Bliss?

As the sun dipped below the Chicago skyline, Steve sat in his apartment, the Rulebook open on his lap like a Pandora's box finally sealed. Knowing he had fixed his issue—erecting an impenetrable barrier against the whims of other notebook wielders—he erased the entry granting his book visibility into their changes. The tome surged with ethereal energy, pages fluttering as if caught in an invisible gale, the added bulk dissolving like mist under dawn's light. It shrank back to its original, unassuming size, the leather cover smooth and familiar in his hands, a humble notebook once more. He had no need for peering into those parallel abysses now; his universe was a fortress, safe from external meddling. And if he remained ignorant of their alterations, he couldn't inadvertently allow them ingress—a permanent, unbreachable block. Steve exhaled deeply, a wave of satisfaction washing over him like the calm after a tempest.

Emboldened by this newfound security, he turned his attention to the digital deluge that had plagued his phone since the attention rule's inception. Women and futanari from his past—exes, crushes, fleeting acquaintances—had inundated him with messages across apps, their words a intoxicating cocktail of nostalgia, flirtation, and unbridled desire. The sheer volume was exhilarating, feeding that twisted craving for validation like nectar to a parched soul. He accepted every friend request, even from those he found unappealing, simply to amplify the glow of being wanted. To some, he replied with measured normalcy: "Hey, long time—how've you been?" keeping it light and engaging. To others, he flirted shamelessly: "You haven't changed a bit—still turning heads. Drinks sometime?" his fingers dancing over the screen with a mischievous grin, the responses pinging back almost instantly, fueling the high.

Finally, hunger gnawed at him, and he decided on dinner: a sumptuous cheesesteak, the kind that melted in your mouth with layers of savory bliss. Sadly, local options had always disappointed—skimpy on meat even when extra was requested, flavors flat and uninspired. With the Rulebook's power at his fingertips, he rectified this culinary void. On a fresh page labeled "Local Environment," he inscribed: "Old Rule: Between here and my new property, there will be enough unique places to eat with amazing food at fair prices." The air hummed faintly, reality weaving itself anew, and suddenly he remembered "Pasta La Vista," a punny Italian eatery renowned for its stuffed cheesesteaks—overflowing with premium ribeye, gooey provolone, caramelized onions, and artisanal bread baked fresh daily. They didn't deliver, but the drive was worth it.

He headed out, the BRZ hugging the roads as dusk settled, his mind wandering to audio upgrades—those thumping bass lines from his teen years in custom car systems now a distant echo. At Pasta La Vista, he ordered the masterpiece: a foot-long behemoth with American cheese melting into every crevice, crisp lettuce for contrast, creamy mayo binding the symphony, pepperoni adding a spicy kick, and jalapeños—his Achilles' heel, those fiery slices he couldn't resist, sliced thin to infuse heat without overpowering. It was big enough to stand alone, no sides needed, a handheld feast of indulgence.

Racing home to savor it hot, he settled in the living room, his modest 32-inch basic TV flickering with episodes of Supernatural—Sam and Dean banishing demons in grainy glory. The cheesesteak was divine: meat tender and juicy, cheese stretching in golden strings, jalapeños igniting a perfect burn that danced on his tongue. Mid-bite, inspiration struck; he grabbed his laptop and dove into online shopping. First, a full Sony ES line audio setup for the BRZ: high-end speakers with crystal-clear highs and mids, a 12-inch subwoofer for that visceral thump, a custom sealed sub box from a BRZ-specialist fabricator (prioritizing sound quality over raw power), matching amps for seamless amplification, wiring kits with oxygen-free copper for purity, and an ES headunit with touchscreen flair and Bluetooth integration. He added premium window tint at legal levels—dark enough for privacy, clear for safety. Then, for the apartment, a 60-inch OLED TV, its infinite blacks and vibrant colors a quantum leap from his current relic—no sound system yet, mindful of thin walls and neighborly courtesy; that extravagance would wait for his custom-built haven.

