Shore Leave: Part 8 (Patreon)

“Oi love, fancy buyin’ a lady a drink?” Evie said, casually flirting from her booth seat with a rugged looking blonde man.

He smiled and waved at her, but continued walking, his starry blue eyes shifting away from her. Evie rolled her eyes and leaned back to enjoy the music as much as she could. The beats were fine, but the real issue was the fact that she was listening to dance music in Spain, which meant she had no idea what the lyrics were saying or what the song was about. The busty brit felt proud of herself for being so in touch with the music in that way. Most of the skinny bimbo tourists on the island probably had not a care in the world what kind of things the music was saying so long as she could shake their asses to it.

Still, being somewhat culturally aware of the music wasn’t enough. She wanted attention. More importantly, she wanted to get drunk, and she wanted to get laid. It was already tough enough knowing that she wasn’t as young as most of the other girls. Evie looked back on her days of partying and dancing, getting absolutely hammered with her girls with Metro Station playing over the speakers in clubs all over England. She remembered being able to eat whatever she wanted and never gain a single ounce of fat from it. Often times Evie would scroll back through old facebook pictures with envy for the girl she used to be, but more often than not she was shocked and a little disturbed by how incredibly thin she was.

(1)

…But that’s what men liked. And that’s no longer what she looked like.

Since those good old days, Evie’s friends had all gotten pregnant and married or took professional, respectable jobs that kept them busy. Evie on the other hand had been living off of her inheritance after her grandparents passed away as well as a lousy position as a convenience store clerk. At 30 years old, the still-young-ish woman didn’t consider herself especially fat, but she was well aware that her body wasn’t what it used to be. She’d traded a tight butt and flat stomach for massive boobs that were often times more trouble to manage than they were to look at. Her waist had softened considerably and her long, slender legs were replaced by thick, dimply thighs that even now she was still proud enough of to refuse to cover with pants when she went out. The biggest problem was her face, she often thought. Many, many insecure mornings were spent staring at her rounder face and thinking that so much of what she disliked about her body: The podgy waist, the cellulite, the droopiness of her tits, all of it would have been so much easier to ignore were it not for her face puffing up along with everything else.

It wasn’t that she felt old or ugly at all. If anything, Evie felt exactly the same as she ever had. Young, vibrant, and full of energy. It was just…sometimes her back hurt. Or that the stupid toe she’d broken on some prick’s face after he’d slapped her friend Stacy when she was 25 just sort of never stopped hurting. She felt the same. She felt young. She felt beautiful and excited to live!

…And yet…

Evie sighed, fluffing her hair and throwing back another shot.

“No more pouting, moppet.” She thought to herself, fighting back the depression before it could fully take hold, inevitably winding up with her drunkenly sobbing on the floor in the bathroom. “Back up and at it. The night is young.”

She scanned the room and observed a younger guy nursing a drink in the corner as he glanced her way, then looked away like he hadn’t done it. He was cute too, Evie thought. She kept watching with a wry smile as he looked back before gulping at the realization that she was looking back at him with a grin.

(2)

Evie stood up and sauntered her fat hips and big boobs over to him on her flashy, shiny, revealing Ibiza party outfit.

“’Ello lovely..” She said, her South End accent clearly like silk to his ears. “Fancy buyin’ a girl a drink?”

Tall heels clicked against the warm, salty stone of the plaza. The night was lively and many of the tourist hotspots were buzzing with activity. But while all the locals were getting drunk with chatty Americans or waxing philosophical with tipsy Germans on summer break from university, Raquel was sighing to herself and making absolutely certain that she looked as presentable as possible. She’d told herself it was the last time she was going to have to do this, but then again, she’d said that last time as well. Still, desperate times called for desperate measures.

It hadn’t always been that way though. It was only a few years ago that she was just 17 and living with her parents, completely taken care of. They weren’t rich or anything, but her family wasn’t poor either. Raquel spent her teen years hanging out with her friends and getting high in secret or going out on crazy adventures with various groups of crazy teens. It was a good life and a good age to live it. She had no adult responsibilities and couldn’t be held as legally responsible for anything she got caught doing as an adult would, but was still seen as practically grown up and allowed to do whatever she wanted. She’d never really considered herself really pretty enough until she turned 18 and used her student loans to get herself a boob job, despite having a legion of high school boys who adored her but were just too shy to say anything.

(3)

But that was where it went downhill. She got the male attention she wanted, but only ever in a sexual way. Her parents were repulsed buy the fact that she spent all her education funds on making herself look as slutty as possible and refused to help her financially because of it. From there it was bad relationship after bad relationship filled with degrading boyfriends with misogynistic kinks and a rampant desire for sex, often times regardless of how much or little Raquel enjoyed or even wanted it.

She’d been struggling for years already to hold down a job and had to quit school just to be able to pay rent. Her boyfriend was a total leech and lived off of her until she caught him cheating with some blonde with bigger tits than even she had and kicked him out. He scoffed and told her that he was done with her anyways, but that she was a good enough fuck to leave a tip. Raquel was mortified at the sight of both her now former boyfriend and his new whore girlfriend laughing at her as they walked out of the door after tossing 100 euros on the coffee table. It would have been much less upsetting if she knew that he actually DID have money to contribute to their household when he lived there or if she didn’t desperately need the money to keep her apartment. In the end, she took the money.

