Picking Out Some Minions

Of course, finding her was a problem.

Loguetown stretched wide before me, sun-drenched and humming with life, the pale stone buildings gleaming under the midday light. Narrow streets wound through the city like a labyrinth, their paths twisting between merchant stalls, towering clocktowers, and ornate bridges spanning small canals. The air was thick with the scent of fresh-baked bread, salty sea breeze, and the occasional sharp tang of fish guts from the docks. Voices echoed from every direction—haggling, laughing, shouting over the din of clattering cart wheels and the rhythmic tap of boots on cobblestone. She could be anywhere—in a tailor’s shop, a back-alley den, a tavern two streets over, flashing that smirk as she pulled some poor bastard into another scam. And I had no leads. No direction. No damn clue.

I did take the time to throw on a shirt, a loose yellow one I picked up off a street-side vendor. Have to swing by hanger-head's shop to pick up the rest of my clothes and hat at some point.

I exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through my hair as I leaned against a warm stone wall, my gaze flicking between the maze of bustling streets and the distant masts swaying in the harbor beyond. Friendly would have known where to look. He’d rattled off some number earlier—had I even been listening?—something about supply runs, quartermaster routines. And I’d let him walk off like a damn fool. I should’ve kept him close, made him finish the job, tracked Nami like she was just another entry in his never-ending list of calculations.

Well, there was nothing for it but to keep looking for her.

The streets churned with bodies, moving in a constant tide, and I let my eyes drift over the crowd, looking for that telltale flash of orange hair. My search was aimless, but with the earrings in place, that hardly mattered. I could stumble upon her by luck, or I could take control of my circumstances.

If I had half a dozen sharp-eyed bastards combing the streets alongside me, I’d have twice the chances of finding her. Hell, even if they didn't find her, I'd still come out ahead. The bustling thoroughfares of Loguetown weren’t just an obstacle—they were a hiring pool, and I had the ultimate recruitment tool dangling from my ears. With just a few words, I could pluck any hardened thug, disgruntled dockworker, or brute with a chip on his shoulder and turn them into a loyal underling.

The thought of forcing just anyone to up and become a pirate with a single sentence was an amusing one. The Marines would lose their damn minds if they knew how easily I could uproot their citizens, turn good men into criminals, twist a common street tough into a cutthroat crewman overnight. It was almost too easy. With the right wording, I wouldn’t just be picking up a few guards—I could build an entire crew right here, today. But that could wait. For now, I just needed two, maybe three solid bastards to watch my back. Not just for when I found Nami, but for all the nights to come—watching my blind spots, keeping an eye on any woman I was fucking to make sure she didn’t try anything while I was distracted getting my nut. A security detail, a walking buffer zone between me and the unknown. And if I liked them? They’d be sailing with me.

I didn't have to search long. The moment my eyes locked onto them, I knew.

Two figures strode through the street with undeniable presence, cutting through the crowd like a ship through choppy waters. The average citizen gave them wide berths, and for good reason.

The woman was a statuesque knockout, her fiery red hair partially shaved on one side, the rest tumbling in wild waves and jagged spikes around her sharp-featured face. A dark blue coat, lined with pink, framed a toned, bare midriff, and her thick bandages top contained an impressive set of tits. She moved like someone who expected to be in control—or at least, someone who could break noses if she wasn’t.

Beside her was a real freak. Tall—easily seven feet—but lean, all wiry muscle beneath his obnoxious getup. His spiky green mohawk looked like it had lost a fight with a lightning bolt, and his shark-like teeth flashed every time his lips curled. He had tattoos under his right eye, a septum piercing that only made him look meaner, and a coat so gaudy it should’ve been illegal.

Perfect. The guy, at least, already looked like he'd belong among Buggy's clowns. And the woman—she was another big-titted redhead, and I’d never have a problem finding reasons to fuck one of those.

I stepped directly into their path like we had a meeting planned and they were just late to it.

The two of them stopped, but only just, their expressions shifting to mild irritation, the kind of annoyance reserved for unnecessary distractions.

"You two look solid," I said, grinning like a man assessing livestock. "Looking for work?"

