When Emily finally exited the changing room--ladies loved their clothes shopping--she had chosen the very first outfit, the indecent micro dress that shimmered like a dragon's hoard. She looked like...well, honestly, she looked like a trophy. A beautiful little thing to be put up on display. A walking, talking set of bragging rights. And based on the way it silhouetted her long legs and her swollen bustline, there was a lot to brag about.

"I can't believe this is your favorite," she murmured, unsure of where her embarrassment at the outfit and her self-consciousness about Blaine's attentions began. It wasn't that she didn't like Blaine's attention. Increasingly, she found it invigorating, as much a sign that she was doing something right as the cosmic hand of the narrative itself reaching out. But it was wrong to pin so much on the attentions and approvals of some man, wasn't it?

Only...Blaine wasn't just some man. For one thing, he was her partner in this enterprise to get themselves free of the 80's pocket reality. And for another, just, like, look at him. He wasn't built like other men. The serum at the Flex demonstration had transformed him into a towering, swaggering beach stud, armored in three hundred and fifty pounds of muscle without a single ounce of fat to mar him. Just looking at him made her mouth water in ways that she, theoretically, should have been better than. He was becoming a throwback to an older, more simplistic version of masculinity: the biggest, bestest guy got to do what he wanted, when he wanted to do it, to whomever he wished to do it to.

Beneath the shiny fabric of her microdress, her traitorous little cunt twinged at the thought.

Blaine, for his part, had chosen a new outfit: a neon magenta speedo with random crisscrossing lines of pastel teal. It was as if someone had managed to compress an entire decade's visual aesthetic into barely one square foot of spandex, and then wrap it around a single man's middle. When Emily gave him an amused little smirk, he simply smirked back. "What, you think you girls get to have all the fun? If I've got a body that looks like this, I sure as hell want to see it. Besides, you fucking love it."

And with a controlling swat to her ass, he directed her towards the front of the store.

A hot chick--was there any other kind in this town?--practically leapt out of a rack of neon spandex. "Emily!" she said again. "Hi! It's me, remember? Veronica?"

Blaine frowned. He didn't really remember seeing this chick around town at all. And he was pretty sure he had the proper memory for a good piece of ass, which this bikini-clad hottie definitely was. Its strappy silver design absolutely screamed for attention, which Blaine was all to happy to give it. Dimly, he mused about how complementary the two even were--silver and gold.

"Ohmygosh, how funny for us to run into each other like this!" Veronica went on with a laugh that rang just a little bit hollow. There was an intensity to her eyes that Blaine categorized with a certain misogynistic certainty as "crazy." The kind that was maybe a bit tedious to deal with when you had to, like, hang out with them and stuff, but almost always translated into fun energy when it was time to get naked.

Once upon a yesterday, that train of thought would have at least raised a flag--both for its casual sexism, and for the fact that even a pre-nerd Wesley had never experienced such success with women that he could so freely categorize their bedroom habits as related to him. But Blaine fundamentally didn't believe that any woman was unattainable. Blaine fundamentally believed that every woman was his, whether they knew it yet or not.

"I don't think we've met," he said, enjoying the new, slightly lower register of his enhanced voice. His hand swallowed hers as he shook it. "I'm Blaine. Emily and I are, like, new to this beach."

"V-Veronica Valmont," she replied. "And we've definitely met! Loads of times! At dawn surfing, and at the party, and at the Wet Spot just now, and..."

Blaine and Bunny exchanged a quizzical glance with each other. "Not ringing any bells," Blaine said casually. He was being pleasant because she was hot, but he was annoyed that she'd interrupted his fun in the dressing room. His new body was practically suffering from testosterone poisoning. He wanted to get the full scope of what it--he--was capable of.

"Anyway, I was totally wandering through this store on my own and I just happened to see you guys completely by coincidence, and at the same time I found this flyer!" It looked as if it had been nowhere near this store, if the outside sun-bleaching was any indication. But on the flyer itself, text screamed:

WET T-SHIRT CONTEST CASH PRIZE

–

Emily blinked as she took the flyer from Veronica, her manicured fingers brushing against the edges. The bold, garish letters announcing WET T-SHIRT CONTEST CASH PRIZE practically screamed off the page, matching the over-the-top aesthetic of the boutique they were in. She could feel Blaine’s massive presence behind her, his heat radiating as he leaned in over her shoulder to read the flyer too.

“A wet t-shirt contest, huh?” Blaine’s voice was a low rumble, teasing and confident, as if he already knew exactly how this was going to play out. His hand settled on the small of Emily’s back, possessive but steady. “Sounds like a chance to raise some of that money we need.”

