Charlotte’s lips hovered a breath away from Blaine’s impossibly thick, straining cock, her cherry-red lipstick practically trembling with anticipation. Her heart was racing, her skin tingling with a delicious combination of nerves and determination. Her manicured fingers rested delicately against his granite-hard thighs, and she could feel the heat radiating from him, the sheer massive maleness of his presence almost overwhelming.

Her lashes fluttered as she tilted her head, and just as her lips began to get closer and closer to fully closing down on Blaine’s glorious manhood—

RECORD SCRATCH.

“You’re probably wondering how I got here,” Charlotte voice said, to no one in particular.  “Well, let me take you back a few hours. It’s a doozy.”

“Well…”

Charlotte had spent the morning in the passenger seat of Mr. Pearson’s ludicrously long limousine, sipping a martini and jotting notes on her clipboard while he barked orders into his oversized cell phone. His words were blunt, domineering, and filled with the kind of smug satisfaction that came naturally to a man who saw himself as the apex of capitalist evolution.

“And if the beachgoers don’t clear out voluntarily,” Pearson was saying, “we’ll just offer them incentives. Everyone’s got a price.”

Charlotte’s pencil skirt rode higher up her thighs as she shifted in her seat, tapping her pen against her lip. “Incentives” was Pearson-speak for “coercion,” and she would need to make sure the language in his contracts remained both ruthless and legally airtight.

Her job was to follow orders. Always orders. No deviation, no thinking for herself. And certainly no personal desires. Desires, she thought wryly, crossing her legs. Not part of the job description.

But then the target changed. Blaine, the golden Adonis whose biceps she swore had grown between glances, had intrigued Pearson in a way few others ever had. “Charlotte,” Pearson had said as they measured Blaine’s bungalow earlier, “take a personal interest in this one. He could be…useful to our plans.”

And now here she was, with Blaine shirtless beside her, the couch groaning under the combined weight of his massive muscles and her impossibly curvaceous frame. His nearness was intoxicating in a way she hadn’t anticipated. The clean, salty musk of his skin, the way his chest rose and fell like a sculpted bronze statue brought to life, and the raw heat radiating from him made it nearly impossible to think straight.

“Drink up,” she said, her voice syrupy and low as she handed him a beer. Her fingers lingered on his as he took it, the smallest touch sending an electric thrill down her spine. She crossed her legs, letting the slit of her pencil skirt reveal just a hint more thigh, and leaned in closer.

“I wanted to apologize for being so… abrupt earlier,” she purred. “Sometimes I can get a little too focused on my work.” Her nails lightly trailed up and down his arm, marveling at the sheer size and hardness of him.

Blaine took a swig of the beer and shrugged, his smirk lazy. “Hey, no problem. I get it. You’re just doing your job or whatever.”

His casual dismissal sent a thrill through her. 

She shifted closer, her blazer straining against her chest as she reached for her own drink. The movement was deliberate, designed to draw his eyes to the deep valley of her cleavage. Sure enough, Blaine’s gaze flicked downward, his smirk widening ever so slightly.

“You know,” Charlotte said, running a finger along the rim of her martini glass, “you’re… different from the other people around here.”

Blaine raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mm-hmm,” she murmured, her hand drifting to his thigh. She leaned in, close enough for him to feel her breath on his neck. “They’re all so… simple. So predictable. But you…” She let her nails lightly scrape against his skin. “You’re something special.”

His cocky grin told her she was playing him perfectly. “Well, yeah. I mean, look at me.”

Her laughter was low and melodic. “Oh, I’m looking,” she said, her hand sliding higher. She trailed her fingers across the hard ridges of his abs, her touch feather-light. Her lips parted as she admired his body, her carefully controlled façade slipping just enough to let her genuine awe show.

Focus, Charlotte.

“Tell me,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “what’s it like being so…” Her hand brushed against his pec, marveling at its warmth and density. “…perfect?”

Blaine chuckled, leaning back against the couch. “It’s pretty awesome, not gonna lie.”

She tilted her head, her lips curving into a sly smile. “I bet it is.” Her fingers played with the edge of his speedo, teasing the elastic as if daring him to stop her. “Must be hard, though. Being wanted by everyone. Everyone wanting a piece of you.”

Her words hung in the air like a challenge. Blaine didn’t respond immediately, but the way his jaw tightened, the way his breathing deepened, told her she was winning.

“Charlotte,” he said finally, his voice rough. “What’s your angle here?”

She hesitated for half a second—long enough to feel his eyes on her, his presence dominating hers in a way that left her breathless. She was supposed to be in control here, supposed to be seducing him for Pearson’s benefit. But sitting this close to him, feeling the heat of his body, her carefully constructed plan was crumbling.

Her lips hovered near his ear, her voice trembling just slightly. “No angle,” she whispered. “I just… can’t help myself.”

Her confession hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. She wasn’t lying—at least, not entirely. Blaine didn’t reply with words. Instead, he shifted, his hand sliding around her waist and pulling her onto his lap as easily as if she weighed nothing.

Charlotte gasped, her hands bracing against his chest. She could feel his heart pounding beneath her palms, steady and strong, and her breath hitched as she looked up into his eyes. The world seemed to narrow, the space between them charged with an energy she couldn’t ignore.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Charlotte,” he murmured, his lips so close to hers that she could taste the beer on his breath.

Her smile was slow, seductive, and just a little desperate. “Maybe I like danger.”

Charlotte barely had a chance to breathe as Blaine’s strong, calloused hand gripped the back of her head. His other hand, still gripping the beer bottle, rested casually on his thigh, as if this moment were no more demanding than a regular Sunday afternoon. But the pressure of his grip spoke of something darker, something raw, a primal assertion of dominance that sent a thrill coursing down her spine.

“Danger, huh?” Blaine’s voice was a low growl, his lips curling into a predatory smirk. His fingers grabbed her hair, and began angling her head downward until her lips were perilously close to his bulging cock, the head straining against the thin fabric of his speedo. The heat of him, so close and so impossibly overwhelming, made her breath catch.

“Prove it, then,” he said. His tone was teasing, but his eyes burned with a ferocity that left no room for refusal.

Charlotte’s hesitation melted into determination as her trembling hands slid up Blaine’s thighs, her breath shallow, anticipation coiling tight in her chest. The weight of his gaze burned into her, a challenge she intended to meet head-on.

Her fingers hooked under the elastic band of his speedo, the damp fabric strained to its limits by the massive girth beneath. She tugged it downward slowly, the tease intentional, revealing inch after glorious inch of his cock. It sprang free, thick and heavy, the head flushed an angry red and glistening with a bead of precum. The sight made her mouth water, and she couldn’t help the small, needy sound that escaped her lips.

Blaine leaned back further into the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest as though this were nothing more than an amusing show put on for his pleasure. His smirk widened as he watched her, his confidence radiating an almost oppressive intensity.

