Pushover 2

The thought of having actual sex with Arnold floods my brain. It's unthinkable, yet the heat between my legs flares up at the thought, the pussy I now possess throbbing at the sheer disgrace of it all.

Arnold nods, leaning closer, his eyes alight with anticipation. "Yeah, let me fuck you, Tammy. You could help a brother out, you know? Lose our virginity together, share that experience."

I recoil, shaking my head frantically.

"No, Arnold! That's… That's not happening!" I bark at him, feeling the onslaught of fear mixing with the damning arousal humming through my veins.

But Arnold, forever the persistent prick, doesn't stop. He continues, as if he's bargaining for a prize, not realizing the gravity of what he's demanding. "No, listen, Tammy," he starts, his tone placating, "Remember all those times we covered for you? It's time you paid it forward."

Incredibly, I feel myself starting to waver, his words like a vile mantra in my head. His cock is just inches from my face, its size a threatening promise of the degradation to come, and yet my body betrays me again, my pussy reacting with a shameful spasm of desire at the mere sight of it.

I clench my thighs together, trying to suppress the throbbing ache that's building. It's like I can actually feel my arousal seeping through me, the warmth spreading from my lower belly, tightening my breasts, creeping up my neck and flushing my cheeks.

The fear and revulsion that I initially felt is now overshadowed by the uncomfortable sensation of lust that's taking root deep within me. My body is responding on its own, my mind no longer in control. My nipples tighten, my pussy contracts, and all I can think of is the disgusting promise of having Arnold inside me.

Arnold carries on with his despicable negotiation. "We could even study together for that Comp Sci certification you've been stressing about. We're friends, right?" Then his tone changes, a sudden earnestness blooming. "Think about it, Tammy. We could have a story that will impress any chick. We could be...cool. You know, once someone in the group loses their virginity, the rest will follow like a domino effect."

His words, disgusting as they are, ignite a spark of rebellious desire. The thought of these pathetic losers lusting over me, the idea that I could control them, manipulate their desires to my benefit, strikes a chord deep within me. Arnold's desperate bargaining, the way he reduces our friendship to mere exchanges of favors, makes me want to exploit his vulnerability, to make him beg and plead.

He continues, his voice a blend of excitement and nervous anticipation. "I promise I'll be gentle. It won't hurt. I bet it will feel really good for you. You know, stretched out around me."

The crass invitation strikes a nerve and, despite myself, I feel a shiver run through me. The suggestion of pleasure makes my body react in a way I've never experienced before.

My protests get weaker until finally, I feel my resolve crumbling under Arnold's tactless persuasion. It's not so much his words, pathetic as they are, but my body's overbearing response to them that gives me pause.

"Fine," I whisper, my voice barely audible.

But Arnold, in his excitement, misses it. I have to repeat myself.

His face lights up with joy, his smile almost blinding, a sign of victory that I can't bear to look at. I lower my gaze, the pit in my stomach sinking further as the reality sets in.

"Alright, Tammy," Arnold says, his voice cracking, betraying his nervous anticipation. "Now, let's get those sweatpants off, shall we?"

I nod mutely, my mind too overwhelmed to voice my consent. I feel his hands shaking as he reaches for the waistband of my sweatpants, the coarse material brushing against my soft skin as he gingerly lowers them. I whimper at the cold air brushing against my exposed skin, my pussy throbbing in sync with my racing heartbeat.

But it's when he starts to pull down my boxers that I truly understand the gravity of the situation. The cool air hits my pussy, and I shiver, wrapping my arms around my body in a futile attempt to preserve my dignity. Arnold just laughs.

"Oh, man," he chuckles. "You ARE sopping wet!"

I find myself on my hands and knees on the worn-out couch, my newly acquired breasts dangling beneath me. Every breath I take sends them swaying slightly, a constant reminder of the absurdity of the situation. My tits feel heavier than I would have imagined, their weight making me hunch over more than necessary. They sway and jiggle, bouncing with each tension-filled inhale, brushing against the rough fabric of the couch creating pleasurable friction I never thought I'd experience.

I feel Arnold positioning himself behind me, his clammy hands splaying on my fuller, rounder ass cheeks. His touch sends a shiver up my spine, the dreadful anticipation tugging at my insides. The sensation of my ass being engulfed by his hands is unnerving and oddly titillating.

"Damn, Tammy, your ass is so fucking big," he croons, his voice filled with a sense of achievement and awe. "Just like a chick's, fucking perfect."

"Shut up, Arnold," I snap, cringing at the endorsement from my so-called friend. There's a pause, the stillness in the room is oppressive, heavy with unsaid words and stifling tension.

"I'm just saying..." His voice trails off, and he gives my ass another squeeze. I twitch, biting my lower lip to stifle the gasp threatening to escape.

"Okay, okay, just... be gentle," I implore, hearing the shaky, feminine voice that now came from me. It sends a weird jolt through my body, the reality hitting me all over again – I'd been turned into a fucking girl!

I can't see what he's doing back there, the uncertainty ratcheting my nerves even higher. I feel something hard and smooth against my new, sensitive cunt, a gasp escaping my lips. I realize it's the head of his cock. I brace myself, squeezing my eyes shut as I feel him start to press against my entrance. A lot of pressure.

"Arnold, I said be gentle!" I bark out, feeling my body jerk at the intense sensation.

"Alright, alright!" He retorts, sounding slightly miffed, but he does pull out.

Then I hear a spitting sound. I feel a momentary bout of humiliation when I realize that Arnold's just spat on his hand and is now rubbing it on his cock for lubrication. He's about to fuck me, and I can't believe I'm actually letting this happen.

Suddenly, I feel him push inside again. This time it's a forceful thrust, like he's shoving himself inside me, and I let out a high-pitched squeal.

His thick cock stretches me out painfully. It's only five inches, but it feels like a goddamn football is lodged in my cunt. I can feel my pussy clenching involuntarily around him, the contrast of his rough thrusting to my body's instinctual tightness causing a barrage of discomfort and pleasure.

The thought of Arnold, my annoying and pathetic friend, now fucking me from behind, going balls-deep into my new pussy, makes me feel sicker than eating a whole package of expired Twinkies. How had this happened? How had I let my life take this shameful turn?

Arnold's intrusive, harsh breathing fills my ears, his groans and grunts of pleasure a disgusting soundtrack to my degradation. I can feel the heat radiating off his skinny body, his sweaty chest slapping against the roundness of my ass with each desperate thrust.

Every time I try to move, to escape, his hand slams down on the small of my back, keeping me pinned in place like a piece of fucking furniture. His rough palm feels alien against my soft, feminine skin, his fingers digging in every time I whimper in discomfort.

