Chapter 11: Spin Me Right Round

Charlotte’s lips hovered a breath away from Blaine’s impossibly thick, straining cock, her cherry-red lipstick practically trembling with anticipation. Her heart was racing, her skin tingling with a delicious combination of nerves and determination. Her manicured fingers rested delicately against his granite-hard thighs, and she could feel the heat radiating from him, the sheer massive maleness of his presence almost overwhelming.

Her lashes fluttered as she tilted her head, and just as her lips began to get closer and closer to fully closing down on Blaine’s glorious manhood—

RECORD SCRATCH.

“You’re probably wondering how I got here,” Charlotte voice said, to no one in particular. “Well, let me take you back a few hours. It’s a doozy.”

“Well...”

Charlotte had spent the morning in the passenger seat of Mr. Pearson’s ludicrously long limousine, sipping a martini and jotting notes on her clipboard while he barked orders into his oversized cell phone. His words were blunt, domineering, and filled with the kind of smug satisfaction that came naturally to a man who saw himself as the apex of capitalist evolution.

“And if the beachgoers don’t clear out voluntarily,” Pearson was saying, “we’ll just offer them incentives. Everyone’s got a price.”

Charlotte’s pencil skirt rode higher up her thighs as she shifted in her seat, tapping her pen against her lip. “Incentives” was Pearson-speak for “coercion,” and she would need to make sure the language in his contracts remained both ruthless and legally airtight.

Her job was to follow orders. Always orders. No deviation, no thinking for herself. And certainly no personal desires. Desires, she thought wryly, crossing her legs. Not part of the job description.

But then the target changed. Blaine, the golden Adonis whose biceps she swore had grown between glances, had intrigued Pearson in a way few others ever had. “Charlotte,” Pearson had said as they measured Blaine’s bungalow earlier, “take a personal interest in this one. He could be ... useful to our plans.”

And now here she was, with Blaine shirtless beside her, the couch groaning under the combined weight of his massive muscles and her impossibly curvaceous frame. His nearness was intoxicating in a way she hadn’t anticipated. The clean, salty musk of his skin, the way his chest rose and fell like a sculpted bronze statue brought to life, and the raw heat radiating from him made it nearly impossible to think straight.

“Drink up,” she said, her voice syrupy and low as she handed him a beer. Her fingers lingered on his as he took it, the smallest touch sending an electric thrill down her spine. She crossed her legs, letting the slit of her pencil skirt reveal just a hint more thigh, and leaned in closer.

“I wanted to apologize for being so ... abrupt earlier,” she purred. “Sometimes I can get a little too focused on my work.” Her nails lightly trailed up and down his arm, marveling at the sheer size and hardness of him.

Blaine took a swig of the beer and shrugged, his smirk lazy. “Hey, no problem. I get it. You’re just doing your job or whatever.”

His casual dismissal sent a thrill through her.

She shifted closer, her blazer straining against her chest as she reached for her own drink. The movement was deliberate, designed to draw his eyes to the deep valley of her cleavage. Sure enough, Blaine’s gaze flicked downward, his smirk widening ever so slightly.

“You know,” Charlotte said, running a finger along the rim of her martini glass, “you’re ... different from the other people around here.”

Blaine raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mm-hmm,” she murmured, her hand drifting to his thigh. She leaned in, close enough for him to feel her breath on his neck. “They’re all so ... simple. So predictable. But you...” She let her nails lightly scrape against his skin. “You’re something special.”

His cocky grin told her she was playing him perfectly. “Well, yeah. I mean, look at me.”

Her laughter was low and melodic. “Oh, I’m looking,” she said, her hand sliding higher. She trailed her fingers across the hard ridges of his abs, her touch feather-light. Her lips parted as she admired his body, her carefully controlled façade slipping just enough to let her genuine awe show.

Focus, Charlotte.

“Tell me,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “what’s it like being so...” Her hand brushed against his pec, marveling at its warmth and density. “ ... perfect?”

Blaine chuckled, leaning back against the couch. “It’s pretty awesome, not gonna lie.”

She tilted her head, her lips curving into a sly smile. “I bet it is.” Her fingers played with the edge of his speedo, teasing the elastic as if daring him to stop her. “Must be hard, though. Being wanted by everyone. Everyone wanting a piece of you.”

