The guessing game

Amara settled back onto the lounger with a contented sigh, the warmth of the sun and the lingering buzz of her cocktail creating a perfect haze of lazy pleasure. The towel was soft beneath her bare shoulders, and the huge umbrella cast a dancing shadow over her face and chest. Her bare breasts, still free and exposed, rose and fell gently with each breath.

She let her right hand drift lazily across her stomach, fingers tracing idle patterns through the faint sheen of moisture on her skin. Then, almost without thinking, her hand slid higher, cupping the soft weight of her right breast. It felt warm and heavy in her palm, the skin impossibly smooth.

Mmm, she thought, her green eyes half-closing. That's nice.

She squeezed gently, a reflexive, pleasurable pressure that made her breath catch just slightly. Her thumb found her nipple—already stiff from the warm air—and pressed down, rolling the hard peak between her thumb and forefinger. A tiny shiver ran through her, visible as a faint ripple across her stomach.

She did it again, slower this time, her touch both casual and deliberate. It wasn't performative. It was just... comfortable. The same way someone might stretch their legs or run a hand through their hair. Her body was hers to touch, and right now, in this moment of perfect summer idleness, touching felt good.

With her other hand, still idly squeezing her breast, she reached for her phone. The screen lit up, and her thumb—the same thumb that had just been circling her nipple—swiped open the LactoLink app.

Vanessa, who had been watching this entire performance from her neighboring lounger with an amused grin, finally couldn't hold back.

"Really?" Vanessa said, pulling her sunglasses down her nose so she could look at Amara over the rim. "Your hand's already on your tit. Give it another thirty seconds and you'll have it down your bikini bottoms."

Amara didn't look up from her phone. She just smiled. "Jealous?"

"Jealous of your lack of shame? Absolutely." Vanessa laughed, shaking her head. "I'm just saying, we're in public. Well. Semi-public. There's a difference between selling the merchandise and giving a free floor show."

Amara finally glanced over, her green eyes glittering with mischief. "It's my merchandise. I'll display it however I want."

"Display it, sure. But you're fondling it."

"I'm adjusting it."

"With your fingers pinching your nipple like it owes you money?"

Amara burst out laughing, a bright, unguarded sound that turned a few heads from a nearby towel. She didn't cover up. She just let her hand fall away from her breast—for now—and held up her phone.

"Look," she said, changing the subject with zero subtlety. "The post is doing numbers."

Vanessa leaned over, her curiosity piqued despite herself.

Amara's LactoLink profile was open. The main photo was the one she'd taken that morning: herself lounging on this very spot, the "Ice Tits" sign clearly visible behind her, her gray bikini still on but doing very little work. The caption read:

"On the south beach all afternoon. Ice Tits stand is OPEN. B1 Euphoriant, B2 FREE. Come get a cold drink and a warm smile. Cash or app payment. Ask about the Premium cabana service. ;)"

There were included other photos as well. Below the main photo, the numbers glowed.

342 likes.

1,287 views.

14 shares.

And in her messages: a small, unreadable red bubble with the number "8" inside.

Vanessa whistled, low and appreciative. "Damn. You're going to be busy."

"Busy means money," Amara said cheerfully. She set the phone down on the towel between them, face-up, so they could both watch the numbers climb. "And money means I don't have to work my shitty retail job when I get back home."

"Fair point." Vanessa stretched, her own bikini-top riding up slightly before she tugged it back down. "So who's going to be first? Any guesses?"

Amara picked up her phone again and scanned the new messages. A few were standard inquiries: "How much for Premium?" and "Are you really B1?" and one very enthusiastic "I'm on my way!!!" from a profile with no photo and a username that was just a string of numbers.

Probably harmless. Probably.

"I don't know," she said, putting the phone down again. "But I have a feeling it'll be someone unexpected. It's always the ones you don't expect."

Vanessa snorted. "You mean the nervous dads pretending to just be walking by?"

"Exactly. Or the shy college guys who've been circling for twenty minutes."

"Or," Vanessa said, her voice dropping into a mock-conspiratorial whisper, "a hot older woman who wants to 'just see what it's like.'"

Amara raised an eyebrow. "I've had a few of those. They're always the most polite."

"And the most handsy once they get going."

"Also true."

They both laughed, the sound melting into the ambient noise of the beach—the waves, the music, the distant shouts from the volleyball game.

Vanessa sat up straighter, pulling her knees toward her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She was clearly settling in for a proper gossip session.

"Okay," she said, her eyes bright with mischief. "Let's make this interesting. I'm going to predict the first customer."

"Go on."

"Middle-aged guy. Forty-five, maybe fifty. Slightly sunburned on his shoulders. Wearing expensive sunglasses and a wedding ring that he'll try to hide by keeping his hand in his pocket."

Amara considered this. "Specific."

"I've been watching these types all week. I'm a student of human behavior."

"You're a voyeur."

"Same thing." Vanessa grinned. "Okay, your turn. Predict the first order."