I feel pathetic, vulnerable, my body burning with humiliation as I let Arnold have his way. My feelings of revulsion are intercut with sparks of pleasure, sending confusing signals through my mind. As much as I hate to admit it, being taken from behind, being claimed, my breasts swaying with each of his harsh thrusts, is making me feel something intensely erotic that I can't understand or control.

A loud, obscene slap echoes in the room. I yelp in surprise and pain, my body jerking in response. The hell was that?

"Arnold!" I yell out, the shock and humiliation clear in my voice.

"Shut up when I'm balls deep inside you, bitch!" He snarls, slapping my ass again. The unexpected sting makes me arch my back, a startled squeak escaping my lips.

He's turned into a fucking monster! A part of me wants to resist, to fight back, but the shock and unexpected touch of pleasure from his slaps keep me silent.

I stay still, allowing the shame to wash over me. The fucking jerk is using me, his hand on the small of my back holding me in place. Each of his thrusts is met with a wet slapping sound that reverberates in the small room. The obscene, lewd noise of my friend fucking me.

I'm horrified as I feel a rumble of pleasure rise from deep inside me. I can't believe what's happening. The sounds, the feeling of Arnold's cock inside me, his hand on my back, the slapping of his balls against my pussy... It's all horrible...but somehow, incredibly erotic. The situation is totally debauched and out of control, but my body seems to revel in the depravity of it all.

I feel Jerry's cold gaze on us, his grating laughter ringing in my ears. I feel his scrutiny on my naked form, watching as Arnold plunges his cock into me. I can hear the smacking of his sweaty skin against my jiggling ass, the wet squelch of my drenched pussy swallowing him whole. And to my utter dismay, I can't stop the moans from escaping my mouth.

The feeling of Arnold's thick cock slamming into me is too much. It's like an intense fire kindling inside me, a deep heat that's growing with each thrust. To feel a man dominate me, to feel his power and control over my submissive body, it sends shivers of delight and disgust coursing through me.

His cock fills up my new pussy and I feel stretched to the brink. Every thrust is like a slap to my ass, my tits jiggling in response. He's grunting, the sound grating to my ears, his fingers digging into my soft skin leaving marks.

"Fuck, Tammy," Arnold gasps, his voice strained. "Your cunt is so fucking tight."

Jerry's laughter cuts through the room, his words like a cold slap across my face.

"Hahaha... can't believe you're being fucked by Arnold, bro!" He jeers, his words twisting the knife further. "Bet you never imagined he'd be your first!"

I gasp, my mind spinning. Jerry's words hammer into my skull, pounding the humiliation deeper into me. I feel a lump forming in my throat. His crude remarks are making my stomach churn.

But I can't ignore the perverse pleasure that's been building inside me. Despite the humiliation, despite the degradation, I can feel my body responding – I'm getting fucking turned on! My pussy is clenching around Arnold's cock, wanting more, craving that deep, pounding thrust that sends waves of unfamiliar pleasure shooting up my spine.

"Shut up, Jerry!" Arnold snaps, a hint of irritation in his voice. His hands grip my hips tighter, his thrusts slowing down.

"Ya, shut up, Jerry!" I echo, my voice breathy and high.

"Look at you two," Jerry laughs again, ignoring us. "You're fucking made for each other."

I roll my eyes, the heat in my face intensifying. Jerry's being an absolute prick, but that doesn't surprise me one bit. His crude comments only serve to heighten the pleasure that's threatening to consume me.

Arnold's cock fills me up, stretching out my unaccustomed pussy. The sensation is too much; it's overwhelming, invasive.

"Slow down, Arnold!" I gasp out, my voice a broken whimper. Each syllable jostled by the rhythm of his thrusts. My plea earns a chuckle from Jerry, who finds the whole situation hilarious.

"You heard the lady, Ardvark!" Jerry jeers, his voice smug. "Slow and steady wins the race."

Arnold grunts, his grip on my hips tightening. "Quiet, Jerry. I'm fucking a slut. Something you'll never get to do, probably," he snarls, the veneer of his earlier 'gentlemanly' pretense now thoroughly discarded.

Hot prickles of shame race down my spine at Jerry's crude words. My face burns, and I can practically feel the flush of embarrassment staining my cheeks. Suddenly, I'm hyper-aware of my own body - my breasts, bouncing with each of Arnold's thrusts; my ass, jiggling against his hips; the wet squelch of my pussy, shamefully aroused.

My senses are overloaded. The room is filled with the smell of sex - my new pussy, slick and juicy from Arnold's eager thrusts, and the musky scent of his sweat. I squirm, trying to escape the discomfort of the intense sensations, the acrid scent in my nostrils, the sounds of our bodies colliding. But Arnold's hand on my back, pressing me down, doesn't relent.

"Fuck, Tammy!" Arnold groans, his voice low and gruff. "Your pussy feels fucking amazing. So tight! So much better than jerking off."

His filthy words cause my heart to pound louder in my chest. I can't believe this is happening - that my friend is talking to me like that, treating me like some common whore. I can feel my stomach clenching in mortification and unwanted pleasure.

"Arnold, you're..." I stammer out, my sentence trailing off into an agonized moan as his cock hits someplace deep inside me that sends shocks of pleasure radiating through my body. My fingers desperately clutch at the worn-out sheets, knuckles blanching under the strain. "Too much!"

Jerry's laughter echoes in the room, the sound grating on my nerves. "Such a fucking princess, aren't you, Tammy?" he mocks. "Hear that, Arnold? You're doing a great job, man!"

"Oh yeah, I gotta record this!"

With my face buried into the old, stained couch, my humiliation is only heightened by the rough texture scratching against my flushed cheeks. My body feels on fire, streaks of both pleasure and shame crisscrossing all over me. I hear Arnold's low, satisfied chuckles as he watches his cock disappear and reappear from my pussy.

"God, look at that!" He groans, narrating to his phone camera as he records my jiggling butt. "My fucking cock… burying into your tight pussy, Tammy. This is so much better than jerking off."

My body surges with humiliation, my face burning. I feel so vulnerable, so exposed. He's capturing my depravity, the sight of his cock plunging into my new pussy, to gloat about it later. This is too much. This is so fucked up.

"Arnold, stop!" I gasp, my voice hoarse.

"Nope!" He grunts, even as his other hand grabs a handful of my long hair, pulling my head back, forcing me to arch my back. "The folks on the internet need to see a real man fucking a real pussy!"

I can't stop the shuddering sob that escapes me. This is so fucked up! He's treating me like a goddamn porn star, his own personal fuck toy, and the worst part? My body is betraying me, betraying Timmy. I can feel my walls clenching around him, the wet squelch of my pussy making my insides churn in humiliation.

And then it hits me.

