Chapter 3: Pour Some Sugar on Me

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.”

Emily bit her lip, the expression sending a jolt of heat through him as she tilted her head, taking a tentative step closer. Her hand rested on his chest, her fingers brushing lightly over the firm muscles beneath his shirt. “Improvise, huh?” Her voice was soft, a mixture of challenge and surrender, as if daring him to make the first move.

Wesley’s heart pounded, and without thinking, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, his hands resting on the bare skin of her lower back, where her crop top had ridden up. Her body pressed against his, soft and warm, her chest rising and falling in time with his own ragged breaths. He could smell the faint hint of coconut on her skin, feel the way her curves fit perfectly against him, as if designed just for this.

Their faces were inches apart, her lips parted, her eyes holding his in a way that left him dizzy. He leaned down, close enough that he could feel her breath on his skin, the tension between them thick, tangible, as he brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She tilted her head, her eyes slipping shut, leaning into him just enough to close the distance.

His lips met hers, softly at first, hesitant, as if testing the boundary between what they wanted and what the narrative wanted. But as her lips parted, deepening the kiss, that line blurred, and he found himself pressing against her with a hunger he hadn’t expected. She responded eagerly, her arms looping around his neck, her body arching into his, her soft curves molding against the hard lines of his chest.

He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her toward the bed, the mattress dipping as he lowered her onto it, his body hovering over hers. Her hands roamed over his back, her fingers tangling in his hair as they kissed, their breaths mingling in the quiet, charged air of the room. Her lips were soft, warm, tasting faintly of the beer they’d shared, and he couldn’t help but lose himself in the feeling of her beneath him, her hands, her body, her whispered breaths pulling him deeper into the moment.

But as his hand trailed down her waist, lingering on the curve of her hip, something flickered in the back of his mind—a reminder, faint but insistent. They were here to escape, not to fall into the narrative’s trap, not to let themselves be pulled under completely. The realization brought him back, just enough to pull away, his breath ragged, his heart pounding as he looked down at her, his hand resting on her waist.

“We should ... we should stop,” he murmured, though the words felt foreign, forced, as he struggled to keep his grip on the reality he’d come from. “Before this goes too far.”

Emily blinked up at him, her eyes hazy, her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly swollen from their kiss. She nodded slowly, her fingers slipping from his shoulders, though there was a lingering reluctance in her touch. “Yeah ... yeah, we should,” she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper.

They lay there, caught between the world they’d known and the world they were trapped in, both of them fighting the pull of the story, the way it wanted to mold them, shape them, draw them closer until they were indistinguishable from the roles it had written for them.

But as they drifted off to sleep, Wesley felt the narrative tugging at the edges of his mind, its hooks sinking deeper, whispering promises of pleasure and adventure, of a life that would be simpler, easier if he would just give in.

Tomorrow, he knew, would be harder to resist.

1990, Dances With Wolves. 1991, The Silence of the Lambs. 1992, Unforgiven.

This had been Wesley’s mental ritual that he’d used since he’d first found himself zapped into this 80’s movie. Every morning, when he’d awoken in the soft light of this sexy little beach town, he’d tried to cling to his knowledge of a different world, a world past the glossy sheen of the 80’s. And the easiest thing he’d known how to recall in order to keep himself grounded were the Best Picture winners that came after.

1993, Schindler’s List. 1994, Forrest Gump. 1995, Braveheart.

He groped for his glasses on his bedside table. Then he remembered that the habit, ingrained in him after a week as the town’s resident loser nerd, was no longer necessary. His glasses had changed into sunglasses just that previous night when the first evolutionary wind had struck him. And then, as if remembering a dream, all the other changes came back to him, too.

1996, The English Patient. 1997, Titanic. 1998...

The memories swirled all around him. The party. The dance. The ethereal choreography. Cold beers, hot tunes, big muscles and bigger tits.

1998...

Missy, in that electric blue thong that made the space between his legs ache in the best way. And of course--

“Shakespeare in Love!” he gasped, rolling over.

Emily lay peacefully in “his” bed. Her silky black hair spilled out across her pillow like a beautiful ink stain, somehow perfectly coiffed despite a night of sleep. Her makeup was still fully applied, with nary a smear evident on her white pillow. And beneath the thin linen sheets that ruffled in the ocean breeze, her nipples were very, very clearly erect and hard.

He glanced down his own body. Sure enough, he was sporting a hardness of his own. Certainly one much, much bigger than what he was used to looking down at.

Softly, he slipped out of bed, trying not to wake her. He tried to take in the sight of his place. Modest, barebones, low-budget. Not at all suitable for a protagonist.

You’re not a protagonist, he tried to remind himself. You and Emily are inmates, scheming your way out of a very sexy prison.

But then in the corner, he caught sight of something: a mirror. In something of a daze, he wandered over to it. He could hardly believe what he saw looking back at him.

