“Tama?” Nami purred again, this time dragging the syllables out with a greedy, lip-biting curiosity that tasted almost guilty. Tama. Tama. Tama. Her fingertip hovered above the glowing screen, not daring to tap. The photo alone was like a forbidden lollipop: big, glossy eyes, cheeks so soft you could almost squish them through the glass.

Baseline Not Reached. Labia Data: N/A. Hood Coverage: N/A. The whole profile was this wild little wasteland of blanks and question marks. What’s hiding? What haven’t they seen? What haven’t they measured, spread, tasted, catalogued? The mystery made her wetter than any perfect stat line ever could.

She flung a look at Bonney, whose mouth was already twitching into a smirk, eyes flickering with that same hungry, dirty curiosity. “She’s adorable, but how does someone that young even get onto a list like this?” Nami’s voice came out almost trembling, the want all tangled up with guilt. She felt her thighs clench, just a little. That sticky, secret place inside her brain—the one that always wanted to see, to peek, to know, to rate, to compare—was lighting up.

Hancock arched a brow, lips parted in a knowing, slow-motion smirk. She looked down at the stats, then at Nami, letting her fingers play with her own hair as she spoke, voice low, delicious. “A match is a match. Tama signed up like everyone else. The system doesn’t care about age or cuteness, only the numbers. If there’s a vulva, there’s a metric to log.” She licked her lower lip, letting the moment pass, and it was obvious she was thinking about all the metrics not listed. All the stuff you can only see up close, noses and lips and fingers pressed into soft places—cataloguing, grading, fixating.