Emily flushed, her mind racing. A wet t-shirt contest? Seriously? She glanced back at Blaine, her eyes narrowing as she tried to gauge his expression. The smirk he gave her was maddeningly unreadable—was he joking, or was he seriously considering this as a solution to their Pearson problem?

Her gaze dropped back to the flyer. The prize money was substantial, sure. But the thought of stepping up on a stage, soaked and on display for everyone, sent a mix of dread and… something else rippling through her. She glanced down at her microdress, the way the gold shimmered against her skin. It was already barely there, barely decent. And a wet t-shirt contest? That was a step beyond.

No way, she told herself. Absolutely not.

“Emily,” Veronica said, her voice honeyed and sweet, but with an edge that Emily couldn’t quite place. “You’d be perfect for this. I mean, you’ve already got the look.” Her gaze dipped pointedly toward Emily’s chest, where her new, generous curves were barely contained by the microdress.

“I don’t think so,” Emily replied quickly, her cheeks flushing even deeper. She stepped back, brushing against Blaine’s solid frame in the process. His hand moved, settling lightly on her hip, and the casual intimacy of it made her heart race. “I’m not exactly the wet t-shirt type.  It’s like …. Soooooooooo problematic!  Like totally problematic.”

“Really?” Blaine asked, his voice teasing. He leaned down, his lips close to her ear as he added, “Because I think you’d win by a landslide.”

Emily turned to glare at him, but the heat of his gaze made her stomach flip. He wasn’t even trying to hide the way his eyes roamed her body, taking in every curve and angle. The attention was electric, thrilling in a way that she couldn’t quite rationalize.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, shoving the flyer back toward Veronica. “We’ll find another way to raise the money. Something that doesn’t involve... this.”

“Why not?” Veronica pressed, her smile too wide, too eager. “It’s for a good cause, right? Saving the beach?” She tilted her head, her blonde hair catching the light. “Besides, it’s not like you’d be doing it alone. Blaine could compete too. They don’t say it’s just for girls.”

Emily blinked. “What?”

Veronica gestured to Blaine, who was still standing confidently behind Emily, his muscled arms crossed over his massive chest. “I mean, look at him. He’d kill it. Wet t-shirts aren’t just about cleavage, you know. They’re about the whole …. Package.  Don’t you think Blaine has a great package?” Her eyes raked over Blaine with a boldness that made Emily’s stomach tighten.

“Bunny,” Blaine said, his smirk widening as he turned Emily slightly to face him. His hands rested lightly on her shoulders, his grip firm but not forceful. “Think about it. You and me. Tag team. We could blow everyone else out of the water.”

Emily shook her head, her ponytail swishing as she tried to collect herself. “I’m not—this isn’t—I mean, it’s just—ugh!” She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest, which only served to push her cleavage up further. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Blaine asked, his tone infuriatingly casual. His hands slid down her arms, his touch warm and steady. “We need the money, right? And it’d be fun. You said it yourself—sometimes it’s okay to let loose a little. To play along.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Emily muttered, though the memory of her own words made her falter. She glanced at Blaine again, his towering, perfect form, the way his speedo clung to him like a second skin. He looked like he belonged in a competition like this, like he could own the stage without even trying.

And then there was her. Emily—smart, serious, responsible Emily. She’d spent so much of her life trying to be the opposite of what this world wanted her to be. She wasn’t the kind of girl who entered wet t-shirt contests. She wasn’t the kind of girl who let herself be ogled and objectified. She wasn’t the kind of girl who—

–

It was High School.  Her real High School.  She was sitting at the back of the cafeteria with her tray balanced precariously on her knees. Her lunch—a sad, soggy PB&J and a bruised apple—lay untouched. Around her, the cacophony of high school life raged on: cheerleaders giggling at the popular table, jocks tossing French fries at each other, cliques forming like impenetrable islands in a vast sea of noise.

Emily was on an island of her own, but not by choice.

She glanced down at her notebook, pretending to write something. She wasn’t. She was doodling—random, meaningless lines that filled the page but didn’t do much to fill the aching void in her chest. The silence around her was deafening. No one sat next to her. No one talked to her.

She remembered trying, again and again.  It always went the same. She’d approached a table of girls she vaguely knew from some class.

“Hey, can I sit here?” she’d asked, her voice trembling with the kind of hope that felt like a dare.

One of the girls had glanced up, her perfectly glossed lips curling into a polite but distant smile. “Oh, sorry, Emily,” she’d said, her tone dripping with insincerity. “We’re kind of full.”

The table wasn’t full. There was an empty chair right there.

