Each cheek pressing separately against the tight fabric with a gravity-defying fullness, the ass crack visible as a deep shadow line down the center of the stretched material, the whole of it moving with the small shift of her weight from foot to foot.
Her boobs, visible in profile as she turned slightly, were the kind of boobs that made structural engineers anxious — massive, round, straining against the front of the dress with the specific pressure of flesh that had significantly outgrown its container, the dark nipple outline visible through the fabric, the swell of them enormous and heavy and very obviously uncontained.
The plate in her hand hit the floor.
The sound of it — ceramic on wooden floor, a bright sharp crash — cracked through the apartment like a gunshot.
She spun.
Her boobs swung with the motion, the enormous weight of them rocking sideways with the sudden turn, the dress struggling to contain the momentum, the fabric stretching further as the jiggle settled.
