Emily’s chest heaved as she leaned against the door, every nerve electrified from her wild flight through Bikini Week. The world seemed to spin around her, the surreal excess of the manor's decor—a fountain gushing what looked like piña colada, walls adorned with framed speedos—tilting with the rhythm of her racing heart.

And then, she looked down at her outfit one last time before Blaine responded.  It was so strange but of course in this mixed up crazy world it made sense why she was wearing it.  It had all started when

Dodododolo

Doooodlooooo

Doloollodododooododood!

Emily’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as she bolted down the rain-slicked streets of the surreal town, the grope coat still clinging to her like a second skin. The jacket’s invasive mechanisms pulsed and kneaded her body relentlessly, leaving her torn between frustration and a shameful, unwelcome heat that refused to be ignored. Every attempt to tear it off had been met with resistance—either by the coat’s unnervingly strong seams or by the way her own body seemed to betray her with momentary hesitation.

“Come on, come on!” she growled, her fingers clawing at the fabric as she ran. Finally, as she stumbled into a deserted alley, the coat’s mechanisms slowed, the pulses fading as if the thing had sensed it was being abandoned. Emily seized the opportunity, shrugging out of the wretched garment and tossing it onto the ground with a cry of triumph.

And then she froze.

The rain, still warm and strangely comforting, trickled over her now-naked body, highlighting every curve. Her nipples tightened against the cool droplets, and her skin flushed with the realization that she was completely exposed. She crossed her arms over her chest, cheeks burning as she glanced around for cover, but the streets were empty.

“I just need to find something—anything,” she muttered to herself, stepping carefully out of the alley and back onto the neon-lit main drag.

The music of the town’s ever-present saxophone faded, replaced by a low, rhythmic drumbeat in the distance. Drawn by the sound, Emily followed it, her bare feet splashing through puddles as she wound her way toward its source. The beat grew louder, more insistent, until she stumbled into an open clearing that looked like something out of a fever dream.

A massive bonfire roared in the center, casting flickering shadows across a crowd of people dressed in what could only be described as a some tired prop department assistant’s idea of tribal attire; Grass skirts, gaudy feathered headdresses, and painted patterns adorned their bodies, the bright colors made more garish by the firelight. Their skin was uniformly pale, their faces shining with sweat and enthusiasm, and they swayed in time with the drumbeat like participants in some absurd luau-meets-cult gathering.

Before Emily could back away, one of them spotted her.

“Behold!” cried a woman wearing a necklace of oversized shells, her painted face lighting up with a kind of manic glee. “She has returned!”

The crowd turned as one, their eyes locking onto Emily. She froze, caught like a deer in headlights as the crowd surged forward, their chants growing louder.

“Vol-ump-tu-ous! Vol-ump-tu-ous!”

Emily’s heart pounded. “Wait, what? No, no, I’m not—”

“Silence!” A man wearing an elaborate feathered headdress stepped forward, his hands raised as if to calm the crowd. “You cannot deny your divine form, oh Vol-ump-tu-ous. Your return was foretold in the sacred coconuts!”

Emily blinked, her mind racing as the crowd closed in around her. Their eyes were fixated not on her face, but on her chest, which she belatedly realized was larger than any of theirs. The intensity of their gazes sent a strange thrill through her, and she shook her head as if to clear it.

“I think you’ve got the wrong girl,” she tried, but her voice was swallowed by the crowd’s fervent cries.

The man in the headdress gestured to two women, who stepped forward holding an elaborate garment—a gleaming coconut bra. The women approached her reverently, their painted hands trembling as they reached out.

“Wait!” Emily protested, but her words were ignored as the women began their work. Their hands brushed against her skin as they adjusted the straps, their fingers lingering just a moment too long. Emily shivered at their touch, her cheeks burning hotter as the bra was fastened securely around her chest.

The crowd let out a collective sigh, their chants taking on a breathy, almost lustful tone.

“Vol-ump-tu-ous... Vol-ump-tu-ous...”

The headdressed man stepped forward, holding a carved wooden chalice filled with a glowing, amber liquid. “Drink, O Goddess,” he intoned, his voice heavy with reverence. “Accept this gift, and bless us with your bounty.”

Emily eyed the chalice warily. “What is it?”

“It is the Nectar of Abundance,” the man replied, bowing his head. “It will awaken your divine essence.”

Emily’s pulse quickened. She knew better than to trust this bizarre cult of faux-islanders, but the crowd’s expectant gazes pressed down on her like a physical weight. She glanced at the liquid, its golden glow almost hypnotic.

In the end she didn’t have a choice as hands roughly began to spill the liquid down her throat.  The crowd fell silent, their collective breath held as Emily gulped down the nectar to avoid choking. The liquid was sweet and warm, sliding down her throat like honeyed fire. A strange heat blossomed in her chest, spreading outward in slow, pulsing waves.

The effect was immediate.

Her breasts, already full and prominent, began to feel heavier, warmer. She gasped, her hands flying to her chest as the sensation intensified, her nipples tingling beneath the coconuts. The crowd erupted in cheers, their chants reaching a fever pitch.

“Vol-ump-tu-ous! Vol-ump-tu-ous!”

Emily stumbled, her knees buckling as the heat in her chest became almost unbearable. She looked down, her breath hitching as she realized her breasts were swelling, the coconuts struggling to contain her expanding curves. Her nipples throbbed, a strange pressure building behind them that left her dizzy and weak.

“What... what’s happening to me?” she gasped.

The headdressed man smiled, his painted face glowing with triumph. “The Nectar awakens your gift, oh Goddess. Soon, you shall bestow upon us the sacred milk of Vol-ump-tu-ous!”

“What?!” Emily’s voice was high-pitched with panic, but the crowd’s cheers drowned her out. Hands reached for her, stroking her arms, her legs, her now-swollen chest as the pressure within her grew unbearable.

Emily’s mind raced. She needed to get out of here—now. Luckily the crowd’s fervent adoration was intoxicating, a heady mix of fear, pleasure, and power that made them hesitate.

And that hesitation was all she needed.

—

Emily's bolted forward and managed to push through the chaos of the ceremony, her body slick with sweat, milk, and the faint sheen of oil from the earlier anointing. The chants and drumbeats of the “tribe” echoed behind her, growing louder with each desperate step. Her bare feet slapped against the polished stone as she darted toward the massive ceremonial vat at the heart of the ritual.

The vat loomed ahead, a gleaming monument to their milk-worshiping madness, filled to the brim with frothy white liquid. Emily’s chest heaved, her own absurdly adorned figure barely contained by the too-tight coconut bra they’d strapped onto her. She could feel every movement of her body in the ridiculous outfit, every jiggling motion magnified by the sheen of milk still dripping from her skin.

She didn’t have time to think. Gripping the edge of the vat, she threw her weight against it with a feral growl, tipping the massive container just as a roar of protest erupted behind her. Milk surged over the edge in a tidal wave, cascading onto the smooth floor in a slippery deluge.

Emily was swept along with it, her legs giving way as the force of the milk carried her down a shallow incline carved into the temple floor. The world blurred around her, milk spraying into the air as she slid on her back, her hands flailing for purchase but finding none.

The rush of liquid propelled her through an open archway and out into the open air. She crashed to a halt in a sprawling, bustling farmer’s beach market, the chatter of vendors and the scent of fresh produce an abrupt contrast to the humid intensity of the ritual site.

She lay there for a moment, drenched and trembling, milk pooling around her. Her chest rose and fell in sharp gasps, her coconut bra half-dislodged and barely clinging to her body. As she pushed herself up onto shaky elbows, she became acutely aware of dozens of pairs of eyes locking onto her.

The farmer’s market shimmered under the warm glow of a golden sunset, strings of lights crisscrossing above bustling booths and colorful tents. Everywhere Emily looked, cheerful people milled about, clutching oversized produce and sampling freshly baked pies. The air was rich with the scent of roasted corn, sweet strawberries, and churned cream.

It would have been idyllic if not for the fact that Emily was soaked to the bone with milk, her ripped coconut bra clinging to her heaving chest, and every single person in sight was now cheering as if she were a rockstar.

“She’s here! She’s finally here!” shouted a man with suspenders and a cartoonishly large straw hat, his voice booming through a megaphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Dairy Queen herself, right in the nick of time!”

Emily’s lips parted in disbelief as two women in gingham dresses—matching down to their lace-up boots—descended on her like doting hens.

“Oh, bless her heart, she’s been working so hard!”

“Look at her! A true vision of bounty!”

Before Emily could muster a protest, the women grabbed her by the arms, guiding her up a set of wooden steps toward a grandstand that loomed above the crowd. The platform was adorned with garlands of daisies and sunflowers, crates of milk bottles, and a rustic throne draped with cream-colored velvet.

“Wait, I think there’s been a mistake!” Emily tried to explain, but the words were swallowed by the thunderous applause.

Someone thrust a glittering sash over her shoulders, the bold words "#1 Milkers" emblazoned across it in shimmering gold letters. The sash was gaudy, oversized, and utterly impossible to ignore as it settled against her milk-drenched chest.

Before Emily could process the ridiculousness of the situation, a microphone was shoved in her face. “Tell us, Dairy Queen, how does it feel to be so giving?”

