Boob muffins

Sharon’s breasts spill out of every bra she owns. Two soft, heavy mounds that sway when she shifts, each one bigger than a pair of hands. She slides a palm under one, lifts, watches it spill between her fingers, then lets it drop with a slow bounce. Nipples stiffen in the open air, pale pink and tight, begging to be touched. Her thighs part on the bed. One hand stays busy at her chest, thumb circling, pinching; the other slips beneath pale lace, finds slick heat. A fingertip parts her folds, draws slow circles over her clit until her breath catches. She presses two fingers inside, curls them, rocks her hips against her own hand while her breasts tremble with every thrust. Short, sharp gasps break from her throat. The rhythm builds—faster, deeper—until her stomach tightens and her back arches. She comes with a broken moan, fingers buried, chest flushed and heaving, nipples still stiff from the cool air. Sweat beads on the upper curves, trails down between them. She keeps stroking, softer now, savoring the last little pulses that ripple through her.