The redhead raised an eyebrow, her blue eyes flicking me up and down, already unimpressed. Up close, her tits were even better than I expected, big and bound up in thick bandages that barely did the job. She had a cutthroat’s stance, shoulders squared, ready to break a jaw if needed, but no real aggression.

The pair exchanged a glance, then scoffed.

“Job?” the big guy snorted, his fanged teeth flashing. “What the hell makes you think we’re lookin’ for work, dumbass?”

“You’d have better luck in Scrapetown if you’re looking for beggars for hire,” the woman said, voice dry. “Plenty of **** fools there who’d jump at the chance to follow some random jackass around.”

My hand landed heavy on her chest, fingers sinking into the soft weight of her tits like they were mine to inspect.

She grunted, exhaled through her nose, eyes narrowing slightly—but she didn’t pull away.

Just like Nami, just like anyone under the earrings’ influence, she accepted it without question, even if it annoyed her.

Her fingers curled around the pipe at her hip, tapping against the metal like a warning, a reflexive move that made no difference at all. She still let me grope her.

“You just go straight for that, huh?” she muttered.

I gave her a squeeze, testing the weight, then flicked my gaze to the big guy.

"What are your skills? You can fight?"

The big guy smirked, sharp teeth flashing again. “Oh yeah, real good at boiling water and peeling potatoes. You hiring for a kitchen crew?”

She exhaled sharply, shifting her weight under my grip but making no move to stop me. “I can juggle. Real crowd-pleaser. Thinking about going professional if this gang thing doesn’t pan out.”

He nodded solemnly. “Yeah, yeah, and I do balloon animals. You want a sword or a little puppy? I’ll whip one up real quick.”

I barked out a laugh. "I knew you'd fit in with Buggy's clowns!"

She scoffed. “Right, because we look like the types to take orders from some face-painted pirate buffoon.”

The other one grinned, "So you're with the Buggy Pirates, huh? Never would of guessed, you're such a square-lookin fella."

I ignored him, my attention still locked on his fiery-haired friend, the one who reminded me of Nami in all the right ways. My fingers dug deeper into the soft weight of her tits, kneading them slow, deliberate, enjoying the feel of them against my palms. I grinned, my voice dropping to something thicker, lazier, all amusement and filth.

“You look like the type to take my orders, though.”

She let out a sharp, dry laugh, her lips curling in something closer to a sneer than a smirk as she tilted her head toward her partner with an exaggerated gesture. Her blue eyes flicked back to me, sharp and knowing, reading every filthy ounce of intent dripping from my words.

"I barely listen to this guy, and I like him," she said, her voice edged with clear disgust. "You? Not a damn chance."

“It’s normal for you guys to agree to be my thugs today.”

The moment the words left my lips, she blinked, her shoulders shifting slightly, like she had just remembered something she had always known. Her buddy frowned for half a second, then his expression smoothed over into unconcerned acceptance.

“Guess we can work today,” she muttered, folding her arms under her tits just as I was moving my hand to her bare taut stomach, hard muscles pushing back under the skin.

He nodded. “Yeah, sure. Ain’t got shit goin' on anyway.”

I let my hand slide lower, fingers trailing over the hard ridges of muscle in her toned stomach, feeling the way her body pushed back against my touch, taut and firm. There was no resistance—just acceptance, as natural as the street beneath our feet, as if she had always known she was going to stand here and let me do as I pleased.

I smirked, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her pants, dragging along the edge of her skin before dipping lower. She didn’t react. Not with shock, not with protest—just mild disinterest, like she was waiting for me to finish whatever I was doing so we could move on.

Then I felt it.

A cool bit of metal at the top of her slit.

I chuckled, rolling my thumb against the piercing, feeling the delicate nub of her clit shift beneath it.

“Well, well,” I murmured, cupping her fully now, fingers pressing against the heat of her pussy through her soft, red boyshorts. “A clit piercing, huh? Nasty, I like it.”

She exhaled through her nose, weight shifting slightly, but otherwise didn’t move.

I gave her a light squeeze, grinning as I felt the warmth against my palm.

“At least some of this job,” I said, voice thick with amusement, “is gonna be you on your back.”

She blinked at me, expression flat, her weight shifting just slightly before she responded in a tone that barely sounded interested.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

He snorted, flashing his fangs in a grin. “Damn, boss, you really don’t waste time.”

