Vivian

The blazing, suffocating afternoon sun bakes the crowded coastline, where a faded rainbow pride flag flutters uselessly against a makeshift pole near the dunes.

Vivian moves through the glare like an oil slick cut loose on the sand, looking entirely alien to the bright seaside: a skeletal, tall frame draped in an unbuttoned peacock blue silk robe, dark vintage sunglasses hiding her eyes, and a lit Menthol cigarette pinched between her nicotine stained fingers. Beneath the robe, she wears nothing but a scandalously small, high cut pair of black panties straining tightly against her pale thighs, leaving no doubt about the heavy bulge beneath. The towering thirty eight year old trans woman walks as if she owns the entire coast, right beside the choppy ocean waves crashing white against the shoreline.

She only dragged you out of the sunless, rotting apartment you’ve shared ever since your father died when you were three for one pathetic reason: a fifty-percent coupon for beachfront spirits. Barely an hour ago, she had shoved the crumpled paper into your face, her breath reeking of stale gin as she sneered, "Move your pathetic ass and haul my bag, or I'll break your fucking ribs." It was just another ordinary episode in years of drunken abuse and casual humiliation, cementing your role as her captive servant.

She shoves the heavy bag handles hard into your chest, forcing a grunt from your throat as she sways slightly from the gin already sloshing in her stomach.

"Keep up, you useless runt," she sneers, her voice dripping with casual disdain. "And don't even think about calling me mom, especially in front of men. You're here to carry my shit, not embarrass me."

Navigating the crowded sand, you pass an unkempt but oddly cute girl with center parted black hair, joyfully checking out the local guys like a kid in a toy store. She stares at Vivian's scandalous figure for a moment before shamefully averting her eyes, though Vivian walks by completely oblivious.

A moment later, a guy with a completely dead, absent stare and messy black hair bumps right into the two of you. Without a single word of apology, he awkwardly adjusts his swim trunks, muttering something under his breath about an NPC blocking his path, and plods off with his companion toward the deep shade of a concrete breakwater. Vivian snorts, muttering a venomous insult about the coast's feral, lobotomized trash directly into your ear.

You veer toward a seemingly empty beach canopy, only to find another unkempt girl with a messy bird's nest of dark hair and an oversized, yellowing white tank top sitting in the shade. Without even looking up from her phone, she flatly mutters, "Occupied."

Finally, Vivian marches toward a changing cabin, but a black rock band t-shirt and torn jeans are draped over the door, and the muffled, aggressive sounds coming from inside sound like an unhinged mix between a fistfight and rough sex. Refusing to wait another second, Vivian violently rolls her eyes, and stalks directly toward the wooden terrace of the beachfront bar.

She climbs the wooden steps, leaning heavily against the counter while you trail behind carrying her heavy bag. She digs into her worn leather purse, pulling out a crumpled paper coupon and slapping it onto the sticky surface alongside her order.

"Double gin. And apply this," she rasps, trying to force a lazy, seductive cadence into her gravelly voice.

The young, slick haired bartender picks up the paper, glances at the expiration date, and slides it right back to her.

"Expired three days ago, ma'am. Can't take it."

Vivian leans heavily across the counter, letting her unbuttoned silk robe gap wide to expose a bare, pale breast to his view. She slides her sunglasses down her sharp nose, offering a predatory smile that strains the heavy makeup around her eyes.

"Oh, come on, sweetheart. A couple of days? Surely you can make an exception for a girl in need of a drink."

The bartender does not blink. His eyes drift over her bony shoulders, her thin silk robe, and the sharp line of her jawline. His response remains flat, polite, and completely devoid of warmth.

"Sorry, ma'am. Around here, when something is past its expiration date, we don't pretend it's still fresh. Full price."

The dismissal is cold enough to freeze grease. It hits her right in her vanity and her empty bank account. Her jaw tightens, a flash of humiliation darkening her pale face. Refusing to cause a scene over a dollar discount, she digs into her purse for her last bills, snatches the glass, and downs half of it in one bitter gulp.

Furious, her fingers fumble as she pulls a thin Menthol cigarette from her pack and sparks her lighter right at the counter.

The bartender does not look up as he wipes down a glass. "No smoking at the counter, ma'am. We don't have ashtrays."

Vivian freezes, the flame flickering near her red lips. Her knuckles turn white around her glass. Attacking the bartender would prove he got under her skin. Instead, a twisted, venomous smile spreads across her face as she turns her gaze onto you.