Charlotte licked her lips, her head dipping closer. She kept her hands to herself, a deliberate choice, letting the moment stretch and simmer. Her lips parted slightly, her breath warm against his shaft, her tongue darting out to taste the air between them as her face drew near. Slowly, achingly slowly, she leaned in, her lips brushing the very tip before opening further to engulf him.

Her lips closed fully around the head, warm and soft, as her mouth sealed perfectly without a single touch from her hands. She held him there, unmoving, savoring the moment, the weight of him resting on her tongue. Her eyes flicked up to meet his as she gave a soft, involuntary moan, her body trembling with the effort of restraint.

My mouth was a perfect O and a mere centimeter away from beginning to vigorously suck his manhood when ….

Charlotte’s mouth was a perfect O and a mere centimeter away from beginning to vigorously suck on “my” manhood and then… 

[Record Scratch]

“You’re probably wondering how I got here.”  

The voice is normal.  Smooth, maybe a little self-deprecating, but not nasally or super macho.  Just a normal everyday voice, the kind you’d hear and then forget what it sounded like two seconds later.  

“The first thing you need to know is that I didn’t start out here as Wesley. I mean, yeah, sure, I was technically always Wes, but Wesley? The awkward, bespectacled nerd with a heart of gold and a pocket full of pencils? No, sir. That guy was born when I first got pulled into this godforsaken neon dreamscape.

Before all this—before the pastel skies and impossibly perky boobs bouncing through every frame—I was just Wes. Regular old Wes. A guy who did a perfectly fine office job, nothing to hate but nothing to love either.  The kind of guy whose weekend plans involved frozen pizza and grinding out one more prestige level in some online shooter. My biggest adventure was ordering Thai food instead of my usual burger.

But then, one night, I fell asleep on my couch. Or at least I think I fell asleep. I remember zoning out to some low-budget 80s flick on Tubi called My Dumb Bikini Summer. The plot was as thin as the women’s swimsuits: a beach town, a big evil developer, and a ragtag group of misfits saving the day through sexy hijinks. Standard stuff. I’d been half-watching, half-scrolling my phone, when something... shifted.

The TV went weird. The colors bled together, and the sound warped like a cassette tape left out in the sun too long. I thought, Great, my cheap-ass Roku is finally dying. I was reaching for the remote when the screen flared bright white.

And then? Nothing.

Or at least, no couch. No living room. No me as I knew myself.

When I came to, I was standing on a beach. Not just any beach, mind you—this was a beach straight out of a dream. Or a nightmare, depending on how you feel about bikinis, big hair, and synth music that never stops. The sand was blindingly white, the ocean turquoise and glittering like a Lisa Frank folder come to life. Everywhere I looked, there were girls. Gorgeous girls. Bikini-clad girls. And dudes, too, though they all looked like they’d just stepped off the cover of a romance novel or a protein shake ad.

Hey, maybe I’m dreaming. I thought  Maybe I’m on some new streaming service trying to relive the glory of 80s cheese.’ But no. This is real. Well, as real as anything can be in a world where the primary exports are coconut oil and bad decisions. I didn’t choose this. I didn’t want this. And yet... here we are.

Because when I looked down at myself I didn’t see Wes.

No, what I saw was a string bean of a guy in high-waisted shorts, a button-up shirt patterned with tiny surfboards, and glasses so thick they could’ve been NASA prototypes. My body felt...weird. Lankier than I remembered. My shoulders were narrow, my arms scrawny. I reached up and felt my face: no beard stubble. My skin was baby-smooth, and my hair was combed into an unflattering side part.

And then it hit me: I was Wesley.

No, I didn’t know it right away. Not consciously. But it was like the narrative just slid me into place, wrapped me in a character like a second skin. The realization didn’t come in a thunderclap—it was more like a slow, dawning horror.

There was sand beneath me. Sun above me. And a woman—no, a goddess—standing over me, her skin bronzed and gleaming, her string bikini defying physics as much as modesty. She was smiling like she knew every secret I’d ever had, and her voice—God, her voice—dripped with syrupy sweetness as she leaned down and said, “Kind of scrawny for Bikini Week, ain’t ya sugar?”

And just like that, I was no longer Wes-the-average-Joe.  I was Wesley-the-Nerd.

The next thing I knew, this goddess of bronzed perfection was helping me to my feet—or rather, hauling me up with one hand like I weighed nothing more than a feather. My legs wobbled, partly because the sand was soft, but mostly because I was acutely aware of her cleavage hovering dangerously close to my face.

“Y-you mean me?” I stammered, inwardly cringing at the nasal edge to my voice. Great, I thought. Not only did I look like an extra from Revenge of the Nerds, I sounded like one too.

“Who else, sugar?” she replied, giving me a once-over that was equal parts pity and amusement. “You’re cute in a... scrawny, hopeless kind of way.”

Hopeless. Great.

Before I could muster a reply—or even a coherent thought—a football whizzed past my head, missing me by inches. It hit the sand with a soft thunk, and when I turned, there was a group of guys straight out of a protein shake commercial jogging toward me. Each one was shirtless, glistening with just enough sweat to make their muscles pop without looking gross, and laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world.

“Hey, nerd!” one of them called, pointing at me like he’d spotted a rare species in the wild. “You gonna throw that back, or just stand there and calculate its trajectory?”

The group roared with laughter. I bent down to pick up the ball, hoping to at least throw it well enough to salvage a shred of dignity. But the moment I gripped it, I knew I’d made a mistake. The ball felt weirdly heavy, like it was filled with sand instead of air. I wound up, threw as hard as I could...and it went about five feet before plopping back into the sand.

The laughter doubled. Tripled. It was a rolling wave of mockery that seemed to echo endlessly along the beach. My face burned hotter than the sun overhead.

“Don’t mind them,” the bikini goddess said, patting my shoulder. Her hand lingered a second too long, and I had the sudden, inexplicable urge to flex—not that there was anything to flex. “They’re just jealous ‘cause they peaked in high school.”

“Yeah, that must be it,” I muttered, adjusting my glasses. The glare of the sun was bouncing off the ocean and blinding me, which only added to my disorientation. “Uh, where...where am I, exactly?”

The goddess tilted her head, her smile faltering for the briefest moment. “You’re at Bikini Beach, sugar. Where else would you be during Bikini Week?”

Bikini Week. The words clanged in my head like a bell, impossibly loud and absurdly out of place. Bikini Week. It sounded like something out of a bad reality show or a straight-to-video comedy. And yet, as I looked around, the phrase fit.

There was something about the place—the colors too vibrant, the waves crashing in perfect rhythm, the girls all impossibly hot, the guys all ripped like Greek statues. It was like walking into a live-action cartoon where every cliché was cranked up to eleven.

And then there was me. Scrawny, awkward, and somehow dropped into the middle of it like the universe had decided I was the punchline to some cosmic joke.

“So, uh...what happens during Bikini Week?” I asked, genuinely afraid of the answer.

“Oh, you know,” she said, twirling a lock of her impossibly shiny blonde hair. “Parties. Contests. Dancing. Surfing. Basically, whatever it takes to win the title of Bikini King or Queen.”

