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “All that fire in your eyes, all that fight—you want to play the ice queen, but your body? Your body knows exactly where it belongs.”

“Mr. Pearson,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, a fragile tremor in the air between them. “This… this is unprofessional.”

"Unprofessional?" Pearson mocked, his grin widening as his hand slid up the curve of her hip, fingers curling possessively over her waist. "Let me tell you something about professionalism, Charlotte. It’s a word losers hide behind when they can’t handle the real world." His hand yanked and actually managed to rip the thin fabric of her panties. "Do you think Trump got where he is by playing nice? Hell no. He became a huge developer, just like me, by being a man who takes what he wants, who knows power when he sees it and doesn’t waste time asking for permission." Charlotte’s breath hitched, her mind spinning as she tried to process his words, his touch, the sharp, almost hypnotic cadence of his voice. His palm slid down, his fingers curling beneath the edge of her skirt to trace the bare skin of her thigh. "Power isn’t given, sweetheart," Pearson continued, his tone low and dangerous, his lips curling into a smirk as he watched her struggle to maintain composure. "It’s taken. Owned. Just like this beach will be. Just like you are.  So if you want to talk about right and wrong now, sweetheart? Well… you didn’t seem so concerned when you walked into my office in that tight little number, batting those big eyes and offering me ‘whatever it takes.’”

Her cheeks burned, the memory of her desperate job interview flashing through her mind. She had needed this position, fought tooth and nail for it, and now here she was, her own words turned against her in the most humiliating way.

“You promised you could handle the heat, Charlotte,” Pearson growled, his hand tightening on her hip, pulling her hard against the bulge pressing insistently against his slacks. “So don’t start whining now. You wanted to play in the big leagues? This is how the game is played.”

She shuddered, torn between the indignation boiling in her chest and the traitorous ache building between her legs. His hand moved lower, rough fingers brushing against the slickness that betrayed her, and she gasped, her hands clutching his suit jacket for balance.

“See that?” he sneered, his tone dripping with triumph as he slid a finger between her folds, teasing her mercilessly. “Your mouth says one thing, but this—” He pressed his finger deeper, making her cry out, her body arching into him despite herself. “This says something else entirely.”

Charlotte’s head tipped back, her lips parting in a soft moan she couldn’t stifle. Pearson’s other hand tangled in her hair, tugging sharply to expose the vulnerable line of her throat. He leaned in, his breath hot against her skin as he growled, “You’re mine, Charlotte. Every inch of you. So stop pretending you don’t love every second of this.”

Her legs gave out entirely, and Pearson caught her, his grip unyielding as he pinned her against the car. His hand moved faster now, his fingers stroking her with a confidence born of experience, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. Her protests dissolved into gasps and whimpers, her body betraying her again and again as it responded to his touch as he began to slide his finger in and out of her pussy faster and faster.  

“That’s it,” he purred, his lips brushing her ear as her breathing quickened, her hips bucking against his hand. “Let go, sweetheart. Show me how much you want this.”

Charlotte’s mind swirled in a haze of humiliation and desire, her body trembling as the tension coiled tighter and tighter within her. She clung to Pearson, her nails digging into his jacket as the wave finally crashed over her, her moan spilling into the humid air.

Pearson smirked, his hand slowing but never leaving her, his touch a possessive reminder of the control he held over her. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction as he leaned back to admire the flushed, disheveled woman trembling in his grasp.

“Now,” he said, his tone shifting back to business as he straightened her skirt with a mockery of care, “get your ass back to the office and fix this beach deal. Unless you’d prefer I show you what happens when I really lose my patience.”

Charlotte swallowed hard, her cheeks burning as she nodded, her legs unsteady as she stepped away. Her voice was barely above a whisper as she replied, “Yes, Mr. Pearson.”

He chuckled, lighting another cigar as he watched her retreat, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “That’s what I thought.

–

Blaine felt an overwhelming desire to turn and smirk right at the camera.

He also felt all kinds of other things: the sweet sensation of Emily's eager tongue running worshipfully up and down the veiny new abs he had just sprouted. Her hands, unable to keep themselves off his hard new contours no matter how vocally she protested otherwise. The warmth of the beach town sun on all the wide, wide expanses of exposed skin he now boasted, since his shorts and his shirt were little more than a distant memory.