"What's the pay for this day of being your thugs?" She asked while trying to look completely unfazed by my fingers on her hot slit.

"My dick."

She snorted, shaking her head. "Right. And what, you think that’s—" She stopped mid-sentence, her hand casually cupping me through my pants like she was entertaining the joke.

Then her fingers froze.

I smirked, watching the realization creep across her face as she gave an experimental squeeze, testing the weight of what I was packing.

Her tune shifted immediately.

Her fingers trailed downward, following the thick shape of my cock, sliding lower—and lower.

Her brows furrowed slightly as her hand moved further than she expected, her expression evolving from vague amusement to something more intrigued.

By the time she found the end, her mouth was slightly open, her smirk faltering as she processed exactly what she was holding.

I chuckled, enjoying the moment.

"Yeah," I said, voice thick with amusement. "Not such a joke now, huh?"

Tall green-haired freak snickered, watching her hand linger too long, fingers still absently running over the length she’d just measured through my pants. His sharp teeth flashed in amusement, but there was a different edge to it now, something calculating.

“Oi, oi, boss—this is real funny and all, but I’m not gettin’ paid in dick.”

I smirked, unbothered. “You’d normally be fine with my sloppy seconds. You'll get some of this pussy here before the day is up I'm sure.”

The moment the words left my mouth, his face shifted—not in shock, not in rejection, but in something subtler. His posture loosened, his fanged smirk stretching wider, something clicking into place in his head like a puzzle piece finally slotting where it belonged.

“Shit, yeah, guess that’s fair,” he muttered, nodding slowly, like he was replaying old memories in his head and realizing they made a hell of a lot more sense now. He tilted his head toward her. “Had my turn before, but she ain't let me since.”

She scoffed, finally letting go of my cock, rolling her shoulders. Those funbags of hers probably killed her back.

“Yeah, well, that’s ‘cause you’re not big enough to really ride.”

He didn’t look pissed. Far from it. His grin widened, thoughtful.

“And he is?”

She barely hesitated. Her blue eyes flicked down again, then back up, her smirk curling at the edges, something almost smug in it.

“Big-dickgasm territory. Easy."

He let out a low whistle, but it wasn’t just admiration. His head tilted slightly, gears turning, something new settling into his thoughts.

“Damn, boss,” he said, voice shifting in tone, less joking, more intrigued. “Guess that means you’re gettin’ a lot of pussy, huh?”

I grinned. “Plenty.”

The devilish punk's tongue ran over his sharp teeth, his gaze flicking toward her for half a second before returning to me, his smirk growing, shifting into something new.

“And if you get a lot of pussy…” He let the thought hang, the realization blooming in his expression. “That means I’m gonna get a lot of pussy.”

She let out a long, exaggerated sigh, rolling her shoulders like she was preparing herself for something exhausting. “Well, if this big-dickgasm thing is as good as it’s supposed to be, hopefully, I'll be conked out for your weak-ass pipe game,” she muttered, giving her taller partner an upward sideways glance.

He snorted, completely unfazed. “Shit, my skills are on point, woman.”

She smirked, but didn’t argue the point. Instead, she turned her sharp blue eyes back to me, tilting her head slightly. “So? What’s the actual job?”

“Simple,” I said, my tone as casual as if we were discussing the weather. “You two watch my back. One of you keeps an eye on things while I’m fucking—make sure the bitches don’t try anything while I’m distracted getting my nut. The other keeps an eye out for anyone dumb enough to sneak up on me.”

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” I said. “Ain’t much to it. I need muscle I can trust, people who know when to step in and when to stand back. You two fit the bill.”

She folded her arms under her chest, tapping her fingers against her bicep like she was weighing her options. “So, you just planning to spend all day balls deep somewhere, or do we actually do anything else?”

He grinned, flashing his fangs. “Yeah, boss, we just your personal cock guards, or we bustin’ heads too?”

I chuckled, acting like I was a bigger deal than I was. “You’ll get action outside the bedroom, don’t worry. I need people who can handle themselves. You get in fights, you help with jobs, you collect on my behalf. But when I’m busy? Your priority is making sure no one gets the bright idea to fuck with me.”

