The flesh bouncing inside the shirt

I am at the airport, walking toward the taxi cab parking. I am tired and I have been missing my wife curves for more than a week. I walk slowly looking at the floor. I raise my head for a second and all of a sudden I see curves.

A beautiful black woman is walking toward me in the opposite direction. She’s a flight attendant, as her uniform clearly suggests. Medium heels black shoes, blue skirt and blazer and underneath that, a white buttoned-down shirt full of meat. That’s right, her chest is packed beyond belief. There is so much boobs in there that I can see the flesh bouncing from inside her shirt. I can see her ginormous bra barely keeping her breasts together, stacking flesh over flesh in one huge continuous amassment of the softest tits, forming a pool that moves and shakes like a lake at every step. The woman’s considerable weight – she also has a large chunky ass and thick thighs – and the hardness of her shoes make her stomp, therefore shaking her protruding frontal bumpers at every single step. Poetry in motion. I observe the chunks of flesh bulging and bouncing from inside the fabric of the strained shirt. They look fat, soft and luscious and my cock is hardening. It’s a perpetual motion, a constant jiggling of the most tender deliciousness, the richest texture, the creamiest mountains of flesh you could possibly dive into.

I wish she was a goddess I could pay my tribute whenever she needs it, in exchange for a little display of her precious beauty.

(For an alternative narration of the same events, read here.)

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