Someone he knows

It was true that Ernest was studious, conscientious, and cautious by nature. However, he was still an eighteen-year-old boy, and some days, it was all that he could do to exert control over his rampaging hormones. Perhaps this explained the sight that greeted him when he opened the door.

It was Tiffany. More or less.

The face was recognizable as that of the black-haired cheerleader, but it was as if she had been airbrushed and photoshopped into the most perfect possible version of herself. Her features were immaculate, her skin flawless. Her hair was longer than it had been -- down to the small of her back -- and luxuriously silky and wavy, like it had been imported from a shampoo commercial.

The Tiffany that Ernest knew had the slim, athletic body common to cheerleaders and gymnasts. But the woman in front of him was absurdly curvaceous. Her breasts were each at least the size of her head, but perfectly rounded, and without even the slightest hint that they'd ever encountered the concept of gravity. She had a narrow, almost waspish waist, but her hips flared out dramatically from there. And her ass...it was the kind of ass that would make a Kardashian green with envy. The kind of ass that would stop traffic at a hundred yards. The kind of ass that strippers would kill for, that porn stars would dream of. It was huge, shapely, and so firm that you could probably bounce a quarter off it.

Her legs had been the old Tiffany's best feature, and the revised Tiff still had amazing legs. She was taller now -- at least 5'11" -- and though the kind of curves she possessed could easily have come out cartoonish, her body matched those curves so perfectly that instead, she simply looked like a walking wet dream, the physical embodiment of sex, the hottest woman that Ernest had ever seen, heard of, or imagined.

It was easy to tell all of this, because Tiff's clothing left essentially nothing to the imagination. A skintight pink halter top, which emphasized her epic cleavage, and left her taut stomach completely exposed. A pair of metallic gold booty shorts, which Ernest didn't even understand how she'd managed to squeeze into. Fishnet stockings and pink stiletto heels. It was the kind of outfit that he couldn't imagine anyone other than a hooker or a stripper wearing -- and it certainly wasn't what Tiff had been wearing when he'd last seen her, less than five minutes ago.

"Um...Tiff?" He hadn't meant it to come out as a question, but there it was nonetheless, "Do...do you need something?"

"Hey babe. I don't need anything, but I thought you might." Tiffany's voice seemed to have gone through the same kind of metamorphosis as the rest of her -- it was still recognizable as hers, but every syllable dripped of sex, as if every word in the English language meant fuck me, "You seemed confused about the car, so I thought I'd come and remind you of how I convinced my dad to get us matching Corvettes, since we're so close. And, you know, remind you of just how close we are."

She ran one finger along her cleavage in the least subtle way possible, and reached out with her other hand to caress Ernest's cheek, "Can I come in, babe?"