Two minutes. Just two fucking minutes to get decent and formulate a plan. That's reasonable, right?
You slam your bedroom door closed and sprint to the closet, heart hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape. The mirror catches your reflection--a wild-eyed goth girl with matted hair and nipples that could cut glass poking obscenely through a silk camisole.
"Holy shit," you mutter, yanking the ruined pajama bottoms down your legs. The fabric peels away from your inner thighs with a disgusting SHLICK sound, the evidence of last night's activities cold and tacky against your skin.
Focus. You need to focus.
Your fingers fumble through drawers, searching for underwear. You grab the first pair you find--black lace that feels more like fishing net than actual clothing--and hop on one foot trying to get them on, nearly face-planting when your massive tits throw off your balance.
"Jesus FUCK!" you hiss as your left breast swings with such momentum that it actually SLAPS against your collarbone. These fucking things need to be contained before you give yourself a black eye.
You grab the sports bra from where it's draped over a chair and stare at it like it's a Rubik's cube. Unlike regular bras, this industrial-strength contraption has no hooks or clasps--just a solid band of elastic that somehow needs to stretch over your watermelon-sized chest. And you forget how you did it last time.
First attempt: Pull it over your head like a t-shirt.
The fabric catches halfway down, trapping your arms above your head while your breasts remain completely exposed.
"Mmmpfhh!" You struggle like a straightjacketed patient, flopping around the room, arms pinned, face buried in spandex. After thirty seconds of undignified thrashing, you manage to extract yourself, gasping.
Second attempt: Step into it and pull it up.
This works marginally better, until the elastic reaches your hips, where it promptly gets stuck. You perform an awkward shimmy-jump hybrid, but succeed only in making your massive udders flop violently enough to generate their own weather systems.
You tear the bra off and try a third approach. You twist it into a figure-eight, stick your arms through, and then attempt to maneuver it around your torso. For a miraculous moment, it seems to be working--until the elastic snaps back with the force of a released slingshot, smacking painfully against your ribs.
"FUCK THIS BODY!" you shout at the ceiling, then immediately lower your voice, remembering the situation outside.
Devon. Jake. Focus.
Final attempt: You hold the bra horizontally in front of you, bend forward at the waist--which causes your tits to dangle like fleshy pendulums--and wiggle into the bottom band first. Once it's around your torso, you shove one arm through, then the other, and finally gather all your breast tissue from your armpits, sides, practically your fucking BACK, and stuffing it into the cups.
Success! Sort of. Your tits are now compressed into two slightly smaller flesh-mounds, pointing aggressively forward. You can actually feel your heartbeat in your nipples. But at least they're CONTAINED.
You grab a pair of black ripped jeans and hop frantically around the room trying to pull them up your legs. The denim catches on your damp thighs, requiring increasingly violent tugs to advance upward. You suck in your stomach, squeezing and wriggling until they finally button, though your ass feels like it's about to burst through the fabric like the Kool-Aid Man.
A faded band t-shirt goes over your head--thank GOD, an article of clothing that doesn't fight back--followed by a black hoodie to hide the obscene outline of your compressed chest.
You catch your reflection again. Despite the rushed dressing and complete lack of makeup application, you're still unnervingly fuckable. Your hair, though sleep-tangled, somehow falls in a perfectly disheveled way that suggests "just had incredible sex." Your skin glows with an ethereal, pale luminescence. And your lips--Jesus, why are they so PLUMP?
This fucking goth body is DETERMINED to be hot, regardless of circumstances.
No time to dwell on it. You press your ear against the bedroom door. The apartment sounds eerily quiet. Did Devon and Jake leave? Maybe Marco called him back to work? Maybe the whole situation defused itself?
Your optimism dies the moment you creep out into the hallway. The contractors aren't in the main bathroom. The demolition tools sit abandoned. Marco and Luis are nowhere to be seen.
But Devon's guest room door is closed.
As you tiptoe closer, the first sounds become audible--a rhythmic CREA-CREA-CREAK that makes your stomach drop. You freeze, suddenly unsure what to do. It's not like you can just burst in--Devon's an adult, technically. And for all the contractors know, you're just Devon's roommate or friend with no authority over who she sleeps with.
Maybe you can text her? You pull out your phone, fingers flying:
You: DEVON WHAT ARE YOU DOING?????
You: GET OUT HERE RIGHT NOW
You: THIS IS BAD! VERY BAD!
You wait. No response. The creaking continues, joined now by the unmistakable sound of skin smacking against skin. SLAP-SLAP-SLAP-SLAP.
You try calling her. Straight to voicemail.
Shit. SHIT. You need to do something. You could knock? But that seems so... ineffective. Like, "Excuse me, sorry to interrupt your life-altering poor decision, but could you please stop potentially getting impregnated? Thanks ever so much!"
God, where are Marco and Luis? Maybe they could call Jake back to work? You'll need to find them, but first--
A sound from behind the door stops you cold.
"Unnnngh FUCK yes! RIGHT THERE!"
