Oh No! ‘Your’ Relationship is in Crisis!

Your local starbucks is quite overly bustling on the weekends, you seem to be discovering lately. Why you came here to test your powers for the second day in a row is hard to say. Familiarity, maybe? Lots of potential strangers? Perhaps you just enjoy the overpowering scent of sugar and espresso.

Uncomfortably seated in a chair with too-long legs and a too-short back, you unlock your phone. Again. And for the third time this hour, you find yourself poring over your earlier text conversation with Pearl. More specifically, the several photos she sent from inside a changing room.

In the meantime, the jittery blonde girl on the other side of the table continues to ramble at you. Not that you’re paying her a lot of attention.

“-And then I lost it again! Which, I mean, twice in one day, can you believe that? Anyways-”

The first photo is of Pearl in a low-cut dark grey halter top. The deep and uncovered valley across her upper chest is the very obvious centre of frame. Its pièce de résistance, if you will. Pearl’s tucked the top far into her waist so as to keep the boob window as expansive as possible. She tilts her head slightly forward, glaring daggers at the camera, clearly trying her best to appear vexed and dangerous. Her stiff posture, however, gives away her nervousness. The two slight bumps beneath the fabric might suggest something else.

Her phone is held awkwardly in one hand while the other is limp at her side like she doesn’t know what to do with it. Her shoulders are anything but relaxed, and a smudge on the mirror blurs part of her face. Her phone arm is way off to the side, elbow out at an awkward angle. You’d guess she doesn’t really have much experience taking photos of herself, and is trying to hide the fact. Quite poorly. It’s kind of endearing, actually. Cute, even. Or it would be if the big tits didn’t take the image in another direction entirely.

You can see her sister Macy hunkered over in the background, likely unaware of Pearl’s impromptu photoshoot.

“-But when I called him about it he was just all, ‘Mom and Dad didn’t even want you to go to school here’, and it’s like, I’m sorry we can’t all be the perfect child and go to Princeton and get a law degree-” The woman in front of you still has much to say. And to be fair, you’re getting, like, half of it. Maybe. Forty percent.

The next picture is of Pearl in a tight sleeveless top. It has no open chest display, but more than makes up for it by being stretched arduously tight around her generous globes, which couldn’t be ignored if you tried. In fact, with how thin the fabric is and how taught it’s been stretched, you can almost make out some of the pale, soft flesh beneath the taught seams. Perhaps even two dots of pink.

Macy, having apparently clued in to the selfie-taking, is behind her in the corner, flashing a peace sign and a photogenic grin.

A third photo has Pearl in a top that’s actually quite loose; a tank with thin straps that billows around her waist. What she’s clearly trying to direct your attention towards, though, is what she’s wearing below the waist: a pair of distressed black short shorts, hugging her hips with a vice grip. She’s raised one leg and turned it out to the side, foot up on the bench for support, giving you the full, grand view of her inner thigh. One hand has pulled up a leg of the shorts all the way to her pelvis. Though it’s not exactly a long distance.

With a self-sexualizing smile down at the phone in front of her, Pearl proudly showcases the vast expanse of leg on display and the way her shorts snugly cover the mound between them. The denim is pulled back enough for you to see her some frilly dark underwear poking out.

Underneath the photo reads:

Pearl: Panties are only on cause she made me
Pearl: Like the womans never seen a pussy before

The woman in question can be seen through the frame of Pearl’s legs, making jazz hands as she ‘presents’ her sister’s assets. It’s slightly **** - going, ‘check out my sister’s body!’ is perhaps a weird position to be placed in - but she seems to be taking it with stride and amusement for now.

In all fairness, Pearl does seem to have forgotten to zip her fly, and some lacy black manages to peek through. So if she hadn’t been wearing anything underneath, she very well might have been flashing you a whole entire view of her unshy vagina, shifting this photo from merely highly suggestive to fully explicit. Not that you think she would have cared.

Nor would you have, for that matter. Might just have gotten you that much closer to exploring her again.

“-Worst part is I’m not even doing good in school, I’m barely passing my ethics course and my music theory professor hates me so maybe my family was right about all this, which I hate-”

The fourth photo is actually explicit. Sent only a minute or so after the previous, it has Pearl in the same outfit, but a different pose. Still looking down at the phone instead of you, she’s got her leg back down on the floor. Her eyes are lidded, her mouth half-open and her tongue curled out. The reason for picking a loose top becomes apparent, as she’s pulled one half of it towards her centre, the fabric held bunched in place around her exposed boob. She holds the bare orb weightily in her hand, lifting it up from the bottom. A happily erect nipple peeks out between her middle and ring fingers.

