A Futa?

Steve’s heart hammered. He’d rehearsed this. “A… a futa,” he stammered, his cheeks flushing. Emily shot him a look, a mixture of surprise and something akin to a challenge. She hadn't known that detail.

The hostess nodded, unfazed. “An excellent choice. We have several exceptionally gifted individuals tonight. Please, take a moment to review our digital profiles.”

Steve scrolled through a tablet, his finger shaking slightly. The images were explicit, yet tastefully presented. He saw a few he liked, but then… a name caught his eye. Britney. No picture, just the name. A cold dread seeped into his bones. It couldn’t be. Not her.

“Excuse me,” Steve said, his voice barely a whisper. “This Britney… what do they look like?”

The hostess consulted her own tablet. “Ah, Britney. Red hair, toned physique, quite… generously endowed.” She offered a knowing smile.

Steve gulped. Red hair. Toned. Generously endowed. His high school bully, Britney ‘The Bruiser’ Miller, had never been subtle. A jock, always towering over him, always with a cruel remark or a casual shove down the locker-lined hallway. The one who had, on more than one occasion, mocked the size of his swimsuit bulge during gym class. This was a nightmare. This was a cosmic joke.

“Steve? Are you alright?” Emily’s hand touched his arm, grounding him slightly.