RAGE

Steven’s Friday was a blur of grease and metal, the hum of the mechanic shop grounding him as he worked through a stack of repairs. The My Idle Harem™ app had been a distant thought, buried under the clank of tools and the smell of motor oil—until his phone buzzed with a sharp, unfamiliar chime that cut through the garage’s din. Wiping his hands on a rag, he leaned against his toolbox, the cold steel biting into his back as he checked the screen. New Event Initiated flashed in bold, the app’s sleek interface pulsing ominously. His stomach twisted as he tapped deeper, Allison’s profile loading with a glaring update: Stress: 100/100 – Milestone Reached. “Uh oh,” he muttered, his pulse quickening. He’d ignored the Stress stat, chasing Corruption like a kid with a new toy, but now dread crept in. Stress at max couldn’t be good, could it?

Before he could process, the shop’s front door swung open, and Allison stormed in, a vision of fury wrapped in curves that made his breath catch despite the danger. Her 5’6” frame was a ****—tight jeans hugging her wide hips, her thick ass swaying with each furious step, her large breasts bouncing under a fitted sweater. Her green eyes locked onto him through the glass doors separating the shop from the lobby, narrowing to slits of raw hate. He fumbled his phone, heart pounding as he checked her schedule—Get an oil change stared back at him. His shop. Fuck. He hadn’t connected the dots. She blew past the front desk clerk, ignoring their protests, and barged into the garage, her brunette hair swinging like a whip.

Steven barely had time to react before she was on him, shoving him off his stool with a **** that sent him sprawling onto the concrete. Pain flared as she kicked him—once, twice—her boots connecting with his ribs. “You fucking creep!” she snarled, though her words were drowned by her actions, her rage a silent inferno. She turned on his tool cart, sending wrenches and sockets crashing in a metallic cacophony. His coworkers rushed in, two of them grabbing her arms, pulling her back toward the lobby as she thrashed, her curves straining against their grip, her eyes never leaving Steven’s. She didn’t need to say more—her hatred was a living thing, palpable and searing.

One of his coworkers, Mike, hauled Steven to his feet, brushing oil off his coveralls. “Who the hell was she, and what the fuck did you do, bro?” Mike demanded, half-concerned, half-amused. Steven’s face burned, his ribs aching. “Nothing,” he mumbled, eyes darting away. “We went to high school together.” He trailed off, offering no more, the truth too wild to confess. Allison, still fuming, got her oil change, but not before barking at the clerk to keep Steven away from her car—a demand the shop easily met, assigning another mechanic.

Allison’s Perspective:

Allison’s Friday started with a nagging unease, her week a haze of invasive thoughts that left her raw and unraveling. Steven’s face had haunted her—his hungry eyes in her shower, his hands pinning her down, his presence defiling her work. Each fantasy had ignited her body, only to drown her in shame, her stress a suffocating weight (Stress: 100/100). She couldn’t explain it—why him, why now—but it felt like a violation, as if her mind wasn’t her own. Driving to the mechanic for a routine oil change, she was already on edge, her grip tight on the steering wheel, her thick thighs shifting in her jeans as she tried to focus.

Then she saw him through the shop’s glass doors—Steven, hunched over his phone, the same creep who’d snapped her picture at Walmart. Her blood boiled, the memory of his high school stares colliding with the week’s relentless fantasies. It was too much. Rage surged, drowning reason. She stormed past the clerk, ignoring their startled call, and burst into the garage. Seeing him on that stool, so smug, so him, snapped something inside her. She shoved him hard, satisfaction flaring as he hit the ground, his wide eyes fueling her fury. Her kicks were impulsive, each one a release of the confusion and violation she couldn’t name. Toppling his tool cart felt like reclaiming power, the crash echoing her anger.

As his coworkers dragged her back, their hands firm on her arms, she glared at Steven, her chest heaving, her body a live wire of hate and something darker—something she refused to acknowledge. She demanded he stay away from her car, her voice sharp but trembling, and sat in the lobby, heart pounding, as the shop complied. Driving away, her hands shook, the high of her outburst fading into a gnawing dread. Why was he everywhere—her mind, her life? The fantasies she couldn’t shake felt like a betrayal, and now this. She was losing control, and the thought of him, still out there, made her skin crawl and her body burn in ways she couldn’t reconcile.