The sign above the shop read "CINEMAGIC," flickering in faded violet neon. Most people didn't notice it. The building didn't belong in this part of town. It looked too old, too untouched, like something caught in a time loop. The windows were tinted so dark you couldn't see inside, but if you did... if you stepped through the door... you'd never be the same.
Rhea Monroe owned it. She wasn't your usual video store girl. No messy blonde pigtails. No girl-next-door fake innocence. She was dark, striking, and looked like she belonged in a perfume ad for dangerous women. Her hair was dyed deep indigo, short on one side and long on the other, brushed back like a violet flame. Her lips were black cherry, full and glossed. Her eyes were silver-gray, lined sharp with winged makeup. Her skin was golden and smooth, and her body was jaw-dropping--tight waist, wide hips, massive natural tits that strained against her black mesh crop top. Her nails were dark purple. Her boots were heeled and high. She wore a vintage black leather miniskirt with zippers that didn't go anywhere, and sheer tights with little film reels printed up the side.
The store was filled with VHS tapes, posters, and glowing screens. Rows of genre-labeled shelves led to the back where a velvet curtain hid the "Restricted Section." And behind the counter--where she sat like a queen--was a thick, wired remote control. Worn buttons. One glowing dial. And a small, flickering screen on the front that said only one thing: READY.
No one knew where the remote came from. Not even Rhea. But she knew what it could do. She'd discovered it late one night, watching True Romance. She hit pause. Highlighted Patricia Arquette's Alabama. And, on a whim, pointed the remote at her reflection. The shift had been instant. She had become the character. Breathless. Slutty. Pure sex. The accent. The pout. The need. Thirty minutes of pure immersion--no memory of who she was. But when it ended? Rhea remembered everything. And she came harder than she ever had in her life.
There was a catch. The remote only worked with the old CRT TV it came with. No other television would respond. And it only pulled from the movie currently playing--no mixing characters, no crossovers. If the tape in the player was Magic Mike XXL, that was the only source the remote could draw from.
Now, she didn't just use the remote. She lived by it.
That night, the bell above the door jingled. A man stepped in. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a delivery vest. His name tag read "Nico." He had tan skin, a soft jawline, and a shy smile.
Rhea smiled like a predator.
"Looking for something?"
He cleared his throat. "Uh... just dropping this off. Replacement tape for your order?"
She leaned over the counter, letting her tits press together in the sheer mesh top. "Do you have thirty minutes?"
He blinked. "I guess..."