Amara leaned back, her bare breasts rising as she stretched her arms above her head. She let her hands rest on the towel behind her, her pose open and unguarded.

"Just the milk," she said finally. "No touching. He'll be too nervous to ask for more, even though he wants it."

"Classic. Safe. Boring."

"First customers are always boring. They're testing the waters."

"True." Vanessa nodded sagely. "Okay, second customer, then. What's their order?"

Amara's smile turned sly. "Second customer is a couple. Young. Maybe mid-twenties. The girl is curious, the guy is trying not to stare. They'll get the Premium service together."

Bold, Vanessa mouthed, then said aloud: "A couple? Really?"

"They're the freakiest. You know this."

"I do know this." Vanessa laughed again. "Okay, fine. Third customer?"

"Third customer is the one I'm worried about."

"Oh?"

Amara picked up her phone again, scrolling idly. "There's always one. The guy who doesn't just want the milk. He wants something weird. Something I haven't listed on the menu. He'll try to negotiate."

"And you'll say no."

"And I'll say no," Amara confirmed. "And then he'll leave, and ten minutes later he'll be back with more cash and a 'different proposal.'"

Vanessa shook her head, her expression a mix of sympathy and amusement. "You've done this before."

"Enough times to know the patterns."

There was a beat of comfortable silence.

The music changed to something slower, a reggae song about smoking weed and watching the sunset. A seagull landed a few feet away, eyed them both with arrogant disinterest, and then flew off.

Vanessa broke the silence first.

"What about the really pervy stuff?"

Amara glanced at her. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Vanessa said, lowering her voice even though no one was near enough to hear, "the really pervy stuff. The stuff people ask for but you don't put on the sign. The stuff you only offer in the Premium cabana if the price is right."

Amara's smile didn't waver, but something shifted in her eyes. A flicker of recognition. Of shared understanding.

"You want to play that game?"

"I want to hear what you've been asked."

Amara picked up her empty martini glass and twirled the limp slice of lime around the rim. Her voice, when she spoke, was casual, almost bored—but there was an undercurrent of amusement.

"Okay. Let's see." She ticked items off on her fingers. "I've been asked to let a guy 'paint' on my chest with the chocolate sauce. Like, actually paint. He brought his own brush."

Vanessa's jaw dropped. "No."

"Yes. A tiny little watercolor brush. He did a landscape. It looked like a potato with trees."

"Oh my God."

"I've been asked to sing while they drink. Lullabies, specifically."

"What?"

"Lullabies." Amara shrugged. "Something about the maternal association. I made him pay double."

"Good for you."

"I've been asked to wear a cowbell."

Vanessa snorted so hard she almost choked. "A cowbell?"

"A small one. Around my neck. So it jingled when he... you know. Moved his head."

"That's..." Vanessa searched for the word. "That's deeply weird."

"The weirdest part? I said yes. He paid triple."

Vanessa stared at her for a long moment, then burst out laughing. The sound was loud and genuine, turning heads from three different towels.

"You're a menace," Vanessa said, wiping her eyes.

"I'm an entrepreneur."

"Same thing."

They both laughed again, the tension of the earlier conversation dissolving into easy, lazy camaraderie.

Vanessa leaned closer, her voice dropping into a stage whisper.

"Okay, okay. I've got one. What about the really, really weird stuff? Like..." She gestured vaguely with her hands. "The stuff that's not even about the milk anymore. The stuff that's just... strange."

Amara raised an eyebrow. "Examples?"

"You know. The guys who want you to pretend you don't speak English. The ones who want you to wear a specific outfit. The ones who bring their own props."

"Ah." Amara nodded slowly. "The role-players."

"The role-players," Vanessa confirmed. "What's the weirdest role-play request you've ever gotten?"

Amara thought about it. The sun had moved lower, and the umbrella's shadow had shifted, leaving one of her shoulders in bright light. She didn't bother to adjust.

"A nun," she said finally.

Vanessa blinked. "A nun?"

"A naughty nun. Specifically." Amara's smile was wry. "He wanted me to wear a habit. And then slowly take it off while he drank. And I had to say 'forgive me, Father' every time he took a sip."

Vanessa was silent for a beat. Then: "Did you do it?"

"Didn't have the outfit. He offered to buy one. I said no."

"Because of the outfit or because of the 'forgive me, Father'?"

"Both. Mostly the 'forgive me, Father.' That's just... a lot."

Vanessa nodded slowly, processing. "Fair."

They sat in companionable silence for another moment, watching the beach. A group of teenage boys were playing a chaotic game of keep-away with a football. An older woman was doing very serious stretches near the water's edge, her movements stiff but determined. A man in a bright floral shirt was trying to take a selfie with a seagull, with predictably poor results.

Amara picked up her phone again. The likes had climbed to 361. The views to 1,402.

Not bad for an afternoon, she thought.