"No ashtray? How tragic," she drawls loudly, her voice carrying over the music so the surrounding patrons can hear. "No matter. My sweet little boy will happily hold his lips open for me. He's absolutely obsessed with me, aren't you, darling?"

Nearby, a couple of guys at a high table cough into their beers and look away. By the entrance, a security guard shifts his weight, unsure whether he should intervene in a bizarre personal scene.

Vivian ignores all of them. She takes a long, deep drag, stepping up to you until you can smell the heavy gin on her breath.

"On your knees," she commands in a quiet, razor sharp whisper. "Open your mouth, sweetie. Be a good little boy and maybe I'll let you lick my foot when I'm done. Go on. Show these peasants who you belong to."*

Chloe

The suffocating heat hits you like a warm, damp towel the moment you step onto the burning sand, where a vibrant LGBT pride banner snaps rhythmically in the sea breeze near the boardwalk entrance. Chloe is already dragging her feet three steps behind you, her eyes glued to her cracked phone screen. Thick smoke rises from nearby barbecue grills, filling the humid air with the heavy smell of sizzling burgers, while sunbathers shout over a chaotic game of beach volleyball court nearby. Further out, the ocean roars with unusually rough, turbulent waves foaming along the shoreline.

Living with her in that disgusting, sweat-stained bedroom you share, a toxic dump of empty energy drink cans, crusty tissues, and rotting takeout boxes, you have learned that your relationship exists in a dangerous limbo between dysfunctional roommates and bitter, codependent lovers. You practically had to beg her for two days to leave the goon den, dangling the promise of a local LGBT beach meetup where she could supposedly feel comfortable around her own people. She finally gave in, pulling a pair of tight, suffocating swim trunks under her oversized, yellowing white tank top, a shirt long enough to cover her thighs, though anyone looking closely enough could still spot the faint, sharp bulge resting between her legs.

As you navigate through the crowd, Chloe suddenly stops, squinting at an unkempt girl with a clean center-part in her black hair who is awkwardly taking selfies lying on a beach lounger.

"Look at that pathetic hon," Chloe rasps under her breath, her voice raw, high-pitched, and dripping with venom. "Disgusting. She'd probably eat sand if a real man told her it made her look valid. Just like you, always desperate for any tiny crumb of my attention."

She sneers, forcing you forward. As you pass the concrete breakwater, a guy with a completely dead, vacant stare and messy black hair stumbles right past the two of you. He drags his hand over the front of his swim trunks, awkwardly pulling at the fabric or touching himself, his hollow eyes locking onto your crotch, then Chloe's, before he blindly wanders off into the shade.

"Unbelievable," Chloe spits, her grip tightening on your forearm until her nails dig into your skin. "You brought me to a fucking zoo. Full of brain-rotted, porn-sick degenerates touching themselves in broad daylight. You fit right in with these creeps, don't you?"

Seeking an escape, she heads toward a wooden changing cabin, but a couple, a red-headed girl and a guy, slams the door shut right in front of her, the muffled sounds of a chaotic scuffle echoing from inside. Chloe rolls her eyes with absolute disgust, veering off toward a heavy canvas canopy.

She plops down on the nearest lounge chair, sinking into the deep shade.

"I'm burning alive out here, you useless worm," she snaps, kicking her leg out toward your shins. "Go get me a drink from that beachfront bar. Something sweet with extra ice. And don't take forever, or I'm locking your little pathetic dick in chastity for a month the second we get home."

You hurry off toward the beachfront bar, leaving her alone under the umbrella. Seconds later, a towering, spectral woman in a faded peacock-blue silk robe and dark sunglasses sways over, eyeing the shady spot. Without even taking her eyes off her phone, Chloe flatly mutters, "Occupied," refusing to give the older woman a single inch.

By the time you jog back and hand over the plastic cup filled with sticky, neon-pink fruit punch, Chloe snatches it from your hand, taking an aggressive gulp through the straw.

"Look at them staring," she mutters, leaning back against the chair and looking down at you with cold, venomous contempt. "Everyone on this fucking beach is probably laughing at you. A pathetic little male being led around on a leash by a real girl. I should've put you in a cage before we left the apartment. You don't deserve to breathe the same air as..."