“I—what—” Emily stammered, her face flushed as the crowd leaned in eagerly, hanging on her every syllable.

“Words can wait!” cried one of the gingham ladies, brandishing a silver contraption that gleamed ominously in the sunset. It was an elaborate hand pump, its polished cups attached to delicate, translucent tubes.

The crowd erupted into cheers and wolf whistles as the device was unveiled. Emily’s heart pounded as she eyed the contraption, her legs wobbling in protest.

“No, no, no,” she tried again, raising her hands in defense. “This is a mistake! I’m not—”

But her words were drowned out by the enthusiastic din. Hands guided her gently yet insistently toward the velvet throne, where she was seated with alarming efficiency. The chair’s plush cushions cradled her body, and as the gingham-clad women fussed over her, Emily realized with growing horror that escape was utterly out of reach.

“Now hold still, dear,” one of the women cooed, adjusting her sash. “This part requires a delicate touch.”

Emily flinched as the cool, rounded cups of the pump were pressed against her breasts. The slick suction settled into place, and her body stiffened as the first gentle pulse began.

A shuddering gasp escaped her lips.

The rhythmic tugging was warm and oddly soothing, each pulse sending jolts of sensation that made her toes curl against the platform’s wooden slats. Her protests dissolved into incoherent murmurs as the suction coaxed her body into responding, her nipples growing hypersensitive under the steady attention.

“Oh!” she whimpered softly, her back arching involuntarily.

The crowd’s cheers turned deafening.

“She’s perfect!”

“Such a natural!”

“Look at her go!”

Emily’s cheeks burned as she gripped the arms of the throne, trying desperately to focus on anything other than the rising tide of pleasure coursing through her. She wanted to be mortified, to fight the absurdity of the situation, but the constant wave of praise crashed over her like a drug.

“She’s so generous!”

“Now we can make all the ice cream the beach needs!”

Her chest heaved as the pump’s rhythmic pulls became more insistent, coaxing creamy white liquid into the tubes. The sight of the milk flowing was surreal, hypnotic, and maddeningly satisfying in a way Emily couldn’t quite process.

“You’re giving so much,” one of the gingham ladies whispered, her voice reverent as she adjusted the pump. “You’re a sight to see!”

Emily’s head lolled back, her breaths shallow and uneven. A faint moan slipped past her lips, her body betraying her completely as the pleasure of the suction mingled with the crowd’s endless adoration.

—

As Emily reclined in the chair, the rhythmic pull of the pump and the raucous cheers of the crowd washing over her like a warm tide, her mind wandered—back to the real world, the life she had tried so hard to hold on to.

There had been no cheers there. No applause. No signs proclaiming her the best at anything.

She remembered high school vividly—sitting in the back of the class during awards ceremonies, clapping politely as the same golden kids were called up to the stage for honor rolls, track meets, scholarships. No one ever called her name. Not for straight A’s, not for Most Improved, not even for Perfect Attendance.

College hadn’t been much different. She was smart—smarter than most, if she was being honest—but that only seemed to make people resent her. Group projects had been nightmares of thankless labor, Emily doing all the work while everyone else slacked off. The presentations would go off without a hitch, and her group would bask in the professor’s praise. But Emily? She never got the credit.

Her family, too, had been distant. Not cruel, just…indifferent. Her achievements were brushed off with the same dispassionate acknowledgment as a weather report. "Oh, good for you." "That's nice." Her parents were proud of her, sure—but in the abstract, vague way they might’ve been proud of a successful stranger.

Even her relationships—what few she’d had—had felt one-sided. She was the giver, the caretaker, the one always bending over backward to make the other person happy. And when she’d needed reassurance? Praise? It hadn’t come. "Why do you need me to tell you that you're enough?" her last boyfriend had asked, his tone half-exasperated, half-condescending. "You should already know that."

But she didn’t know. Not then. Not now.

The real world had been full of hollow smiles and muted approval. She’d spent her whole life chasing validation, working harder, striving for perfection, hoping that one day someone would notice, that someone would say, "Emily, you’re incredible. You’re special. You’re enough."

It never came.

And now, here she was—drenched in milk, her skin gleaming under the lights, with a crowd of strangers shouting her praises like she was a queen.

“You’re perfect!”

“You’re amazing!”

Her heart ached with the sweetness of it, the unfamiliar thrill of being admired, of being celebrated. Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away, her lips parting in a soft gasp as the suction intensified slightly, drawing another wave of heat through her trembling body.

For once, they saw her. All of her.

And they adored her.

–

She could hear them chanting now, their voices blending into a euphoric haze.

“Dairy Queen!”

“Dairy Queen!”

The words wrapped around her like a warm embrace, drowning out her shame and replacing it with a heady sense of purpose. For the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t just enough—she was everything.

“You’re amazing,” someone whispered.

“Keep giving,” another voice added.

Emily’s lips parted, a soft, involuntary cry escaping as her body surrendered entirely to the sensation. Her chest swelled with pride and heat as the milk flowed steadily into the tubes, her mind swimming with the overwhelming mix of arousal and praise.

“Dairy Queen,” she murmured under her breath, her voice trembling with a strange, disbelieving awe.

And the crowd roared.

It was nice.  Too nice.

For even as the warmth of their admiration wrapped around her, a chilling thought pierced through the haze. This can’t be real. It’s too much, too perfect. There’s always a catch. Her breath hitched, her fingers digging into the armrests of the throne as panic clawed at the edges of her mind. She glanced at the grinning faces surrounding her, their cheers echoing like a siren song. What if they’re not celebrating me? What if this is just another way to take and take until there’s nothing left of me? Her pulse quickened, the pleasure mingling with dread, and before she could second-guess herself, she tore the suction cups from her chest, milk splattering the platform. The crowd gasped, their shock a knife in her chest, but she bolted anyway—barefoot, sash fluttering, milk dripping in her wake—fleeing their applause before it could turn into something darker.

The milk crowd chased after her and was quickly joined by the “tribal people” who had finally caught up with her.  

–

Emily's heart pounded as she darted through the farmer's market, her body still damp from the spilled milk fiasco, her mind swirling with the intoxicating praise she’d just escaped. The sash that proclaimed her the "#1 Milkers" hung loosely around her shoulders, catching in the wind as she fled. Her cheeks were flushed, her breath quickened—not just from running but from the memory of hands applauding, voices cheering, and the overwhelming warmth of being celebrated so openly.

She needed to get away. To shake off the praise that clung to her like the remnants of the milk still drying on her skin. The alley she darted into was dimly lit, its uneven cobblestones slick beneath her bare feet. The distant hum of voices and laughter grew louder the farther she ran. Her ears perked up at the sound of raucous music and a chorus of feminine giggles spilling out from a nearby venue.

Turning a corner, she skidded to a halt. The neon sign above the building blazed in pink and gold: “Bachelorette Bash HQ!”

Before she could react, the doors burst open, and a group of rowdy women tumbled out, their voices raised in drunken jubilation. The leader of the pack—a towering blonde in a rhinestone tiara and a sash that read "Bride-to-Be"—staggered forward, her glassy eyes landing squarely on Emily.

"There she is!" the bride slurred, pointing a bedazzled wand at Emily. "Our Maid of Honor finally showed up!"

"What?" Emily stammered, taking a step back. "I think you've got the wrong person—"

"Nope!" a second woman interrupted—a petite redhead with glitter smeared across her cheeks. "The Maid of Honor is Asian. You’re Asian. Boom. Logic checks out!"

Before Emily could protest further, a sea of hands dragged her inside, the noise and chaos swallowing her whole.

The party was in full swing. Streamers, balloons shaped like oversized anatomy, and a pole in the center of the room all screamed one thing: no inhibitions allowed. Emily found herself surrounded by women in fishnet bodysuits and stilettos, their outfits unapologetically risqué.

“You can’t be the Maid of Honor and not match us!” one of the women declared, holding up a fishnet bodysuit with a devilish grin.

“I really don’t think—” Emily tried, but they were already pulling at her sash, her makeshift milk-soaked top, and her coconut bra.  

“Relax, girl!” the bride cooed, handing her a shot glass filled with something neon blue. “You’re one of us now. Bottoms up!”

The alcohol burned down her throat as laughter and cheers erupted around her. The group worked with alarming efficiency, pulling the fishnet over her shoulders and down her body. The mesh clung to her damp skin, outlining every curve with scandalous precision.

“Oh my god,” one of the bridesmaids squealed, running a hand down Emily’s side. “Look at this body! Our Maid of Honor is killing it!”

Emily squirmed under the attention, her protests swallowed by the music pumping through the room. The fishnet wasn’t even intact—ripped strategically across her thighs, her stomach, and the curve of her lower back, it left more skin exposed than covered.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the group decided she wasn’t "festive" enough. They added glitter to her chest, strategically brushing it over her skin in a way that felt both playful and far too intimate. Someone stuck a sash over her shoulder that read “Bad Decisions Captain.”

“This isn’t me,” Emily whispered to herself, but her voice was drowned out by the crowd’s chants of “Drink! Drink! Drink!”

