Chapter 6: Pretty in Pink

When Emily finally exited the changing room--ladies loved their clothes shopping--she had chosen the very first outfit, the indecent micro dress that shimmered like a dragon’s hoard. She looked like ... well, honestly, she looked like a trophy. A beautiful little thing to be put up on display. A walking, talking set of bragging rights. And based on the way it silhouetted her long legs and her swollen bustline, there was a lot to brag about.

“I can’t believe this is your favorite,” she murmured, unsure of where her embarrassment at the outfit and her self-consciousness about Blaine’s attentions began. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Blaine’s attention. Increasingly, she found it invigorating, as much a sign that she was doing something right as the cosmic hand of the narrative itself reaching out. But it was wrong to pin so much on the attentions and approvals of some man, wasn’t it?

Only ... Blaine wasn’t just some man. For one thing, he was her partner in this enterprise to get themselves free of the 80’s pocket reality. And for another, just, like, look at him. He wasn’t built like other men. The serum at the Flex demonstration had transformed him into a towering, swaggering beach stud, armored in three hundred and fifty pounds of muscle without a single ounce of fat to mar him. Just looking at him made her mouth water in ways that she, theoretically, should have been better than. He was becoming a throwback to an older, more simplistic version of masculinity: the biggest, bestest guy got to do what he wanted, when he wanted to do it, to whomever he wished to do it to.

Beneath the shiny fabric of her microdress, her traitorous little cunt twinged at the thought.

Blaine, for his part, had chosen a new outfit: a neon magenta speedo with random crisscrossing lines of pastel teal. It was as if someone had managed to compress an entire decade’s visual aesthetic into barely one square foot of spandex, and then wrap it around a single man’s middle. When Emily gave him an amused little smirk, he simply smirked back. “What, you think you girls get to have all the fun? If I’ve got a body that looks like this, I sure as hell want to see it. Besides, you fucking love it.”

And with a controlling swat to her ass, he directed her towards the front of the store.

A hot chick--was there any other kind in this town?--practically leapt out of a rack of neon spandex. “Emily!” she said again. “Hi! It’s me, remember? Veronica?”

Blaine frowned. He didn’t really remember seeing this chick around town at all. And he was pretty sure he had the proper memory for a good piece of ass, which this bikini-clad hottie definitely was. Its strappy silver design absolutely screamed for attention, which Blaine was all to happy to give it. Dimly, he mused about how complementary the two even were--silver and gold.

“Ohmygosh, how funny for us to run into each other like this!” Veronica went on with a laugh that rang just a little bit hollow. There was an intensity to her eyes that Blaine categorized with a certain misogynistic certainty as “crazy.” The kind that was maybe a bit tedious to deal with when you had to, like, hang out with them and stuff, but almost always translated into fun energy when it was time to get naked.

Once upon a yesterday, that train of thought would have at least raised a flag--both for its casual sexism, and for the fact that even a pre-nerd Wesley had never experienced such success with women that he could so freely categorize their bedroom habits as related to him. But Blaine fundamentally didn’t believe that any woman was unattainable. Blaine fundamentally believed that every woman was his, whether they knew it yet or not.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” he said, enjoying the new, slightly lower register of his enhanced voice. His hand swallowed hers as he shook it. “I’m Blaine. Emily and I are, like, new to this beach.”

“V-Veronica Valmont,” she replied. “And we’ve definitely met! Loads of times! At dawn surfing, and at the party, and at the Wet Spot just now, and...”

Blaine and Bunny exchanged a quizzical glance with each other. “Not ringing any bells,” Blaine said casually. He was being pleasant because she was hot, but he was annoyed that she’d interrupted his fun in the dressing room. His new body was practically suffering from testosterone poisoning. He wanted to get the full scope of what it--he--was capable of.

“Anyway, I was totally wandering through this store on my own and I just happened to see you guys completely by coincidence, and at the same time I found this flyer!” It looked as if it had been nowhere near this store, if the outside sun-bleaching was any indication. But on the flyer itself, text screamed:

WET T-SHIRT CONTEST CASH PRIZE

Emily blinked as she took the flyer from Veronica, her manicured fingers brushing against the edges. The bold, garish letters announcing WET T-SHIRT CONTEST CASH PRIZE practically screamed off the page, matching the over-the-top aesthetic of the boutique they were in. She could feel Blaine’s massive presence behind her, his heat radiating as he leaned in over her shoulder to read the flyer too.

“A wet t-shirt contest, huh?” Blaine’s voice was a low rumble, teasing and confident, as if he already knew exactly how this was going to play out. His hand settled on the small of Emily’s back, possessive but steady. “Sounds like a chance to raise some of that money we need.”