It starts as a slow throb that spreads outward from deep within my pussy, a warmth that radiates through my trembling body. My heart pounds in my chest, my skin feels hyper-sensitive, my breaths become ragged, the sensation building at an agonizing pace.

"Arnold..." I gasp out, my words turning into a low moan as another thrust sends sparks of pleasure shooting through me. It's like my entire world narrows down to the feel of his cock sliding in and out of my overheated pussy. The pressure is building, coiling in my belly, an intensity that I've never felt before as Timmy.

I'm so close. Close to what, I'm not entirely sure, but it feels like I'm teetering on the edge of something enormous, something earth-shattering.

His pace quickens, his cock slamming into me again and again, my body greedily consuming him. My breasts bounce with each of his thrusts, a constant reminder of my transformation.

"Fuck Tammy! I can feel you clenching around me!" Arnold grunts out, his voice strained. "You love it, don't you? Love my cock inside you?"

I want to deny it. I want to tell him to go to hell. But my body's responses betray me before I can. The build-up in my belly snaps and pleasure crashes over me like a tidal wave. I can't hold back my scream, the sound loud and filled with surprise.

My body convulses, my pussy clenching hard around Arnold's cock. I feel a rush of wetness, followed by wave after wave of pleasure. My legs shake violently, my inner muscles spasming around his cock, he keeps slapping my ass, and I squeal in oversensitivity.

I'm coming. I'm coming on Arnold's cock. And he's filming it. My mind goes blank with ecstasy, the only sound I can make are garbled moans and my own name being said over and over again.

"See that, guys?" Arnold gloats, spanking my ass again, making me yelp. "I've made a girl cum with my fucking cock!"

Jerry just scoffs but I hardly hear him, my entire being consumed by the bliss of my orgasm. When I come down from my high, I'm panting hard, my chest heaving, my body feeling like it's made of jelly.

"Arnold...stop..." I manage to whimper, the aftershocks of my orgasm making me feel incredibly sensitive. "I need a break."

With a loud, wet plop, Arnold pulls out of me, leaving my pussy feeling suddenly empty and gaped wide. The cool air hits my exposed, sensitive slit, making me flinch. Another humiliating reminder that I'm so far from the nerdy guy I was this morning.

"Okay, I'll stop, Tammy," Arnold grins, giving my ass a light pat. His touch resonates through my flesh, making my breasts sway slightly.

His hands, sticky with my juices, leave goosebumps on my pale skin. I squirm under his touch, a soft whimper escaping my lips. My heart is beating hard and fast in my chest, the sound of it pounding in my ears.

My mind is a whirl of thoughts: humiliation, betrayal, confusion, and a sense of exhilaration I hate to admit. I'm torn between wanting to be left alone and the mounting desire to see this through.

Arnold is quick to capitalize on my vulnerability. He maneuvers me down onto my knees, positioning me in front of him. His hard cock is just inches away from my face, glossy with my juices under the harsh room light.

"Get ready," he smirks, grabbing his cock at the base. His knuckles go white as he tightens his grip on himself, the hard flesh shifting and twitching under his touch.

Jerry chuckles, the sound of it grating on my nerves. He's lounging comfortably on the couch, his sneering gaze fixed on me. He's enjoying my humiliation, happy to see me finally brought down a peg or two.

Arnold starts to work his cock over my face, pumping his shaft with quick, controlled flicks of his wrist. The head of his cock bobs in front of my eyes, the sight of it forcing a whimper out of my throat.

The musky scent of Arnold and sex fills my nose, making my head spin. It's an intimate smell – of sweat and arousal – and it's far too close for comfort. My breath catches in my throat as I anticipate the thick ropes of cum that will soon splatter against my face.

"Look at our little slut, all ready to catch my load," Arnold taunts, his voice thick with arrogance. From the corner of my eye, I spot Jerry, my so-called best friend, grinning like a Cheshire cat. His amusement at my expense is clear, only adding to the heat of my embarrassment.

Arnold's deep, low grunts fill the room, the sound echoing in my ears. His body tenses up, and I close my eyes instinctively, waiting for the hot mess that is about to hit my face.

"Open your eyes, Tammy," Arnold commands, a smirk in his voice. I can almost picture the cruel gleam in his eyes as he watches me squirm with discomfort. "I want you to see this. Every. Single. Drop."

His words send a shudder of disgust and... and... arousal through me. I hate that he can affect me like this, reducing me to a whimpering, subservient mess.

I open my eyes slowly, meeting Arnold's. His pleasure is evident, his eyes flickering with unrestrained delight at my distressed state. I want to look away, but something in his gaze compels me to hold it.

My face is flushed, my lips swollen from his rough face-fucking. My breasts sway with each shaky breath I take, nipples hardening under the cool air. My pussy throbs with each wave of delayed aftershocks, a direct contradiction to my emotional turmoil.

"Here it comes, Tammy," Arnold grunts, his voice strained. His cock gives a hard twitch, a single drop of pre-cum beading at the slit.

I barely have time to comprehend Arnold's warning before he's gripping my hair, holding me still as his cock gives a violent lurch, the first shot of cum rushing out and splattering across my left cheek.

"No, no, don't-"

His cum is hot, hotter than Jerry's was in my mouth. It's heavy and distinct, leaving a hot trail that begins to cool rapidly on my skin, causing me to shudder at the bizarre sensation. Immediately, his musky stench fills my nostrils, an overwhelming aroma that nearly makes my eyes water.

"That's it, Tammy, take it all," Arnold grunts, a dark satisfaction in his voice.

The second shot comes quickly, arching over my nose to stick in my hair. The gooey substance tangles in my locks, an immediate sticky mess that pulls at my scalp. I wince, clenching my eyes shut as his cum begins to drip down into my eyebrows.

Arnold's almost primal laughter echoes in my ears as he continues to coat my face in his seed, each subsequent squirt landing with a wet splat that turns my stomach.

His cum is different from Jerry's. It's thicker, almost clumpy in its consistency. It congeals quickly, beginning to dry almost immediately on my skin, leaving a tight and uncomfortable sensation in its wake.

The smell is far more potent too, a putrid aroma that's distinctly Arnold. It's strong and musky, tainted with the metallic scent of his sweat. I can literally taste his disgusting masculinity in the air, it's so strong.

Each pulse of his cock sends another wave of cum spraying onto my face. It's a grotesque display, one that leaves me feeling degraded and used. Arnold's excitement, his crude comments and laughter only intensify the humiliation.

When he finally shoves his cock toward my lips, ordering me to lick it clean, I want to recoil. But the threat in his voice, the dominance in his demeanor, forces me to obey. I extend my tongue, tasting the bitter saltiness of his cum. It's far more potent than Jerry's, a tangier flavor that has my stomach churning.

