Who cares about plot? Do the detour.

Brittany flipped through her streaming service looking for something that could hold her interest and found a channel dedicated to low-budget soft-core. This should be good for a laugh, she thought. She scrolled through the laughably salacious movie titles... "Camilla in the Cul-de-sac," "College Girl Coven," "Femme Fatales" (that one looked like it was in black and white), "Lesbian Lingerie Party," "Sapphic Symbiotic Space Slugs," "Warrior Wench Wanda..." they sure did like alliteration.

There was a voice in the back of her head telling her this was stupid, she needed to get back to her real life, but it was just so hard to listen to that. If she didn't need a break from her real life she'd still be at work, after all. And it's not like she was planning perving out on this film, she was only going to watch to laugh at it. And if other bits of her body had a different opinion than either side of the argument in her head, Brittany wasn't too aware of it. The way her nipples hardened as she clicked on a title and started up the stupid movie barely registered with her conscious mind at all.