The more she drank him in, the more she started to flush in that way Asian people got when they'd had one beer. Bright red in her cheeks and ears, a faint shimmer of aesthetically pleasing sweat on her forehead. On a primal, almost animal level, he could smell her desire mingled with the scents of salt, seafoam, and artificial coconut sunscreen.

"I don't think pheromones could make you do that, babe," he said with casual ownership. Yet Emily kept sniffing and licking his body. And it felt...more than nice. Nice was a perfectly adequate word, or even a pleasant one. But this experience transcended such plain descriptors. This felt right.

But they had a lot going on. And if she kept carrying on like this, he was going to have to do something about it. Right here in fucking public.

Casually, he grabbed a fistful of her silky black hair. He tugged on her head with enough force to be strong without tearing any of her hair out. Despite his newfound strength, he felt the urge to treat her delicately. Like she was a fragile little porcelain chinadoll. "That's enough for now," he said in a low, male voice that allowed zero room for disagreement. Not that she would offer it up. He knew his Bunny would hear and obey. She was good for that.

When she did listen, his handsome face split into a cocky grin. He found himself effortlessly channeling the kind of charmers these movies had, only ramped up to eleven. "Looks like you do enjoy being oppressed, after all."

His footfalls were both unusually heavy and strangely graceful as he adjusted to piloting this new body. The vantage point was different, too; he'd gained the better part of a foot from his time in the chamber, easily the most of anyone who had undergone the transformative process. Emily was now recontextualized down to the bottom of his shelflike pecs, practically a living toy. There was a time, not too long ago, when he would've shied from such a base thought. But the role demanded he think of her that way, didn't it? To be protected and cared for...but also used and maybe occasionally, under certain parameters, abused.

"I know we could wait for the wind to blow us into new outfits," he said, "but I think it's time we invoke another classic trope: a clothes shopping montage."

He had to admit, he didn't really have a specific outfit in mind for himself. If anything, he kind of liked how he looked right now, out in a pair of briefs that his sheerly overdeveloped muscles had basically transformed into a de facto thong. This was such an interesting artifact, he thought dimly, of 80's masculinity. It hadn't been afraid of things like spandex, or soft-focus adoration. Maybe the homophobia had been so prevalent that people back then just hadn't realized how easily that sort of thing could loop around from hyper-hetero, straight into gay.

But as he shepherded his little companion along, Blaine sure as fuck didn't feel fucking gay.

He grinned mischievously as he thought of something. "Hey," he rumbled to Bunny. "You're going too slow." And then with absolutely zero effort, he scooped her up into his overmuscled arms and carried her along without a single faltering step. He laughed off her halfhearted protests. The sheer strength in his muscles made it clear to Bunny that she wasn't going anywhere, not unless he wanted her to.

And eventually, he enjoyed the sensation of her giving in as her deliciously skinny arms wrapped around his thick, muscular neck.

The boutique they found was a classic 80s relic—neon signs flickering above racks of pastel spandex, fishnet tops, and high-cut swimsuits that practically screamed Miami Vice meets Malibu Barbie. Blaine carried Bunny effortlessly inside, setting her down with a grin that made her knees weak and her heart race. The boutique's staff, a mix of outrageously attractive women in skintight aerobics wear and tanned dudes with mullets and gold chains, greeted them with enthusiastic, perfectly synchronized "Welcome!"

"Alright, Bunny," Blaine said, his massive hands resting casually on his broad hips. "Time to see what this place has to offer. Let’s get you something that screams ‘Save the Beach’ while also whispering ‘I look so hot doing it.’"

Emily tried to retort, but her words faltered as a busty brunette in a teal unitard approached with a tray of shimmering tubes. "New make-up?" the woman cooed, holding up a neon-pink lipstick. "It's permanent! Guaranteed to stay flawless, no matter what you're up to."

"I—uh, no thanks," Emily stammered, backing up a step.

"Come on," Blaine urged, stepping behind her and gently but firmly guiding her toward the cosmetics station. His hands settled on her slender shoulders, the sheer size of them making her feel tiny in the best—and most frustrating—way. "Give it a shot. Think of it as a part of the montage."

Emily huffed but relented, letting the teal unitard woman get to work. She dabbed and blended with almost surgical precision, her neon-bright brushes a blur of color. When the woman finally spun Emily around to face the mirror, her jaw dropped.