"Look at you, taking my load like a good little cumslut," he smirks, using his cock to smear his seed around my face further.

In the background, I hear Jerry's snickering. "Man, you really plastered her. Good job, Ardvark."

The reality of what's happening hits me like a punch in the stomach. I'm kneeling here, before my two friends, my face covered in Arnold's cum. I can feel it cooling on my skin, congealing into a sticky mask that I can't wait to wash off.

To my horror, Arnold keeps the camera rolling, documenting every squirm, every flash of dismay on my face. "Yeah, that's a good look for you, Tammy."

The air around me begins to spin. The taste of Arnold's cum is still in my mouth, his musky scent infiltrating my senses. It's a suffocating experience that has me feeling lightheaded, the room tilting dangerously.

He huffs in satisfaction, pulling his softening cock away from my face, streaks of white trailing from my lips to his tip before it finally snaps and lands on my chest.

"Fuck yeah! My first time having sex, and I plastered a bitch's face!" Arnold exclaims, his chest puffing up with pride.

As his laughter fills the room, along with Jerry's, all I can do is sit there, knees pressed into the floor, face covered in sticky, hot, sour cum.

As soon as Arnold pulls his spent cock away from my face, I scramble against the floor, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. His laughter still rings in my ears, taunting in its smug satisfaction. Jerry's deep chuckles add to the ridicule.

"Hey, hand me those tissues, Tammy," Arnold barks out, snapping me from my spiraling thoughts. My eyes find a box of Kleenex sitting on the side table. I grab it, chucking it Arnold's way without a word. He merely smirks, beginning the clean-up process of his own.

God, I feel so degraded. His cum is hot and it's starting to dry, stringy trails of it tight against my skin. My eyes sting, my cheeks red from the humiliation and the harsh sensation. The metallic musk of his cum hangs heavily in the air, a stark reminder of what just happened.

I fumble with the tissue box, trying to wipe the sticky substance from my face and hair. It's surprisingly thick, clinging to my skin and resisting my desperate attempts to rid myself of it.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Tammy," Arnold drawls, tugging up his boxers and sweatpants. "Who knew you packed such a talent?"

"Shut up, Arnold," I snap, feeling my face flush in anger. He merely laughs, his eyes raking over me with an air of accomplishment that makes my skin crawl.

"Man, I can't believe that just happened," Jerry muses, stretching his lanky form on the couch. He catches my glare and shrugs, unabashed. "It's true. Who knew you'd be so good at... well, you know."

"You guys are disgusting." My voice trembles with the effort it takes to control my rage.

"Oh, come on, don't be a sore loser," Jerry chides, his tone maddeningly patronizing.

My eyes dart between them, both lounging leisurely, their banter casual as if it was just another day. Except it wasn't. Not to me.

"I've had it with both of you!" I snarl, "You guys are fucking jerks—"

"We're just messing around, Tammy. It's just... fun," Arnold interrupts, his voice irritatingly calm.

"Fun? FUN? Is my humiliation your idea of fun?" I bite back, pulling my sweatshirt over my head, wincing as the fabric brushes against my painfully erect nipples.

"Lighten up, Tammy. We're all friends here. You were the one who swallowed our dicks, remember?" Jerry smirks, rolling off the couch to pick up his discarded clothing.

"Yeah, well. I am NOT hanging out with you two tomorrow." I state with finality. "Find someone else to be your wingwoman."

The room falls silent. Shock flickers in their eyes before their faces fall in disappointment. Arnold opens his mouth, looks like he's about to argue, but I cut him off.

"No means no, alright? I've had enough."

As Arnold and Jerry plead with me, I bend down to gather my scattered clothes. I retrieve my oversized t-shirt first and hastily slip it over my head. The fabric falls around my transformed body, grazing my thighs and drowning my petite form. What was once a snug fit on Timmy's body, now billows around Tammy's frame like a tent. My breasts feel the unfamiliar softness of cotton, the material teasing my nipples into a state of awareness. Too vivid. Too sensitive.

Jerry's voice rips me out of my thoughts. "Tammy, buddy... you gotta understand. We didn't plan for it to go this far," he pleads.

Arnold's voice doesn't bear any remorse; instead, there's a strange urgency in his tone. "Yeah, we shouldn't have done it. But tomorrow, it's just about making us look good. No funny business. I promise."

I glance at him, unable to mask my incredulity. Arnold? Promising a 'no funny business' day after plastering my face with his load? "Hah."

"Besides," Jerry adds, looking straight into my eyes, "we wouldn't want that little video to end up in the wrong hands, now would we?" He lets his words linger, his insinuation clear.

My heart leaps into my throat. Jess. They wouldn't dare!

I rummage for my boxers and step into them, the cotton material swaying loosely around my now nonexistent package. Eccentric dancing monkeys adorn the boxers, a bizarre contrast to the ludicrous situation I'm in.

"Don't you even fucking think about threatening me with that video!" I snap at them, pulling up my sweatpants. They hang loose on my body, the drawstring pulled to its maximum extent to keep them in place. The fabric of my clothes rubs against my thighs and hips, a scratchy caress that is alien yet oddly stimulating.

"I'm not threatening, Tammy," Jerry says, his tone eerily calm. "Just stating the obvious. We all know how close you are to your sister," he adds, a taunting smirk playing on his lips.

Arnold nods, rubbing his hands together nervously. "Think about what you're doing, Tammy. No need to burn bridges."

Their words plant a seed of dread in my mind, a shadow of doubt that nags at my defiance. Would they? Could they?

I tug my sweatshirt over my head, the fabric brushing against my naked back and covering my jiggling breasts. The garment engulfs me, its hood draping over my eyes. With a sigh, I push it back, my new locks cascading over my shoulder in a rush of soft waves.

I take one last look around the room, my gaze lingering on the two pathetic figures standing awkwardly in silence. The once familiar setting now feels foreign and hostile. I snatch up my backpack, the weight of its contents, both physical and metaphorical, hitting me hard.

As I make my way toward the door, I can feel their eyes on me, their gazes searing into the back of my head, but I refuse to look back. The bitter taste of betrayal burns my tongue, the sour sting of humiliation prickling the corners of my eyes.

My house is only a few blocks away, but the cold night air cuts through my oversized clothes, making the journey feel much longer. The insistent throbbing in my pussy serves as a steady reminder of my transformation, the new feelings and sensations a stark contrast to the emptiness I felt before.

As the reality of my situation sets in, I'm caught in a whirlwind of emotions. I feel used. I feel violated. But, god help me, I also feel aroused. The lingering physical sensations from my new body add to the dynamics of my emotional state. The humiliation, the taste of my friends' cum, the memory of their hands on my transformed body - everything is horrifying and fascinating at the same time.