“King or Queen?” I repeated, trying not to sound like I was choking on the words.

She nodded, her smile turning sly. “Yeah. Big prize, too. Enough cash to do whatever your heart desires. But, uh...” She leaned in closer, her perfume intoxicating and her chest dangerously close to brushing against me. “You might want to hit the gym first, sugar. Just a suggestion.”

And with that, she sauntered off, her hips swaying in a way that was almost hypnotic. I stood there, staring after her, my mouth slightly open as I tried to process what the hell had just happened.

And that was just my first transformation!  I’d double dip and become Blaine soon enough!  The thing you have to understand is that it wasn’t all at once. If it had been, I might’ve fought harder. Might’ve realized sooner. But no—it was gradual. It was subtle. Like sand slipping out from under your feet, one grain at a time, until suddenly you’re drowning in the tide.

I remember the first change, back when I was Wesley. Wesley-the-Nerd, the guy I woke up as in this crazy world. I’d been so confused. I mean, yeah, I’d seen this kind of character in movies before—the awkward guy with glasses, the butt of every joke until he gets a girl to see the “real him.” But knowing the trope didn’t make being the trope any less humiliating.

And yet, the narrative had me on rails. I bumbled my way through that first encounter with Missy—because of course her name was Missy—my cheeks burning as she laughed at me. I don’t even remember what I said, just that it was pathetic, like a script I hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t stop reciting. And then, slowly, right after I met Emily, things started... changing.

The first time I noticed something off was during surfing lessons. Missy’s beefcake boyfriend—Rad, I think—had shoved me into the sand, laughing as I flailed like a drowning kitten. It should’ve been humiliating, and at first, it was. But then... something shifted. The sand was warm against my hands, gritty and rough, but instead of feeling weak, I felt... annoyed. No, more than that—I felt determined.

I stood up, and suddenly, I wasn’t just a nerd anymore. My shoulders squared off. My voice, which had been trembling and high-pitched, came out deeper, firmer. “Why don’t you back off?” I said, and I’ll never forget the look of surprise on Rad’s stupidly handsome face.

That was the first time I felt it. The narrative. It wasn’t just pushing me into embarrassing situations anymore—it was building me up. My chest puffed out. My back straightened. And Rad didn’t shove me again that day.

After that, things escalated quickly. I started working out—well, I thought I was working out. Push-ups on the beach, lifting weights at the outdoor gym, you name it. But now I’m pretty sure none of it actually mattered. The real transformation wasn’t in my muscles, but in my mind.

The first time I noticed my arms in front of a mirror and thought, Nice. It wasn’t like me to think that way, but the narrative didn’t give me much choice. I was becoming Blaine. 

It wasn’t long before Wesley felt more like a memory than a person. I’d swapped out my glasses for sunglasses, my button-ups for Hawaiian shirts, and my timid demeanor for cocky confidence. But the real kicker was how good it felt. Being Blaine wasn’t just easy—it was fun.

And then there was Bunny.

God, Bunny. Or Emily, as she really was. When I first met her, she was like a lighthouse in the storm—normal, grounded, a reminder of who we were and what we were trying to escape. But even then, I could see the cracks forming.

Her hair, shiny and perfect. Her skin, always glowing. And those tits—God help me, those tits. They weren’t like that when we started, right? No way. But the narrative kept... enhancing her. And what was worse? She seemed to like it.

Which brings me to now. Me—or Blaine, I guess—on the couch with Charlotte. Her nails raking against my thigh. Her lips hovering over my cock. And all I could think was how wrong it felt.  How I have to fight it.  

Not because I didn’t want her. God, I wanted her. The way she looked up at me, her fake tits practically spilling out of her too-tight blazer, her lips painted with cherry-red lipstick—it was everything Blaine was supposed to want.  And I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wanted it too.  

Charlotte’s lips parted, her breath warm against the swollen head of my cock. I could see the gloss on her lips, the way her tongue darted out to wet them, and my body was screaming for her to just take me already. But in the back of my mind, something was fighting. A tiny, screaming voice—my voice.

This isn’t you, it whispered. But it’s not fair. Especially for Emily.

We’ve teamed up out of necessity—two outsiders trying to resist the narrative. But we might not be a team anymore.  Because she’s still out there, fighting the narrative. And here “I” am about to have “my” cock sucked by a gorgeous girl.  

Charlotte’s mouth is a perfect O and a mere centimeter away from beginning to vigorously suck on “my” manhood and then… 

Charlotte’s mouth was a perfect O and a mere centimeter away from beginning to vigorously suck on Blaine’s manhood and then … 

[Record Scratch]

“You’re probably wondering how I got here.”  

The voice is nasally.  Raspy.  A bit annoying.  The kind you’d hear and then instantly think less of the person for having it.  

You’re probably wondering how I got here, “A disembodied voice”, floating in the recesses of Blaine’s increasingly swole mind, fighting for dominance over the ever-growing tide of biceps, speedos, and neon sunsets. Believe me, buddy, I’m wondering the same damn thing. But hey, let’s rewind a bit, shall we?

The first thing you need to know is that I wasn’t always a disembodied voice. Once upon a time, I had a body. A body with glasses, acne, and the kind of wiry frame that suggested I’d lose in a fight with a stiff breeze. I wasn’t anyone’s dream guy, but I was someone. Now? I’m just... words.

And not even good ones.

I’m exposition, baby. You’re welcome.

Bikini Week wasn’t supposed to go like this. I’d always imagined it was my shot, my moment. I mean, every nerd knows how this goes, right? You’re the underdog. The overlooked nice guy with a hidden spark of wit, charm, and maybe even a six-pack under the right lighting. You’re supposed to get the girl. The brainy one. The one who sees you for who you are beneath the Coke-bottle glasses and social anxiety.

That was the deal. That’s the story.

It all started to go bad a few days ago—or, uh, however time works in this ludicrous, soft-core hellscape.   That’s when Blaine showed up.

Let’s back up.  I don’t want to talk about Blaine yet.  I want to talk about Emily.  

She wasn’t like the others. No neon bikinis, no surgically improbable curves, no hair that defied the laws of physics. Just a normal girl in a world that seemed to punish normalcy like it was a crime. She stumbled onto the beach wearing jeans—jeans, for God’s sake—and a hoodie.

I was standing on the boardwalk when I saw her. Or rather, when I narrated her arrival. That’s all I do now—narrate. I thought she might be different. She looked around, her almond-shaped eyes wide with confusion, her dark hair whipping in the sea breeze like some kind of rebellious flag against the tyranny of this town.

“She wasn’t like the others,” I said to myself, which was also to you, apparently. “No neon bikinis, no surgically impossible curves, just a girl trying to make sense of this place. I thought maybe she’d see me.”

But then the science-magic kicked in.

