Ch 1 – Fiery Voluptuous Redhead

“You are such a dick!” the voluptuous redhead bellowed, her voice rich with the kind of fury usually reserved for discovering that someone has eaten the last of the ice cream and left the empty tub in the freezer as a cruel reminder of your misplaced hope.

As she waved her arms for emphasis, her breasts—those glorious, gravity-defying entities—began an enthusiastic wobbling routine of their own. They jiggled, bounced, and, for a brief moment, seemed to move with an entirely separate sense of agency, as if debating whether to stay confined to her turquoise blouse or launch a bid for independence. The blouse itself was having an existential crisis, its buttons straining against the very fabric of reality, quite literally.

Povel Vieregg was, as any rational man might be, utterly transfixed. Somewhere in his periphery, Idun Amalie Wang’s mouth was moving, her arms flailing, her expression an artistic masterpiece of rage. But Vieregg, poor Vieregg, could hear none of it. His ears were temporarily out of order, his brain occupied with what scientists might call significant sensory overload.

Her breasts, he thought dreamily, were living a life of their own. Perhaps they had dreams, ambitions, goals. Maybe they were considering a quiet retirement in the countryside, somewhere peaceful, where they could wobble freely without the constraints of corporate dress codes.

He sighed.

Idun.

A name fit for a goddess. Specifically, a goddess of fertility, sexuality, and eroticism, which, in this particular moment, seemed deeply, profoundly appropriate. And Amalie! A classic, refined name. A name for sipping wine at candlelit dinners. A name whispered in the darkness of a bedroom. A name that deserved to be sighed dramatically from chaise lounges in silk robes.

Somewhere in his mind, a parallel universe unfurled. In it, he and Idun were tangled in the sheets, limbs intertwined, her ample, magnificent form pressed deliciously against him. His hands roamed, exploring the plush softness of her—

“Are you hearing any fucking words I am telling you?!” she shrieked.

Vieregg blinked, recalibrating.

She had a temper, this one. Not at all like the gentle, mystical Idun of legend. No, this was something else entirely. This was Thor—all storm clouds and fury, hammer raised, ready to smite the unworthy. He had a sudden vision of her soaring through the sky, Mjölnir in hand, laying waste to entire cities in the name of righteous anger.

A vase flew past his head.

Not just any vase. A well-crafted, alarmingly sturdy one, which exploded against the wall with the kind of force that suggested Idun had spent a good portion of her life training for the Olympic shot put.

“Of course,” Vieregg lied smoothly, the way one might assure a customs officer that no, I have absolutely not packed anything suspicious, and that suspicious-looking shape in my bag is most definitely not an unregistered bottle of duty-free schnapps.

He cleared his throat.

“You are not very happy with your employment situation, here at Vieregg Industries.”

Idun’s eye twitched.

The next projectile, Vieregg suspected, would not miss.

She had a point.

Which, Vieregg felt, was highly inconvenient. Points tended to complicate things, and he generally preferred a world where women with very large breasts did not yell at him quite so much. But, alas, this was not that world.