Her lips were painted a glossy, candy-apple red, full and pouty, shimmering under the boutique's fluorescent lights. Her eyelids glittered with a mix of pink and gold shadow, accentuating her almond-shaped eyes. Long, thick lashes framed them perfectly, curled upward in a way she couldn’t have achieved even with her best mascara. A hint of blush dusted her high cheekbones, and her skin glowed like she’d spent hours in the sun without a single blemish or hint of sweat.

"I look like...a doll," Emily murmured, touching her cheek in disbelief.

"You look perfect," Blaine corrected, his voice low and appreciative as his eyes roved over her face.

She turned to argue, but he was already pulling her toward the racks of clothes. "Now for the outfits. Let’s start with…this one."

Emily hesitated before stepping out of the dressing room, clutching at the edges of the outfit as if trying to cover herself up. Blaine’s approving whistle made her cheeks burn even hotter.

The first outfit was a micro mini dress in metallic gold, the fabric clinging to every curve like liquid metal. The neckline plunged daringly low, exposing an expanse of her chest that she wasn’t sure she’d ever shown in public before. The hem barely brushed the tops of her thighs, and when she moved, it shimmered like molten gold. Paired with clear platform heels, the look was unapologetically bold—and undeniably slutty.

"You look like a million bucks," Blaine said, leaning against a rack with his arms crossed, his biceps bulging distractingly.

Emily shot him a glare, but the way his gaze traveled over her body sent a thrill through her.

Next was a neon-pink halter top and matching booty shorts. The top tied behind her neck and left her back completely bare, save for the thin string of the halter. The shorts sat impossibly low on her hips, the waistband dangerously close to showing more than she intended.

As she adjusted the outfit in front of the mirror, Blaine appeared behind her, his reflection towering over hers. "This one’s fun," he said, his hands bracing on the counter on either side of her, caging her in.

Emily swallowed hard, her pulse racing as his heat radiated against her back. "It’s…barely clothing."

"Exactly," Blaine replied with a grin.

The final outfit was the most outrageous: a fishnet bodysuit layered over a hot-pink bikini that was barely there. The netting clung to her body like a second skin, the bikini beneath doing little to hide her modesty.

"Okay, this is too much," Emily protested as she stepped out, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Too much?" Blaine asked, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "I think it’s just enough."

Finally, they reached the dressing room again, Emily clutching an armful of clothes she wasn’t sure how she’d been talked into trying. Blaine followed her inside, claiming he needed to "help her decide," though the playful smirk on his face said otherwise.

The dressing room was small, the air thick with the scent of fresh fabric and a faint trace of Blaine’s aftershave. His sheer size dominated the space, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the walls as he leaned casually against the mirror.

Emily tried to ignore him as she sorted through the clothes, but his presence was impossible to ignore. Every time she moved, she brushed against him, her smaller frame dwarfed by his towering, muscled form.

"You sure you’re okay in here?" Blaine asked, his voice low and teasing.

"I’m fine," Emily replied quickly, though her trembling hands betrayed her.

But when she tried to shimmy out of the fishnet bodysuit, the zipper snagged. She cursed softly, tugging at it, but the fabric wouldn’t budge.

"Need help?" Blaine offered, already stepping closer.

"No! I can—"

Before she could protest further, his hands were on her hips, steadying her as he gently tugged at the zipper. The heat of his touch seeped through the thin fabric, making her breath hitch.

"There," he said, his voice softer now, almost a whisper.

Emily turned, her face inches from his, the confined space amplifying the tension between them. Her heart raced as she looked up at him, her gaze snagging on the sharp lines of his jaw, the glint of amusement in his blue eyes.

For a moment, the world outside the dressing room faded away, leaving only the two of them in this charged, intimate bubble.

"Blaine," Emily began, her voice barely audible.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in just slightly, his hands still resting on her hips.

Emily’s breath caught, her pulse pounding as she fought the magnetic pull between them. But as his lips hovered just above hers, she let out a soft, shuddering sigh, and—

"Emily!" a voice called from outside the dressing room, breaking the spell.

Emily jolted back, her cheeks flaming. "Coming!" she called quickly, fumbling with the pile of clothes.

Blaine smirked, stepping back just enough to give her space while still filling the room with his presence. "This place really is rigged," he said with a grin.  “Now, just put on my favorite outfit, Bunny. We’ve got a beach to save!"