Oh, you don’t know about the science-magic? Okay, let me explain. Bikini Week isn’t just any beach to.  Think tanning booths, but instead of UV rays, it’s... whatever the opposite of body neutrality is. You walk in a five, you leave a ten.  That’s just the way it is.  It might take a long time, it make take no time at all, but it always happens.  

Emily lasted about thirty-six hours before it got to her.

First, it was the hair. Straight, shiny, cascading down her back like she’d stepped out of a Pantene ad. Then her waist, shrinking so fast I swore I could hear a tape measure snapping. Her chest swelled like someone had hit "maximize assets" on a video game character creation screen.

It was horrifying.

It was…

Well, it was kind of hot.

Look, I’m not proud of it. But this place does things to you. It rewires you. You can’t spend more than five minutes here without noticing every curve, every jiggle, every breathy giggle. It’s like the town pumps pheromones into the air along with the scent of coconut sunscreen.

So, yeah. I noticed.

And then Blaine-to-Be noticed her.

Blaine didn’t just walk into my body during Bikini Week.

No, Blaine bench-pressed his way in. He came striding down the beach like he owned the place—which, let’s be real, he might as well have. All golden hair, tanned skin, and abs you could use as a cheese grater.

“Blaine didn’t just walk into Bikini Week,” I narrated bitterly. “He bench-pressed it, flexed at it, and claimed it as his own.”

Ok, let’s talk about Blaine for a second—the hulking meat suit I’m currently trapped in. He didn’t used to be Blaine. He used to be me.  But then came the muscles. The pecs. The speedos that leave nothing to the imagination. It’s like a cosmic joke I’m the punchline to. And the worst part? It’s working. Blaine's got it all now: the body, the babes, the bros who toss him beers like they’re endorsements in a mid-budget commercial. And let’s not forget the high-octane beach ball montages. But me? I’m still here, floating somewhere in the back of his mind, like a ghost haunting a gym bro. I watch it all unfold, powerless to stop it. And trust me, there’s a lot to watch. 

You know how in every movie about a hero’s journey, there’s always a moment when the protagonist realizes they’re losing something? Their innocence, maybe. Or their sense of self. Usually, it’s handled with a teary-eyed monologue, violins swelling in the background, maybe a meaningful gaze into the distance.

That’s not what this is.

This is a front-row seat to my own slow-motion annihilation.

And it’s all because of her.

Charlotte.

She’s kneeling there, her cherry-red lips an inch—maybe an inch—from my cock. Her perfectly manicured nails graze my thighs, each tiny touch sending ripples of heat through my—through our—body. She’s staring at me—at Blaine, at us—with this look in her eyes like she’s about to devour me whole.

And God help me, I want her to.

No. He wants her to.

Blaine’s wants are all-encompassing, overwhelming. They seep into every corner of my mind, so loud and visceral they drown out my own thoughts. I can feel the pull of her breath against the swollen, flushed head of my cock. I can feel her lips parting, the slick heat of her mouth so close I can almost—

Stop.

I tell myself to stop. I scream at myself to stop. But I can’t move. I’m watching, a spectator in my own body, and the guy in the driver’s seat—the guy who used to be me, but isn’t anymore—is leaning back like he’s settling in for the best blowjob of his life.

“Relax,” Blaine says—or I say. My voice, but not my words. It’s a low, cocky rumble now, oozing with the kind of confidence Wesley never had. “Take your time, babe. I’ve got all night.”

No, you don’t!

I want to claw my way back to the surface, to shake her off, to tell her to stop. But Blaine’s body doesn’t respond to me anymore. It’s not mine. Not really.

It started small, the way these things always do.

I didn’t even realize I was a character at first. Not until I met Bunny—Emily, I mean. She was the first person who looked at me like I was real.

But even then, it wasn’t enough to hold me together.

The changes came in waves. First, it was the glasses.  Then my shoulders started to square off. My back straightened. My voice dropped half an octave.  I grew a foot.  Maybe a foot and a half.  And the muscles.  Ah lord, the muscles after muscles!  

By the time I realized what was happening, it was already too late.

The next time I saw myself in the mirror, I wasn’t Wesley anymore. I was Blaine. Broad shoulders, golden tan, chiseled abs—the kind of guy who didn’t just walk down a beach, he owned it.

And it felt...good.

That’s the worst part.

It felt so damn good.

The power. The confidence. The way people looked at me—at him. The way Bunny started to look at me.

I told myself it was just for the narrative. That I could still get us out of here. But with every passing day, Blaine grew stronger, louder. He wasn’t just taking over my body—he was taking over my mind.

And now, here I am. Watching as Charlotte’s lips hover over Blaine’s cock—my cock—and some part of me thinks that this is my last shot at escistence.  Some part of me knows, and it doesn’t know how it knows, that if she takes him in, if she does this, it’s over.

There won’t be a Wesley anymore.

Just Blaine.

Charlotte’s lips part, her breath warm against the sensitive head. Her tongue darts out, just barely grazing me, and I feel Blaine’s body twitch in response. His—my—cock is swollen, hard, throbbing with need.

I want to scream.

I want to beg.

But Blaine just smirks, his hand sliding into her hair to guide her closer.

“Let’s see what that mouth can do,” he says.

And I’m still here.

I’m still watching.

Still feeling.

But I know I won’t be as soon as those lips start to grip.  There has been too much change piled on too much change.  One she gets to acting like a turbovac, I’m history.  

Charlotte’s mouth is a perfect O and a mere centimeter away from beginning to vigorously suck on Blaine’s manhood and then… 

Charlotte’s mouth was a perfect O and a mere centimeter away from beginning to vigorously suck on MY manhood and then…

[Record Scratch]

“You’re probably wondering how I got here.”

The voice is a deep, confident, rumbling bass that matches the sheer force of the words behind it.  It’s the kind of voice that commands attention, the kind that makes lesser men wilt and women drop their defenses. It’s self-assured and cocky, but in that way where you know it’s earned.

It’s me. Blaine. And yeah, I’d be wondering too if I were you.

Let me paint you a picture, babe. The sun always shines here. The waves crash in perfect rhythm, like the universe’s metronome keeping time to my every move. The sand? Soft as silk. The air? Warm enough to tan your skin but cool enough to keep the sweat sexy.

And me? My name is Blaine. Don’t wear it out—though, if you’re lucky, you can scream it.

I’m not just living in this world. I’m owning it. Because here at Bikini Week, it’s survival of the sexiest, and I’ve been the alpha since day one.

Not that I wasn’t always alpha material. Somewhere in the recesses of my memory, there’s a whisper of some guy—a dweeb, maybe—who didn’t have this jawline, these abs, or this God-tier confidence. Can’t say I relate.

I remember my first day like it was yesterday. Stepping onto the sand felt like stepping into destiny. The babes couldn’t take their eyes off me, their gazes trailing down my body like they were mentally undressing me. Not that I blame them.

And then of course there was her Bunny.

Her name’s Emily, but let’s be real—“Bunny” suits her better. Tight little package, big brown eyes, and a wit sharp enough to cut glass. She strutted onto the beach like she owned it, even though everyone could tell she was fighting to keep up.