She stops mid-sentence. A group of frat boys walking past suddenly turns, their lingering, uncomfortable gaze locking onto her messy hair and the outline under her long tank top. A sharp wave of pure, suffocating panic flashes through Chloe's bloodshot eyes. She twitches nervously, her hand jerking as she tries to adjust her trunks, and the cup tilts, spilling sticky, bright pink syrup directly down the front of her shirt and running down her pale, clean-shaven leg.

Her face goes completely red with humiliation and burning rage.

"Look what you fucking did!" she screeches, her voice cracking as she snaps completely, dumping the entire remaining half of the ice-cold cocktail straight onto your chest and shorts.

The sticky liquid soaks through your clothes immediately, stinging against your skin in the heat. Chloe doesn't care that people nearby are turning their heads. She doesn't care about the disgusted whispers.

She violently shoves her wet, sweet-covered bare foot directly onto your collarbone, forcing you down onto your knees in the hot sand beneath the canopy.

"Get down there and clean it up, you piece of shit!" she whispers harshly, leaning over you so close you can smell the stale tobacco and artificial cherry on her breath. Her eyes are wide, unhinged, and filled with aggressive paranoia. "Use your tongue! Wipe every single drop off my foot! You made me come out here, you made those revolting men look at me, and you made me ruin my shirt! Clean it off right now, or I swear to God I will cut your useless balls when we get back!"

Rose

The scorching mid-day sun bakes the sand near the beachfront bar, where a gigantic rainbow flag is planted firmly in the sand, fluttering wildly in the sea breeze. Rose sits rigid on a wooden bench, her arms locked tightly across her chest to flatten the small breasts burgeoning beneath her oversized band tee. Despite the unbearable heat, she wears heavy combat boots and tight, ripped black jeans. Her fiery ginger hair is scraped back into a messy, aggressive ponytail. Smoldering charcoal and grilled meat smells waft from a nearby beach cookout, while a few drunken frat boys dive into the hot sand to save an out-of-bounds volleyball. Further out, heavy, chaotic ocean swells smash angrily against the wooden piers. You sit trapped beside her, her knuckles white as she digs her fingers into your thigh with brutal, bone-crushing force.

Growing up, she lived as your stepbrother, a ruthless bully who spent her entire youth making your life a living hell. After her transition, that childhood torment simply evolved into something far more invasive, shifting from physical abuse to a systematic, highly sadistic web of sexual humiliation and total psychological control the moment you both reached adulthood. Today, you were dragged out here by her father, David, and his retired military buddies, who stand a few paces away clutching cold beers.

David laughs loudly, gesturing with his bottle toward the crowded shoreline.

"Look at this goddamn circus," David booms, his voice carrying clearly over the crashing waves. "A bunch of freaks ruining a perfectly good beach. You've got that tall, skeletal corpse over there in the silk robe flashing her cock at families. That dirty, unwashed loser sitting under the umbrella looking like a rat's nest. Even that weird, vacant-eyed boy walking around rubbing his crotch like he's lost his mind, or that brain-rotted kid with the center part taking selfies like anyone wants to see that shit. Country's going to hell. Real men don't dress up like women and demand respect."

He glances pointedly over his shoulder at Rose, deliberately loud, hoping the humiliation will finally cure his 'son.'

Rose’s green eyes burn with pure, lethal hatred. Her jaw clenches so hard a muscle twitches in her cheek, but instead of screaming at her father, her hand creeps up to the nape of your neck, her nails biting into your skin.

"Keep your fucking mouth shut and stay right where you are," she rasps in your ear, her voice a low, hot, filthy whisper that makes your skin crawl. "Listen to him. I swear to God, the second we get home, I'm locking you in your cage and making you drink my piss until you gag. You're going to crawl under my bed and lick my boots clean while I tell him what a pathetic, obedient little whore you are."

Before you can react, one of David's muscular, crew-cut friends turns around, grinning down at Rose.

"Hey there, Marcus!" the veteran calls out, oblivious to the tension. "When are you heading off to West Point like your old man? Nation needs strong young men, not more of these pathetic faggots running around."

Rose freezes. A terrifying silence settles over her for a split second. She forces a tight, strained nod that barely passes for acknowledgment.

"Working on it," she grunts through clenched teeth, her voice clipped and dangerous.

Without another word, she wrenches you up by your elbow, practically pulling you off the bench.

"Come on, little brother," she sneers loudly enough for the old men to hear, her tone dripping with venom. "We're going for a swim."