Her words hung in the air like a challenge. Blaine didn’t respond immediately, but the way his jaw tightened, the way his breathing deepened, told her she was winning.

“Charlotte,” he said finally, his voice rough. “What’s your angle here?”

She hesitated for half a second—long enough to feel his eyes on her, his presence dominating hers in a way that left her breathless. She was supposed to be in control here, supposed to be seducing him for Pearson’s benefit. But sitting this close to him, feeling the heat of his body, her carefully constructed plan was crumbling.

Her lips hovered near his ear, her voice trembling just slightly. “No angle,” she whispered. “I just ... can’t help myself.”

Her confession hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. She wasn’t lying—at least, not entirely. Blaine didn’t reply with words. Instead, he shifted, his hand sliding around her waist and pulling her onto his lap as easily as if she weighed nothing.

Charlotte gasped, her hands bracing against his chest. She could feel his heart pounding beneath her palms, steady and strong, and her breath hitched as she looked up into his eyes. The world seemed to narrow, the space between them charged with an energy she couldn’t ignore.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Charlotte,” he murmured, his lips so close to hers that she could taste the beer on his breath.

Her smile was slow, seductive, and just a little desperate. “Maybe I like danger.”

Charlotte barely had a chance to breathe as Blaine’s strong, calloused hand gripped the back of her head. His other hand, still gripping the beer bottle, rested casually on his thigh, as if this moment were no more demanding than a regular Sunday afternoon. But the pressure of his grip spoke of something darker, something raw, a primal assertion of dominance that sent a thrill coursing down her spine.

“Danger, huh?” Blaine’s voice was a low growl, his lips curling into a predatory smirk. His fingers grabbed her hair, and began angling her head downward until her lips were perilously close to his bulging cock, the head straining against the thin fabric of his speedo. The heat of him, so close and so impossibly overwhelming, made her breath catch.

“Prove it, then,” he said. His tone was teasing, but his eyes burned with a ferocity that left no room for refusal.

Charlotte’s hesitation melted into determination as her trembling hands slid up Blaine’s thighs, her breath shallow, anticipation coiling tight in her chest. The weight of his gaze burned into her, a challenge she intended to meet head-on.

Her fingers hooked under the elastic band of his speedo, the damp fabric strained to its limits by the massive girth beneath. She tugged it downward slowly, the tease intentional, revealing inch after glorious inch of his cock. It sprang free, thick and heavy, the head flushed an angry red and glistening with a bead of precum. The sight made her mouth water, and she couldn’t help the small, needy sound that escaped her lips.

Blaine leaned back further into the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest as though this were nothing more than an amusing show put on for his pleasure. His smirk widened as he watched her, his confidence radiating an almost oppressive intensity.

Charlotte licked her lips, her head dipping closer. She kept her hands to herself, a deliberate choice, letting the moment stretch and simmer. Her lips parted slightly, her breath warm against his shaft, her tongue darting out to taste the air between them as her face drew near. Slowly, achingly slowly, she leaned in, her lips brushing the very tip before opening further to engulf him.

Her lips closed fully around the head, warm and soft, as her mouth sealed perfectly without a single touch from her hands. She held him there, unmoving, savoring the moment, the weight of him resting on her tongue. Her eyes flicked up to meet his as she gave a soft, involuntary moan, her body trembling with the effort of restraint.

My mouth was a perfect O and a mere centimeter away from beginning to vigorously suck his manhood when...

Charlotte’s mouth was a perfect O and a mere centimeter away from beginning to vigorously suck on “my” manhood and then...

[Record Scratch]

“You’re probably wondering how I got here.”

The voice is normal. Smooth, maybe a little self-deprecating, but not nasally or super macho. Just a normal everyday voice, the kind you’d hear and then forget what it sounded like two seconds later.

“The first thing you need to know is that I didn’t start out here as Wesley. I mean, yeah, sure, I was technically always Wes, but Wesley? The awkward, bespectacled nerd with a heart of gold and a pocket full of pencils? No, sir. That guy was born when I first got pulled into this godforsaken neon dreamscape.

Before all this—before the pastel skies and impossibly perky boobs bouncing through every frame—I was just Wes. Regular old Wes. A guy who did a perfectly fine office job, nothing to hate but nothing to love either. The kind of guy whose weekend plans involved frozen pizza and grinding out one more prestige level in some online shooter. My biggest adventure was ordering Thai food instead of my usual burger.

