Emily felt Wesley’s warm hand on the small of her back as he guided her through the party. She glanced up at him, half-distracted by his new, improved features: the sharper jawline, the slight bulge of his biceps as he casually kept her close, the way he walked with a newfound confidence that looked almost natural on him.

She felt like she should pull away, assert herself, make it clear she wasn’t just going to follow along. But somehow, with Wesley’s hand pressing gently at her back and the crowd parting for them with an almost reverent respect, her reluctance faded. His steady guidance felt… nice.

He handed her a beer, the cold can a shock against her still-warm hands, and she took a sip, the fizzy liquid mixing with the heady atmosphere of the party. The lights were dimmer inside, more intimate, casting a soft glow over the mass of bodies swaying to the beat. Wesley leaned against the counter beside her, his face tilted toward she spoke to him, “I … really should get dressed don’t you think?”  A quick gesture at her sopping hot wet mess of an outfit made her meaning clear.  

He scanned the room, his eyes landing on a rack of clothes inexplicably draped over the back of a nearby couch, as if they were just waiting to be noticed. Among them were a pair of high-cut, frayed denim shorts that looked one size too small and a crop top so tiny it might have been intended for a doll.

Wesley raised an eyebrow, clearly pleased. “Perfect,” he murmured, grabbing the shorts and holding them up with a grin. “These would look… fant-ASS-tic on you.”

Emily stared at them, the shorts impossibly tiny, the crop top no more than a scrap of fabric. She felt a surge of resistance—this was exactly what the story wanted, wasn’t it? To get her into these ridiculously slutty clothes, have her prance around like another one of the party’s bikini-clad babes. 

“Oh, come on,” he said, reading her hesitation with a little smirk. “What’s the harm? It’s not like anyone HERE is going to judge.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Besides, I think they’d suit you.”

Something in his tone—something firm, almost commanding—made her heart skip. Without quite meaning to, she took the shorts and top from him, the absurdity of the situation making her laugh. “Fine. But if I end up looking like I’m in some tacky music video…”

“Trust me,” he said, leaning back against the counter with a casual smile. “You’ll look incredible.”

Emily ducked into a bathroom just off the main room, stripping off her soaked bra and underwear, her cheeks flushing at her own reflection in the mirror. She pulled the denim shorts up, the material tight against her hips, hugging her curves in a way that was both embarrassing and… weirdly flattering. She slipped into the crop top, which barely covered her chest, leaving the smooth curve of her waist exposed, the fabric so tight it stretched over her enhanced bustline in a way that was almost laughably impractical. But as she looked at herself in the mirror, she couldn’t deny she looked… hot. Really hot.  Really really REALLY hot.  

When she stepped out of the bathroom, Wesley’s eyes lit up, a slow smile spreading across his face as he took her in. He straightened, his gaze trailing over her from head to toe, leaving a warm, tingling path in its wake.

“Well,” he said, his voice a little rough, “I think we’ve found your look.”

Emily rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t hide the small, pleased smile tugging at her lips. “It’s ridiculous,” she said, tugging at the hem of the crop top, which rode up the slightest bit higher with every movement.

“Come on. Let’s show this party what we’ve got.”

He led her back out onto the dance floor, the music seeming to pick up right as they entered, the beat vibrating through the room. The crowd parted around them again, as if in awe of their new transformation, the energy of the party pulsing in time with the movement of their bodies.

Emily found herself swaying to the beat, her hand slipping into Wesley’s as they moved together. The tiny shorts hugged her hips with every step, the crop top threatening to ride up even further as she danced, her body responding to the rhythm, to the thrill of being seen, admired. She felt Wesley’s hand slide around her waist, pulling her closer, and she let herself lean into him, her reluctance slipping away under the weight of the music and the neon lights.

In the back of her mind, she knew the story was pulling her deeper, but with Wesley’s arm around her, his confidence feeding her own, she couldn’t bring herself to care. She was in control… even if that control meant embracing the role she was meant to play.

Everything was going according to plan. They'd played along with the narrative's desires, and now they had a certain amount of leeway to act. The partygoers weren't trying to directly interfere with them anymore, nudge them back onto the story's railroad. And what was more, the two of them had gotten to enjoy some...well, benefits. It had barely been an hour, and already he and Emily were completely different from how they'd begun the evening. He looked like he wouldn't have been out of place on the beach with a freshly waxed surfboard under his wiry, muscled arm. And Emily...well. Emily had become distracting.

He hadn't been pressuring her to put on that sexy little outfit just for his fulfillment. She'd been in sopping wet underwear and nothing else. She'd needed to get into something dry. The fact that she happened to fill it out like a porn parody of a woman was purely coincidental, and did nothing to diminish his good intentions.

That said, he thought as he gave her an appreciative look-over, it had sure felt good when she'd done what he'd said.

