Forget Kelly, go after bigger fish (Keir's Version)

Author's Note: This path is a rewrite and continuation of my original path found here: https://chyoa.com/chapter/Claim-the-House.1223236. It was a thread I worked on in 2022. My writing style and quality has changed dramatically since then. Consequently, I decided to rewrite it. Originally I was only going to edit my chapters, but while I was working on it, I concluded a stronger, more cohesive foundation would be helpful so I'm rewriting the entire thread. I hope you enjoy!

The permanent marker feels heavy in your hand as your eyes linger on the heavy, hypnotic sway of Kelly’s chest. Your mind races. Is it me, or is it the pen? And more importantly… will it work on a person?

You need to know, but testing it on your best friend’s mom right here in her own kitchen feels too risky for a first try. You need a baseline. A test subject. And suddenly, you know exactly how to find one.

“Excuse me… I need to take care of something,” you mumble, pushing yourself out of your chair before they can even ask what's wrong.

Within minutes, you’re out the door and heading straight for the local mall. Your target is a storefront you’ve passed a thousand times, always lingering just a second too long to stare at the lace-clad mannequins in the window: Victoria’s Secret – Special Sizes, G and Up.

Stepping inside, the sweet, heavy scent of perfume hits you. You ignore the sharp, judging glares of two incredibly busty female shoppers browsing a nearby rack. Marching straight to the checkout counter, you pull out the Sharpie and scribble Ryan Ferro’s computer right onto the sleek black casing of the monitor.

The cashier blinks, staring directly at you.

“Do you mind if I browse here a bit?” you ask, testing the waters.

She glances at the fresh ink, then shrugs carelessly. “Why not? I mean, it’s your computer.”

It worked. Across the store, the two busty customers immediately look away, suddenly ignoring you as if a college guy commandeering a lingerie store’s terminal is the most normal thing in the world.

Your fingers fly across the keyboard. The system isn't intuitive, but you quickly locate the customer database and punch in Kelly O’Brien.

A second later, her profile pops up, confirming her address. She’s a loyal customer. Her most recent purchase? Bras in a jaw-dropping size 36G. Below it, a specific field catches your eye: Enhanced Breasts: False.

“Holy shit, she’s a natural G-cup,” you blurt out to the empty air. Seeing it confirmed in cold, hard data makes your blood run hot.

Now completely familiar with the interface, you notice a button labeled Browse by Cup. Intrigued, you click it, scrolling past G, H, and K, all the way down to a final option: Custom.

Your pulse quickens as you click. A surprisingly long list of names appears, though a quick glance shows most of them have True marked under the enhancement field. You quickly apply a filter: Cup Size: Custom | Enhanced Breasts: False | Sort by: Bust (Descending), Waist (Ascending).

You hit enter. The screen flashes, and the top result immediately capture your attention.

Name: Emma Morgan

Age: 23

Measurements: 46-25-37

Recent Purchase: Custom-fitted dark-red bikini set with black highlights (Purchased: Today).

A perfect, impossible hourglass. The ultimate test subject. And according to the system, she lives a mere ten minutes away from the mall.

You quickly jot her address down on a scrap piece of paper. Before you leave, you realize you need to free up the terminal so the cashier can keep updating the database for future use.

Because it’s a permanent marker, the ink doesn't just wipe away. You grab a bottle of hand sanitizer from the counter, squirting the ****-rich gel over your name and rubbing it vigorously with a tissue. As the black text dissolves into a smudged blur, the spell snaps.

The clerk and the customers suddenly stiffen, shooting you deeply disapproving, hostile looks. You don’t care. The rules are becoming clearer: the power is water-resistant, but **** dissolves the ink—and erasing your name reverses the effect entirely.

You make a hasty exit into the afternoon heat.

The ten-minute drive to Emma’s neighborhood feels agonizingly slow. Questions flood your mind. Does she live alone? With a boyfriend? How does a 23-year-old afford custom-tailored luxury bras?

You get your answer as you pull into her street. The houses here are massive, boasting pristine, manicured lawns and glinting backyard swimming pools. This is old money.

You pull up to her estate. There's no need to double-check your scrap paper; the name Morgan is proudly embossed in brass letters across the mailbox.

Your heart thumps against your ribs. Walking up to the front door feels too reckless—what if a parent or a boyfriend answers? Instead, you decide to scout the perimeter. You slip along the side of the property, following a tall wooden privacy fence that shields the backyard from view.

Scanning the cedar planks, you spot a knot in the wood that has fallen out, leaving a perfect, eye-level peephole. You lean in and look through.

A heavy surge of heat rushes straight to your groin. Your erection returns instantly, harder than before. You’ve found her.

Emma Morgan is everything the database promised and more. She is lounging by the poolside, wearing the exact red-and-black bikini she bought this morning. Her breasts are spectacularly massive, each one easily larger than her head—a weight that looks destined to cause her severe back pain in the future.

But as you stare through the fence, gripping the Sharpie in your pocket, a dark, triumphant smile spreads across your face. If this pen works on people, she won't be spending much time on her feet anyway.