It had been ages since I last went to the post office, but I had to go recently to mail a package. I stood at one of the central tables in the lobby, taking forever to fill out the forms because I’m not familiar with all the details. There was another reason I was moving so slowly: a woman in her mid-thirties was standing directly across from me, filling out her own envelope.
She wore a wide-neck top with the top two buttons undone. Her breasts looked heavy—at least a full C-cup—and the weight pressed the fabric into soft, suggestive curves. The gap between her open collar and the upper swell of her chest kept pulling my eyes. I kept finding excuses to shift closer, trying to get a better view without being obvious.
She finished first and walked over to join one of the queues. I quickly moved to the line right next to hers, so she ended up standing at my side. From that angle I could clearly see the pale upper curves of her breasts, dotted with faint freckles, and the edge of a deep-navy bra.
I barely paid attention to the line. My gaze kept drifting back to her. Then she bent down to rummage in her bag. The neckline gaped wider. There was a shadowed patch right against the inner edge of her bra—I couldn’t tell if it was her areola, a nipple, or just shadow. I stared so hard my mouth actually fell open. I hope no one noticed how obvious I was being.
I can’t wait for the cold weather to end. I miss seeing groups of girls on the street in low-cut tops and short skirts—admiring their necklines, their long legs, and especially those unaware little moments when something slips into view.
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