The young man had wind-tousled blonde hair and bright blue eyes. His skin had a gentle tan to it. His face was boyishly handsome, and starting to gain a certain patrician symmetry to it. And his muscles ... fuck. He had them. They weren’t gigantic, but he hadn’t realized the cumulative effect of all the night’s breezes and little impacts until now. There was some eye-catching definition to them, which the bright morning sunlight only seemed to carve deeper lines into. He was wearing a pair of black briefs he didn’t remember going to sleep in, and their elasticated cotton was having a hell of a time containing the morning wood that Emily had provoked out of him.

1999, he thought, admiring his reflection. He grinned as he experimented with a double-bicep pose. American Beauty.

Emily stirred, the warm sunlight seeping through the window and brushing across her bare shoulders. She stretched languidly, half-expecting to wake up back in her modest apartment in the real world, where the air smelled of coffee and the biggest challenge of her morning was not hitting snooze. But instead, she found herself in a surreal pastel dreamscape, the scent of salty ocean air mixed with something sweet—something she didn’t remember from last night.

Her gaze fell on Wesley as he moved around the tiny kitchen in nothing but a pair of black briefs, his muscled back taut as he worked over the counter. His hair, once unruly and dorky, was tousled into something maddeningly attractive, golden in the sunlight. It hit her, all at once, that he looked almost like the kind of magazine centerfold guy she would’ve cut out in high school and tucked into her journal, back when she was a hopeful romantic with zero sense of irony.

She watched in a haze as he set down a couple of eggs with a mischievous grin, shooting her a glance over his shoulder that made her pulse skip. “Morning, beautiful,” he murmured, the words rolling off his tongue with effortless charm.

“Morning, Blaine,” she replied, amused by the goofy name this place had chosen for him. She slipped out of bed, her skin prickling with the unexpected thrill of walking barefoot toward him, feeling more self-aware than usual in her own body. Her usual pajamas had been replaced with an oversized button-up that only just grazed her upper thighs. Of course. Every step felt purposeful, magnetic, as though she were moving in time with a beat only the two of them could hear.

He held up a frying pan, waggling his eyebrows. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” she answered, her voice husky, surprised to find she meant it in more ways than one. The narrative seemed to be shifting around them, pulling them closer. Every motion, every glance was more intense, more charged than anything she’d experienced outside this bizarre world.

Wesley cracked an egg, and she watched, mesmerized, as the yolk spilled over the pan, sizzling in the butter he’d liberally spread. She found herself leaning against the counter, her eyes tracing the outline of his muscled forearms as he worked, his every movement dripping with effortless sensuality. She was sure he hadn’t known how to cook before, yet here he was, moving with an easy confidence that felt all too practiced.

“Here,” he said, holding a spoonful of honey over the pancake batter with a teasing grin. “Wanna taste?”

She smirked, letting her lips part as she leaned in. Her mouth closed around the spoon, the honey thick and sweet on her tongue. But when she met his gaze, there was nothing innocent about the way he was watching her, his blue eyes darkening. His hand moved to her wrist, his thumb brushing over her pulse, slow and deliberate.

The next thing she knew, she was helping him whip cream in a bowl, her hand over his, the repetitive motion sending a curious heat up her arm. When a dollop of whipped cream landed on her collarbone, she laughed, half-embarrassed, about to swipe it off herself. But Wesley beat her to it, his thumb moving with torturously slow precision as he wiped the cream from her skin, his face inches from hers.

“Missed a spot,” he murmured, his gaze locked onto hers. And before she knew what was happening, he was leaning in, his mouth hovering over her skin. He brushed his lips across her collarbone, capturing the hint of cream left behind, his breath warm against her skin.

Her pulse hammered in her ears, and she found herself gripping the edge of the counter, grounding herself, because her legs were starting to feel like jelly. This isn’t real, she reminded herself. It’s just the narrative pulling us in. It’s just...

But then his lips traced up the side of her neck, his breath hot and heavy as he whispered, “You taste like heaven,” and her resolve crumbled like powdered sugar. She tilted her head, her fingers trailing over his muscled chest, the warmth of his skin almost enough to make her forget why they’d been trying so hard to resist.

They were inches away from surrender when, suddenly, a flicker of a memory broke through the spell. She remembered the dim glow of her apartment, the feel of her own pajamas, the hum of the world outside the one they were in now. She pulled back, her cheeks flushed, her breath coming fast.

“Wesley,” she said softly, her voice thick with the weight of everything they’d almost done. He blinked, the same realization dawning in his eyes as he leaned back, his hand lingering on her waist for just a moment longer than necessary.

“Right,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as though to shake off the spell. “We ... got a little carried away.”

She couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Yeah. I think the bacon’s burning.”

Wesley shot a glance at the pan, grimacing as he rescued the charred remains with a hasty spatula swipe. But before they could even share a knowing smile, something else caught their attention—a distant sound, deep and rolling, like thunder. It was low and rhythmic, familiar in a way that tugged at Wesley’s mind, grounding him back in the surreal beach world they were in.

He frowned, glancing toward the open window. “Is that ... the ocean?”

Drawn by a strange, magnetic pull, he moved to the door, Emily following close behind. They stepped outside, the sand cool beneath their feet, the morning sky a gradient of sherbet-colored clouds as they made their way down to the beach.