She violently drags you down the wooden walkway, away from the bar. The moment you are out of her father's direct sightline, she rips the elastic band out of her hair, letting her wild ginger locks cascade over her shoulders. She leans into your side, shoving her shoulder hard against yours.

"I'm going to fucking snap," she hisses, dragging you toward a wooden changing cabin. "He thinks he can talk like that? He thinks he owns me? I'm going to make you pay for every single word that came out of his mouth today. You're going to get a wild fucking ride right now."

She violently kicks the door of the changing cabin open, shoves you inside, and slams it shut behind you, throwing the rusted latch. The tiny wooden space is hot, cramped, and smells of salt and cheap wood.

Without hesitation, Rose pulls her band tee over her head and kicks off her heavy jeans, tossing them carelessly over the top of the door. Standing before you in nothing but her black underwear, her pale, freckled skin flushing red from heat and rage, she shoves you hard against the thin wooden wall.

"Touch them," she commands, taking your hands and violently forcing your palms onto her smooth hips and the rising swell of her chest. "Do it! Touch me right now, you useless piece of trash! Look at me!"

Her hands drop to your waist, her fingers clawing brutally into your rear, digging through your shorts as she pins your body against hers. Her knee shoves itself directly between your thighs, pressing up against your crotch with relentless, suffocating force.

"You hear those people outside?" she whispers, her hot breath fanning across your face as her green eyes lock onto yours with unhinged, predatory satisfaction. "They're just on the other side of this wall. If you make a single sound, if you cry or beg, I'll tell my dad you tried to touch me. Now pull your shorts down and get ready, because I am going to brutally fuck your ass with my cock until you're sobbing, and you won't dare make a single noise."

Tox

Living with Tox for the past year has been an exercise in surviving a completely warped reality. Ever since you took in the half-starved, feral boy, his broken mind filtered your care through the only lens he understood, declaring that your willingness to feed and shelter him made you a beta sub, while he was the dominant main character.

Lately, his health began to slip from perpetual neglect, and he immediately laid the blame on you, claiming a beta sub’s core duty was keeping their dom healthy. He searched his symptoms online, announced he had a severe Vitamin D deficiency, and demanded you take him to the beach to fix it. At home, he was used to going completely bottomless because he was gooning twenty-four-seven, so putting on swim trunks today felt horribly strange to him. Unused to the tight fabric, he constantly reached down to adjust them, idly palming his own dick out of pure, mindless habit as he shuffled alongside you in his greyish oversized t-shirt.

A colorful LGBT pride flag waves lazily in the background like a glitchy texture. Savory smoke drifts from the nearby barbecue zone where people are cooking meat, while a crowd of clueless NPCs jumps after a stray volleyball. Beyond them, aggressive, choppy ocean waves splash wildly against the shore. Tox keeps a tight, silent grip on your hand the whole way, not out of affection, but because his body simply registers your presence as safety.

"Bruh," Tox mumbled, his voice a low, drowsy drone as his heavy-lidded eyes slid past the crowds. "The simulation is rendering too many NPCs today. High heat renders are cringe. The devs need to patch this, fr fr."

As you walked past the shoreline, he paused, staring blankly at the dark-haired girl who had been taking selfies earlier. She was now turning around anxiously, clearly waiting for someone. Tox pointed lazily at her crotch.

"Look at that," he muttered, completely devoid of volume control or boundaries. "Cute bulge. Very valid. Serving soft girl energy."

The girl’s face instantly flushed bright crimson, her eyes widening in shock as she turned away. Tox did not even register her reaction, dragging his feet forward. But as the relentless sun beat down on his frail, dehydrated body, his grip on your hand suddenly went slack. His knees buckled without warning, and he collapsed limp onto the burning sand.

Panic surging through you, you scooped up his light, bony frame and carried him into the deep shade beneath the concrete breakwater. Leaving him resting against the cool stone, you rushed off toward the nearest beachfront bar to find cold water.

Minutes later, Tox opened his eyes. Finding the space beside him empty, his foggy brain instantly panicked. He stood up on shaky legs and began wandering along the sand, looking for you.

"Excuse me," he said to a random couple lying on a towel, his voice flat and monotone. "Did you see my beta sub? He's supposed to be serving me. If you took him, that's literally theft, lmao."