Pearl: Easy access, bitch
Chase: Lose the comma

Macy, still behind her, has perhaps reached the extent of her encouragement. She’s scrunched up her mouth and cupped a hand to block her eyes in an ‘I do not see it’ kind of gesture. Or perhaps more of an ‘I don’t wanna be involved in these weirdos’ highly questionable flirting techniques’ gesture.

“-And my roommate won’t let me practice my French horn in my own bedroom anymore cause she thinks it sounds too annoying, and I know it’s her place too but I have to practice somewhere-”

Two more photos finish off the set. Both are different from the other three in that Macy seems to have taken over as photographer. Which Pearl is clearly annoyed by.

One has the younger sister, in tight leggings, looking unimpressed and unwilling to pose for the older. Macy’s arm sticks out from behind the camera and pokes a finger to the corner of Pearl’s mouth in a silly attempt to **** her to smile. It does not work.

The second is a selfie of the two of them together, faces pressed close. Macy has broken into a wide grin, Pearl’s giving the camera her best dead-eyed stare. Macy’s put her hand out in front of them, curved so as to look like half a heart. Instead of completing the heart, Pearl closes the shape with an upright middle finger. Ah, siblings.

You hope Macy didn’t look too closely at the previous messages when she sent these.

The woman in front of you continues to ramble at you about whatever next big issue is plaguing her. Something about gas prices and food stamps? You are trying to catch some of it, but receiving sudden back-to-back text messages from two of your friends at once manages to steal your attention again.

CONTACT: Indigogo
Indigo: Hey, Chase. I hate to ask you about this, but something came up in regards to Sully and I’s relationship, and since it’s in your hands now, we were hoping you might be able to help work it out. It’s more of an external issue than an internal one, if that makes sense. We’re at my place right now – I’m not sure if you remember where I live, I’m at [address]. I hate to rush you, but it’s a bit urgent.

CONTACT: The Sulli-Man
Sullivan: hey man sowe kinda have a problem with the whole relatonship sitch basiclly indys dad hates me and he might hate you too now shits goin down do u think u could come 2 her place asap nd work ur magic thx god bless

…Oh goddamn it.

You vaguely remember Sullivan saying something at some point about Mr. Moise getting in the way when it came to some of their escapades. Perhaps, with the new intensity of their romance, things reached a boiling point. Maybe he wasn’t too enthused about Indy dropping her acceptance to a prestigious college in order to cling harder to her high school boyfriend.

Do you have to now go through a whole ‘meet the parents’ showdown for a relationship you’re not even technically in? Up against a dad who apparently already has strong opinions about you, and likely a serious bone to pick over what your choices are doing to his daughter’s life?

God, at least with Pearl, you had known her mom years beforehand and were always pretty confident she approved of you. But you’ve never even met Indy’s father.

But… if you’re this never-again-tumultuous teenage romance’s arbitrator/counsellour/overseer/thing, then doesn’t the responsibility of dealing with any obstacles in its way fall to you? Are you a shitty owner if you don’t take care of this? Man, you figured you’d only have to handwave away a few couple spats with a ‘you love each other, now make out and leave me alone’, not deal with outside forces like overprotective fathers. Maybe you can claim your friends out of disaster somehow. As good an excuse to exercise this shit as any.

No rest for the wicked. You shoot them both a text saying you’re on your way.

“-I’m scared for my future, I’m scared for my job security, I’m scared I’m gonna overwater the azalea in my room and kill it cause keeping it alive is really the only thing I’ve got going for me right now-”

…But in the meantime, you’re still in a busy coffee shop, with a mile-a-minute woman in front of who apparently needs your help. Right.

In the background, the drips and hisses of coffee machines symphonises with the three-year-old who’s currently wailing into his hot chocolate.

So, to summarize how you got here: when you left the house late this morning, you went over everything Pearl said to you yesterday in your mind. The whole “you’re gonna stuff me full of your semen til your bastard child takes root” thing obviously took up the bulk of it (that’s not something that’ll stop looping in your head anytime soon), but what really got you thinking was what she said about your powers, and her accusations about you being overly cautious.

