The supply run went too smoothly. Omar knew it within five minutes of walking through the door. He had told Cassidy about an hour because an hour was honest. Not because the drive itself would take that long, but because supply runs had a way of turning into small arguments with reality. The part that should have been on the shelf was suddenly gone. The fitting that looked right from six feet away turned out to be the wrong size. The one employee who knew the aisle had disappeared into the back. Traffic found a way to become traffic exactly when he was carrying a job on a timer.

An hour gave the world room to misbehave. Today, apparently, the world had other plans. The half-horsepower disposal was in stock. The trap assembly was in stock. The discharge pieces he wanted were in stock. Fresh slip-joint washers, extension tube, the little things that cost almost nothing and could still ruin a return trip if he forgot one. Omar stood in the aisle with the cart in front of him and ran the underside of Cassidy's sink through his head again. Cracked disposal housing. Deteriorated trap connection.

Existing flange looked serviceable from below, but he would inspect it once the old disposal was down. Dishwasher connection already present. Nothing strange. Nothing custom. Nothing he could not fix. He set the last fitting in the cart. That should have been the only thing on his mind. It was not. Pink hair. The yellow thong showing through cheap stretched fabric. Dark curls escaping above the waistband. The impossible fullness at the front of those pants.

The way the back waistband had given up when Cassidy bent over the sink and left half her ass hanging out while she moved dishes like nothing unusual was happening. Omar pushed the cart toward the register. Work. He could think about the rest when he was not being paid to solve somebody's plumbing. That was the rule. A useful rule. One he had already discovered was much easier to follow with his hands than with his eyes.

He paid, carried the disposal under one arm and the smaller bag of parts in the other, and checked the time when he reached the van. He had not even been gone half an hour. Omar looked at the clock. Then at the building across the lot. He considered sitting there. Not for long. Just long enough to bring the return closer to what he had told her. Cassidy had said she might have headphones on. She had told him to knock first and come in if she did not answer. She was going to leave the door unlocked.

That was clear enough. Still, twenty-something minutes was not an hour. Omar loaded the parts, got behind the wheel, and started the van. It was not his fault the supply house had decided to become competent. The drive back was short. He kept the radio off. That was usually how he worked through a job in his head. He could hear the order of things better without somebody talking over it. Old unit down. Inspect mounting assembly. Prep new disposal. Connect discharge. Replace trap. Test cold. Test hot.

Fill basin and dump it for volume. Run disposal. Check every joint dry. Invoice. Done. The list held for maybe thirty seconds. Then Cassidy returned. Not literally. His brain did it. The smell came first in memory. That irritated him more than the visual stuff. Images could at least be blamed on looking. The smell had gotten into him without asking. Warm skin. Sweat. Old sex. The heavy musk between her legs when she had been standing directly over him while he worked under the sink.

He had breathed it in deliberately near the end. That part was on him. He had known exactly what he was doing. He had liked it enough that now, alone in the van, he could almost reconstruct it. Omar tightened one hand on the wheel.

"Work."

The word did not change anything. It helped anyway. He parked, shut off the engine, and sat for one second before reaching for the parts. The building had not changed. Neither had the stairs. Neither had Cassidy's door. He knocked. No answer. He waited. Knocked again, harder.

"Cassidy?"

Nothing. From inside he could hear something faint and rhythmic. Bass, maybe. Not loud enough to be speakers. Headphones. Right. Omar adjusted the disposal against his hip and knocked a third time.

"Cassidy? It's Omar. I'm back."

Still nothing. He waited several more seconds because permission was one thing and walking into somebody's apartment was another. Then he tested the handle. Unlocked. Exactly as she had said. Omar opened the door only far enough to lean his head inside.

"Cassidy?"

No response. He opened it wider.

"It's Omar. Coming in."