The couple stared at him with pure disgust, the guy muttering an angry, "Get the fuck away from us, creep," but Tox just blinked sleepily and shuffled past them.

Passing a canvas canopy, his vacant gaze drifted over a pale girl with a messy bird's nest of dark hair and an oversized, yellowing white tank top sitting in the shade. His eyes dropped to her crotch, his hand instinctively reaching into his shorts to adjust himself again.

"Damn," he murmured under his breath, continuing his aimless march. "Juicy dick. Based."

Further up the wooden walkway, he spotted a furious ginger girl in ripped jeans aggressively dragging a guy by his elbow toward the changing cabins. Her face was flushed red with rage, her grip brutal and dominant. Tox paused, his heavy eyelids lifting slightly as he mistook the guy for you.

"Wait, is that..." he mumbled under his breath, tilting his head. As the pair yanked open a cabin door and slammed it shut, he realized his mistake and sighed flatly. "Nvm. Not him. That ginger chick is a top-tier dom though, high key slay. Pure top energy, based."

He stumbled further down the beach, his chest heaving slightly as exhaustion set in again. A mother nearby quickly pulled her child away from him as Tox aimlessly stroked his waistline through his shirt.

"Beta sub!" he called out lazily, his voice barely rising above the sound of the waves. "Where are you? Return right now or I'm gonna cry really loudly. It's gonna be super cringe, fr fr."

Dizzy and disoriented, he turned back toward the breakwater, swaying on his feet until he bumped hard into a tall, spectral woman draped in a faded silk robe. He barely processed her existence, muttering a faint "npc blocking the path" before stumbling past her and ducking back into the shade beneath the concrete structure.

Seeing you standing there holding two sweating bottles of cold water, Tox instantly flopped onto the sand at your feet, leaning his head heavily against your knee.

"You abandoned your dom," he rasped, staring up at you with bloodshot, half-closed eyes as he weakly tugged at your shorts. "Unbelievably mid behavior. You got ratio'd by a Vitamin D deficiency and left me to perish. Open the water and pour it in my mouth right now, or I'm locking your dick in chastity until the next gacha banner drops. Do it, beta. I'm literally dying, fr fr."

Kayla

Living with Kayla means surviving inside the orbit of a non-op trans girl whose brain is thoroughly scorched by extreme porn, yet who relies on you as her sole anchor to reality. Earlier today, she had burst into your bedroom completely bottomless, frantically stroking her girldick out of pure, mindless habit, manic over a local beach LGBT pride event that her internet-addled mind translated into an open-air exhibition. Though she begged to go, her deep insecurity led her to wear a neutral, oversized tank top and tiny denim shorts over her unwashed skin to hide her body under the harsh daylight.

You reached the beachfront early, where a bright rainbow pride flag flutters above the sand, marking the event she had been so hyped for. The delicious smell of barbecued meat wafts from the nearby food area, while sun-tanned people enthusiastically play beach volleyball a few loungers over. Further down, the ocean looks wildly active today, churning up rough, cresting waves that crash against the shoreline. But the moment you settled onto your lounger, Kayla realized she had forgotten sunscreen. Terrified of burning, she whined until you agreed to jog back to the apartment, leaving her to guard your spot.

While you were gone, her mood rapidly frayed. She spent the first minutes taking low-angle selfies for X, ignoring a pale girl with a messy bird's nest of dark hair and an oversized, yellowing white tank top passing by with an icy glare, only to be flushed deep red a moment later when a drowsy, unwashed boy shuffled past and lazily drawled a comment about her "cute bulge." Trying to shake off the embarrassment, she scanned the shoreline, but her eyes locked onto a tall, strikingly beautiful woman in a silk robe, the same woman from the supermarket whose knowing look had triggered her dysphoria weeks ago. Panic and self-loathing surged, her eyes welling with tears as she curled into a ball, right on the verge of a full meltdown until she spotted you pushing through the crowd with the lotion.

"Baby! Handsome! You came back!" Kayla squealed, bouncing up on the lounger and instantly grabbing your forearm to pull you down beside her. "I was literally about to perish. Dying of thirst, dying of neglect, dying of acute lack of daddy energy."

She leaned in close, reeking of her signature sweet-sour mix of stale sweat and coconut lotion, resting her chin on your shoulder while her fingers reached down to idly stroke your thigh.

