Meanwhile, my brain refused to let go of what I'd just witnessed. Penelope. God fuuuuucking damn it. That was… what even was that? Walking human earthquake? Those tits were cartoon physics made flesh. Yeah, fake. She said it herself. Silicone, plastic, whatever—they were built. But did I care? Did it make them less hypnotic, less obscene, less perfect? Not one fucking bit. I was already replaying the sight in my head, trying not to drool like a caveman.
"Take a photo. Jeez," Penelope's voice rang out again from the kitchen, casual as you like, as if she hadn't just derailed the entire night.
Richard laughed nervously, then gestured between us. "And this is Penelope. Mendy's childhood friend."
"Y-yeah," I stammered, throat suddenly dry as sand. I tore my eyes away from the kitchen doorway and cleared my throat. "I, uh… I should wash my hands."
And maybe my brain while I was at it.
"Where's the bathroom?"