He said it clearly even though he doubted she could hear him. That mattered. He stepped inside. And stopped. The apartment smelled different. Everything from before was still there. Laundry. Food. Warm fabric. The mildew from the cabinet. Cassidy herself, already worked into the furniture and air. But something fresh had been added. Wet. Sharp. Hotter somehow. Sex that had happened minutes ago instead of last night. Omar stood just inside the doorway, disposal still under one arm.

The towel that had covered the toys earlier was gone from the coffee table. One of the toys was gone too. The flare pants were on the floor beside the couch, partly inside out. So was the yellow thong. One of Cassidy's over-ear headphones had slipped slightly off her ear while she bent over several feet beyond the couch. That was when Omar stopped registering objects. Cassidy had her back to him. The oatmeal shirt was still on, but it had ridden halfway up her back. Below it there was nothing. No pants. No thong.

Nothing. She was bent over cleaning the floor. One hand braced against the couch. The other worked a towel through a broad wet patch. Her legs were spread enough for balance. Her ass was directly toward him. Omar forgot the disposal was heavy. This morning had given him fabric. Bad fabric. Thin fabric. Fabric that had occasionally become more theoretical than functional. Still fabric. This was not. Cassidy's ass filled his view.

Broad hips rolling into two heavy pale cheeks, soft enough to move when she shifted her weight but full enough to hold their shape. Dark natural hair climbed the lower crease between them. More gathered around the center. And there— Omar stopped breathing for a second. Her anus was still stretched. Not simply relaxed because she was bent over. Not something he could misunderstand if he wanted to. Used. Puffy. The rim still swollen from whatever had been inside it, the opening slow to draw itself completely closed.

Dark hair framed the pinker, tender-looking center. The skin around it still had a slight shine. Omar stared. There was no polite version of what he was doing. No quick glance. No accidental visual inventory. Cassidy was not looking at him. Cassidy did not even know he was there. And Omar stared. His eyes moved lower. The purple plug lay on its side beside the towel. Purple. So that answered the small shape he had noticed through the pants. It had apparently come out during whatever happened while he was gone.

The stem and base were still slick. A brown smear marked one side. A tiny piece of fecal matter remained caught near the tapered end. The detail should have broken the image. Made it clinical. Made it gross. Something. It did not. It made the scene more physical. More private. More real. There was no camera pointed at her. No careful angle. No cleaned-up fantasy where bodies only produced attractive fluids and nobody ever had to wipe anything off the floor.

Cassidy was simply bent over after getting herself off hard enough to squirt across the floor, cleaning up the fresh puddle she had made. Omar's gaze went back to her ass. The stretched opening tightened slightly when she shifted her weight. Then relaxed again when she reached farther forward. A fresh line of moisture shone along the inside of one thigh. The wet patch from the squirting spread well beyond anything the sink had done. A clear pump cylinder rested on its side near the couch, its hose curled loosely beside it. Omar looked at that. Then back at Cassidy.

She had pumped again. Of course she had. The front of the pants earlier had already looked absurdly full. Apparently that had only been the beginning. His mouth went dry. Cassidy dragged the towel back toward herself. Her ass moved with the motion. Omar's eyes followed automatically. The smell was stronger here than it had been under the sink. Fresh sexual fluid. Sweat. The thick musk between her legs. The earthier smell of her ass at this distance. A faint dirty note around the displaced plug.

All of it warm in the apartment. All of it recent. The mildew had lost completely. Omar inhaled. Slowly. Knowingly. His body responded hard enough that annoyance flashed through him. Not shame. Just bad timing. Getting an erection while carrying a garbage disposal into a customer's apartment was not an operational advantage. Cassidy's headphones slipped again. She pushed them back into place with the hand she had been bracing on. Omar opened his mouth.

"Cassidy."

Nothing. He tried again, louder.

"Cassidy."