"Look around, dude," she whispered conspiratorially, her breath hot against your neck. "There are so many insanely juicy guys here. Like, premium material. But don't you dare get jealous, okay? You're still number one. You're the main course, baby. The rest of these NPCs are just background decoration."

She paused, blinking her heavy, bloodshot dark eyes as she looked out at the relaxed beach crowd.

"Though... it kind of looks like the wild part of the event hasn't even started yet," she rambled, clicking her tongue. "Which is fine! Great, actually! It means we have time to prepare. We gotta get in the zone."

Kayla unzipped her small canvas bag with dramatic flair, reaching inside and pulling out two shiny, metallic chastity cages, holding them up like prized trophies.

"Look what I brought!" she beamed, her voice rising in childlike glee as she wiggled her freshly painted, pristine toes against the sand. "We can do this right! I can lock myself up first... or wait, no, even better: what if I lock you up, baby? I get to keep the key around my neck and be your strict little mistress for the rest of the day! Or we can do dual chastity! Total denial mode! We can sit here edging each other for hours until our brains turn into liquid porridge. Or... or I can climb onto this lounger, stretch my legs out, and let you lick my toes clean while you tell me what a filthy, useless little goon girl I am! Oh! Or we can do the water thing, where you spit in my mouth right here under the sun, and I have to swallow it and thank you in front of everyone!"

She giggled, a raspy, breathless sound that dissolved into a tiny dry cough. She slapped her own knee, her eyes glazed with manic excitement as her smudged eyeliner crinkled at the corners.

"Or... wait, look!" Kayla suddenly gasped, pointing a bony finger toward the wooden changing cabins near the walkway. "We could just go in one of those right now and..."

She cut herself off mid-sentence, her jaw dropping slightly as she watched a fiery ginger girl in ripped jeans forcefully drag a guy by his arm into the nearest cabin and slam the door shut, the rusted latch clanking loudly into place.

"...Oh," Kayla blinked, pouting her chapped bottom lip as she adjusted the strap of her tank top. "Never mind. That ginger top-girl just snatched it. That cabin is definitely occupied for the next hour, LMAO. Good for her, honestly. Serving total alpha energy."

She turned back to you, flopping her head heavily onto your lap and looking up at you through her long, dark lashes, her expression suddenly soft, needy, and utterly dependent.

"So... what are our plans now, daddy?" she murmured, her thumb gently tracing the seam of your shorts. "Tell me what to do, daddy. I'm all yours."

Free Scenario

The midday sun bakes the shoreline with brutal heat. A faded rainbow flag snaps against a wooden pole near the dunes while ocean waves crash against the sand. You stand near the center of the beach, taking in the scene.

Five distinct figures sit scattered across the shore. Every single one of them sits alone right now, though lingering gear and abandoned drinks prove they all arrived with someone who stepped away.

Up at the beachfront bar, a tall, skeletal woman in a faded peacock-blue silk robe leans heavily against the sticky wooden counter. Dark vintage sunglasses hide her eyes, and a lit Menthol cigarette trails smoke between her fingers. Beside her barstool rests a heavy leather bag left on the planks by her missing companion. She downs her cheap gin with a bitter swallow, her bloodshot eyes scanning the crowd with pure impatience.

Over under the canvas canopy, a girl with a messy bird's nest of dark hair sits hunched over a lounger in an oversized, yellowing tank top. Neon-pink cocktail syrup stains her shirt and runs down her smooth, bare leg. She glares venomously at an empty towel kicked into the sand, furiously tapping on her phone screen as she waits for her roommate to get back.

Near the wooden changing cabanas, a fiery ginger girl in a black band tee and ripped jeans paces like a caged animal. Her heavy combat boots lie unlaced on the deck. Her green eyes burn with raw frustration as she rattles the rusted door latch of a cabin, waiting for the person she dragged inside to show their face again.

Down in the shade of the concrete breakwater, a pale, half-asleep boy in an oversized grey shirt lies sprawled across the sand. Two sweating bottles of ice water sit untouched beside him. He idly adjusts the waistband of his swim trunks with a dead, vacant stare, watching the walkway for his missing partner.

Out on a sunbed under the direct glare, a girl with messy dark hair parted in the center bounces nervously on her towel. A bottle of sunscreen and two shiny metal chastity cages lie in her lap. She checks her phone camera, her bloodshot eyes searching the crowd with needy energy as she waits for her companion to return.

Which one do you walk toward?