As she finished talking, she undid the front clasp of her bra and shrugged it off, now entirely naked and struck a pose, squeezing her tits together lewdly. “Don’t you, like what you see,” she asked suggestively.
Henry tore his yes from the windows and focused again on Etta. How had he ever managed to take his eyes off her in the first place? Etta was the very definition of beauty: dark hair contrasting her pale skin, and ample breasts complimenting the flare of her hips without looking comical. She was a porn model, a wet dream come to life.
Only, that didn’t seem quite right.
Had she always looked this good? Henry flashed back to when he had first saw her across the room an hour ago – hadn’t her eyes drawn him to Etta then, and not her pouty, fuckable lips? Could her dark blouse really have concealed amazing tits this big? Surely he would have noticed those when they had met. He struggled to remember through the fog of lust. No, her tit’s must have always looked like that, he reasoned. Something like that couldn’t just change, could it? Still, doubt lingered in the back of his mind though as he continued to stare: if she had always looked this good, why was she with him? Why would she have showed up alone to the showing in the first place, and why would she have wandered into a broom closet with him?