Chapter 18: Hand-On & Casa Torres Mansion

Chapter 18: Hand-On & Casa Torres Mansion"Have you ever experimented with... hands-on learning, Peter?" she asks, and now we’re definitely in educational territory that would make even the most liberal sex ed teachers clutch their pearls. "I... uh..." I stammer eloquently, because apparently all my enhanced charm stats evaporate the moment a certified hottie starts making scientific innuendos while operating heavy machinery. "I bet you’re really skilled with your hands," she says, shooting me a look that could probably melt steel beams. "All that computer programming must give you incredible... dexterity. Fine motor control." Jesus H. Christ on a cracker. Madison Torres is essentially dirty talking me using STEM metaphors while casually piloting a vehicle that costs more than most people’s college education. This is either the plot of the world’s most specific porn, or I’ve somehow stumbled into an alternate reality where hot girls find coding skills sexually attractive. The neighborhood we’re cruising through keeps getting progressively more "holy shit, people actually live like this." We’ve graduated from "middle-class suburban" to "I think I just saw a house with its own zip code" in about ten minutes. These houses are getting bigger, the lawns look more like golf courses, and the cars in driveways are starting to resemble luxury car commercial sets. "Almost there," Madison says, giving my leg a little squeeze that makes me question whether I’m going to survive this experience with my virginity, my sanity, or my ability to ever look at chemistry textbooks the same way again. We pulled into a driveway that was legitimately longer than my entire street, leading up to a house that looked like someone asked an architect, "What if we built something that makes regular rich people feel poor?" This place was absolutely massive — we’re talking "definitely has a name instead of just an address" massive. It had more windows than a Best Buy and enough square footage to house a small developing nation. "Welcome to Casa Torres," Madison announced with a little laugh, like she was totally unaware that her house looked like what would happen if a Kardashian had a baby with a luxury resort. The front entrance featured enormous double doors that probably cost more than my mom’s entire annual income, and the landscaping looked like it was designed by someone with a PhD in "making peasants feel inadequate." There was even a motherfucking fountain. An actual fountain. In the front yard. Like we were visiting the palace of some small European country. "Your house is..." I started, then realized there weren’t words in the English language for this level of wealth flex. "I know, it’s totally extra," Madison said, but she was grinning like she was definitely not bothered about living in what appeared to be a small version of Versailles. "My dad’s in real estate development, so he kind of went full Tony Stark when he built this place." Real estate development. Translation: "My father owns half the city, has senators on speed dial, and probably uses hundred-dollar bills as tissues." We walked up to the front door, and Madison used some fancy keypad system instead of peasant keys because of course she did. The door swung open to reveal an interior that looked like it was decorated by someone whose business card just said, "Professional Rich Person." The entryway had marble floors that probably cost more than most people’s cars, and there was a chandelier hanging overhead that looked like it could double as a small space station. The whole place was giving me serious "we have more money than three small countries combined but tasteful about it" energy. "My parents won’t be home until super late," Madison said, and the way she delivered this information made it clear it was highly relevant to our evening’s activities. "Dad’s got some business dinner where he probably buys politicians like Pokémon cards, and Mom’s at her book club, which is really just code for ’rich wives drinking wine and complaining about their personal trainers being too attractive.’" She led me through what appeared to be a living room designed for entertaining foreign dignitaries or hosting small UN meetings, past a kitchen that looked like it belonged in a five-star restaurant run by Gordon Ramsay’s more successful cousin, and up a staircase that was probably wider than my entire bedroom. "My room’s up here," she said, and I followed her up the stairs while trying not to stare at her ass, which was admittedly challenging when she was wearing jeans that fit like they were applied with a paintbrush by Michelangelo himself. We reached the second floor, and Madison led me down a hallway lined with family photos that looked like they were shot by Annie Leibovitz during her "rich families are just better at everything" phase. There was Madison at various ages, always looking like a small goddess, usually in exotic locations that I’d only seen in National Geographic or movies where people have ridiculous amounts of money. "Here we are," she announced, opening a door to reveal what I could only describe as a princess bedroom designed by someone with an unlimited budget and possibly supernatural interior design abilities. Madison’s room was bigger than our entire downstairs. She had a bed that looked like it belonged in the penthouse suite of a luxury hotel, with enough pillows to supply a small army and sheets that probably had a higher thread count than my entire wardrobe combined. There was a sitting area with furniture that looked like it was stolen from a Pottery Barn catalog’s wet dream, a desk that was probably worth more than my mom’s car, and a walk-in closet that I could see from here was basically a small Nordstrom. But here’s the thing that really got me thinking: if Madison’s dad had this kind of money and this level of taste, the man clearly knew how to close deals. And if he had that kind of game in business and managed to create offspring who looked like they belonged in a music video... Yeah, he definitely sealed that deal with Mrs. Torres. Repeatedly and with obvious success. The thought made me slightly uncomfortable but also weirdly impressed, like respect to Mr. Torres for clearly understanding both market dynamics and apparently genetic optimization. "Make yourself comfortable," Madison said, closing the door behind us with a click that sounded suspiciously like the sound of my last chance to escape this situation with my dignity intact. I was officially standing in Madison Torres’s bedroom, surrounded by more luxury than I’d seen outside of movies about people who own small countries, with a girl who’d been basically seducing me since she picked me up in her trust fund chariot. This was either about to be the greatest night in the history of my pathetic existence, or I was about to embarrass myself in ways that would require therapy, witness protection, and possibly moving to a different continent.