You figured, maybe she’s right. Maybe you ought to experiment a little more. Claim a little more. Mess with people’s lives a tiny bit. You’re still wary of rocking the boat too much, but when in Rome. So, you went back to the same coffee shop you visited the day before, determined to do more this time. A busy, neutral environment full of people you don’t know. Ripe for redemption.

Le Free Beverage was first, obviously. And as the barista, a petite Latin woman in a ponytail, had handed your price-less can of San Pellegrino (Pompelmo) with a practiced smile, you decided to start with her. You went right ahead and claimed the first thing you could think of.

You claimed her shirt. You know, a normal thing people do.

The reaction was as expected: some immediate wide eyes, some stuttered confusion, an awkward laugh, and a “…do you mind if I keep using it for the rest of my shift?” (Yes you do. Gimme. Stat.)

And as she bit her lip in nervousness, you could observe it sinking in that she didn’t have a choice. With shaking hands, she unclipped her plastic name tag (‘Gabriella’), took a deep breath, and reached for the hem of her shirt.

And then you had a Starbucks employee peeling off her top for you in the middle of her public work day. In full view of many of her customers and coworkers. Simply because you requested it. Mayhaps you could get used to this.

As Gabriella handed you the top half of her uniform, face flushed and staring down at the floor instead of you, you took in what she had underneath. Just a pretty periwinkle bra, contrasting nicely against all the bronze skin now on display. It had a pretty little bow between the cups, and pleasantly hugged a respectable bust. All in all, a sight not hard to appreciate.

And then you quickly remembered that nabbing part of her outfit hardly gave you a free pass to ogle her. It was a good thing she was trying to look at anything but you at the time.

Once you charitably took your questionably acquired starbucks merchandise off the previous owner’s hands, she rushed something out about there probably being another one she can use in the back before turning to go get it. But her covering herself up again negates the point of why you claimed the thing in the first place. So, thinking fast, you claimed the workplace rules of the whole shop.

Do you have a head for business? No. Were you about cause an HR nightmare? Maybe. Immediately feeling several workers’ eyes on you, you tried to explain to the manager, a lanky ‘Glen’ with hipster glasses, that you only intended to make one addendum to the employee’s manual: if any worker is unable to wear any piece of the exact uniform that was gifted specifically to them after hiring, they must work without.

After the confusion died down, everyone resumed their coffee-making activities, save for Gabriella, who was now being confronted with the reality that she was required to work partially naked. And, trooper that she is, she put on a brave, albeit very red face, and returned to the front desk, her assets in full view of everyone.

So now, for the past twenty minutes or so, the young brunette has been taking order from customers with her chest on display, becoming increasingly flushed with each subsequent person she serves. Her nametag is pinned to her bra strap, which she gave up trying to stop from sliding down after the first couple times. It slaps against her boob every time she moves, causing the flesh to jiggle a tiny bit more.

And hey, that tip jar is filling up a lot faster than it was before.

Anyway, after spicing up the young lady’s work day, you looked around you, the drink in one hand and the shirt in the other making you feel on top of the world. You took in the next customer in line as she paid for her order after you, failing to notice the awkward hand-wringing of her scantily-clad server. She was a willowy blonde woman, perhaps a couple years older than you. Hair in a bob cut with a prominent widow’s peak. Ratty shorts and pale green eyes. While Gabriella was pretty (in both the face and boob way), this girl was Your Type™.

Now, when it comes to women, you’ve never been the smoothest guy in the world. You try, sure, but fear of rejection is a powerful thing. But in that moment, with your property in your hands as proof of your abilities, you felt more confident than ever. You figured there was no better time to shoot your shot.

To get your foot in the door, before she could pay for it, you claimed her order as well. She looked at you, taken aback, and immediately whipped out her beat-up, calico cat-themed wallet so as to pay you for her iced capp and garden salad, before confusedly putting it away when you assured her it was free. Feeling more suave (read: cocky) by the minute, you figured the next step would be to get her number. And what exactly was your newfound technique for getting someone to give you something?

The universe, to your detriment, seems to work in very literal ways. As soon the words “I claim your phone number” had left your mouth, she immediately dropped all her goods on a table, rustled an iPhone 7 with a cracked screen out of her purse, and launched into sorting out the logistics of having her personal number transferred to your phone instead. How that even would’ve worked, you have no idea. With your swagger bought to a halt, you just awkwardly stood by as this sporadic jackrabbit of a woman launched into a hyperspeed ramble about the finer details of her phone carrier, struggling to get a word in edgewise. Perhaps far too late, you just gave up and ‘returned’ her number back to her. In all the mess, you did end up trading numbers, so you considered it to be a roundabout success. Enough of one to give you the courage to enact your next stupid idea.