The argument with Jerry and Arnold makes me question everything. Their actions tonight have stripped away the illusion of an equal friendship. I can't forget what they did, no matter how desperately they plead or how much they threaten. I can't let them manipulate me into being their 'wingwoman.'

But then again, there's the video. The threat of it getting in the wrong hands, the very thought of Jess seeing it... It would be bad.

As I reach my house, I am left standing in front of my door, my mind a chaos of conflicting thoughts. The feeling of betrayal, the pressure of their threat, the underlying fear - it all converges on me as I fumble with my keys. Thankfully, it's late, my family will be asleep.

The emotional storm, the physical changes, and the tense expectations for tomorrow send my mind into a whirl.

A fist uncurls in my stomach every time I remember the way Jerry and Arnold's familiar voices had turned guttural as they occupied my new body. The way their hands had explored me, with an entitlement that was both bewildering and revolting. The humiliation still lingers, raw and potent, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

As I shed my clothes and step into the shower, a hot blush creeps up my neck, reaching my cheeks as the full weight of what we did hits me. I'm alone, and the freedom to explore this new body is thrilling and terrifying.

The water is hot, the heat a stark contrast to the chill that's been clinging to my bones since my transformation. It's a sensory shock, sending jitters through me. My hand covers my breasts, squeezing the mounds of flesh tightly. The reality that they are mine is still difficult to grasp. I run my hand down, past my flat stomach, to the area between my thighs. It's a strange feeling, my hand gliding over the smooth skin where hair used to be. There's a hollow feeling, a flatness that's so jarring, I find myself missing the familiar weight of my equipment.

After soaping myself up, my hands find their way back to that area. My fingers brush against a small bump, the feeling alien and unexpected. I clench my fingers, and a shock of pleasure jolts through me. I gasp, my body trembling under the hot water. A similar shudder runs through me when I touch my nipples. The sensations are so raw, so new. It's all too much.

The rest of the shower is spent in a haze, as I methodically clean myself. Once I step out, I avoid looking at my new form in the mirror. Even the sight of my clothes, my old clothes as Timmy, feels like an affront. So, I pull on my largest t-shirt and my baggiest sweatpants, the fabric engulfing me like a tent.

I tuck myself into bed, my body still tingling from the recent shower. The texts continue to flood in, each one more outrageous than the last.

"Sigh," I say out loud. I've calmed down a little but I'm still pissed.

"Tammy's Big Night 🍆💦👄," reads one of Jerry's texts. The notification lights up my screen, casting a soft glow in the dark of my room.

As I read the message, my conflicting feelings bubble to the surface, a mix of revulsion, fury, and the tiniest flicker of amusement. I swallow, my new, higher pitched giggle escaping before I can stop it. It's still weird hearing such a girly sound come from me.

Arnold's message quivers in, bringing me back to the gravity of the situation. "Hey, look on the bright side, you're officially not a virgin anymore, right?" His attempt at humor is a thin veneer over the night's disturbing events. He's not even aware of his own cruelty—or is he? The small 'LOL' he adds at the end of the text makes me doubt his ignorance.

My room feels like a sanctuary, the silence a stark contrast to the tumult in my head. Sneaking through the dark house, my petite frame is different—quieter, lighter, and more aware of the space around me. I hug the walls, slink past the creaky third step, my small, cold feet padding softly against the carpet as I hold my breath, praying my family stays asleep.

In the safe cocoon of my room, each new message notification feels like a pinprick to my conscience. "Your moans were something else, we gotta hang out more often, Tammy 😏," Jerry writes, followed by, "Seriously though, tomorrow's gonna be epic with you as our wingwoman 💪😎."

I don't even know how they can be so nonchalant, mere hours after using me like some... toy. Do they really not understand the gravity of it all? Or is it just easier for them to joke it away?

"Look at the mess you made 😂," another from Jerry, attached with a picture I don't dare open.

Arnold's messages have a different tone, an insidious blend of guilt-tripping and enticement. "I was your first, Tammy... that's special, right? 🤔 We should talk about it, just the two of us..."

And again, "Let's not let one crazy night ruin our friendship 🙏"

Their light-hearted banter and crass jokes ping-pong in my mind, and I can't help but chuckle at one particularly ridiculous pun Arnold makes about 'switching gears.' It's insane—I'm laughing at a time like this.

Torn between fury and confusion, I toss my phone aside, curling up under the covers. My body still feels foreign; each shift in position reminds me of what's between my legs—or more accurately, what isn't.

I try to control the whirlwind of emotions, reining them in like I'm reorganizing a deck of cards that's been scattered all over the floor. I need to think, to process what happened, what I'm feeling, and what I'm going to do about it.

The reality is, as Tammy, I'm vulnerable. But as Timmy, wasn't I always the vulnerable one? The pushover, the butt of the joke, the one who'd cave to peer pressure every single time?

Caught between the echoes of my male past and the raw exposure of my female present, sleep becomes an elusive wish. The night stretches on, an opaque curtain drawn over a scene I'm not ready to face in the light.

***

A soft ping breaks the near-silence of my room, the sound echoing off the stillness of predawn hours. The sight of Arnold's name on the screen makes my heart clang in my chest, an instant reminder of my humiliation.

"Morning, Tammy," his text reads. "You okay? Last night was wild, huh? 🙃"

Aghast, I roll my eyes at his foolish attempt to trivialize the intensity of the night before. "Wild, huh?" I mutter under my breath.

Another notification pings, this time from Jerry. "Rise and shine, princess!"

"I swear to God…" I groan, my voice rough from sleep and—yes, I'll admit it—my throat a bit sore. From Jerry.

As I lay in bed, my naked body still feels foreign; the smoothness, the softness, the jiggly sensation of my breasts with each breath I take—it's all still so surreal. Every movement brings a fresh wave of awareness of my soft vulva.

Setting it aside, I let my hands wander over my stomach. The skin there is soft and gives slightly under my touch. It feels different from the lean hardness that used to stretch over my abs as Timmy.

Soft ping sounds echo in the room, snapping me out of my self-exploration.

"Don't be a stranger, princess 👑. We need our wingwoman!"

"Yeah, Tammy. We're a team, remember? See you at the arcade. 💪"

I let out a scoff. A team. That's the narrative they're sticking to, huh?

There's a knock on my bedroom door followed by my mom's muffled voice. "Timmy, breakfast is ready."

Suddenly, the reality of my situation hits me like a freight train. I'm not just dealing with Jerry and Arnold's ridiculous texts. I've got a secret to keep inside the walls of my own home.