She had this spark in her, this resistance that made her even hotter. A challenge. I like challenges. It’s fun to watch them crumble.

And I saw her crumble during the Flex Fest: Instant Buff Magic!”  I consider that my real birth day.  Imagine perfection walking up on stage. Now imagine that perfection gets even more perfect. That was me.

The crowd went wild when I grabbed those weights. I mean, who wouldn’t? Every curl made my biceps swell, veins popping like roadmaps to my godhood. Then came the serum.

BAM.

It hit me like a tidal wave. Muscles on muscles. Chest so broad I could’ve cast shade for the whole beach. Legs like tree trunks, carved out of marble. And my abs? Let’s just say there’s a reason they call it an eight-pack.

The best part? The reaction. Every bikini in the crowd got tighter. Every dude stood in awe. And Bunny? Her eyes went wide, lips parted like she couldn’t decide whether to cheer or climb me like a jungle gym.

And Bunny wasn’t just a knockout. She was a goddamn showstopper.  Especially in a wet t-shirt.  

Picture this: her, on stage, water streaming down her golden skin. Her shirt clung to her like it was painted on, highlighting every curve, every soft, sexy line. She moved like the music was in her veins, hips swaying in a rhythm that made the crowd lose their collective minds.

Did I teach her to let loose? Maybe. But don’t let her hear me say that. She’s got this cute little stubborn streak that makes her think she’s in charge. Adorable, really.

Enter Pearson, the so-called big shot in the pinstripe suit. Guy’s got all the charm of a used car salesman and twice the grease. He swaggers around like his money means something here, like anyone cares about business deals when the only currency Bikini Week deals in is sex appeal.

I hate to admit it, but there’s something about him. He’s like a cockroach—hard to squash, always crawling back. But he’s no match for me. When Blaine’s on the beach, no one’s looking at some sleazy suit. 

Especially not now when Charlotte’s mouth was so damn close I could feel her breath, warm and slow, ghosting over the swollen, aching head of my cock. God, it felt good. The anticipation, the control. It was all mine. She was mine. Hell, the whole goddamn beach was mine, if I wanted it to be.

And I did want it.

Everything in this moment, in this place, was exactly how it was supposed to be. Me, Blaine, golden king of the shore, carved out of muscle and swagger, with a chick like Charlotte kneeling between my massive thighs, her cherry-red lips open and waiting. She was perfect: tits so big they strained her blazer, legs crossed just enough to tease, her hair done up so high it practically touched the gods. And that look in her eyes? That look said she knew she was out of her league, but she wanted to play the game anyway.

I loved that look.

My cock twitched against her lips, heavy and pulsing, the head already slick with need. She hadn’t even touched it yet, not really, but my whole body was alive, every nerve on fire. My massive hand rested on her head, fingers tangled in her thick, shiny hair, holding her steady—not forcing, not yet, just there. She’d come to me. They always came to me.

And they always would.

I flexed my thighs against Charlotte’s soft hands, watching the way her painted nails trembled as they slid up the granite-hard ridges of my quads. I was a fucking mountain under her touch, her small hands dwarfed by my mass.

“You like that?” I asked, my voice low and rough.

Charlotte looked up at me, her lips parted, her tongue darting out to wet them. She nodded, just barely, her breathing quickening as her gaze flicked from my face to my cock.

Yeah, she liked it.

And I liked that she liked it.

I liked all of it. The power, the control. The way my body filled the space around me, big and broad and unshakable. The way the light hit my glorious white skin, making every muscle pop, every vein stand out. The way my speedo stretched to its absolute limit, barely containing the cock that Charlotte was so goddamn close to wrapping her mouth around.

She moved in, her lips ALMOST  brushing the head. My breath hitched, my hand tightening in her hair. She gasped softly, her cherry-red lips parting further, her tongue flicking out to taste me.

“Yeah,” I murmured, my other hand resting on the back of the couch as I leaned back. I was spread out, massive, owning the space and the moment. “That’s it, babe. Take your time. Show me what you’ve got.”

She was trembling now, her breath warm and shallow, her fingers curling against my thighs as she steadied herself. Her lips hovered over me, her eyes flicking up to meet mine. God, those eyes—wide, dark, framed by lashes so thick they cast shadows. She was nervous, sure, but there was something else there, too. Something hungry.

Good girl.

I felt it then—this surge inside me, this certainty. I was Blaine. Not just a name, not just a body. A force. A presence. The guy every dude wanted to be and every chick wanted to be with. I could see it in Charlotte, see it in the way her eyes drank me in, in the way her lips parted further, her tongue running along the underside of her teeth as she leaned in.

This was it.

She was about to take me in, to wrap those perfect, glossy lips around my cock, and there’d be no going back. Not for her, and definitely not for me.

Because this was who I was now.

Who I’d always been, really.

And I couldn’t fucking wait.

The rest? You’ll have to stick around for that. Because if you think this world revolves around anything other than me, you’re dead wrong. Bunny might think she’s going to change and Pearson might think he’s pulling the strings, but trust me—this story ends with Blaine on top. Literally, if I have anything to say about it.  And I do.

Charlotte’s mouth was a perfect O and a mere centimeter away from beginning to vigorously suck on MY manhood and then…

Charlotte’s mouth was a perfect O and a mere centimeter away from beginning to vigorously suck on Wes’s manhood and then…

[Record Scratch]

“You’re probably wondering how I got here.”

I have one of those voices. You know the kind—playful enough to catch your attention but with a bite that makes people second-guess how cute I really am. It’s the voice that narrates my internal monologue as if life itself were my personal B-Movie.  Which it has become.

The names Emily, although everyone calls me Bunny to my face.  I’ve been through a lot lately and if I were to tell you everything that happened to me so far it would take about 68986 words so let’s skip that and get to where I am right now, shall we?  

My latest crazy adventure had just ended and I had figured it out.  Everything!  I knew exactly what I had to do in order to escape Bikini Week, forever, and I was busting my ass running through the streets when I saw saw it: a street sign at the fork in the road ahead.

Resolution Ridge →

With no better option, I bolt toward Resolution Ridge, hoping the name isn’t just a cruel tease. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll mean an end to all this madness.

The next sign points to the left and hits me like a slap in the face: Endgame Enclave.  NO!  God no!  If I got to the endgame right now I’ll be lost forever!  

I dart right. The air changes the second I cross the threshold. The rain grows warmer, like it’s wrapping itself around me, intentional in its touch. The streetlights flicker, not erratically, but in a way that feels deliberate, suggestive. Every sign I pass seems to whisper at me:

“One More Dance Cabaret.”

“Blissful Eternity Motel.”

“Fuck this,” I hiss, shoving the thought aside as I keep running.

And then, finally, the hill comes into view: Denouement Heights.

That’s where Blaine lived now and at the base of his driveway, the street sign delivers one last blow:

Where It All Comes Together Manor.

My lips curl into a scowl. “Subtle,” I bite out through gritted teeth.

