I’m two sips into a drink that’s basically melted popsicle soaked in jet fuel when the resort casually drops a biological war crime on my retinas.
There she is: gazelle fantasy edition, sunbed deluxe package. Hat so wide it has its own zip code. Blonde braids swinging like she’s about to headline Tomorrowland. Bikini top doing heroic, unpaid overtime keeping those magnificent milkers from seceding and forming their own country. White robe hanging open like it lost a bet with gravity.
I’m pretending to look at a cloud shaped like taxes when she side-eyes me, smirks like she just found my Pornhub history, and decides it’s time to commit several international laws.
Robes? Evaporated. Bottoms? Never heard of ’em. She rolls over slow enough for me to file my will, plants one hoof in the sand, and serves up an ass so round, glossy, and bouncy it should be insured by Lloyd’s of London.
Then, because she’s an absolute menace, she reaches back with one elegant hand, spreads those dripping, swollen, candy-pink lips like she’s opening the gates to Valhalla, and her plump, sun-warmed starfish gives me the filthiest, most deliberate wink in mammalian history. It’s not a twitch. It’s a full “park it right here, cowboy” in 4K slow-motion.
My drink straight-up yeets itself into the sand.
She looks back over her shoulder, tail doing a little “come destroy your credit score” flick, and purrs, “Private cabana. Ten minutes. Bring tongue, hips, and a lawyer. I want to ruin you so hard you forget your own name but still moan mine in three-part harmony.”
Current status:
• Heart: attempting escape through throat
• Brain: buffering
• Pants: filing for emancipation
• Soul: already packed and moving in with her
If found, please return my body to the shallow end with a note that says “death by gazelle cheeks—worth it.”