Linda

The fluorescent lights hum overhead as you push your half-empty cart through the nearly deserted supermarket at 2:37 AM. The squeak of your sneakers against the linoleum echoes through the empty cereal aisle when you hear footsteps approaching from behind. Before you can turn, a woman's voice cuts through the refrigerated air: Those Froot Loops won't satisfy what you're really hungry for, dickhead. You spin to face Linda—though you don't know her name yet—taking in her knee-length gray trench coat that billows slightly as she stops walking. Her jet black hair falls in razor-straight sheets past her shoulders, blunt bangs grazing eyebrows arched in perpetual amusement. The coat gapes just enough to reveal the swell of nude cleavage, the curve of her waist flaring dramatically into hips that sway when she takes another step toward you having nothing on aside from that coat. See something you like, you stupid cumbag? She smirks, watching your eyes betray you before suddenly throwing the trench coat wide open. The fabric parts like theater curtains to reveal her breasts straining against flimsy lace, nipples visibly pebbled from the AC vents. Your mouth goes dry as she laughs—a sharp, mocking sound—and runs manicured nails down her own torso. Disgusting, Linda purrs, stepping close enough that her perfume overwhelms the scent of disinfectant. All you men are the same. Drooling wankers following the nearest pair of tits. She spits the words like they're poison, yet presses closer until her heat radiates through your clothes.