The words changed time by time.  But never the outcome.  Every Time she’d mumbled something incoherent and walked away, cheeks burning, her vision blurring as she fought back tears.

–

Later, at home, she’d stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. She’d never been one for makeup, but that night she’d rummaged through her mom’s drawer, smearing on a little eyeliner, a swipe of lipstick. She’d tried smiling, tried looking confident. But the reflection staring back at her looked awkward, unfamiliar. It wasn’t her.

—

In college, things had been…better, she supposed. She’d had a few friends, study groups, people to sit with at lunch. But she’d always felt like an afterthought, a placeholder. Guys didn’t ask her out. When she developed a crush on a boy in her chem lab, she’d spent weeks psyching herself up to talk to him.

When she finally did, he’d smiled at her—not unkindly, but dismissively. “Oh, hey, Emily. Uh, sorry, but I’m actually into someone else.”

“Someone else” turned out to be her roommate: blonde, bubbly, and effortlessly popular.

—

Her thoughts faltered as Blaine leaned in closer, his presence overwhelming. “Bunny,” he said softly, his voice low and coaxing. “What’s the harm? It’s just a contest. And who knows? You might like being popular.” 

She looked up at him, her heart pounding. His blue eyes were piercing, his smirk both infuriating and irresistible. She hated how easily he got under her skin, how he made her question things she’d always been so sure of.

“Maybe….” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Blaine grinned, his hands giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “That’s my girl.”

Veronica clapped her hands together, her smile practically glowing. “Perfect! I’ll sign you up.  It starts in five minutes!” And with that, she sauntered off, leaving the flier fluttering in Emily’s hands.

Emily barely had time to process Veronica’s parting words before Blaine glanced at the flyer, his cocky grin sharpening. “Five minutes? Bunny, we gotta move.”

“What?! No, I—wait!” But Blaine didn’t wait. With an effortless swoop, he picked her up as if she weighed nothing, her legs dangling awkwardly as he strode out of the boutique and toward the contest location.

“Blaine!” she hissed, her hands instinctively gripping his broad shoulders. His muscles shifted beneath her palms, hard and unyielding, and she hated how much she didn’t hate the feel of them. “Put me down!”

“You’ll thank me later,” he replied smoothly, the confidence in his tone brooking no argument.

The Wet T-Shirt Contest was already in full swing by the time they arrived. A small stage had been set up on the beach, surrounded by a crowd of eager onlookers. The sound of 80’s synth-pop blared from nearby speakers, the upbeat rhythm mingling with the roar of the ocean. A neon banner overhead declared, “Wettest Wins!” in flashing pink letters, and a lineup of contestants was already forming at the edge of the stage.

Emily’s heart sank as she took in the scene. Every single contestant was blonde, blue-eyed, and impossibly tanned, their sun-kissed skin practically glowing under the afternoon light. They all wore identical white t-shirts—thin, fitted, and clearly designed to become transparent the moment they touched water. Paired with the high-cut bikini bottoms each girl wore, the shirts left almost nothing to the imagination.

And then there was Emily. She glanced down at herself, feeling more out of place than ever. Her golden-amber skin stood in stark contrast to the pale, bronzed tones of the other girls. Her long, dark black hair, still tied back with the makeshift ponytail holder made from her panties, was a far cry from the voluminous, teased-out waves the blondes were sporting. Even her makeup, bold and permanently applied thanks to Bikini Week science magic, only made her more strikingly different.

Blaine set her down gently, his hands lingering on her waist for a moment before he stepped back. “Look at you,” he said, his voice low and admiring. “You’re gonna steal the show.”

“I’m not doing this,” Emily muttered, her cheeks flaming. She tugged at the hem of her microdress, suddenly hyper-aware of how small it was. “This is insane.”

“Bunny,” Blaine said, his tone coaxing as he stepped closer, “you’re already here. Might as well have a little fun.”

“Fun?” she echoed, her voice rising. “This isn’t fun, Blaine! This is—this is—” But her words faltered as one of the event organizers approached, handing her the required white t-shirt and directing her toward the changing area.

Emily sighed, realizing there was no backing out now. With one last glare at Blaine—who looked entirely too pleased with himself—she grabbed the shirt and disappeared behind the makeshift curtain.

When she emerged, the transformation was stunning. The white t-shirt clung to her petite frame like a second skin, the hem brushing just below her hips. The fabric was already semi-transparent, teasing the golden glow of her skin beneath it. Emily’s black lace panties—still tied around her ponytail—stood out starkly against her amber tone.

She tugged nervously at the hem, acutely aware of how the shirt emphasized every curve and line of her body. Her slim waist, the soft swell of her hips, the full, perky curves of her chest—all of it was on display in a way that made her feel both exposed and... powerful?