I raise my hand and pound on the door,  “Blaine!” I shout, my voice cutting through the storm. “I’ve figured it out!  I’ve figured it all out.  I know what we have to do now!  You have to fuck me!  And just not a little!  You have to fuck me like you’re trying to destroy me. Like it’s the only thing that matters. You have to ruin me, Blaine. Completely. Break me, mark me, fill me with every last drop of you.  And you have to do other things to me to!  You have to do every dirty naughty thing you’ve ever wanted to do with me!”  

No one answered.  It was like they were distracted by something.  So I burst through the door.  Oh, and I should have probably told you what I was wearing when I did so.  

Two gleaming coconut shells, polished to an unnatural, almost obscene sheen, cradle my breasts, their taut curves straining visibly against the edges. The strings barely holding it together look ready to snap at the slightest provocation, as if they’ve been deliberately frayed to tease that possibility. My nipples are hard and obvious against the inside of the shells, a combination of the cool air and the unrelenting, insidious pressure of this absurd outfit.

Over that, the fishnet bodysuit clings like it’s been painted onto me. The black mesh outlines every dip and swell of my body, leaving nothing to the imagination while still somehow managing to seem scandalously incomplete. Ripped in strategic places—across my stomach, my thighs, even my back—it offers glimpses of skin that gleams gold under the overhead lights.

The paint. It’s everywhere. A shimmering golden sheen streaks my skin, applied so unevenly it looks more like a fevered lover’s desperate handiwork than anything intentional. My arms, my legs, my collarbone—they’re all painted, but smudged, as though hands had run possessively over me, leaving trails of missing color.

And then there’s the sash. "#1 Milkers" it says, in obnoxiously sparkling pink letters that seem to mock me with every move. It digs into my waist, cinching tightly enough to draw attention to the curve of my hips, but loose enough to swing with my every step like an infuriating badge of honor.

A tiara perches at an awkward angle atop my head, cheap plastic glitter catching the light in ways that only amplify the absurdity.

And the name tag. God, the name tag. "I’m On The Lick List." The ink is smudged and streaked, but somehow still legible. It clings stubbornly to the golden expanse of my chest, right over my heart—or where my heart should be, if it weren’t buried beneath layers of humiliation.

Even my legs—long, tanned, toned from a lifetime of being on the move—aren’t spared the spectacle. The fresh Queen of Hearts tattoo mocking me every time I catch a glimpse of it in passing reflections. 

And my lips. Perfectly painted red, as if to underline the farce. Parted just enough to show the sheen of my teeth as I try to catch my breath, they’re somehow still sultry, still inviting. Even in defiance, my body sells the fantasy.

It was quite an outfit, but then I’d had quite the adventure before I saw…

Charlotte’s mouth was a perfect O and a mere centimeter away from beginning to vigorously suck on MY manhood and then…

So I said, “And I can work that in too!” 

Charlotte’s mouth was a perfect O and a mere centimeter away from beginning to vigorously suck on Buff Beach God #6237’s cock and then…

 [Record Scratch]

The voice cuts in, smooth as butter and twice as greasy, with a timbre honed from decades of cigars, whiskey, and fast-talking deals. It drips with self-assured charm, the kind that convinces you to sign contracts you really shouldn’t. This isn’t the voice of an everyman—it’s the voice of a closer, someone who always gets what they want. 

“The name’s Pearson. That’s Mister Pearson, if you want to keep things formal. Titles like that don’t mean much here, though, do they? Nah, here it’s all tans, tits, and testosterone. A one-way ticket to body oil purgatory. But out there? Out there, I used to be somebody. Ever watch a flick so cheesy, you could taste the nachos? Hear a title so bad it made you groan, but you still sat through the whole damn thing? Well … you’re welcome.  What can I say?  Someone’s gotta make those flicks, and for a while, that someone was the guy talking to you now.”

There’s a pause, like he’s deciding how much to say, before pressing on.

“Now, I’m not saying I invented the beach movie. That was a golden goose long before I got in the biz. But I might’ve been the guy who grabbed the golden egg, dunked it in neon paint, and added just enough soft-focus to make you forget there wasn’t a plot. You’ve probably seen  Babe Watchers, Spring Break Blitz, and Babe Watchers 3: Tidal Thrust, you know, the classics.  

“Oh, and I’m just curious … it was never that big . . . but did you ever watch a little flick called … My Dumb Bikini Summer?  Let me be clear, I am not saying I made it, Plausible deniability is my middle name. Or it used to be, before all this.  I’m just curious if you SAW it, you know,  _out there_when it was just a movie? ”

“Because this is like someone took every bad idea I ever put to celluloid, cranked it up to eleven, and trapped me in the director’s cut from hell. And here’s the kicker—I can’t even fix it. No rewrites. No reshoots. Just me, stuck in a wet speedo that barely clings to my dignity.”

A sharp exhale, the kind that carries more weight than he wants to admit.

“See, when I woke up here, I thought it was just another pitch meeting gone sideways. Maybe I’d hit the blow too hard after some investor called my masterpiece ‘tasteless drivel.’ Wouldn’t be the first time. But no. This wasn’t some fever dream cooked up by bad shrimp cocktails and worse regrets. This was real. Too real.”

He chuckles dryly.

“The sand felt like it was straight out of an over-budgeted tourist ad. The ocean? Perfect turquoise, like someone hit the saturation slider and called it a day. And the people? Let me tell you, I’ve cast hundreds of ‘em—bronzed, toned, surgically enhanced—but these folks? They made every actress I ever put in a bikini look like background extras.”

The humor in his tone fades, replaced by something heavier.

“And then I looked down. Big mistake. Wet speedo, pale legs, and a gut that hadn’t seen a crunch since ’03. My cigar? Limp and soggy, like the universe’s punchline to my little joke of a life. I should’ve laughed. Hell, I probably did. But it wasn’t funny. Not really.”

“The town wastes no time letting you know who’s boss. Before I could blink, a volleyball nailed me in the head, and some bronzed Adonis laughed like he’d done me a favor. That’s how Bikini Week says hello—by reminding you just how much you don’t belong.”

His voice tightens, like he’s gripping the reins of a runaway thought.

“That’s when it started to click. This wasn’t my story—not entirely. I wasn’t calling the shots. Someone else was, and they’d dropped me in the middle of a world I thought I knew. But here’s the twist: I didn’t. Not like this. The tropes, the clichés, the slow-mo volleyball matches—they weren’t just set dressing. There were rules beyond the rules.”

A beat of silence, long enough to feel like he’s weighing every word.

“But hey that’s all just plot right?  And what about the characters?  That’s what people really care about, right?  Well, at this point I think we can all agree that the star supreme of our little tale has got to be Emily. Or Bunny. Depends on who you ask. Or when you ask.  

Because when she showed up, she didn’t fit. Jeans, hoodie, sneakers—practical, functional. A girl built for weather, not weathered wood boardwalks. She stood out, and not in the usual ‘main character’ way. More like she didn’t get the memo that this was supposed to be paradise.”