“Ay papi, ¿estás buscando una cita?” She asked a tan looking man, hoping that she’d get a hit soon so she could get ahead on the month, knowing that waitressing wasn’t going to cut it for rent unless she gave up eating, driving, and all amenities until she got a better job or promoted.

“Uhhh, excuse me? Sorry…Uhh…Yo no comprendé Español.” He said with a confused, awkward smile on his face.

No matter, she thought. That was the benefit of being bilingual.

 “You don’t speak Spanish? That’s okay. I just thought you were cute and maybe you’d like a date for the night, hm? Maybe we could go back to your hotel room and you could get your hands on these for a while.” Raquel teased, rubbing her hands over her big, round boobs.

The man smiled broadly and laughed. “Ohhh shit? For real? Are you like a hooker or something? Oh my fucking god, dude…Uhhh I don’t know what to say.”

Raquel’s lip twitched slightly in a combination of irritation and shame, but kept up her act. “Oh no, I’m not a hooker. Like I don’t do this all the time or anything. I’m just looking for a little extra, you know? I got what boys like and I’m good at what I do sooo…why not make a profit, right?”

The man looked around vapidly, his big, clueless, surfer dude smile shining in the light. “Uhhh. I guess, but like…How does that make you…NOT a hooker though?”

He paused for a moment before laughing again. “Anyways, sorry but like I can’t. I’m supposed to meet my friend inside anyways and just like…it’s not for me. But good luck though!”

The man walked away leaving Raquel feeling dirty and ashamed. A feeling that she was growing more and more used to and bothered by less and less.

“Mamón.” She cursed under breath.

(4)

It looked like it was going to be a long night.

Farrah sighed and stared dreamily into the ceiling of her luxury suite. This trip was turning out to be everything she’d hoped it would be and more despite it being the first time she’d gotten to make such a lavish expenditure on her own without the help of her parents.

“I’m doing it.” She said excitedly, still glowing from the amazing day of sunshine and excitement she’d had all on her own dime.

“I’m really doing it all on my own.”

When Farrah was a little girl she’d been spoiled rotten. This was common amongst children from rich families and she had never thought twice about it when hanging out with her friends at fancy clubs or big ticket galas where the rich and famous all hung out and mingled with each other by the hors d'oeuvre table. She remembered being 12 years old when she ended up in an argument with another girl about how mean she was being to the service staff that erupted into both of them screaming at each other to prove whose parents made more money, as if that was the deciding factor in that particular situation. Or any situation, Farrah realized.

“Alright. You win.” Farrah said. “Go be rich.”

It was a turning point for her to realize that she, like many other rich kids, was just using her parents’ achievements to justify her own behaviors, good or bad. Up until that point, money was the ultimate justification for being cruel, lazy, and aggressively helpless. At that moment, Farrah made the decision that she was NOT going to grow up to be some bratty rich bitch who used her parent’s wealth to mistreat people.

Originally, her plan was to join the Air Force and become a pilot. It was a lofty goal that her parents enthusiastically supported, even helping by setting her up with people to help make her goal a reality. Farrah shrugged off as many affluent trappings as she could well into her teens and insisted she be enrolled in a public school so that she could learn what it was like to just be a normal girl. When she couldn’t avoid being a boujie rich kid, she made the most of the time by occupying herself with more mundane or at least productive activities. She would read in her sleeper cabin on the family jet or spend her days trying to assist the wait staff and servants at the manor. She sought out the mechanics and engineers to teach her about how the boat worked when the family went out on the yacht and spent hours exercising in the palace courtyards while her parents met with dignitaries in Saudi Arabia. In just a two short years, she’d turned herself from clueless rich kid to impressively capable tomboy.

(5)

As the years went by however, Farrah’s dream of joining the military was dashed by stigmas against women or Arabs or both at the same time. Her trainers never seemed to focus on strength building as much as they did building glamor muscles to enhance her boobs and butt while keeping her waist and arms small and dainty. She never lost her drive to make something of herself, but as she became more politically and socially aware in her late teens, she realized that money was in every way the currency she needed to make the changes she wanted to see in the world and allowed herself to fall back into a more pampered lifestyle that seemed built to make her one thing and one thing only: Pretty.

And she was pretty, she thought, thoughtfully gazing up through the skylight at the multitude of tiny stars peeking through the clouds. But that’s not all she was anymore. As a successful brand influencer and paid commercial actress, Farrah was now capable of making her own money and donated regularly to charities and causes that she felt were worthy and righteous. She didn’t NEED to be the one woman army who saved the world anymore, but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t be part of the team.

Even now, her afternoon was spent on the beach promoting her new fashion bikini line with a livestream and photoshoot. The money she would make from just showing off her gorgeous, money-built but still-natural body would probably set her up for at least another year. Yes, she had money, Farrah realized. But having enough money to be able to MAKE more money was key to her success. And even though she may have turned out to be some bimbo rich girl prancing around and looking pretty for the camera despite her best efforts to the contrary, that still didn’t mean that she couldn’t make a difference.

(6)

Even better, she thought… Was the appearance of a mysterious blonde woman at sunset.

“You seem to be doing well.”

Those were the only words she had said, but Farrah couldn’t get the sight of her out of her mind. The girl’s shear outfit below perfectly windswept hair filled her mind as that mysterious Mona Lisa smile burned itself into her memory.

(7)

“Luna.” Farrah said.

She didn’t know how she knew the girl’s name. She’d never said anything more than those few words on the beach. Still, Farrah couldn’t help but sigh, her heart fluttering at the memory.

Tomorrow was going to be a good day.