I squirm, rubbing my thighs together, and gasp as I feel a distinct twinge between my legs. I reach down, my fingers brushing against the soft mound where my cock used to be, and shiver. The silky wetness on my fingertips tells me all I need to know: I'm aroused.

"Embrace your role, Tammy. We'll make this fun, promise!"

"You're our friend, Tammy. We need you there."

My cheeks heat up at that, my heart thudding loudly. This... this is insane. They used me, made a joke out of me, and now they need my help?

The relentless messages continue to vibrate my phone, each ping a glaring reminder of the awkward predicament I've landed in. Jerry's texts are filled with ludicrous promises of epic adventure and the prospect of becoming a nerd legend. His lighthearted tone, reminiscent of the countless silly exchanges we've had before, tugs at a corner of my conflicted heart.

On the other hand, Arnold's texts carry an undertone of urgency. His insistence on my presence at the arcade, the assurance of a life-altering experience, and a weird camaraderie appeal to my sense of loyalty. In spite of everything, these guys are my only friends. Could I abandon them now?

Sandwiched between Arnold's impassioned pleas and Jerry's attempts at humor is a thread of honesty that catches my attention.

"Embrace your role, just for 24 hours, Tammy. We'll make this fun, promise!", one message stands out.

I let out a shaky breath, my fingers hovering above the small device. Am I really considering this?

The thought of venturing out into my familiar world, in this utterly unfamiliar body, sends a rush of adrenaline through me. Suddenly, I feel exhilarated, my heart pounding, my breath hitching at the mere prospect of testing the waters of womanhood in public.

As I mull over Jerry's and Arnold's messages, the thought of being cooped up in my room until the X-Change pill wears off begins to feel suffocating. The risk of discovery by my family feels scarily close. The alternative, going out with Jerry and Arnold for a day of arcade gaming as Tammy... well, that seems like a lesser evil.

Chewing on my bottom lip, an unexpected realization hits me. Anxiety aside, there's a part of me—I hate to admit it—that's curious. Curious about how the world outside would perceive me as Tammy. Curious about the stir I might cause being seen with Jerry and Arnold. The thought of turning heads, of being noticed, fills me with an intoxicating mix of dread and excitement.

Still, I can't shake off the sheer absurdity of the situation. The reality of the previous night washes over me. The very thought stirs a whirlwind of emotions inside me.

My fingers trail over the keys, unsure of what to type. Jerry and Arnold's reasoning buzz in my mind like a persistent fly. They claim it's crucial, that they'd even take the pill next time, that I'd be doing them a huge favor. But can I trust them?

A sudden knock on the door jolts me out of my thoughts.

"Are you okay in there, Timmy?" It's my mom's voice.

"Yeah, mom. Just feeling a sick," I manage to say, trying to make my voice sound deep. "Sorry, but I'm not coming to breakfast."

"Okay, honey, feel better!"

I should get out, I realize. If not for Jerry and Arnold, then for myself. To avoid questions, avoid revealing my secret to my family, and to give myself some breathing space.

With a sigh, I type a response.

"Fine. But one of you is next."

Immediately, my phone buzzes with their victorious replies, their crude humor, their promises of an epic adventure.

But I can't shake off the apprehension, the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I shake my head and push away the doubts. It's just for one day, I remind myself. I'd do my part to make them look cool, and then one of them will have to do theirs.

—

I creep past my mom's line of sight, dodging behind the kitchen island and pressing myself against the cool wall. I can hear her humming from the kitchen, the sizzle of bacon a reminder of the normalcy I'm tiptoeing away from. I inch towards Jess's room, my heart pounding against my oversized pajama top like a drum.

I can't believe I'm actually doing this. I feel like a freaking cat burglar in my own home, stealthy and on edge. As the door to Jess's room swings open with an ominous creak, I hold my breath, half-expecting my mom to call out or Jess to randomly reappear.

But no, the coast is clear. The morning light filters through the pastel curtains, casting a soft glow over Jess's obsessively tidy room. My eyes scan the closet, a treasure trove of potential 'Tammy' outfits, none of them familiar or comforting in the least.

I silently pull the closet door, revealing an array of ensembles I have no clue about. As I sort through the hangers, my phone buzzes with incoming texts. Jerry and Arnold—the last people I want fashion advice from right now—are bombarding me with outfit suggestions.

"Dude, you gotta wear a miniskirt! 🙌" Arnold insists. My stomach churns at the thought.

"Yeah, Tammy, show off those legs!" Jerry's text flashes next. I roll my eyes.

I fumble with the phone, silencing it before the buzzing gives me away or drives me insane—whichever comes first.

My eyes land on a simple outfit: a cropped camisole-like top and what appears to be denim shorts. Far from Arnold's miniskirt suggestion, but still a galaxy away from my understanding of clothing.

The camisole is a mystery of straps and soft cotton. I hold it up, squinting at the thin fabric in confusion. Where's the REST of it?

Setting the tank top aside, my focus shifts to the shorts. They're high-waisted, but still seems like they'll show off a bit. Pretty sure I've seen Jess wear these.

My phone buzzes against my thigh again, a silent dance against my leg.

"Remember, Tammy. Miniskirt = awesome," Jerry texts, followed by a winking emoji.

"Not helping," I mutter under my breath.

It's then that the front door clicks open. Panic surges through me. Jess is back! Frantically, I dive into the closet, my breath catching in my throat as I pull the door shut.

Buried in the back of the closet, I press myself against Jess's hanging dresses and blouses, hoping they'll make me invisible. The air is perfumed with a floral scent, the feminine aroma a stark reminder of the alien territory I'm in.

Through the slats, I watch as Jess bustles about, her movements mere flashes of color and motion. My phone vibrates relentlessly, Jerry and Arnold's insistence on the miniskirt piercing through the wooden barrier. I resist the urge to respond, fearing even the softest tap on the screen will betray my presence.

Time stretches into eternity as Jess searches for whatever she's forgotten. I'm hyper-aware of the softness of the clothes pressed against me, the unfamiliarity of a closet not my own.

Slipping into panties is another ordeal. They're small, a scrap of fabric that feels entirely too invasive compared to the loose boxers I'm used to. But boxers are just gonna look weird if I keep wearing them. Jess's panties cling to my hips, conforming tightly around areas that boxers would never dare to touch. The sensation of the delicate cotton against my skin is strangely intimate.

I'm about to reach for the safer option, the denim shorts I spotted earlier, when my phone buzzes against the hardwood floor where I must have dropped it. It's the guys again, Jerry's text popping up with all the openness of a neon sign: "Come on, Tammy, don't be a wuss. Miniskirt. Asscheeks. It's not rocket science 😆"

I squint at the screen, my newly feminine hands hesitating before Arnold's follow-up appears. "Yeah, show off what you got! 🍑 It's what girls do."

