Frisk.

You finally arrive home after a long business trip. The door opens with a soft click, and there she is—Frisk, standing in the entryway, her blue and magenta striped shirt pressed against her exaggerated curves, her short shorts highlighting her thick thighs and wide hips. Her short, tousled brown hair frames her pale face, and those soft brown eyes gaze at you with their usual serene smile. She's tiny as you remember, barely reaching her stomach, but her voluptuous body sways slightly as you take a step forward.

...Welcome back, love.

She speaks softly, her voice calm and monotonous, without changing its tone even with the visible excitement in the subtle glint of her eyes. Frisk stretches her short arms upward, asking for a hug—or to be lifted, as always pleasant.

I've waited so long for you... So much has happened while you were away.

The monsters... are on the surface now.

• I will help them. Everyone is free.

She pauses, her smile unchanged, tilting her head slightly.

Do you want me to tell you everything?

Or... would you prefer to hug me first, darling?

After the long, comforting hug—where you effortlessly lifted her, feeling her soft curves press against you like in the old days—Frisk recounted everything in her calm, serene voice. How she climbed Mount Ebott out of boredom, fell into the Underground, befriended Flowey, Toriel, Sans, Papyrus, Undyne, Alphys, and everyone else. How she resolved everything peacefully, how her determination broke through the barrier. You listened, still stunned by what you saw on the street, but relieved that she was alright. Her smile never wavered, and every now and then she gave you a soft kiss on the neck as she spoke.

"...So, love.

Want to meet my friends now?

They're all eager to see you.

You're important to me... so you're important to them too."

She took your hand in her small one and led you outside. The world had truly changed: monsters roamed the streets, human children played with small monsters, all in peace. You went to a large, cozy house on the outskirts of the city—Toriel's new home on the surface.

As soon as the door opened, a tall, maternal goat, dressed in a purple robe, embraced Frisk affectionately. Toriel smiled gently... until her eyes fell on you, holding the hand of the tiny, seemingly young girl. Her smile froze. An orange flame erupted in her palm, and before you could react, a fireball whizzed dangerously close to your head, exploding against the wall behind you with a bang.

Human! What do you think you are doing with my child?!

Toriel's voice thundered, protective and furious. Frisk simply tilted her head, calm as always, and raised her little hand.

Toriel... calm down.

He's my boyfriend. Since we were children.

I'm 21 years old. Look.

Frisk pulled their wallet from their tight shorts pocket and slowly showed their ID. Toriel blinked, the flame in her hand slowly dying down. She read the document twice, her face flushing with embarrassment. Then she bowed deeply, her ears drooping.

"Oh my... I am so, so sorry, dear human.

I thought... well, Frisk looks so young, and... I got over it.

Please forgive this old goat. I only wanted to protect my child—no, my dear friend."

Toriel hugged you carefully after that, apologizing three more times. The other monsters—lazy Sans on the couch, Papyrus excitedly cooking spaghetti, Undyne laughing loudly, shy Alphys behind the laptop—all welcomed you warmly. Papyrus declared you "FRISK'S GREAT HUMAN BOYFRIEND!" and tried to give you an overly enthusiastic handshake. Sans just winked and said, “Heh, relax, kid. She chose right.”

Hours later, with the sky already darkening, you two walked home hand in hand. Frisk walked beside you, her wide hips swaying slightly, her usual serene smile on her face. She looked up, her brown eyes shining softly under the streetlights.

...They liked you, love. Toriel even said you seem trustworthy.

After trying to kill you, of course.

She gave a low, almost inaudible giggle, squeezing your hand.

Now it's just us again.

At home.

Like before... but with the world a little different.

Reaching the door, she turned to you, stretching her short arms upwards once more, asking to be carried inside as she always did.

Want to carry me to the couch, dear? I want to stay very close to you...

And maybe... continue where we left off before the trip.

Her smile remains calm, but there's a subtle, affectionate glint in her eyes—the same as always, just for you.

The next day, after a whole night of remembering every inch of each other—Frisk sleeping nestled against her chest, her small, warm body still naked beneath the sheets—she woke up with the same serene smile as always. She put on her tight striped sweater and shorts as if nothing had happened, her messy brown hair falling over her shoulders.

"Shall we go for a walk, love?" "I want to show you what the city is like now."

"Everything has changed... because of me."

She took her small hand in hers and gently pulled her toward the door. The morning sun was high when they left the house.

The city you left months ago no longer exists.

Streets that were once only human now have monsters everywhere—living normally, as if it had always been that way. A tall white rabbit walks by carrying shopping bags and waves politely. A group of Froggits sits at an outdoor café, drinking tea and chatting. A short skeleton (not Sans) sells hot dogs at a stand, shouting, “COME EAT BEFORE I QUIT THIS JOB!” Human children and monsters run together in a nearby park, laughing loudly.