Her dark hair, sleek and glossy, tumbled down her back in striking contrast to the light, airy waves of the blondes around her. Her almond-shaped eyes, framed by the dramatic eyeliner and shimmering eyeshadow of her bimbo makeover, sparkled with a mix of apprehension and determination. And her lips—full, pouty, and painted a bold red—stood out like a beacon, drawing every eye to her.

Emily glanced at the other contestants, feeling a pang of self-consciousness. They were all gorgeous in that classic, all-American way, their blonde hair and blue eyes perfectly suited to the beachy, sun-drenched setting. But Emily? She was the outlier. The exotic one. The only Asian girl in a sea of blondes.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers, drawing the crowd’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Wet T-Shirt Contest! Let’s meet our lovely contestants!” One by one, the girls were introduced, each stepping forward to cheers and whistles from the audience.

When it was Emily’s turn, she hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest. But then she felt Blaine’s hand on her lower back, steadying her, urging her forward.

“You’ve got this,” he murmured, his voice low and confident.

Taking a deep breath, Emily stepped onto the stage. The crowd’s reaction was immediate. There was a collective murmur of surprise, followed by a wave of cheers that seemed even louder than before. She felt every eye on her, the weight of their gazes making her skin prickle.

“Contestant number seven, Bunny!” the announcer called, and the crowd erupted again.

Emily forced a smile, her cheeks burning as she waved to the audience. The other girls gave her sideways glances, their perfectly plucked brows furrowing in faint annoyance. She didn’t fit the mold, and that clearly didn’t sit well with them.

The music blasted from the speakers, and the first spray of water hit her from the side of the stage. The cold burst against her skin made her gasp, her back arching involuntarily as the wet fabric clung even tighter to her curves. The crowd went wild, their cheers rising to a fever pitch as Emily began to move.

The icy cascade of water down Emily's front sent a shiver through her, but not of discomfort. No, this was something far more visceral. The crowd roared its approval as the shirt plastered itself against her body, highlighting every curve of her now impossibly ample chest. For a moment, she forgot the competition, forgot the audience, and simply reveled in the sensation.

Her massive tits bounced and jiggled with every slight movement, and she couldn’t help but giggle. Is this what it feels like? she wondered, her thoughts giddy. No wonder girls in these movies love this stuff. These things are...fun!

She gave an experimental shimmy, feeling the weight shift, and her wet shirt pulled taut with a delightful little snap over her erect nipples. She laughed outright, unable to resist cupping her boobs in her hands and giving them a playful squeeze. They filled her palms completely, and the soft, heavy weight was intoxicating.

“What do you call them?” she murmured to herself, the thought blooming in her mind like a silly little flower. “Boobs? Tits? Jugs?”

And then it hit her: a song. A ridiculous, upbeat, synth-heavy song about breasts, running through her mind as though the narrative itself had planted it there.

“These are my ta-tas!”

She couldn’t help but laugh at her own improvisation, swaying her hips and giving an exaggerated bounce as the imaginary beat thrummed in her head.

“My fun bags, my rack…”

And soon enough the beat wasn’t imaginerary.  A full band had somehow come into view and was playing a boppy upbeat tune as she sang to the crowd.  

As the sultry beats of "These Are My Tatas" began to pulse through the speakers, Emily’s every movement radiating raw, unfiltered sensuality. Her soaked shirt clung tightly to her curves, teasing the crowd with the faint outline of her pert nipples, now prominently visible under the wet fabric. She licked her lips slowly, savoring the taste of the moment, and let the first verse roll over her like a tide.

“Sunshine’s high, and I’m feelin’ fine…” she crooned, swaying her hips in slow, deliberate circles. She slid her hands up her body, fingers grazing over her drenched, taut stomach, then tracing the swell of her breasts. She gave them a playful squeeze, her grin wicked as she turned toward the crowd and arched her back, thrusting her chest forward to the beat. The wet t-shirt left nothing to the imagination, and Emily reveled in the eyes glued to her every move.

When the lyrics hit "Got my cherries in place, and my coconuts too," Emily leaned forward, cupping her full breasts and bouncing them in time with the beat, her grin cheeky and unapologetic. “You like that?” she teased, her voice barely audible over the roaring crowd. She gave her chest a little jiggle, biting her bottom lip as if daring them to beg for more.

As the chorus thundered through the air, Emily threw her head back, running her hands up her torso before gripping the hem of her soaked shirt. She didn’t pull it off but teased the motion, raising it just enough to show the undersides of her breasts, glistening with water and sunlight. She leaned in close to the edge of the stage, giving the front row a tantalizing view as she shook her chest in their faces, laughing when the cheers grew deafening.