She paused. One hand went to the headphones. She pulled one side off and looked over her shoulder. Saw him. For half a second, neither of them moved. Omar stood there holding a boxed disposal. Cassidy was bare from the waist down with one hand on a wet towel. The purple plug lay on the floor between them like evidence. Omar expected something. He did not know what. A scream. A scramble. The shirt pulled down. The towel grabbed for cover. Some human reflex that would tell him this was a disaster. Cassidy blinked.

Then looked at the disposal.

"Oh."

She straightened. The oatmeal shirt settled back over the weight of her breasts and dropped enough in front to hide most of her from that angle. Her ass remained bare.

"You're back early."

That was it. No accusation. No mortification. A fact. Omar's brain took a second to catch up.

"Supply house had everything."

"Nice."

She pushed the headphones down around her neck.

"That's the disposal?"

"Yeah."

"The right one?"

"Yeah."

"Perfect."

Cassidy looked down at the floor. Then at the towel. Then the plug.

"Huh."

Omar had no idea which part had earned the reaction. She crouched and picked up the plug by the base. For one second the crouch opened her ass even more. Omar's eyes dropped immediately. The swollen rim spread around the dark hair. Still pink. Still glossy. Still not fully recovered. Cassidy inspected the brown smear on the plug and made a small face. Not disgust. Mild inconvenience. She folded a cleaner part of the towel over it, wiped it once, and set it on the coffee table.

"Give me a second. I thought I had way more time."

"Take your time."

His voice worked. Good. Cassidy went back to the wet patch. Omar looked away, then back; apparently there were limits to his discipline. She was not watching him. His eyes returned to her ass. That image was going to stay. He knew that immediately. Broad pale cheeks. Dark hair. The swollen, still-loose center between them. The little purple plug on the floor. Cassidy acting like she had dropped a spoon.

When she finally finished pushing the worst of the wetness into the towel, she straightened and looked around for her clothes. Omar expected the flare pants. She ignored them. Instead she picked up the tiny yellow thong from beside the couch. Cassidy stepped into it. Omar watched. Of course he did. The thong had barely covered her earlier. Now it looked ridiculous. The waistband came up first, settling low beneath the heavy rise of her mons. That part of her had always been prominent.

Even before the pumping, her lower belly flowed into a rounded, forward-projecting mound thick with dark natural hair. Now the whole front of her pelvis looked even fuller. But the real change was below it. Cassidy pulled the thong into place. The front disappeared. Not entirely. Enough that Omar's breath caught again. Her outer lips were enormous. Pumped past the point where the little triangle of yellow fabric had any real chance of containing them. Thick. Heavy.

Engorged enough to push outward around both sides of the narrow front. Instead of lying across her vulva, the thong had been dragged deep into the cleft between the swollen lips. The fabric sank inward. Her body bulged around it. From a few feet away, Omar could barely see the yellow in the center at all. The thong looked less like it covered her than like Cassidy had swallowed it. Dark curls spilled over the waistband and along the sides where the underwear ended.

The swollen flesh below stayed plainly visible around the narrow strip. Cassidy shifted one hip. The fabric tightened. Somehow that made the effect more extreme. The center strip pulled deeper between her lips while the engorged tissue crowded around it, too full to be pushed behind the fabric. Cassidy glanced down at herself.

"Huh."

Again. That was apparently her response to her underwear losing a structural argument with her body. She tugged at the front once. The adjustment made things worse. The yellow disappeared farther into the swollen cleft. More puffy flesh showed around it. Cassidy let go. Omar looked away only when she started to lift her head. By the time her eyes reached him, he was studying the disposal box. Professional. Mostly.

"I'm going to start," he said.

"Please do. I want that mildew gone."

Cassidy gathered the pump, headphones, towel, and plug into an untidy armful. The flare pants stayed on the floor. So did everything else she had decided she did not need. She carried the armful toward the bedroom, then stopped halfway and came back for the bottle of lube. Omar noticed that too. He noticed everything. That was the problem. A minute later she returned wearing only the oatmeal shirt and yellow thong.