But then, one night, I fell asleep on my couch. Or at least I think I fell asleep. I remember zoning out to some low-budget 80s flick on Tubi called My Dumb Bikini Summer. The plot was as thin as the women’s swimsuits: a beach town, a big evil developer, and a ragtag group of misfits saving the day through sexy hijinks. Standard stuff. I’d been half-watching, half-scrolling my phone, when something ... shifted.

The TV went weird. The colors bled together, and the sound warped like a cassette tape left out in the sun too long. I thought, Great, my cheap-ass Roku is finally dying. I was reaching for the remote when the screen flared bright white.

And then? Nothing.

Or at least, no couch. No living room. No me as I knew myself.

When I came to, I was standing on a beach. Not just any beach, mind you—this was a beach straight out of a dream. Or a nightmare, depending on how you feel about bikinis, big hair, and synth music that never stops. The sand was blindingly white, the ocean turquoise and glittering like a Lisa Frank folder come to life. Everywhere I looked, there were girls. Gorgeous girls. Bikini-clad girls. And dudes, too, though they all looked like they’d just stepped off the cover of a romance novel or a protein shake ad.

Hey, maybe I’m dreaming. I thought Maybe I’m on some new streaming service trying to relive the glory of 80s cheese.’ But no. This is real. Well, as real as anything can be in a world where the primary exports are coconut oil and bad decisions. I didn’t choose this. I didn’t want this. And yet ... here we are.

Because when I looked down at myself I didn’t see Wes.

No, what I saw was a string bean of a guy in high-waisted shorts, a button-up shirt patterned with tiny surfboards, and glasses so thick they could’ve been NASA prototypes. My body felt ... weird. Lankier than I remembered. My shoulders were narrow, my arms scrawny. I reached up and felt my face: no beard stubble. My skin was baby-smooth, and my hair was combed into an unflattering side part.

And then it hit me: I was Wesley.

No, I didn’t know it right away. Not consciously. But it was like the narrative just slid me into place, wrapped me in a character like a second skin. The realization didn’t come in a thunderclap—it was more like a slow, dawning horror.

There was sand beneath me. Sun above me. And a woman—no, a goddess—standing over me, her skin bronzed and gleaming, her string bikini defying physics as much as modesty. She was smiling like she knew every secret I’d ever had, and her voice—God, her voice—dripped with syrupy sweetness as she leaned down and said, “Kind of scrawny for Bikini Week, ain’t ya sugar?”

And just like that, I was no longer Wes-the-average-Joe. I was Wesley-the-Nerd.

The next thing I knew, this goddess of bronzed perfection was helping me to my feet—or rather, hauling me up with one hand like I weighed nothing more than a feather. My legs wobbled, partly because the sand was soft, but mostly because I was acutely aware of her cleavage hovering dangerously close to my face.

“Y-you mean me?” I stammered, inwardly cringing at the nasal edge to my voice. Great, I thought. Not only did I look like an extra from Revenge of the Nerds, I sounded like one too.

“Who else, sugar?” she replied, giving me a once-over that was equal parts pity and amusement. “You’re cute in a ... scrawny, hopeless kind of way.”

Hopeless. Great.

Before I could muster a reply—or even a coherent thought—a football whizzed past my head, missing me by inches. It hit the sand with a soft thunk, and when I turned, there was a group of guys straight out of a protein shake commercial jogging toward me. Each one was shirtless, glistening with just enough sweat to make their muscles pop without looking gross, and laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world.

“Hey, nerd!” one of them called, pointing at me like he’d spotted a rare species in the wild. “You gonna throw that back, or just stand there and calculate its trajectory?”

The group roared with laughter. I bent down to pick up the ball, hoping to at least throw it well enough to salvage a shred of dignity. But the moment I gripped it, I knew I’d made a mistake. The ball felt weirdly heavy, like it was filled with sand instead of air. I wound up, threw as hard as I could ... and it went about five feet before plopping back into the sand.

The laughter doubled. Tripled. It was a rolling wave of mockery that seemed to echo endlessly along the beach. My face burned hotter than the sun overhead.

“Don’t mind them,” the bikini goddess said, patting my shoulder. Her hand lingered a second too long, and I had the sudden, inexplicable urge to flex—not that there was anything to flex. “They’re just jealous ‘cause they peaked in high school.”

