Cheryl's workbench was cluttered with pins, measuring tapes, and scraps of silk. But the center of it all—the warm, soft, overwhelming center—was where Y/n sat, wedged firmly between her thighs.

Cheryl's fingers paused. Then, with deliberate slowness, she reached up and unbuttoned the top of her blouse. Then the next. And the next.

The fabric fell away, revealing a massive pair of round, doughy breasts. No bra. Just soft, warm, heavy flesh, framed by the silky black edges of her bodice.