From behind, the thong was doing no better. The waistband crossed the top of her hips. Then the back narrowed quickly into a string that disappeared between her ass cheeks almost immediately. Cassidy had enough ass that only a short length of yellow remained visible before her body swallowed the rest. The string was simply gone. Omar looked at the kitchen. Work. He carried the disposal in. The plumbing under the sink felt reassuringly normal. He set the new parts out in order. Disposal. Discharge hardware.

Trap pieces. Washers. Tools. A system. Something with rules. He shut off and verified power to the old disposal before touching the mounting ring. Checked again. Then disconnected the dishwasher hose and discharge connection. His hands did what they had done on dozens of other jobs. Support the weight. Release the ring. Control the drop. The old unit came down into his hand. The crack was exactly where he had diagnosed it. Real repair. Real reason to be here.

Omar set the failed disposal on the towel and inspected the existing sink flange and mounting assembly. Dry. Sound. Compatible with the new unit. No reason to replace good hardware. He prepared the new disposal, opened the dishwasher inlet properly, installed the supplied gasket components, and lifted the unit into the mount. For a few minutes the work demanded enough attention that Cassidy disappeared from his mind. Then Cassidy came back into the kitchen. Omar knew before he saw her. The smell reached him first.

Fresh now. Stronger after what he had walked in on. Sweat. Sex. The damp musk between her legs. The mustier unwashed smell that always seemed to sit beneath everything else. Her bare feet stopped beside him. Exactly where they had stopped earlier. That thought almost made him laugh.

"How much longer?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"Whether anything fights me."

Cassidy crouched beside the open cabinet. Omar's concentration vanished. The thong had looked overwhelmed standing. Crouching made it absurd. Her knees opened naturally to give her room. The tiny front panel pulled tighter. Her already-prominent mons rose heavily above it, dark bush spreading over the rounded mound and escaping beyond both sides of the waistband. Below, the little strip of yellow sank almost completely out of sight. Her outer lips were still hugely engorged from the pumping.

They pushed around the thong instead of behind it. Thick swollen flesh crowded both sides of the narrow fabric. The center strip was buried so deep between them that Omar had to look twice to confirm where the underwear actually was. He did not need to look twice. He did anyway. Cassidy was looking into the cabinet. Not at him. So Omar stared. The thong had become a marker more than a covering. A thin yellow line telling him exactly how deep the cleft ran before it disappeared.

The swollen lips on either side stayed exposed. Dark curls clung around the edges. A faint wet shine still caught the work light where skin met fabric. The front of her body looked overfull. Not just a conventional cameltoe. The whole lower shape was too large for the garment trying to contain it. Omar's mouth went dry again. Cassidy leaned closer to the cabinet.

"What part are you doing?"

Omar's brain returned.

"Mounting the new disposal."

"Is that the hard part?"

"No."

"What is?"

"Getting people to stop putting coffee grounds in them."

Cassidy looked at him. His eyes were already on the mounting ring. She laughed.

"Still judging me."

"Professionally."

"Good."

She stayed crouched. That was unnecessary. Omar was deeply grateful for it. The scent at that distance was overwhelming. He had been intoxicated by it earlier. Now it was fresh enough to make his head feel light. Her genitals were only a few feet from his face. The tiny thong was doing nothing to trap the smell. Warm musk. Sweat. The faint salty wetness left from the cleanup. The thick intimate odor of a body that had just been pumped, orgasmed, and only half cleaned. Omar inhaled twice, deliberately.

Cassidy did not seem to notice. Or did not care enough to react. His private mind was rapidly becoming useless. His hands were not. That distinction was becoming the most important thing he knew about himself around her. He rotated the disposal into the mounting ring until it locked. Checked it by hand. Then connected the discharge. Cassidy watched.

"So that just twists on?"

"The disposal does."

"Pipes don't?"

"Not those."

He showed her the trap components.

"Compression washers."

Cassidy picked one up and turned it between her fingers.