Now the two of them moved in perfect unison. His hands roamed her body with casual, practiced familiarity--maybe not necessarily with her body, but at least with the idea that she was far from his first hookup. And what was more, she seemed more than responsive to it. Her own hands kept finding ways to wander down to his flat, toned midsection, fingers tracing fond lines in the ridge down the center of his budding abs. Back in the real world, the two of them would have been an absolute knockout couple, the kind that drew envious looks from everyone who saw them together.

But here, in this surreal 80's meat market reality, the two were still only just above the average. All around them, men preened with huge muscles pressing against their tight tanks and button-downs. Girls knocked back beers that would somehow never send any excess fat to their wasp-thin waists or slender, tanned thighs. Tits that should have sunk underneath their own sheer weight instead openly defied gravity, seeming to support their tiny bikini tops instead of the other way around. Sweaty, young, perfect bodies all glistening with sexually charged sweat, all pressed up against each other.

The more Emily gave in to his leading, the more sensual her movements seemed to become on their own. The crop top seemed to have a natural tendency to ride up, treating him to a healthy glimpse of underboob. It was making it very, very...hard for him to keep focused on gaming out their next move.

Wesley leaned in, making it look like he was about to kiss her. He was vaguely embarrassed about the way his hardened cock pressed at the bounds of his thin surfer trunks; there was no way she wouldn't feel it. But he couldn't help it, right? She was a hot babe, and he was a guy, and guys got hard when they danced with hot babes. Even socially conscious, modern guys like him.

"This is still insane, and we still need to get out. But..." He reached up and tucked a strand of her silky black hair behind her ear. "...You look really pretty tonight."

It was delivered in the style of cheesy, poorly written dialogue, not at all like what Wesley had meant to say. He'd meant to discuss with her possibilities of ducking out of the party, trying to get to the edge of town, maybe looking for some kind of hole in this fictional reality that the two of them could slip out of. But when he saw the dumb beach babe Emily was turning into, he found it hard to form more cohesive thoughts.

Dumb? he chastised himself. She's not dumb. She hasn't done anything dumb yet!

She's not, like, dumb-dumb, he corrected himself. She's just, you know. Dumb in that way that chicks are a little dumber compared to guys. It's why she wants you taking charge right now. She needs you.

The thought echoed in his mind as he looked down into her Chinadoll face, her plump lips parted suggestively and just so.

She needs you, Wesley...

"We do have to get out of here." His hands slipped down from the pleasing curves of her waist to rest on her taut, round ass cheeks. "But...maybe we can stay just a little bit longer." His newly handsome face slid into a persuasive grin, the kind that a vaseline-smeared camera lens would absolutely love. "Just so we can teach that hot bitch Missy a lesson."

Emily’s pulse raced as she felt Wesley’s hands slide confidently down to her waist, then lower, resting on her ass in a way that sent little jolts of electricity through her body. She tried to keep her thoughts focused, to hang on to the clarity she’d fought for when she’d first arrived here. But Wesley’s touch had a magnetic pull, and every time he looked down at her with that sharp, newly sculpted jawline and the casual glint in his blue eyes, it grew harder to remember the serious, tactical discussions they’d meant to have.

“You look really pretty tonight.”

The line, so cliché and simple, echoed in her head, feeling simultaneously cliche, trite and yet … potent. Emily couldn’t help wondering just how potent Wesley was in other matters … She shook her head.  He was right there, close enough for her to lean into, and the heat radiating between them—her curves pressed against his wiry, new muscles—made her cheeks flush and her breathing quicken. His gaze held a cocky challenge, the sort she’d normally roll her eyes at, but in this heightened reality, it felt both strangely fitting and irresistible.

Her hand drifted down to his midsection, fingers lingering over the hard ridges of his abs, feeling his breath hitch under her touch. And there it was—that smug grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if he already knew how easily she’d lean into him. But a flicker of her old self surged through, reminding her that this was still just some warped story they were trying to escape.

“Stay a little longer, huh?” she teased, letting a bit of her old edge slip into her voice, fighting the urge to fall fully into her new, obedient persona. Her nails trailed lightly across his skin, her hand brushing against the waistband of his trunks as she leaned in, her voice low. “What if we teach Missy a lesson… but not the way she expects?”

A sly smile played on her lips as she locked eyes with him, her gaze glinting with mischief, a spark of their real-world bond breaking through the haze of seduction.  Wesley’s grin faltered for just a second as he registered the suggestion, curiosity sparking in his eyes. It was as if, for a fleeting moment, she’d pulled him out of the narrative spell that kept casting him as the cocky, confident heartthrob, back into the clever, strategic thinker she’d first met.

“Yeah?” he murmured, leaning closer, intrigued. “What do you have in mind?”