Emily flushed, her mind racing. A wet t-shirt contest? Seriously? She glanced back at Blaine, her eyes narrowing as she tried to gauge his expression. The smirk he gave her was maddeningly unreadable—was he joking, or was he seriously considering this as a solution to their Pearson problem?

Her gaze dropped back to the flyer. The prize money was substantial, sure. But the thought of stepping up on a stage, soaked and on display for everyone, sent a mix of dread and ... something else rippling through her. She glanced down at her microdress, the way the gold shimmered against her skin. It was already barely there, barely decent. And a wet t-shirt contest? That was a step beyond.

No way, she told herself. Absolutely not.

“Emily,” Veronica said, her voice honeyed and sweet, but with an edge that Emily couldn’t quite place. “You’d be perfect for this. I mean, you’ve already got the look.” Her gaze dipped pointedly toward Emily’s chest, where her new, generous curves were barely contained by the microdress.

“I don’t think so,” Emily replied quickly, her cheeks flushing even deeper. She stepped back, brushing against Blaine’s solid frame in the process. His hand moved, settling lightly on her hip, and the casual intimacy of it made her heart race. “I’m not exactly the wet t-shirt type. It’s like ... Soooooooooo problematic! Like totally problematic.”

“Really?” Blaine asked, his voice teasing. He leaned down, his lips close to her ear as he added, “Because I think you’d win by a landslide.”

Emily turned to glare at him, but the heat of his gaze made her stomach flip. He wasn’t even trying to hide the way his eyes roamed her body, taking in every curve and angle. The attention was electric, thrilling in a way that she couldn’t quite rationalize.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, shoving the flyer back toward Veronica. “We’ll find another way to raise the money. Something that doesn’t involve ... this.”

“Why not?” Veronica pressed, her smile too wide, too eager. “It’s for a good cause, right? Saving the beach?” She tilted her head, her blonde hair catching the light. “Besides, it’s not like you’d be doing it alone. Blaine could compete too. They don’t say it’s just for girls.”

Emily blinked. “What?”

Veronica gestured to Blaine, who was still standing confidently behind Emily, his muscled arms crossed over his massive chest. “I mean, look at him. He’d kill it. Wet t-shirts aren’t just about cleavage, you know. They’re about the whole ... Package. Don’t you think Blaine has a great package?” Her eyes raked over Blaine with a boldness that made Emily’s stomach tighten.

“Bunny,” Blaine said, his smirk widening as he turned Emily slightly to face him. His hands rested lightly on her shoulders, his grip firm but not forceful. “Think about it. You and me. Tag team. We could blow everyone else out of the water.”

Emily shook her head, her ponytail swishing as she tried to collect herself. “I’m not—this isn’t—I mean, it’s just—ugh!” She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest, which only served to push her cleavage up further. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Blaine asked, his tone infuriatingly casual. His hands slid down her arms, his touch warm and steady. “We need the money, right? And it’d be fun. You said it yourself—sometimes it’s okay to let loose a little. To play along.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Emily muttered, though the memory of her own words made her falter. She glanced at Blaine again, his towering, perfect form, the way his speedo clung to him like a second skin. He looked like he belonged in a competition like this, like he could own the stage without even trying.

And then there was her. Emily—smart, serious, responsible Emily. She’d spent so much of her life trying to be the opposite of what this world wanted her to be. She wasn’t the kind of girl who entered wet t-shirt contests. She wasn’t the kind of girl who let herself be ogled and objectified. She wasn’t the kind of girl who—

It was High School. Her real High School. She was sitting at the back of the cafeteria with her tray balanced precariously on her knees. Her lunch—a sad, soggy PB&J and a bruised apple—lay untouched. Around her, the cacophony of high school life raged on: cheerleaders giggling at the popular table, jocks tossing French fries at each other, cliques forming like impenetrable islands in a vast sea of noise.

Emily was on an island of her own, but not by choice.

She glanced down at her notebook, pretending to write something. She wasn’t. She was doodling—random, meaningless lines that filled the page but didn’t do much to fill the aching void in her chest. The silence around her was deafening. No one sat next to her. No one talked to her.

She remembered trying, again and again. It always went the same. She’d approached a table of girls she vaguely knew from some class.

“Hey, can I sit here?” she’d asked, her voice trembling with the kind of hope that felt like a dare.

One of the girls had glanced up, her perfectly glossed lips curling into a polite but distant smile. “Oh, sorry, Emily,” she’d said, her tone dripping with insincerity. “We’re kind of full.”

The table wasn’t full. There was an empty chair right there.

The words changed time by time. But never the outcome. Every Time she’d mumbled something incoherent and walked away, cheeks burning, her vision blurring as she fought back tears.