She wanted to escape, but her legs felt like jelly—not just from the shots they’d poured down her throat, but from the rush of attention. The praise. The way they looked at her like she was the center of their world, the life of the party.

“You’re so hot!” a bridesmaid gushed, running her hands over Emily’s shoulders.

“Why didn’t you tell us you had a rack like this?” another added, squeezing her chest through the fishnet with drunken enthusiasm.

Emily gasped, her cheeks burning. The laughter, the touches, the cheers—it was all too much. Too overwhelming. Too…good.

But then, the bride grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the pole in the center of the room. “Alright, Maid of Honor! Show us what you’ve got!”

“No, wait, I can’t—” Emily began, but she was already being spun toward the spotlight.

Her bare feet slid across the polished floor, the fishnet catching the light as the women circled around her, chanting her name. The bride handed her a glittery pink whip, laughing maniacally as the crowd egged her on.

Emily raised her hands, trying to signal that she wasn’t playing along, but the sash on her shoulder slipped down, catching on the rip in her outfit and pulling the mesh even tighter across her chest. The room erupted into cheers.

She froze, the weight of the moment crashing down on her. She didn’t want this. Didn’t want to be here. And yet, a tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered: You love it.

The praise. The adoration. The sheer ridiculous fun of it all.

Her hands trembled as she adjusted the sash, her mind a swirling storm of emotions. The fishnet felt like a second skin now, the glitter catching every curve, every dip. She was the center of attention, the focus of their energy, their laughter, their praise.

But they weren’t praising Emily.. Not really.  They were praising Bunny.

Before the bride could shove her onto the pole, Emily twisted out of her grasp, bolting toward the nearest door.

“Where’s she going?” someone shouted.

“I think she’s going to get more drinks!” the redhead declared, and the room exploded in drunken cheers.  “Let’s go after her so she doesn’t drink them all herself!”

The bachelorettes quickly gave chase and were soon joined by the milkers and the tribe.  All chasing after her.  All wanting her.  

Emily didn’t look back. Her bare feet slapped against the cool tile as she burst out into the night, her breath coming in gasps. The fishnet clung to her, the glitter on her chest glowing faintly under the streetlights, her coconut bra clacking, and her “#1 Milkers” sash rustling.  

She had to get away. Had to find somewhere, anywhere, that didn’t make her the center of everything.

But as she ran, the memory of their voices lingered in her mind, a seductive echo she couldn’t quite shake.

“You’re amazing.”
“You’re so beautiful.”
“Why didn’t we know you were this fun?”

—

The sound of revelry drew her forward, neon lights cutting through the night like beacons. She stumbled into a carnival, a sprawling beachfront spectacle that stretched along the sand, its energy crackling with a wild, unrestrained vibe.

The carnival was a riot of sound and color, everything turned up to eleven in its crude, lewd glory. Strings of neon lights hung haphazardly between oversized booths, casting the entire area in an electric glow. Signs screamed garish slogans:

• “WET T-SHIRT WATER SLIDE: All Thrills, No Spills!”
• “RIDE THE MECHANICAL BULL—Gals Ride Free!”
• “DUNK TANK: Get her nice and wet!”

The smell of deep-fried everything mixed with an undercurrent of coconut oil and alcohol, the air thick with the sounds of laughter, catcalls, and the occasional smattering of applause from gawking crowds.

The games were equally risqué:

• A ring toss where the stakes involved oversized inflatable boobs bobbing in a shallow pool.
• A photo booth promising “Your Wildest Polaroid—Clothing Optional!”
• A "Body Shot Bar" where patrons reclined on padded counters while strangers slurped tequila from their navels.

Performers roamed the sand, juggling flaming batons or sashaying in tiny sequined outfits. Every booth attendant, from the bartenders to the game operators, looked like they’d stepped out of a pin-up calendar, their uniforms either skintight or strategically missing pieces.

Emily darted through the carnival, hoping to find something—anything—that could help her cover up. Her fishnet bodysuit was doing her no favors; the mesh only seemed to draw more attention to her exposed hips and thighs. She pressed her arms down, trying to shield herself, but her colossal coconut covered breasts pressed enticingly against the netting, making her every attempt at modesty futile.

She stumbled into a booth marked “Body Art Fantasies: Be the Canvas!” before she realized what it was.

A trio of artists immediately lit up at her arrival. They were all young, tan, and dressed in paint-splattered smocks that barely covered their toned bodies.

“Oh, honey, you’re perfect!” one of them exclaimed, his gaze sweeping over her appreciatively.

Before Emily could protest, they surrounded her, pulling her toward a raised stool in the center of the booth. “We’ve been waiting for a model like you all night,” another chimed in, already mixing colors on his palette.

“Wait, I—” Emily began, but her words were cut off as gentle hands guided her onto the stool.

“Trust us, darling,” the first artist cooed, his voice smooth as silk. “You’re going to be worthy of being next to a masterpiece.”

Emily’s heart raced as they set to work. The first swipe of the brush sent a shiver down her spine, the bristles gliding over her bare shoulder in a way that felt far too intimate. Another artist crouched by her legs, his hand steadying her thigh as he painted intricate swirls that climbed toward her hip.

“This is... a lot,” Emily murmured, her voice trembling.

“Shh,” one of them said soothingly, his breath warm against her ear. “Let us work our magic.”

The paint was cool at first, but as it dried, it seemed to meld with her skin, creating a tingling sensation that made her hyper-aware of every stroke, every lingering touch. They painted her torso in bold, curving patterns that seemed to accentuate her curves rather than cover them, their hands brushing her sides and stomach under the guise of perfecting the design.

When they reached her chest, Emily gasped as one of the artists cupped her breast lightly to steady his work. “Don’t move,” he said, his tone almost hypnotic. “This part requires precision.”

Her nipples stiffened under the cool paint and the subtle, possessive pressure of his hand. She bit her lip, fighting back a moan as another artist worked on her lower back, his fingers grazing the base of her spine.

“You’re a work of art,” one of them whispered, his eyes filled with admiration as he stepped back to admire their progress.

A small crowd had gathered, drawn by the spectacle. They clapped and cheered as the artists revealed their work.

“Gorgeous!”
“Stunning!”
“She’s perfect!”

Emily felt her cheeks flush, her body warming under the weight of their praise. The intoxicating sense of being seen, admired, and adored threatened to drown her again. She clenched her fists, trying to focus, but the feeling was too strong.

“You’re stealing the show, sweetheart,” one of the artists said, his hand brushing her cheek as he adjusted a strand of her hair.

“I-I need to go,” Emily stammered, sliding off the stool.

“Not yet!” the crowd protested.

One of the artists reached for her arm, his grip firm but gentle. “Stay a little longer, love. Let them admire you.”

But Emily couldn’t. The overwhelming attention, the sensual touches, the way the paint seemed to ignite her nerves—it was too much. She jerked free, her painted skin gleaming under the carnival lights as she bolted toward the exit.

The crowd of painters chased after her.  “Don’t go!  We need to look at you more!”  But their screams were soon drowned out as the chasing mob of artists was soon joined by the milkers, the bachelorettes, and the tribe.  

–

Emily staggered to a halt at the edge of another cluster of carnival booths, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she tried to process the whirlwind of praise and sensation she’d just escaped. The paint on her skin shimmered in the flickering neon, swirling patterns that only seemed to emphasize the curves of her body rather than conceal them.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself, clutching her arms around her bare chest. “Keep moving. Find less slutty clothes. Avoid attention.”

She turned a corner and immediately ran smack into a boisterous crowd gathered around a large, garish sign that read:

"Big Banana Lick-Off! A Totally “Wholesome” And Fun Event!"

Before Emily could step back, someone grabbed her by the wrist. “Oh my God, you’re perfect!” a bubbly blonde in a matching pink halter top and skirt squealed. “We needed one more contestant, and you’re exactly what we were looking for!”

“I’m sorry, I—” Emily began, but the blonde was already dragging her toward the stage.

“Don’t be shy!” the woman chirped, her voice almost unnervingly chipper. “It’s just a silly little game! Nothing to be embarrassed about!”

Emily found herself on a platform surrounded by an audience that cheered as the emcee—a grinning, overly enthusiastic man with a microphone—stepped forward.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he announced. “The moment you’ve been waiting for!  We now have enough contestants to begin”

Emily winced as the spotlight landed on her, her painted skin gleaming under the lights.

“What exactly is this game?” she asked nervously.

The emcee gestured to a table where five other women, all giggling and dressed in skimpy carnival attire, were already seated in front of tall, upright bananas mounted on small stands.

“It’s simple!” the emcee declared. “Each contestant takes turns licking the banana as sensually as possible. The audience will vote on who does the best job!”

Emily froze. “That’s it? Just...licking bananas?”

“Totally innocent!” the emcee insisted, grinning so widely it was almost predatory.

The audience roared with approval, and Emily, too stunned to argue, was ushered to her seat. A fresh, pristine white banana was placed in front of her, gleaming under the lights.

The first contestant started. A brunette with pigtails leaned forward, her tongue darting out to trace slow, deliberate circles around the tip of her banana. The crowd whooped and cheered as she smirked, her eyes glinting with mischief.