“From pillows to knockers, each one's sittin’ proud,” she sang, her voice low and sultry. Emily rolled her hips, turning so her ass faced the crowd, and bent low, grinding to the beat with slow, exaggerated movements. Her soaked shorts clung tightly to her cheeks, each shimmy making the fabric ride up further, revealing the curve of her flushed, perfect skin. She looked over her shoulder, giving a wink before standing back up with a fluid, seductive arch.

By the time the second verse hit, Emily wasn’t just dancing—she was performing a striptease in all but name. She stepped to the side of the stage, grabbing the pole holding the overhead lighting rig, and began to swing herself around it, her breasts bouncing freely with every turn. “My girls by my side, they’re in high demand,” she sang, grinding her hips against the pole before letting her body drop low, her thighs spread wide as she dipped into a crouch. She slid back up slowly, one hand caressing the pole and the other running down the front of her soaked shirt, tracing the curve of her cleavage.

When the bridge began, Emily turned her performance into a daring spectacle. “My twins are my treasure,” she purred, lifting her shirt just enough to show off the lacy edge of her bra. The crowd gasped, and she threw her head back, laughing as she popped the clasp with a swift flick of her fingers. She didn’t remove the shirt entirely but let it slip further down, teasing the barest hint of what lay beneath.

She strutted back to the center of the stage for the final chorus, her hips swaying with exaggerated sensuality. “Got my headlights on, and there’s no lookin’ back,” she belted out, twisting her body in a way that sent her chest bouncing wildly. She reached down, grasping her shorts, and yanked them up tighter, the motion accentuating the plump curve of her ass as she gave it a playful smack.

With a final flourish, Emily dropped to her knees, arching her back and thrusting her chest upward as she belted out the last line: “With my chest held high, I am wild and free.” She ended on all fours, her wet shirt clinging obscenely as she tossed her hair back, looking over her shoulder with a sly, inviting smile that was quickly interrupted by the DJ.  

 “Alright, folks! Time for the Wet Bomb Blitz! Show your love for your favorite contestant by tossing a water balloon their way! Let’s see who can handle the heat!”

The crowd cheered wildly, clutching brightly colored balloons in every imaginable hue. The contestants on stage exchanged nervous glances, their bodies tensing as they braced for the onslaught.

Emily’s pulse raced. She was no athlete, no jock like Blaine—but something in her clicked. Maybe it was the years of reflex-heavy tasks like catching a falling coffee mug at work or dodging overcrowded subway doors. Or maybe it was something deeper—something tied to her heritage.

The water balloons streaked through the air like bursts of liquid desire, and Emily stood poised in the center of it all—a seductive dynamo ready to steal the show. The announcer’s voice had barely faded when the first balloon sailed her way, a glittering arc of chaos and fun. She moved instinctively, her body taut and electric, catching it with a motion so fluid it seemed choreographed.

Instead of tossing it away, she pressed it against her chest, her full, perky breasts rising to meet the cool, wet projectile. The impact was soft yet loud enough to draw the crowd's gasps and whistles. Her tight, white T-shirt turned sheer instantly, clinging to her curves and revealing the lacy outline of a bra that seemed far more decorative than functional.

With a sly smile, Emily smashed the balloon between her breasts, the water bursting out like a sensual cascade, soaking her further. Every bead of water seemed to kiss her skin, highlighting her almond complexion, her flushed cheeks, and the proud peaks of her nipples, now visible through the wet fabric.

The crowd erupted into cheers and laughter, and Emily basked in the attention, her confidence growing with each tossed balloon. Another came her way, this one a little higher. She let it sail toward her before catching it deftly between her chest and the curve of her arm, the motion emphasizing the bounce and jiggle of her soaked, supple figure. She made a show of bursting it slowly, her hips swaying with deliberate allure as the water streamed down her toned stomach and onto her thighs.

A new balloon streaked in, this one faster, aiming for her face. She ducked low, her long, dark hair flying out like a silken wave, and caught it with one hand. Her other hand joined in, pressing the balloon downward into the valley of her cleavage. She arched her back slightly, the action pulling her drenched shirt tight against her body, and gave the crowd a sultry wink as she popped it with a squeeze.

“Goddamn, Bunny!” Blaine yelled from the sidelines, his voice carrying over the roars of the crowd. His grin was electric, his boyish charm amplifying his awe. “You’re killing it, babe!”

Emily smirked, meeting Blaine’s gaze briefly before spinning to dodge another incoming balloon. This one she slapped back toward the thrower, her movements quick and commanding. It exploded mid-air, showering a nearby contestant who shrieked in dismay. Emily laughed, her voice carrying over the chaos—a sound that was equal parts mischief and dominance.