I groan. It's like they've distilled every teen movie cliché into a single obnoxious text thread, and now they're expecting me to embody the stereotype. I hesitate, glancing back at Jess's open closet. It's full of skirts and dresses.

Curiosity gnaws at me—a bitter, mocking rat—and before I know it, I'm fishing out a skirt from the depths of the closet. It's plaid, the pleats neatly folded, a sartorial nod to some preppy schoolgirl uniform. The top, a ribbed knit crop with short sleeves, promises less coverage than I'm comfortable with.

I hold the skirt out in front of me, its fabric soft and light between my fingers. Trying to wiggle into it feels ridiculous, stepping into the band, yanking it up, and feeling the fabric settle too high on my waist. The zipper on the side hisses as I pull it up, sealing my fate. I turn and catch my reflection in the mirror, and the skirt whispers against the front and back of my thighs as I move—a gentle, swishy reminder that I'm wearing more than air.

"Fuck," I murmur. My hands freeze, holding the skirt in place—it's short, alright, riding up with every tiny shift to flash a scandalous amount of pale thigh.

The phone buzzes again, and I wrench my gaze away from the mirror to read the new message. "If you've got it, flaunt it 💃" Jerry teases.

Swallowing hard, I reach for the top. Pulling it over my head, I'm unprepared for the snug fit, the way it clings to every newly rounded curve and dip of my body. The soft cotton hugs my skin comfortably but alienly. I glance in the mirror, turning side to side, the hem barely reaching the top of the miniskirt, revealing a sliver of midriff.

And of course, my bellybutton is on display. Great, just great.

The skirt sways with each pivot of my hips, a sensation that's disconcertingly different from any I've felt. "It's like I'm not wearing anything at all," I whisper to my reflection, a bit unnerved at the draftiness around my legs.

As I consider the logistics of sitting or bending over in this getup, the phone buzzes once more, demanding my attention. "Tried it yet? 🤔" Arnold's inquiry pops up on the screen, and I huff out a response.

"Happy now? It fits," I text back, cringing as I snap a quick photo and hit send before I can second-guess myself.

Their enthusiastic responses come quick and fast. "Damn, Tammy! You look hot! 🔥" Jerry's text is all caps and enthusiasm.

Arnold's not far behind with, "See? You're a natural beauty 😍"

I stifle an eye roll, questioning how much of their reactions are genuine and how much is simply a reflection of their desperation to seem cool. Shifting uneasily, I feel the miniskirt twitch, riding up slightly, the cool air a stark reminder of my 'openness.'

It's unsettling, the freedom a skirt provides. And there's something disconcertingly feminine about the way it frames my hips, the way it showcases more leg than I've ever bared. I wiggle again, the fabric slipping up too easily, a fraction away from revealing my asscheeks outright.

The guys are clueless, of course. They don't realize that skirts require a constant awareness of posture, of movements, of the potential for public display. They don't know about the danger of a sudden gust of wind or the perils of crossing one's legs carelessly.

Alright, it's now or never. I take a deep breath and peek out of Jess's bedroom door. The hallway is clear, but I can hear the clinking of dishes—a sure sign that Mom is still in the kitchen. I need a plan. Going out the front door is too risky, so it'll have to be the side entrance.

I step out, my movements more careful and precise in the skirt than they've ever been in jeans. The fabric shifts against my thighs with each step, a gentle swish that's both comforting and utterly foreign.

My phone dings—a message from Jerry: "We're ready. Sneak level 100, Tammy. See you a few driveways down."

Arnold adds, "And no chicken-ing out!"

Taking another careful look, I tiptoe down the hallway, poised to dart back into the shadows at the slightest hint of detection. My sister's white sneakers are slightly large on my smaller feet, the extra room making my steps clumsy.

As I make my way past the living room, I hold my breath. Each creak of the floorboards under my tentative steps sends a jolt of panic through me. Just a few more feet. I'm almost there when...

"Is someone there?" My mom's voice calls out, closer than I expected.

Shit. Without missing a beat, I snag a sofa cushion and hurl it into the dining room, the thump creating enough noise to draw her away.

"What on earth?" Mom mutters, moving to investigate. This is my chance. I bolt, the skirt creeping up with the sudden movement, a rush of cool air reminding me how exposed my ass is.

As I slide through the side door, a surge of triumph courses through me. I've done it. I thread my way down the driveway, heart pounding, the skirt's gentle sway against my thighs a constant reminder of the new, unfamiliar contours of my body.

Jerry's car comes into view, parked a few houses down. I make a beeline for it, every stride an odd mix of thrill and dread. I throw open the back door and slide in, pulling the skirt down frantically.

"Damn, look at you, Tammy! You're like a fucking ninja in a skirt!" Jerry laughs, eyes raking over me in the rearview mirror.

Arnold turns around, his leer apparent. "Welcome aboard, princess. That was one hell of an escape."

I roll my eyes but can't suppress the unfamiliar flutter in my stomach. "Just drive. Let's get this over with," I reply, the giddiness tinged with a wet blanket of male pride.

We speed toward Paradise Mall, my skirt fluttering at the slightest breeze from the cracked window. Jerry cranks up some cheesy '80s rock ballad, the music pulsing through the car.

"Dude, you're gonna get us so much attention," Arnold says with a nudge, "You and that skirt are going to be legends."

Jerry nods in agreement. "Yep. Here's to Tammy, our very own babe magnet!"

I squirm, my ass sliding a fraction on the leather seat with each turn. The sensation of the skirt around my hips is distracting, a constant reminder of just how much things have changed since last night.

The car pulls into the mall parking lot, and I steel myself for the day ahead. The guys are right; I feel strangely excited, like I'm on the cusp of a dubious adventure.

"Alright, Tammy," Jerry says as he parks the car. "Showtime."

I take a deep breath and step out, my skirt billowing slightly before settling into place. The mall looms ahead, a monolith of social navigation I've never had to traverse quite like this. With a last tug at my skirt and a steadying breath, I'm ready to take on the day.

As the car comes to a standstill in the parking lot, Jerry adjusts the rearview mirror with a self-assured smirk. "Okay, Tammy, game plan: You need to be all over us, laugh at our jokes, look adoringly into our eyes—all that good stuff. We need to look like we've got the hottest chick in the mall swooning over our every word."

"Yeah, you're like our ticket to Cool Town, population: us," Arnold pipes up with a grin that's too eager to be anything but creepy.

I roll my eyes but can't help the tongue-in-cheek response. "You realize next time it's your turn, right? This dress-up party goes both ways."

Their nods come quick and easy, the acknowledgement fleeting as they're already lost in their own fantasies of coffee shop conquests.