The rest of the week blurred into a swift cadence of routine. Workdays at TechNova unfolded with uncharacteristic normalcy—less eventful now that the cross-universe bleed had been severed, no impulsive outbursts or chaotic urges derailing focus. Even Harley seemed to reclaim some agency, powering through reports and meetings with fewer interruptions, her anxious deference still present but the abusive commands tapering as employees lost that inexplicable pull to exploit her. It felt almost too normal for Steve's liking, the thrill of his Rulebook experiments subdued, but cooler heads prevailed; stability was a gift after the whirlwind.

The weekend arrived, heralding his meeting with Gertrude and the builder. Heading to her office, Steve buzzed with ideas, a blueprint of dreams coalescing in his mind. Walking in, the royal red carpet plush underfoot, he found Gertrude even more stunning—her wardrobe upgraded to a form-fitting emerald blouse that accentuated her fiery red hair and freckled décolletage, paired with a pencil skirt that hugged her exaggerated hourglass like a lover's embrace, the subtle bulge a teasing promise. Standing inside was Rick Dershowitz—"Call me RD," he boomed, a burly man in his 50s with a salt-and-pepper beard, callused hands shaking Steve's firmly, exuding the confidence of a craftsman who'd built empires from blueprints.

Gertrude pulled up the 10-acre plot on her screen, the forested expanse a canvas of potential. Steve launched into his vision, words flowing like an architect's manifesto: a killer garage anchoring the home, three double-door bays—one standard for everyday parking, one equipped with a two-post lift for undercarriage work, and one housing an alignment rack, single-car width but spacious for precision. "I'll need specialists for the mechanic elements—want it up to code," RD noted, jotting furiously. Steve specified a Jim Beam alignment machine, drawing from his teen grease-monkey days: "I've got experience with them—reliable as hell." RD nodded, promising to source models fitting the space, including a back wall for dual TVs—high and low—for viewing alignment data from above or below the vehicle. "Tons of outlets, all 240V for shop tools," Steve added, envisioning welding bays, woodworking stations, and a tire service area with top-tier mounting and balancing machines—"The best balancer money can buy, price be damned."

The layout unfurled: kitchen and living room adjacent to the garage for an open-floor synergy, seamless flow from culinary haven to mechanical sanctum. A grand dining room followed, capable of seating legions around a colossal table, framed by wall-to-ceiling glass windows flooding the space with crystalline light, nature's embrace indoors. Hallways branched in a T-shape—bedrooms lining the garage side for convenience, culminating in a sprawling entertainment oasis at the rear: arcade machines blinking with neon nostalgia, a regulation pool table under pendant lights, a fully stocked bar with polished mahogany and crystal decanters. "Make it huge—epic parties in mind," Steve emphasized. "We can go massive; land's no issue," RD assured.

In the home's heart, an enclosed movie theater—soundproofed to perfection, accessed via the bar for that speakeasy vibe. Outdoors, a vast patio sprawled, centering an inground pool: shallow expanses for volleyball skirmishes, deepening to the maximum feasible depth—12 feet, RD confirmed—for daring dives and aquatic revelry, crystalline water shimmering under LED lights. A year-round hot tub nestled nearby, insulated against winters, bubbling sanctuary under starlit skies.

Circling back to the garage: a detached paint booth off to the side, professional-grade with ventilation and lighting for custom jobs. Frontage boasted expansive parking circled by a central fountain, water jets dancing in marble elegance; to the right, an open-walled pavilion with a sturdy roof for sheltered storage. "And underground parking—for me," Steve declared. "How many spots?" RD queried. "Twenty, at least." RD whistled. "Anything's possible with your budget—hydraulic lifts, climate control, the works."

RD absorbed it all, notepad brimming. "If that's the rough vision, I'll draft designs—two weeks, tops." They shook hands, RD departing with a nod of respect. Gertrude lingered, her gaze smoldering with desire, that high-pitched voice stirring him anew. Steve laughed to diffuse the tension: "Man, who knew home-building was this exhilarating?" But her cock twitched visibly beneath the skirt, a subtle throb that betrayed her composure. "You're insatiable," she quipped, eyes twinkling, "but I have other appointments. If that's all, Stevie, I'll call when RD sets a firm date for plan reviews." Steve agreed and left, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving her to whatever fantasies brewed in that red-draped lair.