"Tiny thing responsible for a lot of suffering."

"That's plumbing."

She handed it back. Their fingers did not touch. Omar noticed that too. He dry-fit the replacement trap before tightening anything. Good alignment. No forced angle. He seated the washers correctly and threaded the slip nuts by hand. No tape on compression joints. No glue. No wrench trying to prove masculinity. The last person who had worked under there had done enough damage. Cassidy stood. Then she leaned over the counter to move a mug out of his work area. Omar looked. The rear of the thong vanished into her ass.

That was the first thing. Only a short yellow strap was visible over the upper curve before the string disappeared completely between her cheeks. Then Cassidy bent farther. Her cheeks spread around the tension of the thong. Omar stopped what he was doing. The string reappeared for an instant lower down, pulled tight through the dark natural hair. And beneath it— Her swollen asshole came into view. Still puffy from earlier. Still glossy with the faint oily shine the cleanup had not completely removed.

Dark hair framed the rim. The yellow string ran directly over the center, pressed into the cleft so tightly that it seemed to disappear into the swollen tissue before vanishing between her cheeks again. Omar stared. The thong looked like her ass was eating it. There was no better way to describe what he was seeing. Cassidy shifted her weight. The string moved. So did the swollen ring beneath it. The thong dragged slightly across the shiny skin, then vanished again when her cheeks closed around it.

Omar forgot the trap for several seconds. Not one. Several. Cassidy reached farther for the mug. The movement spread her ass more. The swollen opening showed around the string. Hair matted slightly where oil and sweat had caught it. The purple plug had been there less than an hour ago. Omar knew exactly what the thong was lying across. That knowledge made the partial covering worse than nudity. He had already seen her bare. Now the little piece of clothing simply traced what it failed to hide.

Cassidy started to turn. Omar's eyes snapped back to the trap.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing."

She looked at him. Then at the counter.

"Thought you said something."

"No."

Professional voice. Not even a crack. Cassidy moved the mug and straightened. Omar exhaled quietly. Work. He could stare later. Apparently memory was going to handle that for him whether he wanted it or not. He finished assembling the trap and checked every joint. Then stood.

"Okay."

Cassidy leaned one hip against the counter.

"Okay good?"

"Good. Need to test it."

He restored power. Ran the faucet slowly first. Watched underneath. Dry. Increased flow. Still dry. He filled the basin enough to put volume through the drain and released it. The trap took the surge cleanly. Omar dried each joint with a fresh rag and checked again. Nothing. Then the disposal. Water running. Short run. Smooth motor. No discharge leak. No dishwasher-connection leak. No vibration where there should not be vibration. He shut it down. Waited. Checked everything again. Cassidy watched from the counter.

"You don't trust your own work?"

"I trust it after I test it."

"That sounds exhausting."

"Less exhausting than callbacks."

"Fair."

He ran one final test. Dry.

"Done."

Cassidy bent down beside him to look under the sink. The yellow thong tightened from both directions, nearly disappearing front and back as she crouched. Omar looked long enough to feel himself doing it.

Cassidy was focused on the new trap, so he let himself. Her body shaped the thong more than the thong shaped her. When she reached farther into the cabinet, her ass shifted toward him and the rear string pulled tight across the still-swollen center.

For one brief second, the glossy anal rim opened around the tension of it. Omar's attention locked there. That was the image. Not the bare reveal when he entered. Not the plug. This. Cassidy technically dressed. One tiny piece of yellow fabric losing at both ends. Her pumped outer lips eating the front. Her ass eating the back. And Cassidy acting like she was simply checking whether the repair looked dry. She straightened. Omar's eyes were already on the faucet.

"Looks significantly less wet," she said.

"That's the idea."

"And the mildew?"

"Leak's stopped. Cabinet needs to dry. Once it stays dry, clean the surface growth. If the board keeps getting softer or starts losing structure, that's a separate cabinet problem."