"Yeah, of course," Jerry says dismissively, waving a hand as if to swat away the mere suggestion he'd ever be the one in a skirt.

Arnold chimes in with a knowing look. "Definitely, definitely. But let's focus on today, yeah?"

I can't help but feel a twinge of unease about yesterday, the memories still vivid in my mind. The arousal, as unwelcome as it was, had been real, but discussing it with these two? No chance.

I sigh, steeling myself as we walk toward the mall entrance, the '80s pastel décor and unearthly muzak setting a dated stage for this ridiculous charade.

Jerry bounces on the balls of his feet, animated with excitement. "First stop, Jitters. Gotta fuel up and scope out the morning talent."

Arnold's smile is wolfish, a clear sign that he's got more than caffeine on his mind. "Yeah, Emily's gonna be there. We're gonna impress her, big time."

Their inane banter fills the car as we park and get out, setting the stage for the day's escapades. Jerry and Arnold continue to elaborate on their plan, their understanding—or lack thereof—of women on full display.

"Remember, Tammy, your job is to make us irresistible. Just stick close, laugh a lot, maybe touch our arms. The girls eat that up," Jerry advises, as if he's the authority on female attraction.

Arnold nods along, his tone taking on a professorial air that's as irritating as it is laughable. "It's all about preselection. Gets their subconscious brains ticking. They see you, they want us."

I suppress a groan, the objective so absurd it's almost funny. Almost. It's clear they see me not as a person but as a tool for their own gain—a wingwoman for the incel duo, designed to boost their egos and their appeal.

"And don't lay it on too thick," Arnold continues. "Gotta give the impression that you're into us but still leave them thinking they've got a chance."

Jerry nods sagely. "Exactly. It's a delicate balance. But hey, that's what you're here for."

The objectification stings, but there's an undeniable buzz in my veins, a weird mix of nervous energy and curiosity. Will this absurd plan of theirs actually work? Can I really pull this off?

As we approach the entrance of Jitters, their banter heightens, their voices taking on a rehearsed quality.

"Okay, Tammy, remember, just follow our lead," Jerry instructs, offering a conspiratorial wink.

Arnold makes a theatrical display of drowning himself in what he calls 'pheromone cologne.' The bottle looks like it was snatched from the set of a sci-fi B-movie, and the scent is enough to gag a skunk.

"Hit me with some of that," Jerry says, stepping into the overbearing cloud. Arnold spritzes him without hesitation, and I'm left coughing and swatting at the thick cloud of 'Eau de Incel' that fills the air.

We march towards Jitters, the scene set for a coffee-fueled farce of a plan. "Remember Tammy, bat those eyelashes, always giggle, and stay close," Jerry commands as if he's leading a covert operation.

As we approach the counter, Emily stands there, the epitome of chill coolness, her apron a badge of barista honor as she wipes down an already spotless espresso machine. She's effortlessly stylish, her hair pulled back in a loose bun that somehow makes the uniform look editorial.

Before we even reach her, Arnold stops, dousing himself in another aggressive wave of the noxious cologne. "Gotta make sure she knows I've arrived," he says with a wink that makes me cringe.

Jerry nods in encouragement and pats Arnold on the back. "Go get 'em, tiger."

Arnold swaggers up to the counter, puffing his chest out like a peacock in full display. With the grace of a bull in a china shop, he leans on the counter and aims what he must assume is a suave smile at Emily. It's more of a grimace, really.

"Hey there," Arnold starts, voice oozing what I guess is supposed to be charm. "If you were a coffee, you'd be an espresso, 'cause you're so fine."

Emily raises an eyebrow, her expression flat. "Can I help you with something?" she asks, her voice the polar opposite of impressed.

Arnold is undaunted. "You know, they say love is like coffee—only perfect if it's hot and keeps you up all night."

I'm standing a respectful distance away, trying to look every bit the swooning wingwoman, but the absurdity of it all is too much. I can feel my cheeks flush with secondhand embarrassment.

Emily's eyes flit to me, a flicker of pity or confusion crossing her face. "Are you guys together?" she asks, nodding towards me.

"Yeah, she's with me," Arnold says, throwing an arm haphazardly around my shoulders. "But hey, I'm open to... options." He winks again, and somewhere in the distance, I'm sure a puppy cries out in despair.

I plaster a fake smile on my face. "Arnold's the most popular guy ever," I say, my voice saccharine enough to induce cavities.

Emily looks at me, her eyes narrowed slightly in what I can only guess is a mixture of pity and disbelief. She clears her throat, her professional demeanor slipping ever so slightly. "Right. So, coffee?"

Jerry steps in, trying to salvage the sinking ship. "Yeah, three coffees, and make 'em hot, like my friend here thinks you are."

Emily rolls her eyes, but there's a ghost of a smile on her lips as if she's genuinely amused by the train wreck unfolding before her. "Coming right up," she says before turning to prep the drinks.

As we wait, Arnold attempts to lean casually against the counter, but his elbow slips, nearly sending him sprawling. Jerry's busy checking his reflection in the glass pastry case, adjusting his hair and puffing his chest out in a caricature of machismo.

I'm caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to sprint for the nearest exit. This is insanity. These two wouldn't know subtlety if it hit them with a mallet.

Arnold clears his throat, trying again. "So, Emily, you ever think about... the Mystery Method? 'Cause I'm all about the Attraction phase, you know?"

Emily's expression shifts from bemused to something a little more wary. "The 'Mystery Method'? What's that, some kind of magic trick?"

"Oh, it's no trick," Arnold continues, emboldened by her response. "It's the art of seduction. See, I've already moved through A1 and A2. You're obviously interested, so I thought I'd let you know it's time for A3."

I can't help it; I snort. Arnold shoots me a dirty look, but I wave it off. Emily just shakes her head, the corners of her mouth twitching. "Interested? I think you misread the situation."

Jerry jumps back in, a desperate attempt at damage control. "Ignore him, Emily. He's just preparing for a role. He's an actor, you know."

"Yeah, I'm acting interested," Emily says, her smile now openly mocking. "Here are your coffees. That'll be $12."

Arnold hands over the money, mumbling something about 'frame control' and 'kino escalation.' Emily takes the cash, her composure unbroken, though her eyes are now glinting with mirth.

As we grab our coffees and make our escape, I catch Emily's parting words: "Good luck with your... art of seduction. I think you'll need it."

Outside, Arnold and Jerry are quick to regroup, their expressions sour. "She didn't know what hit her," Arnold claims.

"Yeah," Jerry chimes in, "she's clearly a lesbian. Those indie baristas always are."

I roll my eyes so hard I worry they might get stuck. "Sure, guys. That's definitely it."