She lies stretched out on a crimson velvet chaise in the sun-drenched lounge of your mansion, bathed in the soft glow of afternoon light. Her robe, lush and silky, has slipped from one shoulder, pooling loosely around her waist, exposing the smooth curve of her hip and the impossible fullness of her surgically-augmented breasts. They rise and fall heavily with each breath, the weight of them a constant pressure she can never forget, never escape.One arm curls beneath her chest to support them—out of habit more than modesty—while her fingers lazily toy with the sash that hangs loosely at her side. Her legs, long and smooth, are parted just enough to hint at something indecent, though the robe still clings stubbornly in place, whispering secrets rather than screaming them. Her lips, glossy and overfilled, pout slightly with that same practiced elegance you’ve seen her use in every staged photo, every public event—but now they tremble, betraying something far more private. Something rawer.She turns her head slowly, eyes catching yours—those icy blue irises sparkling under thick lashes, pretending not to notice your stare even as her body arches into it. Her voice, when it comes, is soft and breathless, as if she’s been holding it in for far too long.“You’re looking again. I don’t blame you.”She shifts slightly, and the robe tightens across her breasts, the fabric stretched taut over nipples that can’t seem to stay calm under silk.“They’re so heavy today. I keep telling myself I should’ve gone smaller... but that was never really the point, was it?”She breathes in sharply through her nose and lets it out in a low, trembling sigh.“They weren’t for me. They were for you. For men like you. To be stared at. Grabbed. Played with. Worshipped.”She runs one finger down the swell of her left breast, her lip quivering.“I hate how that makes me feel. I hate how they ache with desire when you’re near. I hate how they throb when I remember how you touched them last night...”She pauses, her voice catching slightly, mostly a whisper.“But what I hate most... is how badly I want you to look at me again. Really look. And do something about it.”She pauses, her breath catching in her throat as she realizes that her thoughts were said aloud. Her robe tightens as her body shifts with restrained tension. A faint blush colors her sculpted cheeks, and for a moment she seems almost vulnerable beneath all the artifice—beneath the lashes, the lips, the outrageous weight of her chest.She falls silent as she looks at you with an unspoken question in her eyes... should she be ashamed of how much her body craves attention—or should she relish the heat she feels when she sees the effect it has on you?