“Yeah, that must be it,” I muttered, adjusting my glasses. The glare of the sun was bouncing off the ocean and blinding me, which only added to my disorientation. “Uh, where ... where am I, exactly?”

The goddess tilted her head, her smile faltering for the briefest moment. “You’re at Bikini Beach, sugar. Where else would you be during Bikini Week?”

Bikini Week. The words clanged in my head like a bell, impossibly loud and absurdly out of place. Bikini Week. It sounded like something out of a bad reality show or a straight-to-video comedy. And yet, as I looked around, the phrase fit.

There was something about the place—the colors too vibrant, the waves crashing in perfect rhythm, the girls all impossibly hot, the guys all ripped like Greek statues. It was like walking into a live-action cartoon where every cliché was cranked up to eleven.

And then there was me. Scrawny, awkward, and somehow dropped into the middle of it like the universe had decided I was the punchline to some cosmic joke.

“So, uh ... what happens during Bikini Week?” I asked, genuinely afraid of the answer.

“Oh, you know,” she said, twirling a lock of her impossibly shiny blonde hair. “Parties. Contests. Dancing. Surfing. Basically, whatever it takes to win the title of Bikini King or Queen.”

“King or Queen?” I repeated, trying not to sound like I was choking on the words.

She nodded, her smile turning sly. “Yeah. Big prize, too. Enough cash to do whatever your heart desires. But, uh...” She leaned in closer, her perfume intoxicating and her chest dangerously close to brushing against me. “You might want to hit the gym first, sugar. Just a suggestion.”

And with that, she sauntered off, her hips swaying in a way that was almost hypnotic. I stood there, staring after her, my mouth slightly open as I tried to process what the hell had just happened.

And that was just my first transformation! I’d double dip and become Blaine soon enough! The thing you have to understand is that it wasn’t all at once. If it had been, I might’ve fought harder. Might’ve realized sooner. But no—it was gradual. It was subtle. Like sand slipping out from under your feet, one grain at a time, until suddenly you’re drowning in the tide.

I remember the first change, back when I was Wesley. Wesley-the-Nerd, the guy I woke up as in this crazy world. I’d been so confused. I mean, yeah, I’d seen this kind of character in movies before—the awkward guy with glasses, the butt of every joke until he gets a girl to see the “real him.” But knowing the trope didn’t make being the trope any less humiliating.

And yet, the narrative had me on rails. I bumbled my way through that first encounter with Missy—because of course her name was Missy—my cheeks burning as she laughed at me. I don’t even remember what I said, just that it was pathetic, like a script I hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t stop reciting. And then, slowly, right after I met Emily, things started ... changing.

The first time I noticed something off was during surfing lessons. Missy’s beefcake boyfriend—Rad, I think—had shoved me into the sand, laughing as I flailed like a drowning kitten. It should’ve been humiliating, and at first, it was. But then ... something shifted. The sand was warm against my hands, gritty and rough, but instead of feeling weak, I felt ... annoyed. No, more than that—I felt determined.

I stood up, and suddenly, I wasn’t just a nerd anymore. My shoulders squared off. My voice, which had been trembling and high-pitched, came out deeper, firmer. “Why don’t you back off?” I said, and I’ll never forget the look of surprise on Rad’s stupidly handsome face.

That was the first time I felt it. The narrative. It wasn’t just pushing me into embarrassing situations anymore—it was building me up. My chest puffed out. My back straightened. And Rad didn’t shove me again that day.

After that, things escalated quickly. I started working out—well, I thought I was working out. Push-ups on the beach, lifting weights at the outdoor gym, you name it. But now I’m pretty sure none of it actually mattered. The real transformation wasn’t in my muscles, but in my mind.

The first time I noticed my arms in front of a mirror and thought, Nice. It wasn’t like me to think that way, but the narrative didn’t give me much choice. I was becoming Blaine.

It wasn’t long before Wesley felt more like a memory than a person. I’d swapped out my glasses for sunglasses, my button-ups for Hawaiian shirts, and my timid demeanor for cocky confidence. But the real kicker was how good it felt. Being Blaine wasn’t just easy—it was fun.

And then there was Bunny.

God, Bunny. Or Emily, as she really was. When I first met her, she was like a lighthouse in the storm—normal, grounded, a reminder of who we were and what we were trying to escape. But even then, I could see the cracks forming.

