There's no time-- rush to Angel's.

You grab your keys, rush out the door to your apartment, and hit the elevator button as many times as it takes for it to show up. After far too long, the elevator arrives. You step in and press the button that would take you to the parking garage. There's no way to make the elevator go faster, so you have nothing to do but nervously pace as you descend. Halfway through, the elevator stops. You're so amped up that you're ready to tear open the doors-- thankfully, it's not a malfunction, and the doors open as a well-dressed woman steps in. You step to the side, giving her space. She presses the button to the lobby. For the most part, she looks at her phone, not giving you any attention, but at one point, she looks up and down at you, and giggles for the rest of her ride.

When the elevator reaches the lobby, you realize why-- your sweatpants still haven't dried up properly. The wet spot from your orgasm remains there, clear as day. You quickly turn away, not wanting to show anyone else in the lobby evidence of your pleasure, but as you're facing the back of the elevator, you notice that your top is also quite... thin. Anyone who looked would definitely be able to tell you aren't wearing a bra. You blush. The woman's giggles turn into a guffaw as she exits the elevator. "See you around, Kylie."

The doors close, but her recognition paralyzes you. Oh god, was she a fan? Even worse, was she a fan of one of your competitors? The last thing your reputation needs is someone spreading rumours or stories about what sort of things you do in your free time and how you present yourself. You don't have time to worry about it, though. You reach the garage, and rush to your car. The drive is thankfully uneventful, and you're only two minutes late when you arrive at the address she sent you— a lavish mansion. Whatever you make, Angel clearly makes five times as much. You take a deep breath, and look down. As far as you can tell, your sweatpants have dried up, so you've saved yourself some embarrassment. You're still feeling very, very underdressed. You ring the doorbell and pray for the best.