Drinking with a donkey guy leads to further donkey-fication. Explicit.
Amy's friend's dad knew someone who was friends with a guy who had a place out in the backwoods that, if the hype was true, was an 'awesome place for parties and shit'. This somehow meant that Amy had to be the one to go out and get the keys from the guy. There were like five people who had more of a connection to this guy than she did, but nope. It was her out rumbling in her mother's sports car down dirt roads so tiny that even her phone had given up trying to navigate.
The girl bouncing on the driver's seat was a little on the short side, and that fact did annoy her every so often. But the good side of being short was that even if you weren't that curvy, it was like an optical illusion that made it look like you had boobs, even if they would look a lot smaller on someone taller. Her ponytail bobbed with every big rock the tires rolled over. She had grit her teeth together to stop her jaw from clattering. And the road just kept on going.
It had been about an hour's drive into the middle of nowhere when she finally came to the end of what was now little more than a trail in front of a wooden cabin. It didn't look bad, to be honest—it was a decent size, had a porch out front, and even seemed to have a basement from the looks of it. She'd been worried there was going to be just a tin shack or something.
The guy she was supposed to met must have heard her pulling up, because as she was climbing out of the car, she heard the door of the cabin swinging open. She pushed the car door shut and rounded the car to see him coming out of the cabin.