She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head with an amused huff. “You really think someone’s gonna come after you while you’re mid-stroke?”

I grinned. “You’d be surprised.”

We all exchanged names finally and I leaned back, hands on his hips, taking in his new thugs with an easy, self-satisfied smirk.

Bartolomeo—brash, cocky, and loyal so long as I threw him my left-overs.

Desire—cold, competent, still acting like she had a say in things.

That would change.

My eyes flicked back to her chest, lingering on the tight bandages that barely contained her massive tits.

I grinned.

“Hey, Barto,” I said, turning my head lazily. “You got a knife on you?”

Bartolomeo’s fangs flashed in a grin, his fingers already moving, digging into his belt.

“Course I do, boss.”

I gestured vaguely at Desire’s chest, smirk widening.

“Cut those fat jugs out of there.”

Barto’s hand froze on his belt, his expression shifting just slightly.

It was admiration at first—because, of course, I was always full of brilliant normal ideas—but then his brow furrowed slightly, his hand stopping just short of actually pulling the blade free.

He side-eyed Desire, clearly not wanting to test the limits of her patience.

Her blue eyes narrowed sharply, her posture shifting just enough to remind him she was armed with a steel pipe and zero tolerance for bullshit.

Barto chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head.

“Ah, boss,” he muttered, voice still light, but not moving to obey. “I mean, don’t get me wrong—helluva idea. But, uh…” He tilted his head toward Desire, grinning. “I kinda like keepin’ all my teeth.”

My smile didn’t waver.

“If you’re gonna be my bodyguard-slut then you’d normally be an exhibitionist. You’d love showing those funbags off.”

My eyes flicked down to her exposed midriff, then back up to her face, smirk widening.

“Why else you wearing that?”

Desire blinked, her posture shifting slightly.

Her arms, which had been folded, relaxed.

Her shoulders loosened, as if she had always known this to be true—she had just never thought about it that way before.

And, really… You could see it on her face like an open book.

Why was she wearing a coat open in the front? A bandaged chest that barely held her tits in?

Why wasn’t she already showing them off?

Her expression didn’t change, but her body did.

She snatched the knife from Barto’s belt without hesitation, flipping it in her hand, testing the weight.

Then, without a word—

She dragged the blade up her own chest.

The bandages snapped apart instantly, slackening, her tits finally freed from their confines.

And fuck, were they glorious.

Another pair of titanic tits.

Heavy, full, firm—the kind that bounced even when she wasn’t moving.

Her big, pink nipples were pierced—a small silver bar through each nipple, shiny round studs gleaming on either side of the pink stubs

I let out a low, appreciative whistle, head tilting slightly.

“Damn,” I muttered, grinning. “Those were wasted under wraps.”

Desire rolled her shoulders, as if testing the weight of her now-free breasts.

Her expression remained cool, her tone as businesslike as ever.

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, adjusting her coat slightly. “You got this job or you just wanted some free titty?”

I laughed.

“I’m a multitasker.”

Barto grinned wide, nodding approvingly.

“Sheesh, boss,” he said, tilting his head to admire the view. “You got a hell of an eye for talent.”

I chuckled, reaching out to squeeze one of her monster tits myself, testing the weight, feeling the big stubby nipple.

Loguetown’s midday sun cast warm golden light over the bustling streets, its pale stone buildings reflecting the brightness like a beacon. Crowds moved in constant, shifting tides, parting instinctively for the trio that now strode through them.

At the head of the group, I walked with lazy confidence, hands in his pockets, a smirk tugging at the edges of my lips as I basked in the new rhythm of the day.

To my left, Barto kept pace, his towering frame and jagged green mohawk a clear warning to anyone dumb enough to get in their way. His purple coat flared slightly as he moved, a walking menace wrapped in gaudy fabric.

And to my right, Desire matched their steps, her exposed, massive tits bouncing wildly with every footfall, her pierced nipples glinting in the sunlight, completely unbothered by the open display of flesh.

There was nothing subtle about her presence.

Her long thug coat hung open, its blue and pink-lined fabric barely catching the edges of her swinging breasts, but it did nothing to hide the sheer weight of them—or the way they clapped together audibly with each step.