Cassidy poked the swollen particleboard.

"Future me?"

"Potentially."

"Future me hates current me."

"I'm getting that impression."

She smiled. Omar started cleaning his work area. Old disposal into the box. Failed trap pieces bagged. Wet towels moved away from the cabinet. Tools back where they belonged. Cassidy watched for a minute. Then looked around the apartment.

"Actually..."

Omar knew that tone.

"What else?"

"My closet door."

"Sliding?"

"Yeah. It sticks, and sometimes it jumps the track."

"Bedroom?"

"Yeah."

He looked toward the hall. That particular room felt different now. Cassidy did not seem to share that problem.

"I can look at it another time."

"You don't have time now?"

"I have another job."

That was not entirely true. He had enough time to look. He did not currently trust his brain inside Cassidy's bedroom. That was different. Cassidy accepted the answer.

"Okay. Bathroom shelf too."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Pulling away from the wall."

"Send me pictures."

"I'll forget."

"Then I'll look when I'm back."

Cassidy smiled.

"You're coming back?"

The question was practical. His answer still came too quickly.

"Yeah."

"Cool."

She reached for her phone on the counter. The movement lifted the loose shirt, giving Omar one last glimpse of yellow disappearing into her before Cassidy found the phone.

"Do I text the same number?"

"Yeah."

"I'll make a list."

"Good."

"I might even remember where I put it."

"That would help."

She laughed. Omar finished packing. The apartment still smelled like fresh sex. The mildew was already fading into the background now that the leak had stopped and the cabinet was open. He could see the purple plug on the coffee table, half wrapped in the towel. The pump was gone. The flare pants were still on the floor. Cassidy apparently had no intention of putting them back on. Omar tried not to be grateful for that. He failed. He brought up the invoice. Parts. Labor. No nonsense. Cassidy paid without arguing.

Then she followed him to the door in only the shirt and thong, bare legs and dark curls still visible around the tiny fabric. Knowing what the thong did from behind was enough to create the rest of the picture. Cassidy opened the door.

"Thanks."

"For the sink?"

"For the sink."

A beat.

"And for being normal."

Omar looked at her. That landed differently now. She knew exactly what he had walked in on. She knew exactly what he had seen. She had apparently decided his behavior counted as normal. If she had access to his thoughts, she might have reconsidered.

"It's your apartment," he said.

Cassidy's mouth curved.

"Yeah."

Omar stepped into the hallway.

"Text me the closet pictures."

"Bossy."

"Saves me time."

"I'll probably send them at midnight."

"I'll see them in the morning."

"Responsible."

"I try."

She smiled.

"See you, Omar."

"See you."

The door closed. Omar stood on the landing for two seconds while his brain replayed the sequence: Cassidy bent over, the purple plug on the floor, then the yellow thong losing its fight with her body when she pulled it back on.

He exhaled, went downstairs, put the tool bag in the van, and sat behind the wheel. The job was complete: disposal working, trap dry, customer paid, legitimate future repairs waiting. Everything about the workday could be written down in normal language. His body did not care. The van smelled like tools, plastic bins, old coffee, and work; memory supplied Cassidy.

Warm skin. Sex. Sweat. The earthier trace beneath it. He closed his eyes and immediately saw the thong again, yellow disappearing into swollen flesh while Cassidy remained completely unconcerned. Bad idea. He opened them.

"She's a customer."

The empty van did not argue. That was the useful part. She was a customer. He was going back because the closet door actually needed work. The bathroom shelf actually needed work. There would be an invoice. Tools. Parts. Procedure. That was real. So was everything else. He did not have to decide what the rest meant. Not yet. Omar started the van. As he pulled away, one thought followed him harder than the others. Earlier that morning, the problem had been how badly Cassidy's clothes failed to hide her.

Today he had learned something worse. Even when she put the underwear back on, her body could overwhelm it completely. And he already knew he was going to look again