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The bar door swings shut, leaving you alone at the table with the ghost of CJ’s unspoken purpose mixing with the bitter taste of your own useless desire. You watch the dregs of your beer swirl in the glass. The jealousy is a physical thing, hot and acidic in your throat. You hate him. You hate how easy it is for him. The fantasy of being Donna, of feeling CJ’s hands on your hips and his mouth on your neck, is so strong you can almost taste it. You want to be his replacement, his better version, the one who can prove you are better at being any woman than the woman herself.

But then the fantasy shifts, twisting like the statues in the mansion's garden. The jealousy inverts. It’s not enough to be Donna. You want to break CJ. You imagine him in front of you, his snide arrogance stripped away, replaced by a ****, needy heat. In your mind, you pull open his expensive jacket, and beneath it, he’s wearing a woman’s red teddy, just like in your stories. But it’s not just a costume. You reach down and the space between his legs isn't filled with a cock, but with a cunt—small, tight, and already dripping for you.

“What’s wrong?” you imagine yourself sneering, using his own dismissive tone against him. “The place doesn't want you to be in control, does it?” You see him on his knees, begging, that smug face now flushed with a shame he can’t direct. You grab his hair, **** his head back, and watch him ride your cock, his moans a litany of broken pride. You’d make him say your name, make him admit that a real man’s cock is what he’s needed all along. The thought makes you leak into your jeans, a familiar, shameful heat.

Your gaze breaks from the fantasy and drifts across the bar. It lands on Jed, the annoying, unreliable hippie, laughing his grating laugh with Michelle. You hate him just as much as you hate CJ, and the same hateful desire coils in your gut. You imagine grabbing him, his greasy hair in your fist. You don't want to fuck him. You want to remake him. You imagine him with a pussy, forcing him to ride you while Michelle, with her cackling laugh and anorexic frame, watches and cheers him on. You’d make him call you daddy, make him admit you were the only real man he’d ever met, his own dick shriveling into nothing as he screamed your name.

You shake your head, trying to banish the thought, and flag down Julia for another beer. As she sets it down with her goofy, comfortable smile, you feel a pang of something else—a desire to be her, to have a child, to know the feeling of a body that has given life.

Just as you take the first long, cold swallow, the bar door opens again. It’s them. Donna looks flustered, her hair a mess, her cheeks flushed a deep red. CJ looks… exactly the same. Smug. In control. He guides Donna back to your table as if she’s a prize he’s decided to return.

“Okay,” CJ says, sliding back into the booth and pulling Donna down beside him. “Now we can really talk.”

He puts his arm around your shoulder, leaning in close like he’s sharing a secret. His voice is a low murmur, his breath smelling of beer and whatever he gave Donna. “Look, bud, about that place… there’s something you need to know.” As he speaks, drawing your attention, his other hand moves with practiced smoothness. You barely register the faint plink as something small drops into your fresh beer, the fizz that follows is almost imperceptible. He gives your shoulder a final, conspiratorial squeeze and leans back, his eyes glinting in the neon light. "Drink up," he says with a grin. "It's gonna be a long night."

You take a long swallow, the beer tasting slightly off, a faint chemical bitterness under the hops. The ****, or whatever it is, works fast. The edges of the neon signs begin to blur, the low thrum of the bar's chatter becoming a distant, syrupy drone. Donna is just a smudge of color in the corner of your eye, forgotten. There is only CJ, his face clear and predatory in the growing fog.

"So," he says, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head, all casual arrogance. "About that place. You ran out of there pretty hard. Rosa was… disappointed. She thought you were ready for the test".

"I don't know what you're talking about," you lie, your voice feeling thick in your own throat.

CJ laughs, a short, ugly bark. "Don't be a pussy. I told you, I’ve been there. I know it’s a headfuck. But you went way further than me. I'm just collecting data." He leans forward again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Rosa told me to ask you something. She was pretty pissed off when she said it, actually. It was after you fled, after you wouldn't answer her calls."

He pauses, letting the silence stretch, watching your face. "She asked me to ask you… 'Do you imagine me riding your dad, letting him suck my tits, him pounding into me? Do you like thinking about that?'".

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your blood runs cold, then hot with shame. It’s almost a direct quote. Her last, cruel whisper in the mansion, twisted into a weapon and handed to your rival. Your mind flashes, a dizzying, ****-fueled montage: your father's cock slapping Rosa's face in the photo album; your fantasy of being Rosa, taking your father's dick; your hottest sex session where you imagined you were Llora fucking Rosa's ass while thinking of your father.

"That's bullshit," you manage, but your voice cracks. The room tilts.

"Is it?" CJ’s smirk widens. He knows he’s hit a nerve. "Because that’s not all I heard. Llora found your little adventure hilarious."

He takes another sip of his drink, savoring the moment. "She told me you got a little… messy. In the restroom. Said you came all over the mirror. Right on her face. Said you were probably wishing you were her, fucking her daughter".

The second blow lands harder than the first. The specific, humiliating detail. Something only you and Llora could know. You remember it perfectly: cumming on the etching of her sprawled out, wishing you could take over as her. You feel your face flush, the beer and the **** churning in your stomach. The world outside of this table ceases to exist. There is only the accusation, the truth of it burning behind your eyes.

"She thought it was pathetic," CJ continues, his voice a casual, cutting drawl. "Said you were just another little boy playing dress-up in your head, too scared to pull the lever on the daddy doll you built". He shrugs. "Her words, not mine."

"Shut up," you hiss, but it comes out as a slur. The bar is spinning now, the faces of the other patrons—Julia, Jed, Michelle—melting into the background wallpaper.

CJ just smiles, victorious. He leans in so close you can smell the expensive cologne and the faint chemical scent on his breath. "See, this is what I don't get. You go through all that. You see the dolls, the statues, the fucked-up family photos. You get your head scrambled by illusions. And you still can't just be honest". His eyes glitter. "You didn't pass the test, did you?"

You shake your head, trying to clear it, but it only makes the room swim faster. Your thoughts are coming loose, your carefully suppressed fantasies bubbling to the surface, hot and undeniable. You imagine CJ with a massive black cock, just like in your stories, slapping it against your mouth and telling you to be a good girl. You want him to order you into Donna's clothes, to tell you that you're better than any woman because you chose to be this way, look this way. For him.

"So tell me," CJ whispers, his voice dropping, becoming hypnotic, directorial. "Tell me what really happened in there. After the restroom. After you ran from Llora. Tell me what broke you. Tell me everything. From the start. Don't leave out the good parts."