Other balloons kept coming, and Emily caught them all, her body an irresistible blend of grace and playfulness. One she trapped between her thighs, squeezing it until it popped with a suggestive splatter that drenched her toned legs. Another she caught on the curve of her ass, twisting her hips in a way that had the crowd howling with appreciation before she pressed it against her backside and popped it with a deliberate shimmy.

The other contestants? They were no competition. Their fumbling attempts to catch balloons only highlighted Emily’s sensual precision. They were drenched, defeated, their soaked figures limp and uncoordinated next to Emily’s powerful energy. Each failure from the others only sharpened the spotlight on her.

The announcer’s voice rang out at last, though it barely cut through the noise of the crowd. “And the winner, by unanimous acclaim… Bunny!”

Emily stepped forward, her every movement oozing satisfaction. The oversized check they handed her seemed laughable compared to the raw heat and attention she’d commanded, but she held it up triumphantly, her grin infectious. Her shirt, clinging tightly to her chest, left little to the imagination, and she didn’t mind in the slightest. She gave a playful jiggle of her shoulders, sending droplets flying, her confidence absolutely radiant.

As Blaine swept her into his arms, lifting her off the ground, she threw her head back in a laugh. His lips brushed her ear as he murmured, “You’re the hottest thing this contest’s ever seen. And I’m not just talking about today.”

Emily’s eyes glimmered as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her soaked, chilled body against his warm, hard frame. “Then what are you gonna do about it?” she teased, her voice low, sultry, and full of promise.

–

Blaine didn't remember leaving the wet t-shirt contest. He knew that he and Bunny had to have, because how else could they have gotten back to his place so quickly? But none of the journey processed in his mind. All he knew was that now they were back at his place, as if the film had simply cut straight to the next scene. Wesley might have quibbled with this, both on the basis of internal logic and foundational storytelling. But Wesley was a fucking nerd who didn't get his dick wet. Blaine had no issues with cutting straight to the chase.

He certainly had no issues with the soft, slow synth that piped into the beach house from everywhere and nowhere. The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, spilling red-golden light through the open window and the fluttering curtains. A strange sort of seafoam haze descended on the place, giving the home--his home--a natural sort of soft focus.

He didn't carry her across the threshold like a princess. He had her slung over his shoulder, one muscular arm propping her up. He was quietly in awe of how easily he could take control of her now if he wanted. There was something almost caveman-like about the tableau: find hot girl, knock her over head, drag her by her hair back to cave. Certainly, he found his thoughts and instincts increasingly clouded by primal urges when he might otherwise have been thinking strategically about his place in the narrative.

Only...this was a natural place in the narrative, right? Otherwise it wouldn't be happening.

He set her down with a gentleness that was at odds with his ridiculously swollen frame. As if he were showing her that she wasn't just some bitch to be used...though a crude part of him acknowledged that she was that. But she was also special. Precious. His. To be protected at all costs because she was unique.

"You know," Blaine rumbled in his new deep voice, "you were incredible up there. Really, really..." He tried to think of a more incisive compliment, but the snarl of hormones and misdirected bloodflow allowed for only one word to fully form. "...hot."

And she was. Even now, her t-shirt clung to her alluringly, her nipples inviting and erect as they begged him to play.

His huge form eclipsed her as he stepped in close. She was so small, he had to scoop her back up off the floor so he could begin to plant possessive kisses on the side of her neck. "It was so hot," he repeated, "seeing you be the fucking beach queen up there, Bunny." A small line of kisses, traced from shoulder to ear. He leaned in closer, his voice low and his breath warm. "Popular looks right on you."

Underneath her ass, she could feel the twitch of his cock as he held her in place. His muscles made her feel so small and weak. He was big and strong, and at any point he could have used that strength to do whatever he wanted to her. But he was holding himself back. Demonstrating the sort of restraint that was itself exciting and dangerous, because it held the promise of more.

He pressed her up against the wall, using it to brace her in place. With one hand, he continued to support her, enjoying the way that the beach had tightened up her lusciously toned ass. There was absolutely no spare fat there, no jiggle at all. She was rapidly becoming the exemplar of 80s cocaine-thin beauty, a starving model...except with glorious, glorious tits.

He had to touch them. He'd held off for too long. Time to give this movie its R rating.

The wet fabric initially resisted his strength. So he twisted harder against it, and was rewarded with the glorious noise of cheap cotton completely giving way before his unstoppable white muscles. The wet, heavy halves of her shirt fell aside, revealing...not breasts. Not boobs. These were tits. Glorious, pert, gigantic, gravity-defying. Nipples the richest, most inviting shade of pink-brown, in perfect little points that the beach had refined seemingly to make his eyes and his cock happy.