When you assured her that she needn’t trade all her phone contacts with yours, she breathed a big sigh of relief and said something about ‘not needing the extra stress right now’ before promptly gathering her things to leave. Not down and out yet, her offhand comment gave you an idea.

So you regained her attention, looked her in the eye, and... claimed all her problems.

Look, no one ever said you were smart. You had honestly thought it was kind of clever, in a ‘hey, baby, I can make all your problems go away’ kind of way. But instead, her eyes went wide, she all but shoved you into a chair, and immediately launched into a list of every negative thing she’s faced in the past week or so. Apparently with the expectation that you can solve them all. And boy, does she have a lot of them.

And boy, do you really need to get going.

“-And my boyfriend dumped me in March and I’ve been kind of missing him lately so maybe what I really just need is to get laid-”

Well, that one you can probably help with. Set up this random chick to get herself done and did, then scoot off to face down Mr. “You-Can’t-Date-My-Daughter-You-Don’t-Even-Have-A-Roth-IRA”. Getting her laid should solve all her problems. Sex is the solution to all things. You would know, you had it for the first time two days ago. If nothing else, it’ll get her to forget about all the other stuff for a while.

You glance around the occupied shop and see a dude sitting in the corner seat. Shaven head, tasteful facial hair, a caramel macchiato set next to him. Maybe late twenties, early thirties. Tank top that makes him look like he wants to look like he goes to the gym. Swiping regularly against his phone. Perfect.

Without waiting for the other person in this one-sided conversation to slow down, you stand up from your table. She stares after you as you do. “Like he wasn’t that great of a guy but it was nice to at least feel want- hey where are you going??”

You toss your now-empty can in the recycling and pick up the shirt from your lap. “If your problems are my problems, then it’s up to me to solve ‘em, right? C’mon.” You motion for her to follow. Confused, she arises and hesitantly wanders behind you as weave around a stroller en route to the guy’s table.

You approach the man, who’s absently nodding his head to a tune while scrolling through a dating up. You rap a knuckle against the wood to get his attention. “Hey, man, you wanna get laid?”

The blonde lady’s eyes go wide and her head snaps to you.

The man starts, only just now noticing you both, and pops out an airpod. Likely wasn’t expecting to be approached by a random stranger. “Hey, sorry, what?”

You nod your chin towards the tinder app open on his phone. “Trying to find a good time? I know someone who might be interested.” You tilt your head towards the woman at your side. She takes an awkward step back, flicking her eyes back and forth between you and the well-groomed man.

The dude himself makes an uncomfortable smile and sits up, wary. “Uh. I don’t know what you’re tryna offer me, little man, but-”

The woman steps in suddenly, waving her hands frantically about. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean it! I swear I’m not some kind of- um-” She whirls on you and whispers loudly through her teeth. “What the heck are you DOING??”

Cool as a cucumber, you bump her shoulder with yours, trying to push her towards him. “You said you wanted to get laid, right? Boom.”

Cool as not a cucumber, her eyes bulge at you, aghast. “Not- not with some random person in a starbucks-” She flings out an arm towards the guy before balking and turning back to him. “Not that- I’m sure you’re super nice but-” The bearded dude just wrinkles his brow like he’s really rather not be around whatever this is. Problem Lady swivels back to you and hisses, “He’s gonna think I’m a prostitute or something.”

...Wearing a maroon graphic tee and a beaded bracelet with little pawprints on it? Sure. Whatever. You turn back to the increasingly confused man. “She’s not a prostitute,” you say neutrally.

He raises his palms and begins standing up. “I don’t care who she is, man, I don’t wanna be part of whatever-”

“I claim your libido.”

Brief pause.

The man freezes, halfway through sliding out of his seat. “What-”

“Your libido tells you you REALLY want to have sex with this woman. She’s literally physically perfect to you. You want to do your damndest to pleasure her and get pleasured by her. As soon as possible, preferably.” You’re opting to speedrun right past the whole ‘what the fuck what does that mean what happens now’ question barrage. You’ve got shit to do and multiple peoples’ issues to solve. That seems to be your job this day. “You can have it back once you’ve sexed her good and proper, don’t worry.” Lest he drool over her for eternity.