Her hair, shiny and perfect. Her skin, always glowing. And those tits—God help me, those tits. They weren’t like that when we started, right? No way. But the narrative kept ... enhancing her. And what was worse? She seemed to like it.

Which brings me to now. Me—or Blaine, I guess—on the couch with Charlotte. Her nails raking against my thigh. Her lips hovering over my cock. And all I could think was how wrong it felt. How I have to fight it.

Not because I didn’t want her. God, I wanted her. The way she looked up at me, her fake tits practically spilling out of her too-tight blazer, her lips painted with cherry-red lipstick—it was everything Blaine was supposed to want. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wanted it too.

Charlotte’s lips parted, her breath warm against the swollen head of my cock. I could see the gloss on her lips, the way her tongue darted out to wet them, and my body was screaming for her to just take me already. But in the back of my mind, something was fighting. A tiny, screaming voice—my voice.

This isn’t you, it whispered. But it’s not fair. Especially for Emily.

We’ve teamed up out of necessity—two outsiders trying to resist the narrative. But we might not be a team anymore. Because she’s still out there, fighting the narrative. And here “I” am about to have “my” cock sucked by a gorgeous girl.

Charlotte’s mouth is a perfect O and a mere centimeter away from beginning to vigorously suck on “my” manhood and then...

Charlotte’s mouth was a perfect O and a mere centimeter away from beginning to vigorously suck on Blaine’s manhood and then...

[Record Scratch]

“You’re probably wondering how I got here.”

The voice is nasally. Raspy. A bit annoying. The kind you’d hear and then instantly think less of the person for having it.

You’re probably wondering how I got here, “A disembodied voice”, floating in the recesses of Blaine’s increasingly swole mind, fighting for dominance over the ever-growing tide of biceps, speedos, and neon sunsets. Believe me, buddy, I’m wondering the same damn thing. But hey, let’s rewind a bit, shall we?

The first thing you need to know is that I wasn’t always a disembodied voice. Once upon a time, I had a body. A body with glasses, acne, and the kind of wiry frame that suggested I’d lose in a fight with a stiff breeze. I wasn’t anyone’s dream guy, but I was someone. Now? I’m just ... words.

And not even good ones.

I’m exposition, baby. You’re welcome.

Bikini Week wasn’t supposed to go like this. I’d always imagined it was my shot, my moment. I mean, every nerd knows how this goes, right? You’re the underdog. The overlooked nice guy with a hidden spark of wit, charm, and maybe even a six-pack under the right lighting. You’re supposed to get the girl. The brainy one. The one who sees you for who you are beneath the Coke-bottle glasses and social anxiety.

That was the deal. That’s the story.

It all started to go bad a few days ago—or, uh, however time works in this ludicrous, soft-core hellscape. That’s when Blaine showed up.

Let’s back up. I don’t want to talk about Blaine yet. I want to talk about Emily.

She wasn’t like the others. No neon bikinis, no surgically improbable curves, no hair that defied the laws of physics. Just a normal girl in a world that seemed to punish normalcy like it was a crime. She stumbled onto the beach wearing jeans—jeans, for God’s sake—and a hoodie.

I was standing on the boardwalk when I saw her. Or rather, when I narrated her arrival. That’s all I do now—narrate. I thought she might be different. She looked around, her almond-shaped eyes wide with confusion, her dark hair whipping in the sea breeze like some kind of rebellious flag against the tyranny of this town.

“She wasn’t like the others,” I said to myself, which was also to you, apparently. “No neon bikinis, no surgically impossible curves, just a girl trying to make sense of this place. I thought maybe she’d see me.”

But then the science-magic kicked in.

Oh, you don’t know about the science-magic? Okay, let me explain. Bikini Week isn’t just any beach to. Think tanning booths, but instead of UV rays, it’s ... whatever the opposite of body neutrality is. You walk in a five, you leave a ten. That’s just the way it is. It might take a long time, it make take no time at all, but it always happens.

Emily lasted about thirty-six hours before it got to her.

First, it was the hair. Straight, shiny, cascading down her back like she’d stepped out of a Pantene ad. Then her waist, shrinking so fast I swore I could hear a tape measure snapping. Her chest swelled like someone had hit “maximize assets” on a video game character creation screen.

It was horrifying.

It was...

Well, it was kind of hot.