Later, at home, she’d stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. She’d never been one for makeup, but that night she’d rummaged through her mom’s drawer, smearing on a little eyeliner, a swipe of lipstick. She’d tried smiling, tried looking confident. But the reflection staring back at her looked awkward, unfamiliar. It wasn’t her.

In college, things had been ... better, she supposed. She’d had a few friends, study groups, people to sit with at lunch. But she’d always felt like an afterthought, a placeholder. Guys didn’t ask her out. When she developed a crush on a boy in her chem lab, she’d spent weeks psyching herself up to talk to him.

When she finally did, he’d smiled at her—not unkindly, but dismissively. “Oh, hey, Emily. Uh, sorry, but I’m actually into someone else.”

“Someone else” turned out to be her roommate: blonde, bubbly, and effortlessly popular.

Her thoughts faltered as Blaine leaned in closer, his presence overwhelming. “Bunny,” he said softly, his voice low and coaxing. “What’s the harm? It’s just a contest. And who knows? You might like being popular.”

She looked up at him, her heart pounding. His blue eyes were piercing, his smirk both infuriating and irresistible. She hated how easily he got under her skin, how he made her question things she’d always been so sure of.

“Maybe...” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Blaine grinned, his hands giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “That’s my girl.”

Veronica clapped her hands together, her smile practically glowing. “Perfect! I’ll sign you up. It starts in five minutes!” And with that, she sauntered off, leaving the flier fluttering in Emily’s hands.

Emily barely had time to process Veronica’s parting words before Blaine glanced at the flyer, his cocky grin sharpening. “Five minutes? Bunny, we gotta move.”

“What?! No, I—wait!” But Blaine didn’t wait. With an effortless swoop, he picked her up as if she weighed nothing, her legs dangling awkwardly as he strode out of the boutique and toward the contest location.

“Blaine!” she hissed, her hands instinctively gripping his broad shoulders. His muscles shifted beneath her palms, hard and unyielding, and she hated how much she didn’t hate the feel of them. “Put me down!”

“You’ll thank me later,” he replied smoothly, the confidence in his tone brooking no argument.

The Wet T-Shirt Contest was already in full swing by the time they arrived. A small stage had been set up on the beach, surrounded by a crowd of eager onlookers. The sound of 80’s synth-pop blared from nearby speakers, the upbeat rhythm mingling with the roar of the ocean. A neon banner overhead declared, “Wettest Wins!” in flashing pink letters, and a lineup of contestants was already forming at the edge of the stage.

Emily’s heart sank as she took in the scene. Every single contestant was blonde, blue-eyed, and impossibly tanned, their sun-kissed skin practically glowing under the afternoon light. They all wore identical white t-shirts—thin, fitted, and clearly designed to become transparent the moment they touched water. Paired with the high-cut bikini bottoms each girl wore, the shirts left almost nothing to the imagination.

And then there was Emily. She glanced down at herself, feeling more out of place than ever. Her golden-amber skin stood in stark contrast to the pale, bronzed tones of the other girls. Her long, dark black hair, still tied back with the makeshift ponytail holder made from her panties, was a far cry from the voluminous, teased-out waves the blondes were sporting. Even her makeup, bold and permanently applied thanks to Bikini Week science magic, only made her more strikingly different.

Blaine set her down gently, his hands lingering on her waist for a moment before he stepped back. “Look at you,” he said, his voice low and admiring. “You’re gonna steal the show.”

“I’m not doing this,” Emily muttered, her cheeks flaming. She tugged at the hem of her microdress, suddenly hyper-aware of how small it was. “This is insane.”

“Bunny,” Blaine said, his tone coaxing as he stepped closer, “you’re already here. Might as well have a little fun.”

“Fun?” she echoed, her voice rising. “This isn’t fun, Blaine! This is—this is—” But her words faltered as one of the event organizers approached, handing her the required white t-shirt and directing her toward the changing area.

Emily sighed, realizing there was no backing out now. With one last glare at Blaine—who looked entirely too pleased with himself—she grabbed the shirt and disappeared behind the makeshift curtain.

When she emerged, the transformation was stunning. The white t-shirt clung to her petite frame like a second skin, the hem brushing just below her hips. The fabric was already semi-transparent, teasing the golden glow of her skin beneath it. Emily’s black lace panties—still tied around her ponytail—stood out starkly against her amber tone.

She tugged nervously at the hem, acutely aware of how the shirt emphasized every curve and line of her body. Her slim waist, the soft swell of her hips, the full, perky curves of her chest—all of it was on display in a way that made her feel both exposed and ... powerful?

