​She wears a jumpsuit. Vertically striped. Navy, then white, then light blue, then brown. They repeat. The cycle takes about two inches, and is exemplified by a horizontally striped belt of the same fabric and pattern.

The top is tank, with a deep plunging V to her navel, mostly exposing her A-cup breasts, leaving only her nipples unseen. And only barely unseen.

The bottom flares out into bell bottoms. Between, though, the fabric – a tightly crocheted cotton/poly blend, I’d guess, soft – clings tightly to her slender body. Her ass strains the fabric, bigger, rounder than the rest of her would lead you to expect, expanding the gaps in the patterned stitches just a tad. Or maybe a tad more than a tad.

Her hair, platinum, dyed, hangs to just above her shoulders. Her lips are painted crimson. Her eyes are green. Maybe hazel. Her skin is not flawless, not clear. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t acknowledge the stares her plunging V makes inevitable. 

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