Look, I’m not proud of it. But this place does things to you. It rewires you. You can’t spend more than five minutes here without noticing every curve, every jiggle, every breathy giggle. It’s like the town pumps pheromones into the air along with the scent of coconut sunscreen.

So, yeah. I noticed.

And then Blaine-to-Be noticed her.

Blaine didn’t just walk into my body during Bikini Week.

No, Blaine bench-pressed his way in. He came striding down the beach like he owned the place—which, let’s be real, he might as well have. All golden hair, tanned skin, and abs you could use as a cheese grater.

“Blaine didn’t just walk into Bikini Week,” I narrated bitterly. “He bench-pressed it, flexed at it, and claimed it as his own.”

Ok, let’s talk about Blaine for a second—the hulking meat suit I’m currently trapped in. He didn’t used to be Blaine. He used to be me. But then came the muscles. The pecs. The speedos that leave nothing to the imagination. It’s like a cosmic joke I’m the punchline to. And the worst part? It’s working. Blaine’s got it all now: the body, the babes, the bros who toss him beers like they’re endorsements in a mid-budget commercial. And let’s not forget the high-octane beach ball montages. But me? I’m still here, floating somewhere in the back of his mind, like a ghost haunting a gym bro. I watch it all unfold, powerless to stop it. And trust me, there’s a lot to watch.

You know how in every movie about a hero’s journey, there’s always a moment when the protagonist realizes they’re losing something? Their innocence, maybe. Or their sense of self. Usually, it’s handled with a teary-eyed monologue, violins swelling in the background, maybe a meaningful gaze into the distance.

That’s not what this is.

This is a front-row seat to my own slow-motion annihilation.

And it’s all because of her.

Charlotte.

She’s kneeling there, her cherry-red lips an inch—maybe an inch—from my cock. Her perfectly manicured nails graze my thighs, each tiny touch sending ripples of heat through my—through our—body. She’s staring at me—at Blaine, at us—with this look in her eyes like she’s about to devour me whole.

And God help me, I want her to.

No. He wants her to.

Blaine’s wants are all-encompassing, overwhelming. They seep into every corner of my mind, so loud and visceral they drown out my own thoughts. I can feel the pull of her breath against the swollen, flushed head of my cock. I can feel her lips parting, the slick heat of her mouth so close I can almost—

Stop.

I tell myself to stop. I scream at myself to stop. But I can’t move. I’m watching, a spectator in my own body, and the guy in the driver’s seat—the guy who used to be me, but isn’t anymore—is leaning back like he’s settling in for the best blowjob of his life.

“Relax,” Blaine says—or I say. My voice, but not my words. It’s a low, cocky rumble now, oozing with the kind of confidence Wesley never had. “Take your time, babe. I’ve got all night.”

No, you don’t!

I want to claw my way back to the surface, to shake her off, to tell her to stop. But Blaine’s body doesn’t respond to me anymore. It’s not mine. Not really.

It started small, the way these things always do.

I didn’t even realize I was a character at first. Not until I met Bunny—Emily, I mean. She was the first person who looked at me like I was real.

But even then, it wasn’t enough to hold me together.

The changes came in waves. First, it was the glasses. Then my shoulders started to square off. My back straightened. My voice dropped half an octave. I grew a foot. Maybe a foot and a half. And the muscles. Ah lord, the muscles after muscles!

By the time I realized what was happening, it was already too late.

The next time I saw myself in the mirror, I wasn’t Wesley anymore. I was Blaine. Broad shoulders, golden tan, chiseled abs—the kind of guy who didn’t just walk down a beach, he owned it.

And it felt ... good.

That’s the worst part.

It felt so damn good.

The power. The confidence. The way people looked at me—at him. The way Bunny started to look at me.

I told myself it was just for the narrative. That I could still get us out of here. But with every passing day, Blaine grew stronger, louder. He wasn’t just taking over my body—he was taking over my mind.

And now, here I am. Watching as Charlotte’s lips hover over Blaine’s cock—my cock—and some part of me thinks that this is my last shot at escistence. Some part of me knows, and it doesn’t know how it knows, that if she takes him in, if she does this, it’s over.

There won’t be a Wesley anymore.

Just Blaine.

Charlotte’s lips part, her breath warm against the sensitive head. Her tongue darts out, just barely grazing me, and I feel Blaine’s body twitch in response. His—my—cock is swollen, hard, throbbing with need.