Her dark hair, sleek and glossy, tumbled down her back in striking contrast to the light, airy waves of the blondes around her. Her almond-shaped eyes, framed by the dramatic eyeliner and shimmering eyeshadow of her bimbo makeover, sparkled with a mix of apprehension and determination. And her lips—full, pouty, and painted a bold red—stood out like a beacon, drawing every eye to her.

Emily glanced at the other contestants, feeling a pang of self-consciousness. They were all gorgeous in that classic, all-American way, their blonde hair and blue eyes perfectly suited to the beachy, sun-drenched setting. But Emily? She was the outlier. The exotic one. The only Asian girl in a sea of blondes.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers, drawing the crowd’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Wet T-Shirt Contest! Let’s meet our lovely contestants!” One by one, the girls were introduced, each stepping forward to cheers and whistles from the audience.

When it was Emily’s turn, she hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest. But then she felt Blaine’s hand on her lower back, steadying her, urging her forward.

“You’ve got this,” he murmured, his voice low and confident.

Taking a deep breath, Emily stepped onto the stage. The crowd’s reaction was immediate. There was a collective murmur of surprise, followed by a wave of cheers that seemed even louder than before. She felt every eye on her, the weight of their gazes making her skin prickle.

“Contestant number seven, Bunny!” the announcer called, and the crowd erupted again.

Emily forced a smile, her cheeks burning as she waved to the audience. The other girls gave her sideways glances, their perfectly plucked brows furrowing in faint annoyance. She didn’t fit the mold, and that clearly didn’t sit well with them.

The music blasted from the speakers, and the first spray of water hit her from the side of the stage. The cold burst against her skin made her gasp, her back arching involuntarily as the wet fabric clung even tighter to her curves. The crowd went wild, their cheers rising to a fever pitch as Emily began to move.

The icy cascade of water down Emily’s front sent a shiver through her, but not of discomfort. No, this was something far more visceral. The crowd roared its approval as the shirt plastered itself against her body, highlighting every curve of her now impossibly ample chest. For a moment, she forgot the competition, forgot the audience, and simply reveled in the sensation.

Her massive tits bounced and jiggled with every slight movement, and she couldn’t help but giggle. Is this what it feels like? she wondered, her thoughts giddy. No wonder girls in these movies love this stuff. These things are ... fun!

She gave an experimental shimmy, feeling the weight shift, and her wet shirt pulled taut with a delightful little snap over her erect nipples. She laughed outright, unable to resist cupping her boobs in her hands and giving them a playful squeeze. They filled her palms completely, and the soft, heavy weight was intoxicating.

“What do you call them?” she murmured to herself, the thought blooming in her mind like a silly little flower. “Boobs? Tits? Jugs?”

And then it hit her: a song. A ridiculous, upbeat, synth-heavy song about breasts, running through her mind as though the narrative itself had planted it there.

“These are my ta-tas!”

She couldn’t help but laugh at her own improvisation, swaying her hips and giving an exaggerated bounce as the imaginary beat thrummed in her head.

“My fun bags, my rack...”

And soon enough the beat wasn’t imaginerary. A full band had somehow come into view and was playing a boppy upbeat tune as she sang to the crowd.

As the sultry beats of “These Are My Tatas” began to pulse through the speakers, Emily’s every movement radiating raw, unfiltered sensuality. Her soaked shirt clung tightly to her curves, teasing the crowd with the faint outline of her pert nipples, now prominently visible under the wet fabric. She licked her lips slowly, savoring the taste of the moment, and let the first verse roll over her like a tide.

“Sunshine’s high, and I’m feelin’ fine...” she crooned, swaying her hips in slow, deliberate circles. She slid her hands up her body, fingers grazing over her drenched, taut stomach, then tracing the swell of her breasts. She gave them a playful squeeze, her grin wicked as she turned toward the crowd and arched her back, thrusting her chest forward to the beat. The wet t-shirt left nothing to the imagination, and Emily reveled in the eyes glued to her every move.

When the lyrics hit “Got my cherries in place, and my coconuts too,” Emily leaned forward, cupping her full breasts and bouncing them in time with the beat, her grin cheeky and unapologetic. “You like that?” she teased, her voice barely audible over the roaring crowd. She gave her chest a little jiggle, biting her bottom lip as if daring them to beg for more.

As the chorus thundered through the air, Emily threw her head back, running her hands up her torso before gripping the hem of her soaked shirt. She didn’t pull it off but teased the motion, raising it just enough to show the undersides of her breasts, glistening with water and sunlight. She leaned in close to the edge of the stage, giving the front row a tantalizing view as she shook her chest in their faces, laughing when the cheers grew deafening.