Slap, slap, slap.

Soft, heavy titflesh colliding, a slow, rolling rhythm that couldn’t be ignored.

Loguetown’s citizens stared.

Some in horror, some in barely restrained lust, but no one spoke.

Because, no matter how openly Desire’s titanic tits bounced, no matter how immodest the show was, there was no mistaking what she was.

She wasn’t just some bawdy street harlot flaunting herself for coin.

She was a goddamn hoodlum.

A dangerous bitch with a steel pipe at her hip, the kind of woman who could break your jaw just as easily as she could smother your face in titflesh.

And that contradiction made it even harder for people to look away.

My grin widened as I watched Desire’s new reality in action.

The constant bouncing, the weighty slaps of her heavy tits meeting with each step—it was already obscene.

But I could make it even better.

“It’s normal for Desire to have a habit of fidgeting with her pipe by rubbing it around and in her cleavage.”

Desire barely hesitated.

Without thinking, she reached back, unhooking the steel pipe from her belt, bringing it forward in one smooth motion.

And as naturally as breathing, she pressed the thick shaft between her tits, rolling it lazily through the deep valley of her cleavage.

The rounded tip of the pipe dragged across her pierced nipples, sending small ripples through the heavy, jiggling flesh, but she paid it no mind.

She adjusted her grip absently, shifting the pipe’s weight, rolling it back and forth, pressing it deeper into the plush softness.

To anyone watching, it looked like she was idly preparing for a titfuck.

Barto let out a snort of laughter, shaking his head.

“Always playing with that pipe like you’d rather be rubbin’ a thick slab of cock in there.”

Desire barely reacted, rolling the pipe slightly, adjusting the way it nestled between her tits, watching it slide smoothly through her plush cleavage.

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, tone bored, expression unreadable, as if he had pointed out something obvious and unimportant.

I chuckled, eyes gleaming as I took in the way the crowd reacted—people pretending not to stare, pretending not to notice, their faces burning red with either embarrassment or hunger.

She had no shame now—no reason to think anything she was doing was unusual.

Just a tough bitch who also happened to love having something thick sliding between her tits.

As we walked, Desire’s pipe continued its lazy slide through her cleavage, her tits swaying freely, clapping audibly against one another.

I barely paid attention to anything else.

But my mind was already spinning, considering something new.

I knew that his normalities changed memories, that once he spoke them into existence, the people around me suddenly remembered them as if they had always been true.

Which meant…

Could I use that to track Nami down?

Could I make them remember something useful?

“It’s normal that Barto and Desire know where Nami is right now.”

Barto scratched his cheek, squinting slightly. “Wait, who the hell is Nami?”

I gestured lazily toward Desire’s chest, watching the way her huge, free-swinging tits wobbled and clapped together with the motion. “She’s a Straw Hat. A thief. Real sharp bitch. Red hair, big tits—kinda like yours, actually.”

And just like that, their faces lit up with recognition.

Barto snapped his fingers, grinning wide. “Oh, that bitch! Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know where she is.”

Desire exhaled sharply, shifting the pipe against her plush cleavage as if the motion helped jog her memory. “Yeah, we saw her earlier. Cute. We actually followed her for a bit.”

Holy shit. I almost didn't believe that had just worked.

I **** myself to focus, playing it cool. “Yeah? What’d you see?”

Barto chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, I said she had tits as big as Desire’s, and she said I was full of shit.”

Desire scoffed, rolling the pipe idly between her pierced nipples, her breasts jiggling with every slight movement. “Because you were. She was smaller.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause you don’t wanna admit some other chick’s got the same rack as you.”

Desire exhaled sharply, adjusting the pipe between her tits with a lazy roll of her shoulders. “I don’t need to ‘admit’ shit. I saw her.”

I let them bicker for another second, watching them believe in something that had never happened. It sent a rush through me, knowing that their past was mine to shape.

I waved a hand, cutting them off. “Where?”

He jerked his thumb toward a side street. “Couple blocks that way. Clothing store. Called Antique Shop or some shit. She went in there.”

I smirked. Perfect.

Without another word, I started moving, my two new thugs falling in step beside me.

This time, there’d be no running.

This time, Nami was mine.