About me: a matching pink tracksuit with white accents, the
kind with a zipper down the front and something
vaguely sexual written across the ass. That
tracksuit suggested a curvaceous figure; the
fabric along her bust seamed to be at the very
limit of its elasticity, as it seemed was the
cloth that covered a well-rounded, fruit-like
rear. It was a good thing the woman was still in a
daze, as it didn’t seem she noticed
Harlan’s staring. After a brief pause, and
the realization she was still in shock from