Emily squirmed in her seat. “This is not innocent,” she muttered under her breath.

When her turn came, Emily hesitated. Every instinct told her to run, but the expectant stares of the crowd—and the lingering thrill of being in the spotlight—kept her rooted in place.

Emily leaned forward, the crowd's cheers a deafening roar in her ears, her cheeks burning with the heat of a thousand spotlights. The banana gleamed, its pale, pristine surface taunting her. She swallowed hard, her heart pounding as the weight of dozens of expectant eyes pressed down on her.

Her lips parted slowly, trembling as she brought her tongue out just enough to touch the tip. The crowd’s cheers surged as her tongue barely grazed it, the first contact sending a soft shiver through her. She moved again, dragging her tongue with deliberate slowness along the banana’s length, the slick surface catching the light with each pass.

The faint, sweet flavor of the fruit coated her tongue, but it wasn’t the taste that lingered—it was the feeling of every eye glued to her. Their anticipation was a live wire crackling in the air, pushing her to keep going. She tilted her head slightly, her dark hair falling to one side as she swirled her tongue in teasing little circles at the banana's base before trailing it upward, agonizingly slow. Her lashes fluttered, her breath quickening despite herself.

She let the tip of her tongue flicker at the top before drawing it down again in a single, unbroken stroke, her lips brushing against the curve in a way that made the audience erupt into deafening cheers. Emily felt their energy surging into her, their approval igniting a strange, unfamiliar heat that coiled low in her belly.

“Holy shit, look at her!” someone shouted.

Emily’s face burned hotter, but she didn’t stop. She let her lips part wider, as though she might take the banana fully into her mouth, before pulling back just enough to drag her tongue along its underside, slow and deliberate. Her body trembled with the mixture of humiliation and the intoxicating rush of their admiration.

When she pulled away, her tongue darted out to lick her lips, as though savoring the moment. The crowd roared in approval, their cheers shaking the stage.

“She’s the best I’ve ever seen!” the emcee bellowed into the microphone, and Emily, breathless and overwhelmed, could only stare at the glistening banana before her as the weight of the moment settled over her.

No sooner had Emily stepped off the stage—after being declared the winner of the Banana Lick-Off, no less—than she was whisked away by another group of carnival workers.

“You’re amazing!” one of them gushed, shoving a dripping popsicle into her hand. “We have to get you in the next contest!”

“Wait, I didn’t sign up for this!” Emily protested, but the crowd was already gathering, clapping and chanting.

“Popsicle sucking!” the emcee from before announced gleefully, reappearing like a bad penny. “Another classic favorite!”

Emily looked down at the ice cream popsicle in her hand—white, cylindrical, and already melting. She groaned inwardly.

“You’ve got this!” someone cheered from the sidelines.

The rules were straightforward: suck the popsicle as clean as possible without breaking it. Emily hesitated, but the expectant stares and mounting cheers left her no choice.

Emily stared at the popsicle, its creamy surface glistening under the carnival lights, already starting to melt from the heat of her hand. The crowd’s chants grew louder, urging her on. Her face flushed hot with embarrassment, but that same inexplicable thrill of being watched coursed through her, rooting her feet to the stage.

She brought the popsicle to her lips, her tongue darting out tentatively to catch a bead of melted ice cream before it dripped. The sweet, creamy flavor spread across her tongue, and the coolness sent a shiver down her spine. Her lips closed over the tip with a delicate suction, pulling softly as she let the popsicle slide just past her lips, its smooth texture gliding effortlessly.

The crowd’s cheers surged, and Emily felt the heat of their attention on her like a spotlight. Slowly, she drew the popsicle further into her mouth, her lips tightening around it as she sucked lightly, coaxing the melting cream into her mouth in languid pulls. She could feel the coldness spreading, the icy sensation making her mouth tingle as she worked her tongue in slow, deliberate swirls around the sides.

The popsicle began to melt faster, small rivulets of cream escaping and trailing down the stick. A drop slid toward her fingers, and Emily instinctively leaned forward to catch it with her tongue, licking along the length to keep it from spilling onto her hand. The crowd erupted into wild applause, their cheers blending with the music and chatter of the carnival.

“Deeper!” someone called, and Emily’s hands trembled slightly as she complied, taking the popsicle further into her mouth. Her lips stretched around it as her tongue pressed against its length, savoring the sweet, creamy taste. She could feel it softening, yielding under the heat of her mouth, and she adjusted her movements to keep the stick intact.

A bead of melted ice cream spurted from the base, splattering against her painted chest. Emily gasped, pulling back slightly as the cold liquid trickled over her skin, catching on the swirling patterns of body art. Her free hand instinctively tried to wipe it away, smearing the cream and paint into a sticky sheen.

The crowd hooted with laughter and cheers. “Don’t stop now!” the emcee bellowed, his grin wide.

Emily returned her attention to the popsicle, her tongue flicking out to catch the drops threatening to fall. She sucked harder now, her cheeks hollowing slightly as she worked to keep it from dripping further. Another squirt of cream spattered her lips, and she instinctively licked it away, her tongue tracing the curve of her mouth.

The cheers grew louder, the voices blending into a deafening roar of approval. Emily’s face burned with humiliation, her body trembling as she focused on the melting popsicle.

Finally, with one last slow, deliberate pull, she drew the last of the popsicle into her mouth, her lips closing over the stick as she sucked it clean. The audience erupted into applause, their cheers shaking the air.

Emily pulled the stick from her mouth with a soft pop, her chest rising and falling as she caught her breath. Her skin gleamed with a mixture of melted ice cream and sweat, the remnants of the contest leaving her sticky and glistening under the lights.

The emcee stepped forward, holding up her arm like she was a prizefighter. “And the winner of the Popsicle Lick-Off—Emily!”

Emily’s eyes widened as someone crowned her with a cheap plastic tiara, the sparkling headpiece perched awkwardly on her messy hair. The crowd’s cheers felt like waves crashing over her, and though she wanted to crawl into the earth from embarrassment, she couldn’t ignore the electric thrill racing through her veins.

“You’re amazing!” someone shouted, their voice cutting through the din.

Emily swallowed hard, her lips still sticky with cream, as the weight of the tiara settled on her head.

And of course, with a display like that, Emily was declared the winner once again. The emcee proudly presented her with a glittering tiara that read “Suck Queen 2024.”

The audience roared with approval as the tiara was placed on Emily’s head, the weight of the crown both literal and metaphorical.

Emily stood there, sticky, breathless, and utterly humiliated, as the cheers and praise washed over her. For a brief moment, she let herself bask in it—the warmth of their adoration, the thrill of being seen and celebrated.

But then the reality of her situation hit her like a tidal wave. She was half-naked, covered in melting ice cream, and wearing a tiara that only added to her absurd appearance.

“I need to get out of here,” she muttered, clutching the tiara as she bolted from the stage, leaving behind another crowd desperate for more.

—-

Emily stumbled into what she thought was a quiet lounge tucked away from the chaos of the carnival. The neon sign above the entrance read "The Velvet Lagoon," glowing a soft pink against the dusky evening sky. She hesitated, barefoot, her fishnet bodysuit clinging to her like a scandalous second skin. Her cheeks flushed as she tugged futilely at the holes exposing more golden skin than she'd have preferred. She needed to catch her breath and gather herself.

Inside, the air was thick with a charged, intimate energy. Low lights bathed the room in amber and rose, and plush seating was arranged around a central stage where a man with a smooth voice crooned into a vintage microphone. A gentle murmur of conversation floated through the air, punctuated by soft laughter and clinking glasses.

Emily didn’t notice the banner draped above the stage until she wandered further in. It read, “Velvet Tongue: The Ultimate Oral Olympics.”

Emily froze in her tracks, her wide eyes locked on the oversized banner above the stage. "Velvet Tongue: The Ultimate Oral Olympics" shimmered in bold, glittering letters. Her mind raced. Surely, this wasn’t what it looked like…was it?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud voice behind her.

“I mean, it’s not like I like doing this,” a tanned brunette with impossibly glossy hair said, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. She wore a sash that read "Tongue Tamer," paired with an outfit that left very little to the imagination. Her voice carried the kind of exaggerated disdain that only came from overcompensating. “I’m just doing it because Brad says it’s hot.”

“Right?” chimed in another girl—a statuesque blonde whose sash labeled her "Clit Commander." She adjusted her rhinestone-encrusted top with a grimace. “Like, ugh. Girl on Gril is just sooooooo gross. But Clad was like, ‘Babe, it’d be such a turn-on if you did this.’ So here I am.”

A ripple of agreement spread through the competitors milling around the stage.

“Totally! Lesbian stuff is nasty,” a redhead added, wrinkling her nose. She wore fishnets so sheer they left almost nothing to the imagination, paired with a garish feathered boa. “But it’s different if it’s for a guy, right? Like, if my boyfriend thinks it’s hot, then I guess it’s okay.”

Emily blinked, her lips parting in disbelief. Each comment landed like a blow to her sanity.

The blonde clutched her sparkling water and gestured with a manicured hand. “I mean, it’s not like I’d ever do this on my own or whatever. It’s, like, totally gross. But if it gets Chad all worked up, then, sure, whatever.”