His tone softens, almost reflective.

“She fought it. Hard. You’ve got to admire that kind of resistance. The way she glared at the sky, like she could stare down God—or whoever’s running this neon nightmare—and walk out untouched. But this place doesn’t let you walk out. It pulls you in, sands down your edges, and buffs you until you shine like everyone else. Bunny didn’t stand a chance. 

First, it was the hair. Then the waist. Then her funbags.  Her gozongas.  Her tatas.  Her rack.  Am I being clear enough?  Because by the time the town was done, she didn’t even look like Emily anymore. She was Bunny. Fully, completely. But not quite willingly.  Close. She wants it more than she admits, but not enough to give up everything for it.”

The wistfulness fades, replaced by disdain.

“And then there’s Blaine. Or Wesley, back when he was just another extra in the narrative’s wide shot. Dweeb. Awkward. The kind of guy who made me think, ‘This kid? He’s the lead? Sure, why not.’ But the town got to him quick. Didn’t even give him time to realize what he was losing. Now he’s Blaine—King Blaine, Golden Blaine, Alpha Blaine. And Wes? He’s not going to even be in the credits anymore if things keep going the way they are.  And Blaine couldn’t be happier about that.”

The voice sharpens, urgency cutting through the cynicism.

“That’s the thing about this place. It doesn’t just change you. It makes you complicit. It makes you want to change. To fit. To win. And once you start wanting it, the game’s over.”

He exhales again, the sound heavy with weariness.

““And then there’s me. Pearson. The villain of the week in a town that eats heroes for breakfast and villains for dessert. Bikini Week, the crown jewel of unreality. The place where good triumphs over evil, but only if the evil’s good enough to make it fun. And guess what? That’s where I come in.”

The voice softens, the smirk fading into something heavier.

“See, the first time I washed up here, I didn’t get it.  Took me a while to figure out the script: the beach HAD to be in danger, it had to ALWAYS be in danger.  All so the golden boys and bikini queens could save it. And someone had to be the bad guy who was doing it.”

A beat.

“No reason that someone couldn’t be me.”

There’s no self-pity in the voice, just a resigned shrug.

“Think about it. If the beach is paradise, you need a snake in the garden. Otherwise, it’s just a bunch of pretty people staring at each other in the sun, and trust me, even that gets old. So I played the part. The developer. The schemer. The guy who’s got plans to pave paradise and put up a parking lot, or whatever metaphor keeps the plot rolling. And yeah, it’s a thankless gig—tossed into the sea, buried in sand, hit in the face with more pies than I care to count—but it kept me in the game. And for a while, I was okay with that.”

The voice darkens, the humor fading.

“Because here’s the deal: as long as I gave Bikini Week what it wanted, I got something out of it. My schemes? They always worked just enough to keep me afloat. My bank account? Never empty. And the lifestyle? Let’s just say, when you’re the bad guy in a place like this, there are perks. Penthouse parties, bottomless mai tais, and more bikini-clad hangers-on than you can shake a scheme at. But it wears on you. Decades of playing the same part, watching the same heroes win, even if they have different faces, knowing the end before the story even starts.”

A sigh, heavy with years of exhaustion.

“I thought about quitting. More than once. But there’s no out for someone like me. You don’t just walk offstage during Bikini Week. So I schemed. I played the role, kept my edge sharp, and bided my time.  And for all those years (decades?  Keeping track of time when it is always always Bikini WEEK is like finding a virgin on your casting couch; not impossible just unlikely), I have been watching and studying. 

Yeah, that’s right.  Since day one I’ve been trying to figure out the rules. The plot. The ending. Because every story has one, and thanks to my endless study I know that this one’s barreling toward us faster than I can keep up.  Blaine? He just wants more. And Charlotte? She’s playing the long game, the seduction game. The kind of game where no one really wins. And Bunny—sorry, Emily —wants out. 

You know I spotted her during her most recent little adventures and for a moment, just a moment, I thought she’d crack it. Thought she’d find the door out.”

A chuckle, bitter and knowing.

“She didn’t, of course. Nobody does. Instead, the town got its claws into her, like it always does. The hair, the curves, the new name—Bunny. I’ve seen it a hundred times, but with her, it hit different. Made me think, if someone like her can’t break free, what chance do the rest of us have?”

The voice hardens, determination rising to the surface.

“That’s when I made my choice. She was fighting to escape, sure, but escape wasn’t the answer. Not for her. Not for Blaine. And not for me. No, what this place needs isn’t another hero trying to break the rules. It needs someone who understands the game, someone willing to rewrite the script without tearing the whole damn stage down.”

The smirk returns, sharper now.

“So I did what I do best. I schemed. And when Bunny’s latest escapade landed us in that colossal fubar, I knew it was time to act. We both had revelations that day, her and me, but we came to very different conclusions. She thinks the way out is to break the system, burn it to the ground. Me? I know better. The system doesn’t need breaking; it needs bending. And I’m just the guy to bend it.”

The urgency rises, his voice quickening.

“Which brings us here. Emily screaming her lungs out, Blaine ready to lose what’s left of himself, and Charlotte proving that even here, there’s such a thing as too much enthusiasm. And me?  Listen, I’m not what you’d call ‘beach ready’ these days. Too many meetings, too much scotch, not enough gym time. And it’s worse because I’m in a speedo—wet, saggy, and a shade of blue that screamed, ‘This guy peaked in 1977.’ My gut is out, my legs pale enough to blind a man, and my cigar—my last cigar—was soggy as hell.

But I’m still crashing through the window, wet speedo and all, because if someone doesn’t stop this trainwreck, there won’t be anything left to save.  Because I’m the guy who’s seen enough bad endings to know one when it’s coming. And this? This is the baddest of bad ending and the budget for reshoots to make it a happy ending is getting smaller by the minute. 

I smashed through the window with all the grace of a collapsing deck chair, hitting the floor in a sprawl that could only be described as tragically comedic. My middle-aged limbs splayed out like a defeated starfish, stiff and uncooperative, as though even they were protesting my decision to get involved. The effort of hauling myself upright felt Herculean, my joints creaking audibly under the strain.

And then there was the speedo. Wet, sagging, and clinging to my hips in a way that suggested gravity had declared war on my dignity. The pale expanse of skin it failed to cover glowed like a beacon of misplaced confidence, a stark reminder that I had no business being in a place designed for the perpetually bronzed and effortlessly toned.

But the cigar? Oh, the cigar stayed put, clenched defiantly between my teeth. I don’t care how soggy it is.  I was going to make a spectacle of myself, at least I’d do it with some semblance of style.

“Don’t listen to her, Blaine! She’s got it completely backwards! You can’t fuck her! If you do, you’ll doom us all!”

Charlotte’s mouth was a perfect O and a mere centimeter away from beginning to vigorously suck the cock that would kill the nerd and then…

 [Record Scratch]

[Record Scratch]

“You’re probably wondering how I got here.”