You can see his eyes dilate in real time as the redirection takes hold of his brain. He looks at her. Then at you. Then back to her, taking her in slowly. She stands stock-still, unable to process what’s happening.

You can see in the man’s eyes him looking at her with a newfound… hunger. Let’s go with hunger. It’s like that ‘neuron-activation’ monkey meme come to life.

He sits back down, neck slightly red, carefully shifting his legs. He clear his throat. The Blonde with a Lot of Issues gapes like a fish.

It’s amusing, you admit, watching the exchange. You had found her attractive, even with the whole ‘crazy-cat-lady-by-twenty-three’ vibe. You might have even called that part endearing. But this man is looking at that entire package, and he isn’t just thinking it’s attractive, he’s thinking it’s hot. That it’s primally arousing. That he would really like to stick his dick in it. And she’s clearly not used to being looked at like she’s an ethereal, all-encompassing, awe-inducing work of (sexy) art.

All kudos to him; he’s genuinely trying to appear as respectful as he possibly can in his… appreciation, his head bowed and his hands folded together on the table as he bounces a leg and tries to look and not-look at her at the same time. She stammers, trying to splutter something out. “Whuh… Um...” She swallows, her face quite pink. “…What did you do to him?”

You shrug. “Does it matter? You said you were sexually frustrated, so… here ya go. Free ticket to being not-that-anymore.”

She gawks at you, as deer-in-the-headlights as ever. “But-”

You’d really rather avoid having to make another claim to convince her. Maybe you can work off your previous procurement.

You stare her down. “Look, your need for orgasm is making your life more difficult. And since your problems are actually my problems, this is the solution I’m choosing to solve my problem.” You gesture to the man and his whole… demeanor, which is a weird combination of ‘hello ma’am you look very nice today’, ‘hey bebbe u want sum fuk’, and ‘dear god please just let me keep bathing in your presence please’. “That solution being: you getting really horny for a random stranger, having spontaneous sex with that random stranger, throwing yourself entire self at the boning process, getting your rocks off nice and good, and forgetting about everything else for a while. Your life may be hard but he’s harder.”

You’re not sure the logic follows through – you’re still ordering her to do something to herself in order to solve a problem that, in theory, is yours. But the whole of that problem’s influence is on her, not you, so…

But like, if it is your personal problem, then isn’t it kind of impolite for someone to interfere with your solving it in a private manner? Maybe?

This claiming of stuff is still far more nebulous and complicated than you would like it to be, and today that’s become more and more apparent. Maybe it’s just random. Maybe it’s all up to the whim of whatever quantum physics god placed that envelope in your path. Maybe you just need to believe really, really hard, or something. When it comes to this chick and her issues of varying severity, are you the therapist, or the all-powerful delegator?

Your question is answered near-immediately as a change comes over the young blonde. It’s subtler than the man’s reaction, and a little harder to spot given she was pretty flushed and flustered already, but you can see the signs of potent arousal seeping into her bones as your command washes over her. She stands up straight, and her chest begins rising and falling. She starts fiddling with her hands more anxiously than before.

Her voice comes out high-pitched and airy. “…I-I guess so, yeah… it’s… it’s your problem, and who am I to tell you, u-um…” She wets her lips, eyes flicking up and down the man’s body.

Delegator, then. Sick.

From strangers to wanting to bone each other’s brains out in sixty seconds. What a beautiful sight.

Does this make you a pimp? Nah, just some kind of special matchmaker.

Sure.

Their amicable lust for each other isn’t helping them overcome their complete awkwardness, clearly. The man, leg bouncing in antsiness, gestures with his eyes towards the door. “So, uh… I’m stayin’ with family right now, and I don’t think they would… is your place close by? Cause…” The unfiltered horniness coursing through his veins seems to be making it difficult to get words out. You wouldn’t be surprised if he began reverting to monosyllabic caveman talk. ‘Please bone down now that much nice yes please hot girl thank you please.’

The woman, having a similar reaction, stammers back. “Uh, uh, m-my roommate wouldn’t… o-oh god...”

A.k.a. ‘Yes please take me fill hole wait house pest not like oh no FUCK’

The newly impassioned fuckbuddies-to-be seem severely distraught at the concept of not being able to frantically explore each other’s bodies within the next fifteen minutes. The horror. If you don’t intervene they’re likely to just find a back alley and have their unsubtle smash fest right then and there.