“Exactly,” the brunette said, nodding sagely. “If you think about it, it’s kind of a public service. Like, we’re doing it for them.”

The redhead laughed, a high-pitched, almost hysterical sound. “God, could you imagine actually being a dyke? Like, choosing to be one on purpose? Barf.”

Emily was about to turn and bolt when a bubbly woman wearing a headset and a clipboard practically materialized beside her.  A tall woman with wild curls and a sash that read "QUEEN LICK" strutted forward, her red lips curving into a mischievous smile.

"Well, well," the woman drawled, her voice smoky and commanding. "Look who stumbled into our little game. Fresh meat."

Emily opened her mouth to protest, but the woman raised a hand, silencing her with an elegant flick of her fingers.

"Relax, honey," she said, her tone dripping with amusement. "You're just in time. Our star participant hasn't shown up, and we need someone to step in."

Before Emily could process what was happening, she felt hands on her shoulders, her arms, guiding her forward. The women chattered excitedly, their words blending into a cacophony of teasing remarks and sultry laughter.

"What—what kind of game is this?" Emily stammered, her voice barely audible over the noise.

"Simple," the Queen Lick purred, her manicured fingers tapping Emily's chin. "It's a contest. You see how many smiles you can make with that talented little tongue of yours."

Emily's cheeks flushed as the meaning dawned on her. She tried to back away, but the crowd was relentless, herding her toward the center of the tent. A row of chairs had been arranged in a semi-circle, each one occupied by a woman whose expectant expressions ranged from skeptical to eager.

"It's for the guys!" one of them called out, adjusting her already revealing top. "My boyfriend will love this!"

"Totally for the guys," another chimed in, though her cheeks burned as she bit her lip.

Emily wanted to scream, to run, to hide, but the pull of the crowd, the heat of their anticipation, was magnetic. She found herself kneeling before the first chair, her heart hammering as the woman before her spread her thighs just enough to make space.

"Don't think too hard, sweetheart," the Queen Lick cooed from behind. "Just do your best. And remember, it's all in good fun."

Emily's lips parted, her breath hitching as she leaned forward. Her mind raced, every part of her screaming to stop, to get up, to resist. But as her tongue brushed against soft, warm skin, the woman above her gasped—a sharp, involuntary sound that sent a jolt through Emily's body.

"Oh my God," the woman breathed, her hands flying to her mouth. "I'm—I'm doing this for my boyfriend! I swear!"

The crowd erupted in cheers, the noise deafening as Emily moved with hesitant but growing confidence. The woman above her squirmed, her breaths quickening, and Emily couldn't ignore the heat rising in her own body—the rush of power, the strange thrill of making someone react so intensely.

One by one, she moved down the line, each woman a new challenge, a new experiment. Some moaned quietly, trying to stifle the sounds; others cried out, their voices raw with surprise and pleasure.

"I hope you're watching, babe!" one shouted, her voice trembling as she gripped the arms of her chair. "This is all for you!"

"Yeah, this is totally... for them," another gasped, her thighs trembling as Emily's tongue found the perfect rhythm.

Emily's mind was a blur, her body acting on instinct, her senses overwhelmed by the mix of salty-sweet skin, soft gasps, and the electric energy of the crowd. She hated it. She loved it. She couldn’t stop.

When she reached the last chair, the Queen Lick stepped forward, her sash glittering under the tent's neon lights. She held up a golden name tag, the ink bold and shining as she pressed it against Emily’s chest.

"I’m On The Lick List," it read, the words both a declaration and a brand.

The crowd roared, their applause thunderous, and Emily collapsed to her knees, breathless and trembling. The Queen Lick leaned down, her lips brushing against Emily’s ear.

"Congratulations, darling," she whispered. "You’ve just become a legend."  

Emily's body still quaked from the deafening roar of the crowd as the Queen Lick’s warm breath ghosted over her skin. She barely had time to catch her breath when a throne-like chair was rolled out onto the stage. It gleamed with polished chrome and leather, its contours designed for both dominance and submission.

"Round two, ladies and gentlemen!" Queen Lick declared, her voice electrifying the crowd. "Our reigning champion, Nadia—better known as The Tongue Titan—will demonstrate why she’s been undefeated three years running."

The crowd whooped as a tall, raven-haired woman emerged from the shadows. Nadia’s confidence radiated like a storm, her sash glittering with the title "Tongue Titan." She smirked at Emily, a predator eyeing her next meal.

Emily was guided—no, compelled—to recline in the chair, her legs trembling as they were parted and secured by soft, velvet straps. Her fishnet-clad thighs glistened under the amber light, exposing her vulnerability. She clutched the arms of the chair, trying to focus on Blaine, her boyfriend. This was for him. For Blaine. And yet, as Nadia knelt between her legs, her skilled fingers brushing against Emily’s hypersensitive skin, a shameful heat surged through her.

“You ready, sweetheart?” Nadia’s voice was low, teasing, her breath tickling the inside of Emily’s thigh.

“I-it’s for Blaine,” Emily stammered, her voice trembling. “This is all... for Blaine.”

Nadia chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through Emily’s core. “Sure it is,” she purred before lowering her lips to Emily’s inner thigh. She began with feather-light kisses, her tongue tracing maddening patterns that had Emily gasping, her nails digging into the chair’s arms.

The first touch of Nadia’s tongue to Emily’s center was electric. Emily’s back arched involuntarily, her breath hitching as the warm, wet heat sent shockwaves through her. Nadia worked her like an artist sculpting pleasure, each movement precise, intentional. Her tongue danced and teased, drawing out moans that Emily tried desperately to suppress.

“I-it’s for Blaine!” Emily cried again, her voice rising, but her body betrayed her. She writhed under Nadia’s touch, her thighs trembling against the restraints.

The crowd cheered louder, spurred on by Emily’s increasingly uninhibited responses. Nadia didn’t let up, her tongue delving deeper, swirling and flicking in rhythms that sent Emily careening toward the edge. Her lips closed around Emily’s clit, suckling gently before releasing with a soft pop that made Emily scream—a raw, guttural sound that silenced the crowd for a moment.

Then they erupted. Applause, shouts, and whistles filled the room, but Emily barely heard it. Her body convulsed, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over her until she was nothing but sensation. Her scream rang out again, louder this time, tearing through the air as she shattered under Nadia’s relentless expertise.

When it was over, Nadia withdrew, licking her lips like a satisfied feline. The Queen Lick stepped forward, holding up a golden trophy shaped like a curling tongue. She handed it to Emily, who could barely sit upright, her body boneless, her cheeks flushed with the aftermath of her release.

“You’ve earned it, darling,” Queen Lick cooed. “And Blaine, wherever he is, owes you a standing ovation.”

Emily clutched the trophy weakly, her voice hoarse as she murmured, “All... for Blaine…”

—

Emily sat back on the bench, her chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath, her mind spinning. The rush of the competition was still coursing through her veins, and she couldn’t shake the way her body had responded—to the contest itself, sure, but more than that, to the audience.

It hit her like a flash of lightning, electrifying and terrifying all at once: she had enjoyed it. Not just the sensation of giving and receiving but the idea of performing. The idea of being watched.  And it hadn’t felt like Bunny was performing, it had felt like HER.  Whoever she was.  

Her fingers grazed the sash again, and her gaze flicked toward the crowd. Men—mostly men—cheered and hooted, their eyes locked on her, their admiration palpable. A few women joined in, but their enthusiasm was softer, almost hesitant, like they were riding the wave of the men's energy.

Emily’s breath hitched, her thighs pressing together involuntarily. It wasn’t the act of pleasuring another girl that had done this to her—not entirely. It was the context. The audience. The spotlight. The knowledge that every flick of her tongue, every arch of her back, every gasp and moan had been seen. Had been wanted.

“Oh my God,” she whispered under her breath, her cheeks flushing anew as the realization sank in.  When she had glanced at the crowd, seeing the men’s rapt faces, their hunger, their open lust—it had made everything sharper, hotter, better.

She shook her head, trying to dislodge the thought, but it clung to her like the lingering echo of the audience’s cheers.

“Hey, lick-list champ!” one of the other contestants teased as she passed by, snapping Emily out of her daze. The woman’s grin was wide, but there was no malice in it. “You were... really good out there.”

“Uh, thanks,” Emily muttered, her voice weak and unsteady.

“Seriously,” the woman continued, leaning in closer. “You’ve got a gift. The way you—” she gestured vaguely, her cheeks coloring slightly, “—you really sold it. Like, you made it look real.”

Emily’s stomach fluttered. “Made it look real?” she echoed.

The contestant shrugged. “ALL OF US are here because our boyfriends think it’s hot. But you? You seemed like you were actually into it. It was... kind of amazing to watch.”

The words sent a jolt through Emily’s system. Amazing to watch. That was it, wasn’t it? That was what had made it feel so different. It wasn’t just the act—it was the performance. The validation. The knowledge that she was being desired, wanted, craved.

And it wasn’t just the audience’s praise. It was the way their eyes had fed her, amplified her every move, made her feel like a goddess. She thought back to the brunette’s touch, the way it had felt with all those eyes on her. She wouldn’t have wanted it in private, but like this? In front of everyone?