Her voice is dripping with honeyed intent, a melody of practiced poise and raw desperation.

“Veronica Valmont,” she purrs, as if the name alone should be enough to summon attention. “The vixen. The femme fatale. The queen of subtle chaos and whispered promises. That’s who I should be. But instead…”

A pause. A sigh. A chink in the armor.

“Instead, I’m hiding in a bathroom, waiting for my big moment like some forgotten extra in my own damn story.”

“It’s quite the story, isn’t it? A femme fatale storming out of the shadows, ready to save the day—or ruin it, depending on your perspective. It looks so seamless, so natural, doesn’t it? Like I was born for this. But let me tell you a secret: I wasn’t. Not even close.”

There’s a pause, a weight to her next words, as if she’s tasting them for bitterness.

“See, when I first showed up here, I wasn’t this. I wasn’t Veronica Valmont. I was... I was in the background. Quiet, mousy, the kind of girl who fades into the shadows even when she’s trying to be seen. Back in the real world, I was the girl in the office no one remembered to invite to lunch. The one who’d hover near conversations, too scared to join in, but too lonely to walk away.”

Her voice wavers, but only for a moment before regaining its sultry strength.

“And then, one day, I wasn’t in the real world anymore. I woke up here, face-down in sand so golden it hurt to look at, surrounded by people so beautiful they didn’t seem real. I thought it was a dream at first. A strange, impossible dream. But then I realized... this wasn’t about me. No one noticed I was there. No one even looked at me. I was a prop. An extra.”

A bitter laugh escapes her, low and dangerous.

“Do you know what it’s like to be invisible in a place like this? Where everyone is shiny and loud and... important? Where every girl gets a montage and every guy gets a hero moment? It was unbearable. I tried. God, I tried to find my place. I tried to smile, to laugh, to flirt. But no one noticed. No one cared.”

Her voice lowers, tinged with something darker.

“Until one day, I got my chance. A lucky break, if you want to call it that. Some doe-eyed ingénue tripped over her own two feet and spilled a tray of drinks on the town’s reigning king of the beach. He turned, furious, and there I was—standing there, unseen, unnoticed, just like always. And something clicked.”

A pause. The memory seems to light her words with a dangerous spark.

“I stepped in. I sauntered up to him, slow, deliberate, my heart pounding so hard I thought it’d burst. I placed a hand on his chest, tilted my head, and purred, ‘She’s not worth your time, darling. But I might be.’ And just like that, I wasn’t invisible anymore. I wasn’t the mousey girl everyone forgot. I was... someone.”

There’s a long exhale, as if she’s savoring the memory.

“That moment changed everything. It was like the town finally saw me, finally gave me a part to play. And oh, what a part it was. The femme fatale. The seductress. The woman who walks into the room and makes everyone forget whatever they were doing. And I was good at it. Better than I ever thought I could be. The looks, the attention, the power—it was intoxicating. I didn’t want to go home. Why would I? This was so much better.”

But then her tone shifts, a thread of unease weaving through her words.

“And it was good. For a while. But then... Bunny showed up.”

Her voice tightens, frustration bleeding into every syllable.

“Bunny. Sweet, innocent Bunny. The town loved her immediately, of course. She didn’t even have to try. She stumbled into the narrative like it had been waiting for her, and suddenly everything revolved around her. The beach was hers. The boys were hers. Even Blaine—golden, perfect Blaine—couldn’t take his eyes off her. And me? I was left in the shadows again, watching as my part got smaller and smaller.”

Her words come faster now, laced with growing desperation.

“I tried to get in. I tried to make myself part of her story. But every time I stepped in, I was pushed aside. Every time I tried to seduce Blaine or outshine Bunny, the town ignored me. There I was, perfectly poised to take center stage. A cigarette holder in one hand, a martini glass in the other, legs that went on for days. I was born to be the sultry third act twist.”

Her voice tightens, betraying a hint of bitterness.

“But the script? It didn’t see me. Didn’t want me. There was background noise. Again. A lounge singer with no lounge. A sexy silhouette lurking in the shadows while all eyes were on that insipid Bunny and her predictable ‘reluctant bombshell’ transformation. And Blaine? Don’t get me started. He’s a walking Ken doll with the personality of a protein shake.”

“At first, I thought I could force the spotlight. Stalk the beaches. Turn every head. I played every trick in the book. The lingering glance. The accidental brush of fingers. The slow lean into a chaise lounge. But nothing stuck. It was like the narrative had blinders on, focused only on Bunny, Blaine, and the occasional bit of comedic relief from that sad sack Pearson.”

She lets out a low, throaty laugh, a sound more bitter than amused.

“Even the nerd got more attention than me. Wesley. Wesley! All awkward limbs and apologetic smiles, like a deer perpetually caught in headlights. But you know what? That’s when it hit me.”

Her voice lowers, conspiratorial now, a dark excitement flickering behind every word.

“Wesley wasn’t just the nerd. He was THE nerd. The archetype. The one character who might actually see me. Think about it. The femme fatale and the underdog. It’s a classic pairing, isn’t it? I seduce him, he tries to resist, and together we can be whatever want! He saves me from being just another pretty face, and I save him from…well, whatever oblivion Blaine is dragging him into.”

Her tone softens, almost wistful.

“For the first time, I saw a way in. Not as the bombshell or the antagonist. But as his. His love interest. His muse. His… salvation.”

“But, of course, my plan wasn’t without its complications. Bikini Week doesn’t do subtlety. You don’t get the slow burn. You don’t get to plant seeds and watch them grow. No. This place demands spectacle. Drama. Which means I had to be ready to swoop in, perfectly timed, perfectly poised, with just the right amount of cleavage and moral ambiguity.”

Her fingers tap against something unseen—a phantom martini glass, perhaps. Her voice becomes a touch more defensive, as if justifying herself to an invisible audience.

“Do I like Wesley? Sure. I mean, he’s kind of adorable in that clueless puppy-dog way. And yeah, maybe I feel a little bad for him, trapped in Blaine’s gym-toned subconscious. But this? This is about survival. About finding my place in this ridiculous narrative before I … well what do you think happens to those without a part to play, hmmm?”  

“And so, I waited.  I knew where he’d be. The bathroom next to Blaine’s tacky ‘Where It All Comes Together Manor.’ Because of course Blaine needs a manor. And of course the bathroom is the one place nobody looks. It’s where the forgotten characters linger, waiting for a sliver of plot to stumble their way.”

She shifts, her voice taking on a theatrical lilt.

“And so there I was, crouched in the shadows, adjusting my dress and my smirk, listening to Pearson’s gruff bellowing and Bunny’s hysterics, counting down the seconds until my cue. The room was electric—charged with bad decisions and over-the-top innuendo. It was perfect.”

Her tone sharpens, dripping with triumph.

“And there it is … my que!”

The bathroom door slams open and the faint scent of overpriced perfume wafting out alongside her words.

“Don’t listen to them, Wesley! I’m the one you need to fuck! It’s the only way you’ll live!”