Emily stood near the snack table, her fingers grazing over the bowl of fruit, selecting a perfectly ripe banana. She glanced over at Wesley, catching his eye with a playful, knowing glint that made his pulse quicken.

Slowly, she peeled the banana, letting each section of the peel drop one by one, her gaze never leaving his. The air between them felt charged, heavy with anticipation, as if the entire party around them had faded into a blur. She lifted the banana to her lips, tilting her head slightly as she parted them, taking a slow, deliberate bite. Her lips wrapped around the fruit in a way that seemed both innocent and undeniably suggestive, her gaze flicking up to meet Wesley’s with a teasing gleam.

Wesley swallowed, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks as she continued, taking small, careful bites, her lips closing around the banana in a rhythm that left his mind spinning. Emily’s tongue darted out to catch a stray bit of fruit on her lip, and she smiled, a playful, mischievous smile that sent his thoughts racing.

Missy was strutted confidently toward Wesley, giving Emily a smug, over-the-shoulder smirk as she tossed her hair with practiced ease. And it was at that exact moment that Emily casually tossed the banana peel directly in front of where Missy was walking. 

With a squeal that pierced the music, Missy’s feet flew out from under her, and she landed flat on her back in a puddle of spiked punch that someone had spilled earlier. The pink liquid splashed over her, soaking her electric-blue one-piece until it clung sheer to her skin, leaving very little to the imagination under the harsh lights.

The crowd around her burst into laughter as Missy scrambled to her feet, cheeks flushed, shooting a venomous glare in all directions. Determined to regain her poise, she spotted the DJ platform and seized the moment, hopping up onto it with all the authority of a reigning queen. She struck a pose, arching her back, throwing her arms up in a last-ditch attempt to own the moment. But as she held her triumphant stance, one of her swimsuit straps gave way with an audible snap. She gasped, grabbing the flimsy fabric as it began to slip, desperately trying to keep herself covered.

Just then, a voice yelled from the other side of the pool, “Foam cannon!” A buzzed party staffer accidentally pulled the trigger, sending a blast of thick foam straight at Missy. The sudden spray coated her head to toe, and she stumbled back, her hair collapsing under the weight of the foam. Her perfectly applied makeup began to run, mascara streaking down her cheeks, giving her a raccoon-eyed look as she sputtered and swiped at the foam.

At that exact moment someone popped a bottle of champagne nearby, and as if on cue, the cork shot across the deck, hitting Missy squarely on the rear. She let out a squeal, spinning around and rubbing her backside, but the motion sent her off balance, and she stumbled backward, tumbling into the pool with an undignified splash. Her one-piece rode up uncomfortably as she resurfaced, gasping for air and pulling at the fabric in a frantic attempt to make herself presentable.

But the disasters weren’t finished with her yet. As she climbed out of the pool, still sopping wet and barely keeping her swimsuit intact, someone (whose name might have rhymed with Shmemely)  “accidentally” knocked over a bottle of spray-on tan nearby. The bronzer cascaded down onto Missy’s body in thick, dark streaks. She frantically tried to rub it off, only succeeding in smearing it further, leaving her looking like a blotchy, streaky mess.

With a final, furious glare, she stumbled toward the crowd, her movements stiff and awkward. But the DJ, who she’d snubbed earlier, had one last trick for the night.  He cranked the speakers and queued up a ridiculous, high-pitched remix of an embarrassing novelty song. The sudden shift in music made her awkward attempts to strut look even sillier, her over-the-top movements syncing perfectly with the absurd rhythm. The crowd’s laughter and jeers drowned out the music, leaving Missy blushing furiously as she was forced to stumble off the deck in complete defeat.

Emily gave Wesley a triumphant grin and whispered in his ear, “"You know, they say karma’s a bitch. But today, I think it’s more of a banana peel."

—-

The sight of Emily's lips wrapping themselves so effortlessly and sensuously around something so long and thick and white threatened to bring Wesley straight to a new level of arousal. Even the silly, slapstick-y nature of her flirtation only served to make it hotter for him. He was suddenly conscious of the fact that he was breathing hard, his newly grown pec muscles heaving with each exhale.

If that had been the sum total of Emily's game, it would've been an excellent use of her screentime. But the Rube Goldberg-ian destruction of Missy's dignity and poise pushed things to an entirely different level. In that moment, he saw a flicker of the fully lucid girl he'd run into, his fellow castaway from a time when the hole in the ozone layer was a distant and curious memory. It was a strange thing, reconciling her with the big-tittied beach babe standing before him with a mischievous smile on her face.

"I think you just solidified your place in the narrative, Bu--babe," he corrected himself awkwardly. Babe was an unfortunate pivot, considering the two weren't an item (regardless of the electric and undeniable chemistry they felt every time skin met skin). But after a whole evening of hearing everyone else in the house call her "Bunny," the dimunitive and deeply-of-its-time name had very nearly slipped out of him.

