Inside the shower, Bobbi let a wobbly sad smile stretch across her face. She was so blessed, having someone like Miss Reed take care of her.
With a grimace, the girl started to work a fingernail underneath the pink sticker over one of her nipples, managing to grab the edge of the adhesive after a bit of work. Slowly, carefully, she began the risky process of peeling it off…
And Rob’s glittering green eyes shone once more, completing the task Bobbi had started with his usual method of accomplishment: brute, artless force.
“FUCCCCCK,” hissed the sodden bully, his right chesticle smarting from the sudden removal. He made sure to keep his voice low, lest the super’s wife decide to check in and send the fuckin’ Bobbi broad into another fit of hysterics.
(He didn’t know that Peggy Reed’s traditional means of cooking involved the frying of a frankly impressive amount of animal and vegetable fats. The only noise that could possibly penetrate her spitter-spattering heaven would have bomb-level at least.)
Rob peeled off the other sticker far more gingerly, as warm water pounded against his back.
What a fuckin’ wash. So much for a quick-in-an-out, instead, Jules’ whore had to get all gooey, and sobby, and… adopted. Rob stopped his pity-party for a second to actually think about what happened.
The super’s wife was, like, his mom or something now. That was… weird. Rob started the arduous process of washing his massive mane of hair — which came to him oddly naturally, not that he realized this — while pondering this issue.
Sure, all that sobby bullshit kinda felt good when that Bobbi bitch took the wheel, and sure, Ms. Reed kinda was a better mom than his… uh, for that fucking bimbo!
Whatever. He was still in proximity to Jules, no matter how much sentimental mushy bullshit and delicious food Ms. Reed could pile on, this place was still kind of a no-fly zone. Absentmindedly, he scrubbed the areas around his chest, a lewd thought not even threatening to intrude.
Rob hummed a metal song as he conditioned his hair. Sure, this Bobbi chick was, like, everything he fuckin’ hated about girls, but she had good taste in band posters. In short order, he concluded his wash, shutting the water off with a quick twirl of the valve.
His hair plapped against his back. Rob frowned at a 30° angle, his head pulled down by the sodden keratin. This was why he avoided those faggy prettyboy haircuts, well, besides their inherent fagginess.
Fuckin’ whatever. Not leaving the safe and warm confines of the shower, he snagged a towel and attacked his hair with it, tying an impromptu turban around it. For good measure, he grabbed the other towel there and wrapped it around himself lengthwise, tucking it firmly.
Rob grimaced as he left the shower. Whether he was going to escape this enforced-bimbodom, or go Bobbi for some actual food, he had to get dressed, which meant —
The movement in the mirror caught his eye. Rob turned to face his current form. Pale skin flushed from the heat, full lips gently parted in surprise, a good amount of cleavage showing from the too-little towel, and a slit running up the side that showed the ample curve of his wide hip; he was, like, objectively hot. Like, porno where just-showered-girl-fucks-the pizza-guy-instead-of-paying hot.
But that’s all it was to Rob. Objective. He could tell that all the parts fit together right, but there was no rising member or heat in his core. Just a removed appreciation, like looking at a well-crafted painting.
Desperately, he screwed his eyes shut and imagined a naked Ingerbitch as best he could. Nothing.
Ingerbitch running her hands over him, driving her tongue into his mouth: Nada. A quiver of disgust, if anything.
Fuckit. He went to his old standby; that nice jock-and-cheerleader ‘film’ he had on his favorites bar. Even the foreplay-makeout was enough to make him hard. The guy was just like him, tall, musclebound, and redheaded, and the girl was one’a those blonde bimbos.
All of his cognitive energy was focused on visualizing their embrace. To Rob’s delight, heat prickled in his core, and a smile spread across his face.
Still, something could be different. Maybe make the guy a lil’ shorter… less muscles. Make it more realistic n’ shit. The heat rose to his stomach, and Rob’s hand unconsciously made its way to his breast, a small keening moan escaping his lips. He didn’t really know what girl-horny-buildup was like, specifically, but he was pretty sure that this was it. And he felt pretty fuckin’ close to, uh, what happened before.
What if the guy had, like, black hair? And, unf, the cheerleader bitch should have some tattoo sleeves, all done up in some badass roses. Give her some red hair, and Rob could practically feel the guy’s hands roaming… wait.
No.
GOD no.
An aghast Rob released his boob the moment he realized specifically what he had imagined someone doing to him, and his seemingly unconscious preferences for what the person looked like.
Ashamed and helplessly furious at the second time that J had made him horny that night, Rob stormed into his, Bobbi’s, whom-the-fuck-EVER’s room and tried to distract himself with clothes.
Option One: In the midst of changing and figuring out how girls' clothes work, a rat-a-tat-tat and face appearing on his window scares the everloving shit out of Rob. It’s Jules, of course.
Option Two: Desperate to escape the fucked state of mind that he’s in, Rob goes out to the kitchen and surrenders to the expected brain-tsunami of Bobbi. But is something different?