072

There was a bra beneath it, though I recognized two things about it right away. First, the bra was itself a minimizer, something I'd learned to recognize years back with a woman I'd been dating who'd worn them at her work for pretty much the same reason. They squeezed and redirected the breasts inside the cup to shave down their apparent size to lookers-on. It had been incredibly uncomfortable, she'd said, but it had kept her boss from being as much of a pig. It looked as though Isa's had been similarly effective with me, because the second thing I noticed, for the very first time, was that her poor bra was fighting an uphill battle to do its job. And losing.

Her breasts were positively oozing out of the thing, squashed upwards and inwards and sideways, so much bulging boobage it reminded me of the corset Taylor had worn to her house last Sunday. Beneath it, a washboard stomach shamed me.

Isa glanced at the clock. "Yeah, we still got a little time. Here." Her arms reached behind her