But before he could explicate more on that idea, a fresh breeze swept through the party again. It fanned through Emily's raven-black hair with its gentle fingers, teasing it up and out in a wavy style that truly looked as 80s-tastic as a white belt or a line of cocaine on a glass coffee table. The miles of bare midriff exposed by her delicious new outfit gently shrank inward, leaving her with a violin waist and a faint, feminine definition to her soft beach bunny body. Her small, slender fingers now ended in a perfectly ostentatious French manicure.

"Hey, Blaine," whispered a dude in Wesley's ear. "You with the Asian chick?"

It took Wesley a moment to realize that Blaine referred to him. He could barely even conceive of being named something like that. It made him sound like a douchey rich guy...which he guessed was par for the course in movies like these.

"I think..."

But he stopped himself. I think was how a man started a sentence when he wasn't sure of himself. And Wesley was sure of himself, wasn't he? Sure that he and Emily belonged back in the real world, sure that they needed to get out of here, sure that their best way forward was to play along without losing their self-awareness of their place in the story. And if he was that certain of himself, then he needed to answer certainly.

"Yeah," he said.

The fit beach bum took another look at her, even as her hips grew slightly outward and forced the denim to dig not unpleasantly into her soft, supple skin. Then he held up a sun-bronzed hand. "Nice, bro."

Wesley automatically returned the high-five as the wind died down. The new and improved Bunn Emily brightened up at his approach. He liked the way she responded to him like that. "I don't think we could have possibly 'won' this scene any harder than you just won it for us now." He had no trouble giving her the credit for trouncing Missy; it had been hot as hell. But he felt an urge to reassert some ownership over her the scene...just to keep things on track. "We should get out of here while we're ahead."

—

As Wesley held Emily’s hand to lead her away from the pulsing crowd, her fingers slipped effortlessly into his, soft and warm, her red-tipped nails grazing his skin as if designed for this exact scene. Her sultry outfit, the oversized hoops in her ears, the way her body now had that impossibly tiny waistline and those perfectly rounded hips—she looked every bit the part of the unattainable beach babe, though her amused, knowing eyes told him she was very much in on the joke.

They moved through the crowd together, his newfound confidence undeniable, and her body pressed close to his side in a way that made his pulse race. Her lips curved into a mischievous smile every time she caught him glancing down at her, his gaze helplessly drifting to her enhanced curves and the way her crop top and shorts hugged her like a second skin. It was as if the more he looked, the more the reality around them folded to accommodate his desires, reshaping her into something crafted purely for his—and the narrative’s—appreciation.

As they approached the door, Wesley squeezed her hand gently, his other hand resting instinctively on the small of her back as he pulled her close. “We’ve gotta get out of here while we still know who we are,” he murmured, his voice low and almost regretful, as if reluctantly pulling himself back to reality.

Emily tilted her head, her wide, teasing eyes meeting his. “And where are you taking me, Blaine?” She emphasized the name playfully, letting her words roll off her tongue in a way that made his stomach flip.

“Back to my place,” he replied, barely missing a beat. “Or… wherever ‘Blaine’s place’ is supposed to be,” he added, a grin tugging at his lips. He felt the thrill of the unknown, the excitement of seeing just what kind of set this story had cobbled together for him. It was like playing with fire—testing the boundaries of the narrative while it constantly nudged him toward deeper, more irreversible commitments.

Together, they left the party behind, the muffled throb of the music fading as they reached the street. The moonlight cast a silvery glow over the empty streets, bathing everything in a surreal, dreamlike haze. Wesley led her through the neon-lit night, until they arrived at a small bungalow nestled under swaying palms, its white-washed walls glowing under the fluorescent light of a single beachy streetlamp. The house was minimal, all clean lines and glass doors, as if the narrative didn’t have the budget for anything more elaborate.

He pushed the door open, feeling an odd familiarity as they stepped inside, like he’d lived there forever, even though he’d never set foot in it before tonight. And that was when he saw it—the room was empty, save for a single bed, centered under a large window. The bed’s white sheets were ruffled, like it had already been slept in, and there was a breeze blowing through the open window, rustling the gauzy curtains.

“Guess the budget’s tight,” he muttered, trying to sound casual as he took in the blatant setup. It was almost too on-the-nose, like something out of a cheap romance movie, and yet, the moment he stepped inside, the room felt as real as anything he’d ever known.

Emily looked at him, her eyes flickering with a mixture of amusement and uncertainty as she took in the one-bed setup. “No ‘Blaine’s guest room’?” she teased, her voice low, but there was a faint tremor to it, a nervousness that mirrored his own as they both stood there, silently acknowledging the setup, the way it was nudging them into a certain direction.

He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck, but didn’t take his eyes off her. “Looks like we’ll have to improvise.”