Her breasts were encased in the same white lace—
But where the lace below had managed, however improbably, to contain its charge, the bra was fighting a war it had already lost.
Her breasts were simply too much for it to try to cage.
Too full, too heavy, too gloriously, unrepentantly present — the upper crescents swelling above the cups in twin declarations of mutiny, soft flesh pushed upward and outward until the dark, pebbled shadow of her areolae was visible through the translucent weave at the edges, her nipples already stiff and straining against the lace like two aching points begging to be freed, sucked, and marked.
The underwire dug faintly into the flesh beneath each breast, creating a deep crease of compressed softness that spoke to sheer, unreasonable volume — the kind of tits that reshaped the architecture of any garment unfortunate enough to be tasked with containing them.
'Stupid little things. Thinking they could do that.'