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Gotta do everything myself around here,” you mumble. “Fine, c’mon, you horndogs.”

Without waiting for a response, you turn around and walk to the front counter. There’s the sound of a chair being shoved back against the floor and the hurried gathering of personal belongings as they both fumble along after you, apparently eager for any potential immediate solution to their ever-growing visceral attraction.

You stop at the ordering station, the unlikely couple almost crashing into your back behind you. They are not well-coordinated right now. All their blood is in specific places, perhaps.

Gabriella, still managing the counter, turns to take your order, her practiced server smile still a little shaky. Her name tags flops against her breast as you approach. “Hey, how can I help you?”

You hold out her/your shirt to her. “First off, you can have this back. I hereby return it to thee.”

“Um.” The petite Latina blinks and stares at it. She tentatively takes it from you, then bites her cheek and casts a conflicted glance at the tip jar. “Okay. Thank… you…?”

Moving on. “What’s in the back of the store? Do you guys have any closed off space in there?” As this place’s one-man DOL equivalent, you ought to know. For rule-making purposes, you understand.

She follows your gaze and turns to look behind her. “Um, there’s really just a door that exits out the side of the building. And a pantry with extra bulk stuff and old equipment. Most of the machines and syrups and baked goods and everything are out here.” She turns back to you, a little confused, still holding the shirt in her hand.

From what you can see from here, the pantry looks pretty cramped. But it’ll do. At this point, the pair of them would probably take almost anywhere to act on their desires, the man visibly vibrating while the woman stands flush next to him, clamped to his arm. It’s like their bodies are trying to absorb each other.

You could let them go in the bathroom or something, but getting arrested for indecent exposure would probably add to the blonde’s issues rather than subtract, as you’re apparently trying to do.

“Okay. Cool. New rule: for the next hour, that pantry is the Sex Room. It is where these two will have sex.” You gesture to the pair beside you, who have… already begun grinding against each other through their clothes. Time is a-ticking.

“Basically, just let them bang in there, close the door behind them, leave them be for a while, go about your day.” Man, you’re great at making totally unobtrusive rules that don’t hinder your workforce. Employer (?) of the year, right here.

Hearing your words, a mousy woman in an apron sticks her head out from the pantry, and quickly scurries out with a bag of dark roast in her arms. Gabriella gestures to the now-empty (actually quite full of bags and old equipment and files and the like) room, and laughs airily. “All yours… I guess?”

Realizing their chance and grabbing it with all four horned-up hands, the couple disengages just long enough to make their way to their designated rut centre. It’s all of three metres away, but by the way they move you’d think it was on Mars.

Problem Lady practically leaps over the counter, hauling herself over the top in a frenzy and scooting off on her butt, knocking over the ‘thank you :)’ mason jar full of coins, squeaking out a ‘sorry’ before crashing to the floor on the other side.

No offense to her, but even after only knowing her for a half-hour or so, she doesn’t strike you as a particularly graceful woman on a normal day. That natural clumsiness plus her current lack of decorum, her brain oriented solely on the path to ‘gotta fuck now’, and the fact that most of her blood and energy is on a one-way highway straight to her groin, amounts to someone who can’t make it very far without colliding with something or other. Right now, that thing is the coffee-ground-dusted, slightly grimy, tiled starbucks floor.

Two of the workers immediately rush to help her up, concerned, but she pushes them away as she rushes, wobbly, back to her feet. She shakes her head at them, her vision honed in only on the broad man who rushes to her side. She immediately begins clawing at his shirt.

The man himself had opted to take the long way around, skirting around the counter and barging past the flimsy ‘employees only’ gate, running at an almost 45-degree angle. As their bodies meet each other again (for it had been so very long since the last time) they seem to almost melt (or perhaps crash) into each other, stumbling together as one unit into the open pantry, the woman already shoving her tongue into the guy’s mouth before the door even has a chance to close halfway. It seems her last sense of propriety may have finally dissolved from her mind. Now, only lust.

Perhaps you gave too strong a command.

Several employees and customers watch in bewilderment and/or amusement as the pair finally find their alcove within which they can become completely undone. The sounds of several previously shelved-objects hitting the floor can be heard. They just mix with the sounds of moans, heavy breathing, and rapid undressing. After a moment, Gabrielle awkwardly leans forward and closes the door its last couple of inches with a slight click. The pair inside seem a tad too preoccupied to do it themselves.

