She’s younger than drinking age. I wouldn’t have guessed it, but I got it from her conversation with her companions.

Her legs are long, long, muscular, pale white. Her feet are in comfy-looking black leather flats. She wears a pair of high-waisted, cotton black shorts. Not tight – I can’t make out the shape of her ass as I would like to – but just short enough to grant me a glimpse of the curve of her round buttocks. Her top, a black translucent (transparent, really) short-sleeve thing barely obscures her white-girl-nude, strapless bra. (I do a double-take: is she wearing a bra?)

Her breasts are B-cups, just big enough (just big enough) that a bra probably is more comfortable than not. Her hair, blonde, but dark, hangs just below the bottom curves of her breasts.

Her eyes are bright blue, clear white. Her skin isn’t perfect, but she’s covered that up with a little too much make-up. Her lips are pouty, bright, whorish red. She’s tall. Those lips are an inch or two above mine.

Her hypersexual self-presentation contrasts starkly with her demeanor, her carriage. She is oblivious, seemingly, appealingly, to the palpable stir she causes where she goes, to the heads snapping around, the shared appreciative looks asking men, and even women, who range from respectful to lecherous.

I walk gratefully in her wake for just a few moments, before turning away.

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