The heat between her legs flared, undeniable.

She barely noticed the contestant walking away, leaving her alone in her swirling thoughts. She sat there, staring out at the dispersing crowd, her fingers brushing the edges of her sash again. She didn’t want to admit it—not even to herself—but she couldn’t deny the truth staring her in the face:

She loved this. She loved the attention, the adoration, the feeling of being on display. She loved the way it had made her feel powerful and desired all at once. And maybe, just maybe, she loved the idea of being watched while she brought someone else pleasure. Not for the girl’s sake, but for the show. For the spectacle.

A low, unsteady breath escaped her lips. “What’s happening to me?” she murmured.

But deep down, she already knew.  And it scared her enough to start running again.  And once again it did not take long for the Tribe, the Bachelorettes, the body painters, and the Banana licking contestants to all start chasing after her. 

–

The chaos of the licking contest was still buzzing in Emily’s ears as she darted through the crowded carnival. “I have to get out of here,” she muttered, her eyes scanning the maze of booths and flashing neon lights.

She spotted a large tent with a hand-painted sign above it: “INK THE NIGHT: Tattoo Contest”. The idea of hiding among tattoo enthusiasts appealed to her. Surely, in the dimly lit world of tattoo artists, nobody would pay attention to a girl who just wanted to disappear.  Dispear like she had done so many time.  She slipped inside, the heavy canvas door flapping shut behind her.

The interior of the tent was a whirl of activity. Bright lamps cast stark light over booths displaying tattoo flash sheets, buzzing needles filled the air with a low hum, and a small stage was set up at the back where contestants were showing off their ink.

The tattoo tent was a blur of activity, with artists hunched over clients, their needles buzzing, and a crowd gathered near the stage to admire contestants in the tattoo contest. Emily had slipped in unnoticed—or so she thought. Her breath came fast, her fishnet bodysuit clinging to her damp skin as she wove through the onlookers, hoping to find a quiet corner to regroup.

But this was Bikini Week. Quiet wasn’t an option.

“Hey, you there!” a booming voice called out.

Emily froze. Slowly, she turned to see a man with a microphone, standing on the small stage. He wore a tank top emblazoned with a flaming skull, his arms covered in elaborate ink. Beside him stood a blonde woman with colorful sleeve tattoos and a clipboard.

“You’re late!” the man said, pointing at Emily.

“W-what?” she stammered.

“You’re the final contestant for the ‘Bleached Ricebunnies Beauties’ category, right? C’mon, get up here!”

The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and before Emily could protest, two attendants appeared on either side of her.

“Wait, no, I’m not—” she began, but their enthusiasm bulldozed over her words.

“Of course you are! Look at that skin!  You’re the only Asian girl here so of course you need to get some Bleached Tattoos!” one of them gushed, dragging her toward the stage.

Emily tried to resist, but the spotlight was already on her, the crowd cheering as if they’d been waiting for her arrival all night.

“Let’s see what you’ve got!” the emcee crowed, waving her forward.

“I don’t have anything!” Emily said, her voice barely carrying over the noise.

“Not yet,” the blonde with the clipboard said with a wink. “But don’t worry. We’ve got just the thing for a fresh canvas like you.”

Emily’s protests were drowned out as she was ushered to a reclining chair at the side of the stage. A team of tattoo artists surrounded her, their machines ready, their grins wide.

“What’s happening?” she demanded, squirming in the chair.

“Relax, babe,” one of the artists said, his voice smooth and practiced. “We’re going to make you a work of art worthy of the name masterpiece.”

Before Emily could protest further, a stencil was pressed against her thigh. She looked down to see the outline of a heart—no, a Queen of Hearts playing card.

“It’s perfect for you,” the artist said with a smirk. “You’ve got that vibe, you know? Queen of Hearts mean. . . well…” He trailed off, his eyes flicking to her fishnet-clad body. “You’re just that type of gal.”

The crowd roared with approval.

Emily’s cheeks burned. “I don’t want—”

“Don’t worry,” another artist interrupted, starting to fill in the design with stark, bold lines. “You’ll thank us later. This is going to suit you so well.”

She winced as the needle buzzed against her skin, the sting sharp but not unbearable. Her protests died in her throat as the emcee narrated every step for the crowd, hyping up the “unique artistry” of the Queen of Hearts tattoo.

“Nothing says devotion like a Queen of Hearts,” he announced. 

“Oh, and let’s add this,” one of the artists said, grinning as he prepared another stencil.

Before Emily could see what it was, the outline of the word "Bleached Beach Babe" was applied just above the queen’s crown.

“It’s perfect,” the blonde with the clipboard gushed. “So symbolic. So fitting.”

The crowd cheered louder, their enthusiasm echoing in Emily’s ears. She tried to focus on the needle’s sting, on anything but the growing mortification coursing through her.

“This isn’t me,” she whispered to herself, but the words felt hollow.

As the artists worked, they praised her skin, her figure, her “natural grace,” each compliment making her stomach churn with equal parts discomfort and a shameful thrill.

“Look at her taking it like a champ,” the emcee said, his tone admiring. “This girl was made for this.”

When they finally finished, the chair was swiveled to face the crowd, and Emily was pulled to her feet. The Queen of Hearts tattoo was bold and unmistakable, a declaration inked into her skin for all to see.

“She’s a work of art!” the emcee declared, and the crowd roared its agreement.

Someone draped a sash over her shoulders, the words “Bleached Tatoo Beauty” glittering in silver script. The blonde with the clipboard handed her a mirror, and Emily’s breath hitched as she took in her reflection.

Her skin gleamed under the stage lights, the tattoo stark against her thigh. The Queen of Hearts seemed to gaze back at her, serene and subservient, and the word "Bleached Beach Babe" above it felt like a brand.

The crowd’s cheers washed over her, a wave of approval that made her knees weak.

“You’re stunning,” the blonde whispered, her hand lingering on Emily’s arm.

Emily’s pulse raced. She hated how much she didn’t hate this.

The emcee raised her arm like a prizefighter, and the crowd erupted again.

“Your Queen of Hearts, ladies and gentlemen!” he bellowed.

Emily’s lips parted to protest, but the words didn’t come. The cheers, the admiration, the overwhelming attention—it all wrapped around her, suffocating and intoxicating all at once.

“But you need one more . . . .What’s the theme?” the artist asked, eyeing her up and down.

“Something bold!” one beachgoer shouted.

“Something that screams confidence!” yelled another.

The artist grinned and grabbed a stencil. “Oh, I know just the thing. Trust me, sweetheart, this is going to make you unforgettable.”

Emily squirmed as he leaned in, the hum of the tattoo gun buzzing ominously close.

“Hold still,” he said, his tone almost teasing. “You don’t want me to mess up, do you?”

Emily tried to pull away, but the crowd's cheers and the artist's swift hands left her little choice. The sensation was sharp, and she winced as the ink began to settle into her skin.

A few minutes later, the artist stepped back, admiring his work.

“Take a look,” he said, spinning the chair toward a mirror.

Emily’s eyes widened as she took in the bold letters inked across her ass: "BWC ONLY" in sleek, stylized script.

“What does that even mean?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“It means you’ve got taste,” one of the beachgoers said with a wink.

“Wait, I didn’t agree to this!” Emily exclaimed, her voice rising above the crowd’s laughter.

The artist held up his hands, mock-apologetic. “Hey, you sat in the chair. Around here, that’s consent enough.”

The crowd erupted into cheers, and someone draped another sash around her shoulders, this one reading: "Exclusive Material."

Emily’s face burned as cameras flashed, capturing her bewildered expression and the newly inked declaration across her skin.

As the crowd closed in, showering her with praise and lewd comments, Emily’s thoughts raced. She had to get out of here, no matter what it took.

But before she could in less time than it took to give another week objection, she received her third and final tat, in bold, curvy lettering scrawled across her lower back, the ink read: "I ♥ WHITE BOYS" complete with a small heart dotted with sparkles.

The crowd roared with approval, whistling and shouting over one another.

“She’s perfect!” someone shouted.

“Worthy to sit next to a masterpiece!” added another.

Emily’s face burned hotter than the sun overhead as she stared at her reflection, her cheeks flaming. She tried to cover the tattoo with her hands, but it was futile. Every attempt just seemed to draw more attention to it.

“Time for the big reveal!” a voice called out, and before Emily could escape, someone hoisted her up onto a small platform. A spotlight from the tattoo booth’s makeshift stage swung over to her, bathing her in light as the crowd cheered even louder.

The tattoo artist smirked, holding up a camera. “Smile for the photo! Don’t worry, it’ll look great on the shop’s Instagram.”

Emily’s protests faltered as the spotlight lingered on her, the weight of the crowd's gaze pressing against her skin like a tangible force. The cheers were deafening, the chants infectious, and before she realized it, something within her cracked—or clicked.

She was overwhelmed, breathless, and glowing with a mix of shame and an undeniable thrill. The words tumbled out of her before she could stop them, her voice shaky but rising with a strange, newfound confidence.

“Fine!” she blurted, her cheeks flushed, her breath hitching as she glanced at the tattoo in the mirror. “I… I do love white boys! Okay? There! I said it!”