She set the phone down and stretched again, her body arching against the towel. Her bare breasts lifted with the motion, the nipples stiff and dark against her sun-kissed skin.

"You know what I've never been asked?" she said, her voice thoughtful.

Vanessa looked at her. "What?"

"To pretend I'm asleep. And wake up slowly while they drink."

Vanessa's eyebrows shot up. "That's... actually kind of hot. In a creepy way."

"Right? It's got potential. Good mix of vulnerability and control."

"Write it down. Add it to the Premium menu."

Amara laughed. "I might. Call it the 'Sleeping Beauty Special.' Extra fifty dollars."

"At least."

They both grinned.

The volleyball game ended with a triumphant shout from the winning team. A new song started playing from the speaker—something upbeat and poppy. A couple walked by, hand in hand, the woman glancing at Amara's bare chest with an expression of cool assessment before looking away.

Amara watched them go, her green eyes half-lidded and thoughtful.

"I wonder," she said slowly, "if anyone's ever going to ask for the really, really **** stuff."

"Like what?"

"Like... I don't know. Blood."

Vanessa's smile faded slightly. "Blood?"

"Not like cutting. More like... a drop. As a mixer. I've heard rumors about places where that's a thing."

"That's not a thing."

"It could be. LV-7 changes everything, right? Who knows what people are into now."

Vanessa shuddered, but it was theatrical—more performance than genuine discomfort. "You're dark today."

"I'm realistic." Amara shrugged, the motion making her breasts bounce slightly. "The world's weird. People are weirder. I just want to know what I'm in for."

"Fair enough."

Another silence.

The sun was definitely lower now, the shadows longer. The beach was starting to thin out slightly as families packed up their coolers and towels and headed home for dinner. But there were still plenty of people around—couples, groups of friends, solitary walkers, and the occasional jogger pretending not to look at Amara's exposed body.

Vanessa checked her own phone, then set it aside with a sigh.

"I'm bored," she announced. "Let's make predictions again. But this time, really pervy ones. No limits."

Amara grinned. "No limits?"

"No limits. Whatever comes to mind. The first person to say 'that's too far' loses."

"Loses what?"

"Loses... I don't know. Bragging rights."

"Deal." Amara settled back against her towel, her hands behind her head again, her chest pushed forward. "You first."

Vanessa didn't hesitate.

"A guy who wants to drink from both sides at the same time. With two friends. And they all want to hold hands while they do it."

Amara snorted. "That's not pervy, that's just logistical. My breasts are big but they're not that big. Two people max, and even that's a squeeze."

"Fine." Vanessa waved a hand dismissively. "A woman who wants to bring her own lactation aid. Like a pump. And she wants to attach it to you and drink directly from the tube."

"Okay, that's actually pervy."

"Thank you."

"And physically impossible. The milk loses its properties if it's pumped. That's, like, basic LV-7 science."

"The woman doesn't care. She's doing it for the aesthetic."

Amara laughed. "The aesthetic of drinking from a tube attached to a stranger's breast?"

"The world's weird. You said it yourself."

"Fair point." Amara considered. "Okay, my turn. A guy who wants me to blindfold him. And then whisper degrading things about my other clients while he drinks."

Vanessa's eyes widened. "Degrading like...?"

"Like 'you're better than the last one, he couldn't even last five minutes.' Stuff like that."

"That's..."

"Pervy?"

"I was going to say specific." Vanessa shook her head slowly. "But yes, also pervy."

"Your turn."

Vanessa drummed her fingers on her thigh, thinking.

"Okay. A couple. But not a young couple. An old couple. Like, old old. Eighty. And they want to share. And they want you to call them 'Grandma' and 'Grandpa' the whole time."

Amara made a face. "That's not pervy, that's just sad."

"It's pervy and sad. That's the point."

"Fine. I'll allow it."

"And," Vanessa continued, warming to her theme, "they want you to wear a frilly apron. And nothing else. And they want to take pictures. For their scrapbook."

"Now you're just being ridiculous."

"You said no limits!"

"I said no limits, not 'make me regret agreeing to this conversation.'"

Vanessa cackled, delighted with herself.

The sun had turned the sky into a canvas of orange and pink. The music had shifted again, now something slow and soulful. The volleyball players had packed up their net and gone home, replaced by a family building an elaborate sandcastle.

Amara watched them for a moment, a small, soft smile on her face.

Then her phone buzzed.

Both women looked down at the screen.

LactoLink Notification: New booking request!

Amara picked up the phone, her heart beating just slightly faster.

She read the message, her eyebrows rising slowly.

"Well?" Vanessa demanded. "Who is it?"

Amara didn't answer immediately. She just stared at the screen, her smile growing wider and more mysterious.

"Huh," she said finally.

"What? What?"

Amara set the phone down, face-down, so Vanessa couldn't read it.

And then she started laughing.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me, bitch. Tell me!" Vanessa said.

Amara just smiled.

The game, it seemed, was about to get very, very interesting.