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She took in a breath, and watched as it resulted in a rapturous, jiggling collision. Her breasts, barely-contained in a bra that was two sizes too small two sizes ago, shook deliciously, like pudding molds set onto her chest. Every jiggle was a little explosion of pleasure. Every shake and shimmy was a delight. Her nipples were almost painfully stiff against the little bra–what was it, a G-cup? Please.

She exhaled and then inhaled again, arching her back, feeling the strain until at last, the front clasp all but exploded. Her breasts descended an inch, but were otherwise so firm in shape and rode so high it made little difference. She cooed, brushing a finger across the top of them. Despite their smooth shape, they were oh-so-soft to the touch. Her dress, now, was straining without the bra to act as a front line against her onslaught. She steadied herself, looking at over half a foot of cleavage. Perfect.