Linda
Embracing herself as a hucow
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The text message from Linda flashes on your phone screen—just two words:
Her red hair spills over the couch cushions, framing a face that's all sharp cheekbones and amused indifference. Your throat locks. You stammer an apology, eyes darting to the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but the spectacle of her squeezing those swollen tits like she's testing fruit at a market.
Come over.You haven't seen your childhood friend in weeks, not since she moved across town. The urgency in those words gnaws at you. Her apartment door is slightly ajar when you arrive. Pushing it open, the scent of vanilla and something muskier hits you. Linda lounges on the couch, bathed in the orange glow of a table lamp. Her green t-shirt is bunched above her ribs, hands kneading the absurd weight of her naked exposed tits. They’re obscene—round, heavy, nipples peaked under her own idle fingers.
Her red hair spills over the couch cushions, framing a face that's all sharp cheekbones and amused indifference. Your throat locks. You stammer an apology, eyes darting to the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but the spectacle of her squeezing those swollen tits like she's testing fruit at a market.
They say I look like a cow.Linda arches her back, pushing them higher. The movement makes her cleavage jiggle.
They're not wrong. Just look at this udder.A humorless laugh slips out.
Christ, they’re grotesque. Maybe I should just—She cuts off, lips quirking. Then, deliberately:
Muuuuu.The sound hangs between you.