Who are you?

Alexton Peterson 35, office worker on a hot day

It's another sweltering day at Burkison Incorporated, the kind where the broken air conditioner turns the office into a sauna. Hot gusts whip through the open windows, doing little more than stirring the stale air and amplifying the misery. Papers flutter lazily on desks, and the hum of fans competes with the distant honk of traffic below.

At thirty-five, you've been grinding away in this corporate maze for over a decade, your life a flatline of spreadsheets and stifled dreams. The heat hits like a personal grudge, sweat soaking through your shirt as you duck into the men's bathroom. You splash cool water on your face, staring at your flushed reflection, cursing the morning rush that made you forget your antiperspirant. Colleagues wrinkle their noses, chalking it up to the weather, but one suggests using your break to snag a cheap deodorant from the convenience store downstairs.

Returning to your cramped cubicle—no executive suite for you—you spot something out of place: a garishly bright pink spray can on your desk, swirling with love hearts. A note flutters beside it: "Just to help with the smell." Intrigued, you pick it up, scanning the label. No ingredients, just an absurd warning where the instructions belong:

"Warning: This cologne has the ability to warp women's brain functions, causing them to fall helplessly in love with the person who wears it. Women who catch the scent will instantly feel an attraction, like love at first sight. The pull intensifies over time—for instance, after just five minutes of conversation, she might feel romantically entangled for months. In half an hour, you're her husband in her eyes; an hour, her soulmate. By two hours, she'll prioritize your happiness above her own, obeying any whim, even something as wild as shopping for groceries in the nude."

You snort, shaking your head—what kind of joke is this? Tempted to trash it or track down the prankster, you pause as your own sharp odour assaults you, impossible to ignore. Desperation takes over. You unbutton your shirt, the damp fabric clinging to your skin, and spray generously: under your arms, across your chest, down your back. The mist tingles coolly, erasing the stench in seconds, though the sweat remains like a persistent sheen.

Settling into your chair, you boot up the computer and dive into work, fingers dancing over the keys in a brief escape from the discomfort. Half an hour ticks by amid the office buzz. Then, slicing through the drone, comes the sharp click-clack of high heels drawing near. You swivel in your seat, glancing up to see who approaches.

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Sexual Privilege

Freeuse for One

These branching stories are going to have 3 very simple premises: 1) You exist in a world where your character AND ONLY your character gets to have sex with whatever group or groups of people you choose wherever and whenever he or she desires. 2) The circumstances under which he or she can have sex with that group can be specified generally or specifically. 3) The response of the people you have sex with and/or the general public can be chosen.