As they approached, the familiar figures of the town’s locals came into focus, lining up on the shore with surfboards in hand, most of them half-dressed in tank tops and swim trunks. But the girls—all impossibly beautiful and carefree, their beach-babe bodies shimmering under the early sunlight—were completely, unapologetically naked, laughing as they adjusted their boards.

A local guy with salt-streaked hair and a ripped body grinned at them, giving Wesley a nod. “Hey, Blaine! Ready for some Dawn Surfing?”

Before he could even process the question, one of the girls—a tanned blonde with a wide grin and no shame whatsoever—clapped him on the shoulder, then gave Emily an encouraging nudge toward the lineup. “Hope you’re up for it! Rule of Dawn Surfing is: boys keep their trunks, girls keep nothin’. Just makes the game more interesting!”

Emily’s jaw dropped as the girl flashed her a cheeky grin before running toward the waves, her bare backside bouncing as she dashed through the surf. Wesley turned to Emily, his brows raised in disbelief, but there was something in the air, an electric, undeniable pull that was coaxing him toward the water, daring him to play along.

He managed a sheepish smile, shrugging as he held out a surfboard toward her. “Guess we’re doing this, huh?”

Emily bit her lip, a mixture of reluctance and excitement flickering in her eyes. She could feel the narrative nudging her, telling her this was just another game to play, a rite of passage into this strange, sexy world. And despite her hesitation, a thrill stirred in her chest. This world seemed determined to push every boundary, to draw them into its glossy, seductive embrace.

“Only if you can keep up,” she shot back, surprising herself as she reached for the board, her voice playful, defiant. There was no way she’d let this place break her completely. Not yet.

Together, they waded into the water, the surf cool against their skin as they paddled out. She could feel Wesley’s presence beside her, a reassuring weight in a world that felt increasingly surreal, each wave carrying them further from reality. The locals cheered and laughed, the girls flashing sly glances at the guys, taunting them, daring them to keep their trunks safe.

And as the first wave rose behind her, she felt it—that wild, inexplicable urge to play, to dive headfirst into whatever insane challenge this world threw her way.

Emily grinned, catching Wesley’s eye, feeling the thrill of the waves, the pull of the narrative, the undeniable spark between them.

The water lapped up to embrace Emily and Wesley as they plunged headlong into its glittering vastness. Neither one of them had surfed before this moment. Yet their bodies, once again, seemed to be telling them exactly what to do. A wave gently pulsed underneath them. Emily and Wesley’s eyes met: his round and sapphire, hers amber and exotic. A shared understanding ran through them, an undeniable instinct: Not yet.

“You’re cheating,” Emily said playfully to him. She nodded to his skimpy black briefs, which the water had plastered to him, leaving the contours of his cock quite visible in the bright morning sun. “It’s gonna be, like, really hard to get those off you.”

Wesley clocked her choice of words. He was still erect with desire, a leftover feeling from their electric moment in his little bungalow kitchen that even the gentle coolness of the water couldn’t quell. He grinned back at her, then gestured to the soaked button-down she’d paddled out in. “You’re the one who’s cheating.”

She shook her head. “I just wanted to be able to see your face when I did this.”

Rather than unbutton it, she simply pulled it overhead and casually tossed it aside. It landed on the surf, where other assorted items of discarded beach clothing already floated. But Wesley wasn’t paying attention to that. He was staring at the jaw-dropping beauty of his girl.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t known what Emily’s body looked like now. The clothes this place gave her did everything they could to highlight it. But there was something different about just seeing it for himself. The brown-pink shade of her perfect little nipples, pointing proudly skyward on the ends of her inflated bustline. The alluringly hairless pussy that made his already-hard cock throb with an overwhelming desire to leap off his board and onto hers so he could take her right there in the waves.

She seemed to be able to read his mind. She smirked. “Surf’s up, Blaine.”

Wesley felt a big wave start to catch on his board. “Hang ten, Bunny.”

Neither of them had ever been surfing before this morning. Yet they both instinctively knew exactly when to stand up and how to guide their boards as they were carried into the tide’s watery embrace.

And then they were off: not just them, but all the locals, the sun lavishing light across their bare, tight bodies. Wesley was quick to steer his board clear of Emily, thinking she’d go for a quick grab. But when he looked back, she’d hared off straight for the guy who’d challenged them to dawn surfing in the first place. He hadn’t expected someone to come after him right away. He tried to steer himself clear of her, but Emily’s hand wrapped confidently around the loose folds of his red-and-blue striped trunks and pulled. He grinned and the other locals laughed as his bare pink cock flapped in the breeze.

The wave surged beneath her as Emily tightened her grip on the guy’s trunks. Some part of her mind knew his name was Rad. She hadn’t known that seconds ago, but now that information was fully formed in her mind, as real as his red-and-blue trunks, that she was giving a playful yank. They slid right off, leaving his bare ass glistening in the morning light. Rad let out a hoot, his voice breaking into a carefree laugh that seemed to echo over the whole beach. He turned back to her, clearly unfazed by his sudden exposure, grinning like he’d just won the jackpot.