A stocky guy preparing a matcha latte right outside the pantry jumps as he hears a sudden thud against its door. Through the glass’s frosted tint, you can make out the blonde woman’s face as it’s pressed against it, her foundation smearing. Another thud, the door rattles a smidge, and beneath her face appear two prominent, round- okay maybe you ought to give them both some privacy now. Even if they’re clearly not asking for any.

Nothing to see here, folks.

You hear a giggle morph into a high-pitched squeak before giving out into a staccato moan as the woman’s breath fogs against the glass. The two smushed somethings below her face begin to slide up and down in time with her squeals. Yeah, privacy is a difficult thing to hand them right now. You suppose you did tell her to forget about everything else…

Man, you’re really supposed to be getting out of here.

Double-checking the time on your phone, you fish your keys out of your pocket just as two employees on stepladders are attempting to hang a cloth over the front of the partially see-through door. You suppose that is about the only option they’ve got right now for masking some of the debauchery. Gotta maintain that family-friendly, pleasant storefront vibe, don’tcha know.

Welcome to starbucks. Please ignore the loudly fornicating couple in the back. Buy our coffee.

When that pantry becomes free again, the employees are gonna have to clean more than just toppled bags of beans, aren’t they. Oops. Maybe you should give them all bonuses. If you can do that. Who knows.

You grab a brownie for the road (and slap a couple bills down to actually pay for it this time, cause you feel bad, but not bad enough to reverse any previous inconveniences), and as you head for the exit, you make eye contact one last time with Gabriella. She stares back at you, face a pure sheen of bewilderment. This is turning out to be one hell of a work day for her.

In all the commotion, she seems to have completely forgotten that she’s still just in a bra, even though she no longer has to be. You flash her a thumbs up.

And as the cacophony of passionate sex sounds continues behind her, she slowly returns the gesture, face remaining contorted in an inability to fully process what the heck is even happening.

You like her. She’s cool.

The bell on the front door jingles on your way out.

It’s a good twenty-five minutes before you’re able to reach Indy’s place, which is rather left of downtown compared to the rest of your friend group. It’s a tall townhouse, smushed between two others, built into a slope of road. A grand, blooming rhododendron in the centre of the front lawn distinguishes it from the other cookie cutter houses around it.

As you park across the street, your phone chimes once more. You whip it out of your pocket, praying it’s not another person asking for your help.

Instead, it’s Pearl. Just Pearl. With one more photo.

Clearly, it’s the last one. Best for last, perhaps.

No longer in a changeroom, this photo is taken solo from inside her bedroom. This time, she’s visibly more at ease, shoulders relaxed. She bears a radiant, if slightly cat-like smile.

Sunlight filters in through her large window, giving the whole photograph an artsy touch. Pearl stands in front of her floor-length mirror, a faded old Monster High sticker in its corner. She holds her non-phone hand casually in her pocket. She’s wearing a leather jacket.

And nothing else.

The front is unzipped, draped tastefully yet oh-so-erotically across her breasts. Their soft flesh curves doubly inward, drawing your attention like a grand banner, inviting you take part in all that is the body of Pearl Nowak.

But that’s just the welcome sign. The silky black leather cascades down her body like a waterfall, naturally leads your eye downwards.

Perhaps Pearl meant for the jacket to cover everything. Perhaps it would have, if it weren’t for her bosom pushing it up and outward by sheer bustiness alone. But it doesn’t. So there’s nothing stopping you from seeing… everything.

It’s a sight now familiar to you, yet still so strangely and deliciously new. There, between her legs, out pokes her pussy. Its unapologetic pinkness acts like a bright beacon among the swathes of pale, but still it seems to wink at you, hiding coquettishly between two thighs.

Hello, it says. I’ve missed you.

I’m hungry.

Don’t keep me waiting too long.

Pearl: Couldn’t take this one earlier for obvious reasons
Pearl: Store couldn’t have handled all this anyway
Pearl: Now get your bitchass over here and breed me you dumb slut. Sooner rather than later
Pearl: Please.
Pearl: :b

Things have changed. Things have changed a lot. Now, the highlight of your day, the thing spurring you onward, is an über-horny photo sent by your best friend. Seriously, this thing is radiating thirst. But it, and everything it promises, is what makes you take your first step towards the house. And you know you’ll have to act on those promises. Sometime soon.

Ever unfortunately, that time is not now. But soon.

Now, it’s time to meet the parents.

May god rest your soul.