His big hand reached for one, enjoying the feel of its size and weight in his palm. And he began to squeeze.

–

Emily had barely caught her breath before Blaine’s big hands were on her. Warm, calloused, and completely unyielding, they cupped her bare breasts like they were the prize he’d been working for his whole life. Her skin prickled under his touch, her nipples hardening further against his palms. Her breath hitched, her head falling back against the wall as an involuntary moan escaped her lips.

Oh God, she thought, what is wrong with me? These boobs are so—so— She couldn’t even finish the thought before Blaine’s thumbs brushed over her nipples, sending a bolt of pleasure straight through her.

Her boobs weren’t just big; they were ridiculous. Huge, heavy, gloriously soft, yet somehow impossibly perky. The kind of breasts that defied physics, the ones that only existed in the glossy centerfolds of 1980s pin-up magazines. And now, they were hers. Her body’s most obvious proof of Bikini Week’s science-magic meddling—and they were perfect.

“Blaine,” she managed to gasp, her voice high and breathy, her hands gripping his shoulders for balance. “I—oh—this is—”

His grip tightened slightly, his fingers sinking into her flesh as he gave her tits a firm squeeze. Her whole body responded instantly, a shudder rippling through her that made her legs clench around his hips. Goddamn it, focus, Emily! she scolded herself, but every nerve in her body seemed hellbent on focusing solely on the sensation of Blaine’s hands on her chest.

“You feel that, Bunny?” he rumbled, his lips brushing her ear as he kneaded her breasts with a possessive intensity. “These tits of yours… Jesus, they’re unreal. Soft as silk, heavy as sin.” He dragged his thumbs over her nipples again, savoring the way she gasped and arched into his touch. “Bet they’d be even bigger if someone hit you hard with a volleyball right to the chest again.”

Emily laughed, the sound half-nervous, half-giddy. “Don’t even joke about that,” she said, though the idea sent a little thrill zipping through her. Would they grow bigger? Could they? She imagined them swelling even more, rounding out to some cartoonish, impossible size that would make heads turn wherever she went. They’re already huge, she thought, biting her lip. Ridiculous, massive, impossible… and I love them.

Her old self would’ve hated this. She would’ve been mortified at the idea of being ogled for her chest, for becoming the center of attention just because she had a pair of tits you could land a jet on. But now? Now she was buzzing with a kind of confidence she’d never felt before. People weren’t ignoring her. They weren’t dismissing her. They were looking at her, wanting her, worshiping her.

And the crazy thing? She liked it. She really liked it.

“I mean, it’s so problematic, right?” she babbled, her voice breathless as Blaine’s hands worked her over. “Getting attention just for my boobs? That’s, like, super sexist and shallow and—ohhh God, do that again!”

Blaine smirked against her neck, his thumbs circling her nipples in slow, deliberate motions that made her toes curl. “You were saying?”

Emily’s breath hitched, her thoughts scattering as he pinched her nipples gently, then rolled them between his fingers. Pleasure shot through her like an electric current, and she let out a soft, high-pitched whine that she barely recognized as her own.

“Shut up,” she muttered weakly, though her body betrayed her by arching into his touch. “I’m just saying—it’s, like, super shallow to be this popular just because of—because of my—ohhhhh, yes—”

“Your massive rack?” Blaine finished for her, his tone teasing as he gave her breasts another firm squeeze.  “Your funbags?  Your chesticles?  Your flotation devices?”

“Yes,” she gasped, her cheeks flushing bright red. “Exactly that. I shouldn’t—I mean, I don’t—I—” Her words dissolved into a moan as Blaine bent his head and flicked his tongue over one of her nipples, his lips warm and soft against her overheated skin.

She shouldn’t like this. She shouldn’t like being popular for something so superficial. She shouldn’t like the way people stared at her tits like they were works of art. She shouldn’t like the way Blaine’s hands molded and worshiped them like they were his favorite toy.

But God help her, she did.

Blaine grinned wickedly, his hands sliding to the underside of her breasts, lifting them as if testing their weight. “At this rate, you’ll have to start carrying them around in a wheelbarrow.”

Emily giggled, though it turned into a breathless moan as his fingers trailed back to her nipples, pinching and teasing them until her whole body felt like it was on fire. “I’m just saying,” she panted, her head falling back against the wall. “If they’re gonna keep getting me this much attention… maybe it’s worth it.”