The crowd erupted into ecstatic cheers, clapping and hollering like she’d just delivered the world’s most rousing speech.

“I mean, can you blame me?” she continued, her voice growing steadier as the floodgates opened. The rush of adrenaline mingled with the lingering buzz of the tattoo gun. “They’re so… confident! So charming! And the way they smile, and—ugh, those dimples, those jawlines!”

More laughter and whistles filled the air, and Emily felt herself leaning into the absurdity, her arms spreading wide as if she were preaching a gospel she hadn’t even known she believed.

“And don’t get me started on their lovely skin and big powerful chests…” Her hands gestured dramatically, her fishnet-clad body on full display. “It’s like they’re genetically engineered to be irresistible!”

A guy in the crowd yelled, “You’re welcome!” and the audience roared with laughter. Emily covered her face with her hands, mortified, but the words kept spilling out.

“Fine! I admit it!” She threw her arms up in mock defeat. “I’m obsessed! I have only taken white cock in my life because I’m a Queen of hearts who loves white boys! You happy now?!”

The crowd went wild, chanting her name—Emily! Emily!—their voices a strange mix of teasing and admiration. 

“Well,” she started, her voice shaky but gaining strength, “I think we all know these tattoos weren’t exactly planned. But... maybe that’s kind of the point?”

A murmur of intrigue rippled through the crowd.

“Look,” Emily said, gesturing vaguely to herself, “I didn’t come here tonight expecting any of this. I was just trying to keep my head above water in this crazy place, but... I don’t know, maybe it’s time to stop fighting so hard.”

Her eyes scanned the room, taking in the eager faces, the playful grins, the sheer joy radiating from the crowd.

“See, these tattoos—" she pointed to the "I ♥ WHITE BOYS" across her back and the cheeky heart on her wrist, "—they might seem silly, or embarrassing, or like some wild dare gone too far. But maybe they’re about... letting go? About leaning into something instead of overthinking everything?”

The crowd cheered, clapping and whistling as Emily felt a spark of confidence ignite within her.

“Because here’s the thing,” she continued, her voice growing stronger. “It’s not just about the tattoos. It’s about saying yes to life. To fun. To... whatever the hell this is!” She gestured at her outfit, her fishnet-clad body, and the ridiculousness of it all.

The crowd erupted into laughter and applause.

“And yeah,” she added with a playful smirk, her cheeks still glowing, “maybe I do have a thing for... certain guys. A little confidence, a nice smile, some charm—what’s not to like?”

The crowd roared, several men in the audience playfully flexing or blowing kisses her way.

“So yeah, maybe they’re ridiculous. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up and cringe a little. But tonight? Tonight, I’m proud of them. And proud of... me.”

The crowd burst into applause, cheering her name as she stepped back from the microphone. Emily’s heart pounded, her body alive with a mix of exhilaration and adrenaline.

As she stepped off the stage, someone handed her a crown—not a gaudy tiara, but a simple, elegant circlet of gold. She hesitated, then placed it on her head with a wry smile, the crowd’s cheers echoing in her ears.

“Queen of the Night!” someone shouted, and Emily couldn’t help but laugh.

A man approached her, offering a chilled cocktail in a glass adorned with a ridiculous amount of fruit and a little paper parasol. She accepted it with a laugh, feeling the ice-cold drink tingle her lips as she took a sip. The crowd was still buzzing, their eyes on her, expectant and delighted.

“So,” she said, her voice warm and playful, “I guess I should say more, huh?”

A ripple of laughter passed through the group.

“Alright, let’s be honest,” Emily started, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Her voice softened, taking on a candid, almost confessional tone. “I’ve been running, like, nonstop since I got here. Running from everything—the craziness, the rules, the expectations... and maybe even from myself.”

The crowd hushed, leaning in closer as her words spilled out.

“But here’s the thing,” she continued, her cheeks warming, her smile growing more confident, “I’ve started to realize something. Something big.” She paused, biting her lip before letting out a breathy laugh. “You’re gonna think I’m crazy, but... I think I might actually like it here.”

Cheers erupted, and Emily giggled, lifting a hand to quiet them, though her grin betrayed her delight in their reaction.

“No, seriously!” she exclaimed, her hands gesturing animatedly. “I mean, look around! Everyone’s so... happy. And relaxed. And sure, maybe it’s all a little over the top, but isn’t that kind of the point?”

Someone shouted, “You’re amazing, Bunny!” and she laughed, a soft, breathy sound that carried easily over the crowd.

“And,” she added, her voice dipping slightly, her tone becoming softer, more reflective, “I feel like... I don’t know... as the only Asian girl here, maybe I have a role to play. Maybe I have a duty.”

The murmurs in the crowd stilled, their collective attention sharpening on her as she pressed a hand to her chest, just above the gleaming ink of her fresh tattoo.

“Think about it,” she said, her voice growing earnest, almost reverent. “There’s something so... special about being here, being part of this. About standing out in a way that lets me—lets us—make others happy. And let’s be real,” she added with a coy smile, “you white boys deserve to be happy too, right?”

The men in the crowd cheered, clinking their drinks together in enthusiastic agreement.

“I mean it!” Emily said, laughing as the energy in the room swirled around her, lifting her spirits higher. “You’ve all been so kind, so supportive, and... well, if I can give a little of that back, if I can make your night a little brighter? Then why wouldn’t I?”

The crowd roared its approval, the sound washing over her like a wave. Her pulse raced, her heart thundering in her chest as she basked in their praise, their laughter, their unrelenting enthusiasm.

“You’re incredible, Bunny!” someone shouted, and she blushed, shaking her head but secretly loving every second of it.

“I don’t know about incredible,” she said, her voice taking on a playful lilt. “But I’ll do my best.”

“And let’s be honest,” she added, her hands running down the sides of her thighs, framing her body, “I love making you happy. It feels so... good.”

A pause. The kind of pregnant silence that made hearts pound and breaths hitch.

“You like that, don’t you?” she teased, her voice dripping with innuendo, her chest rising and falling as if she were drinking in their reactions. “You like seeing me like this—dressed up, marked up, showing off just for you?”

Another cheer, louder, rawer, filled with lust and adoration. Emily felt her pulse quicken, her skin tingling as if their energy were a physical thing she could feel on her body.

“I guess you could say...” She traced the edge of her “BWC ONLY” tattoo, her fingers lingering on the curve of her breast. “I was made for this.  It fits just right.  I’m an Asian queen but I boy to white.”

Another cheer, louder this time, and Emily felt something shift inside her—something she couldn’t quite name but couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t just the attention, the praise, or even the ridiculousness of her situation.

For perhaps the first time in her life, she felts like she deserved to be happy.  

—-

Then the door crashed open.  And everyone arrived.  And it really was EVERYONE.  

First, the banana-licking contest MC appeared, waving a trophy high above his head. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted, his booming voice somehow louder than the tattoo gun. “We’ve found our true champion! She abandoned her prize, but no one else deserves it more!”

Behind him, the overly enthusiastic body painters from the carnival barreled in, their brushes still dripping with iridescent colors. “There she is!” one of them cried, their voices a blend of outrage and adoration. “She left before we could finish her skin!”

From another corner of the room, the "Bachelorette Party Babes" charged forward, still clad in their ripped fishnets and glittery heels. “You’re not getting out of being maid of honor that easily!” one of them yelled, tossing a pink sash that read "Bridesmaid Extraordinaire" onto Emily’s already decorated frame.

“Wait, no!” Emily stammered, stumbling back as the sash stuck to her “BWC ONLY” tattoo.

The priestly figure from the volcano ceremony appeared next, carrying an enormous, steaming vat of the sacred milk Emily had toppled during her escape. He raised it like a holy relic. “You cannot flee your destiny as Vol-ump-tu-ous! The goddess must finish the rites!”

And then, as if the universe had finally decided to abandon subtlety altogether, the Farmer’s Market Dairy Queen parade entered in full regalia, complete with cow-patterned costumes and oversized milk jugs. One of the parade leaders pointed a manicured finger at Emily and declared, “Our number one milker can’t just walk away! The crowd is still waiting!”

The room spun as every fragment of Emily’s wild escapades collided, their participants clamoring for her attention, for her presence, for her compliance. Each faction was adamant that she belonged to them, tugging at her from all sides.

Before she could react, the tribal leader pointed at her with a ceremonial staff. “The Goddess has arrived!” he bellowed, his voice deep and resonant. “Bring forth the coconuts!”

“Goddess?!” Emily squeaked, backing away, only to bump into the bachelorettes, who grabbed her arms with drunken enthusiasm.  “She’s the Maid of Honor we always wanted!” the bride-to-be slurred, planting a glittery kiss on Emily’s cheek.

“No, she’s ours!” one of the banana contestants yelled, waving her fruit threateningly.

“Step back, amateurs!” one of the milkers barked, brandishing a pump nozzle like a sword. “She belongs to the Milking Federation!”

Chaos erupted.

The tribal dancers swarmed around Emily, showering her with flower petals and chanting in a language that sounded suspiciously like gibberish.