Her laughter was cut short as Blaine’s lips captured hers in a hungry, heated kiss. His hands never left her chest, his fingers working her over with a skill that left her gasping and squirming against him.

She was lost in the sensation, her mind blank except for the overwhelming pleasure radiating from her chest. Blaine’s hands were everywhere—lifting, squeezing, kneading, teasing. Her body was electric, every nerve alight as he worshiped her with an intensity that made her knees weak.

Her hands moved of their own accord, sliding into Blaine’s blonde hair and pulling him closer. “Maybe…” she murmured, her voice trembling with pleasure, “Maybe if this is how it feels to be shallow… maybe, just maybe, I should lean into it more.”

And then—

Blaine chuckled against her skin, his breath warm and teasing as he nipped lightly at her nipple. “Oh yeah? Thinking about going full bimbo on me, Bunny?”

The words hit Emily like a slap across the face.

Thinking.

About.

Going

Full.

Bimbo.

On.

Me.

Bunny?

For a moment, she thought she’d misheard him. But then she saw Blaine’s cocky grin, felt the possessive way his hands molded her, and the reality of his question crashed over her like a tidal wave. Her body, still alight with pleasure from his oh so tempting touch, froze mid-arch. The raw, unfiltered desire that had consumed her just seconds ago collided violently with something deeper—something she recognized as her own self, her own identity.

Full bimbo? The phrase echoed in her mind, sharp and grating. The absurdity of it clawed its way through the fog of lust that had clouded her brain. Was that what he thought she wanted? What he wanted for her? She glanced down at herself, her wet shirt hanging in tatters, her nipples still tingling from the heat of his touch, her newly grown breasts heavy and undeniably magnificent.

For all that she’d indulged in the thrill of her own transformation, for all that she’d enjoyed the way people looked at her now, this—this wasn’t her. It couldn’t be. Could it?

Her hands shot to Blaine’s chest, pushing him away with more force than she thought she could muster against his towering frame. His hands dropped from her breasts as he stumbled back a step, his expression shifting from smug confidence to confusion. “Bunny? What’s—”

“Don’t,” she cut him off, her voice sharp and trembling. Her chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths as she stared at him, her eyes wide and searching. “Don’t call me that. Don’t call me Bunny.”

“What?” Blaine blinked, his brow furrowing as he straightened, his hands instinctively reaching out for her again. “I was just joking—”

“No.” Her voice cracked, but she steadied herself, shaking her head as she backed away from him. “No, you weren’t. You—” She swallowed hard, her throat tight. “You think this is what I want? To just... to just turn into some—some...” She gestured wildly at herself, at her exposed chest, her ruined shirt, her glistening skin. “Some fantasy? Some... bimbo for you to...to grope and—and own?”

“Emily—” Blaine’s voice softened, his hands dropping to his sides. For the first time since his transformation, he looked... unsure. But the sight of his broad, impossibly muscled frame only made her anger flare hotter.

“No!” she snapped, her voice rising as tears stung her eyes. “This—this isn’t me, Blaine! I’ve been trying to play along, trying to... to survive in this insane world, but this?” She gestured again, her movements frantic. “This is too much. I can’t—I won’t—” Her voice broke, and she choked back a sob, spinning on her heel and heading for the door.

“Emily, wait!” Blaine called after her, his voice tinged with desperation. He moved to follow, but she whipped around, her eyes blazing.

“Don’t follow me!” she shouted, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “I need—I need to think. Alone.” She turned again, this time not looking back as she yanked open the door and bolted out into the bright, humid afternoon.

The streets of the beach town were alive with their usual chaos: rollerbladers weaving between sunbathers, bikini-clad girls giggling as they passed volleyball games, music blaring from every corner. But Emily barely registered any of it. Her bare feet pounded against the boardwalk as she ran, her chest heaving with every ragged breath. The sun beat down on her, the salty air sticking to her skin, but she didn’t stop.

She couldn’t.

Tears blurred her vision, but she kept moving, the world around her a neon blur of colors and noise. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she needed to get as far away as possible—from Blaine, from the bungalow, from everything this bizarre, hyper-sexualized world was trying to turn her into.

Her mind raced with conflicting thoughts, her body betraying her with every step. She could still feel the phantom heat of Blaine’s touch on her skin, the way his hands had made her feel alive, desired, powerful. But she could also feel the weight of his words, the insidious implication that her worth here was tied entirely to her transformation. To her tits.

The thought made her stomach churn.

She rounded a corner and stumbled into a quieter stretch of beach, the noise of the town fading behind her. Collapsing onto the sand, she buried her face in her hands, her body trembling as the tears finally spilled over.

Who am I here? she wondered, the question echoing in her mind. What am I becoming?