The bachelorettes retaliated by tossing inflatable penises at the dancers, who used them as makeshift drums. The milkers set up their contraption nearby, attaching hoses to random participants as they declared, “Let’s see who’s the most giving here tonight!”

“Don’t forget the bananas!” the carnival emcee yelled, dragging a fresh bunch onto the stage. The banana-eaters swarmed in, shoving fruit into people’s hands and shouting instructions.

“Lick it slower!”
“Use your tongue like you mean it!”

The body painters, undeterred, rushed forward with brushes and stencils, smearing streaks of neon paint across everyone in sight. One of them climbed onto a milk pump, painting swirling patterns onto the tubes as if decorating a carnival float.

Emily found herself caught in the center of the madness.

A bachelorette was on her left, trying to shove a shot glass into her hand while shouting, “Drink, Dairy Queen!”

A tribal dancer was on her right, draping her in more garlands and chanting, “Bless us with your bounty!”

A milker crouched at her feet, adjusting a suction cup with alarming precision. “Hold still, sweetheart. This’ll only take a minute.”

Above her, a banana-eater leaned over, waving a fruit in her face. “Show us your skills, champ!”

And finally the Lick Queen hovered over her and said, “You know if you’re not doing anything why not come over to my apartment time?  And uh… I’ll totally bring my boyfriend and you brings yours before all lesbianism is only hot if it’s done for guys right?  Right?”

Emily tried to speak, to protest, but the words stuck in her throat. The drumbeat grew louder, the chants more fervent, the crowd’s energy pressing against her like a living thing. She felt hands on her shoulders, her arms, her legs—some painting her, some guiding her, some simply marveling at her.

The tribal leader raised his staff. “Let the ceremony begin!”

“What ceremony?” Emily shouted, but her voice was drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

A bachelorette stumbled onto the milkers’ stage, knocking over a vat of frothy liquid that splashed onto a banana-eating contestant, who slipped and collided with a body painter, smearing neon pink paint across her face.

“Watch it!” the painter yelled, only to be hit with an inflatable penis launched from the bachelorette brigade.

The banana-eater retaliated by shoving a fruit into the painter’s mouth. “Suck on that!”

The crowd’s laughter and cheers reached a fever pitch as the chaos spiraled out of control. Emily could barely think, her senses overwhelmed by the noise, the lights, the hands.

She stumbled back, only to be caught by a milker, who grinned and said, “Time to shine, champ.”

“Nope!” Emily shouted, wrenching free. “Nope, nope, nope!”

But there was nowhere to run.

The carnival, the tribal ceremony, the bachelorette party, the milkers, the banana-eaters, the body painters, the lick queens, —they all swirled together into a vortex of absurdity.

At the center of it all stood Emily, painted, crowned, sash-draped, and utterly overwhelmed.

The tribal drums reached a crescendo.

The bachelorettes raised their glasses.

The milkers powered up their contraption with a dramatic hiss.

The banana-eaters chanted, “One of us! One of us!”

The body painters unveiled a giant canvas reading, “Our Muse!”

The lickers licked their lips.  

And then—

Everything stopped.

The carnival lights flickered. The music cut out. The crowd froze mid-cheer, their faces locked in expressions of manic glee.

Emily stood at the eye of the hurricane, her breath catching in her throat. The carnival chaos roared around her, so loud it became a single, overwhelming buzz—a kaleidoscope of chants, drums, and cheers. Her painted skin glistened under the neon lights, every movement catching the eye, every curve accentuated by the ridiculous fishnet bodysuit clinging to her damp body. Her coconut bra clacked softly as she moved, the gaudy "#1 Milkers" sash brushing against her thighs.

Her tattoos—bold and impossible to ignore—gleamed like proclamations against her golden skin. The "I ♥ WHITE BOYS" across her lower back, the "BWC ONLY" on her ass, the Queen of Hearts tattoo on her thigh—all of it screamed for attention she had stopped even pretending she didn’t love.  

And somewhere, deep in the fabric of Bikini Week, the narrative cracked.

The carnival blurred around her, like a painting smudged by an unsteady hand. Bachelorettes shrieked with laughter, milkers adjusted their contraptions, tribal dancers spun in frantic circles, banana-eaters brandished their fruits, and body painters threw colors into the air like confetti. The sheer weight of it all pressed on her chest, and for the first time since arriving in this insane world, she felt like she might actually suffocate under the spectacle of herself.

Her breath hitched as her eyes caught something—a flicker in the corner of her vision, like a glitch in reality. She turned sharply, her gaze locking onto what looked like a… portal.

It hovered at the edge of the carnival, a jagged, shimmering tear in the air. Beyond it, Emily saw glimpses of a world she recognized: her cramped, gray-walled apartment, lit only by the glow of her computer screen; her cubicle at work, filled with stacks of paperwork and half-empty coffee mugs; a party she’d attended once, standing awkwardly on the sidelines, watching her coworkers laugh without her.

Her breath stuttered.

That was her life. Her real life. It hit her like a punch to the gut—how lonely she’d been, how small her existence had felt. The endless monotony, the constant yearning for something more.

Her chest ached, her eyes stinging with the threat of tears. She wanted to scream at the sight of it, to beg the portal to stay open, to let her think, to let her choose.

But deep down, another emotion churned: fear.

Could she go back to that? To the gray days and the quiet nights? To being invisible, forgotten, a footnote in her own life? Here, in Bikini Week, she mattered. People noticed her, wanted her, celebrated her.

She took a trembling step toward the portal, her bare feet slapping against the wet, painted cobblestones of the carnival. She didn’t know what she’d do if she reached it, her lips parted as if to call out, but no sound came.

The portal flickered, unstable, like a dying flame.

She reached out, her fingers trembling, every nerve screaming for her to grab hold. But just as she was close enough to almost feel its pull, the world around her shifted violently.

“Party’s over!” someone yelled.

The milkers began packing up their contraption, muttering about needing to sanitize the hoses. The tribal dancers suddenly remembered an urgent drum circle they had to attend "on the other side of the beach." The banana-eaters declared the bananas “too mushy” and stormed off in a huff. Even the bachelorettes, once so loud and insistent, began dispersing, claiming they had brunch reservations and appointments at the spa. And the lickers said this was fun but it was time to please their boyfriends, alone.  

“Wait!” Emily cried, spinning in place as the carnival around her dissolved like smoke. “Where are you all going?”

The portal flickered one last time, then collapsed in on itself with a soft pop.

She stood there, her chest rising and falling, her skin glistening under the fading lights, surrounded by silence. Her heart felt like it had been squeezed in a vice.

“This was a subplot,” she murmured, realization dawning. The narrative had been as overloaded as she had been and it had discarded all of it—the milkers, the bananas, the tribal nonsense, the lickers —because it wasn’t important. Not to the main story.

Her mind raced. If this world was built on narrative, then the only way to keep it intact was to focus on the main plot. On her real role.

Her thoughts snapped to Blaine.

Blaine, with his golden skin and ridiculous abs, his smug confidence and his king-of-the-beach swagger. Blaine, who was the epicenter of everything in Bikini Week, the sun around which this insane world revolved.

She swallowed hard, her cheeks flushing. If she was going to save the beach, she needed to stay at the center of the story. And to do that, she needed Blaine. She needed to throw herself into the narrative so fully that it couldn’t discard her.

Her pulse quickened as an idea took shape. A massive, absurd, completely unhinged idea.

The Bikini Car Wash Roller Disco Aerobics/Breakdancing Boombox Battle BBQ Muscle Surfing Tug-of-War Jet Ski Racing Wet-T-Shirt Contest of Liberation.

The words practically glowed in her mind, ridiculous and impossible and perfect. If she could organize it, make it the focal point of the story, then maybe—just maybe— it would be too big for the narrative to shut down with a wet thud.  It could keep going and going and going until the narrative got tired enough that she could reach whatever new breach in this reality appeared and she could go home.  The alternative was to just be a bimbo.  A happy joyous glorious free loved and adored bimbo.

And she didn’t want to be that.  She couldn’t want to be that.  She had to be stronger than wanting to be that.  

And she knew she needed to see Blaine, and fast, before she risked changing her mind again.  

Emily turned and bolted, her feet pounding against the damp cobblestones as she ran toward Blaine’s beachside manor.

Her inner monologue zigzagged wildly as she sprinted.

What the hell am I doing? she thought, her fishnet bodysuit catching on the breeze, clinging to her sweat-slicked skin. I look like a goddamn bimbo running through the streets.

The sash flapped against her thigh, the words "#1 Milkers" practically mocking her. The coconut bra dug into her chest, her painted skin shimmering under the streetlights.

Maybe I am a bimbo, she thought, her cheeks burning as she remembered the cheers, the praise, the overwhelming thrill of being wanted. Maybe I like being a bimbo.

But then the image of the portal flashed in her mind—her apartment, her office, her lonely life.

No! I have to go back to who I was. I can’t lose myself here.  Get to Blaine before you change you mind.  

Her chest heaved as she ran, the conflicting thoughts tearing at her like a storm. Her legs burned, her bare feet stung against the pavement, but she didn’t stop.

Blaine.  She had to reach Blaine.  She had to get there now, now now now.

Emily pushed herself, trying not think as she ran as fast as a bunny.