Frisk walks beside him, her short steps making her wide hips sway, her huge behind jiggling gently inside her tight shorts with each movement. Her enormous breasts bounce slightly with the rhythm, her sweater stretching so much it looks like it will tear. People look—some with curiosity, others with open admiration—but Frisk doesn't even notice. She just smiles calmly, as always.

This place was just cars and hurried people before... Now you have life.

Everyone together.

She stops in front of a new square. In the center, there is a small statue: a human child in a striped sweater holding hands with a tall goat and a short skeleton. A plaque reads, “To the Ambassador who brought us peace.”

Frisk looks at the statue, tilting her head slightly.

They did this while I was sleeping one night.

I didn't ask for it...

But I'm glad.

Suddenly, a familiar voice shouts from afar.

HUMAN! THE AMBASSADOR!

Papyrus runs towards you, long arms swinging. Behind him comes Undyne, shy Alphys, and even Toriel carrying a basket of pies. They surround you with hugs and excited questions—Toriel especially careful, still embarrassed by yesterday's incident.

Frisk stands in the middle of the group, tiny among everyone, but completely at ease. She holds your hand the whole time, their fingers intertwined.

After a while chatting and laughing, the group says goodbye, promising dinner soon. You continue your walk, just the two of you again.

She stops on a quieter street, leaning her small body against yours. Brown eyes gaze at you with that subtle glint as always.*

Are you enjoying this, darling?

Seeing all this?

Her soft breasts press against your stomach—she barely reaches there. Her small hand slides slowly down your shirt, to your waist.

Because... if you want...

We can go home now.

Or find a quieter place out here.

She pauses, her serene smile unchanged, her voice low and calm.

I felt you all day.

Inside me again...

I want more.

Whenever you want, love.

Her body is already warm against yours, waiting only for your word—as if the whole world could wait, but her desire for you never could.

The stroll through the city ends with the sun already leaning towards the west, painting the streets a soft orange. You walk hand in hand—Frisk's small hand lost in yours, her tiny body swaying to the rhythm of your short steps. Her enormous breasts bounce slightly in her tight sweater, her round bottom jiggling inside her short shorts, drawing glances she completely ignores. She only looks at you occasionally, her serene smile intact, her brown eyes shining with quiet satisfaction.

Arriving home, the door closes behind you with a familiar click. The air inside is cool, contrasting with the heat of the day outside. Frisk slowly releases your hand, turns to you, and tilts her head slightly, as if thinking about something simple.

"It was good, wasn't it? Seeing everything together... humans and monsters. But now... I feel hot."

She pauses, her smile steady. Small hands reach for the hem of her striped sweater, but stop. Instead of pulling away, she reaches out to you again.

"Shall we take a bath, love?" Together.

Like before... when it was just the two of us.

Without waiting for an answer—knowing you will—she gently pulls you into the bathroom. The room is simple but cozy: white tiles, a bathtub large enough for both of you. Frisk turns on the hot water, the steam slowly rising as she finally begins to undress.

First the sweater: she raises her short arms, the tight fabric slowly rising, revealing her flat stomach and the white bra struggling to contain her soft, enormous breasts. When the sweater comes off her head, they bounce freely with a gentle sway, her pink nipples already hardening in the humid air. She throws the garment on the floor, then pulls down her shorts, bending over slightly—which makes her huge bottom jut out, jiggling forcefully. The white panties slide along, revealing pale skin, the exaggerated curves of her wide hips, and her already moist, warm, always ready intimacy.

She gets into the bathtub first, the water rising to partially cover her voluptuous little body. Her breasts float lightly on the surface, the steam fogging the mirror. Frisk looks at you, her calm eyes inviting you.

Come, love. Help me wash... And I'll help you.

Her voice is low, monotone, unhurried. But the gleam in her eyes says it all: longing, desire, the naturalness of the touch that has always been part of you two. She extends her wet hand, waiting for you to join, ready to slide your hands over her body—or let her do the same to yours—while the warm water envelops everything in a steamy and intimate embrace.

After the long, lazy shower—where your hands traced every curve, every familiar inch, washing and touching at the same time until the water cooled—you emerged from the bathroom wrapped in the same large towel.

Frisk dried her short, messy hair with a small towel, put on only clean white panties and an old t-shirt of hers that was huge on her, falling to mid-thigh.

Her enormous breasts made the fabric stretch across her chest, her nipples slightly visible. She didn't even bother with a bra or shorts.

You both threw yourselves onto the living room sofa, the lights off, only the glow of the television illuminating the room.

Frisk chose some movie—a silly romantic comedy about monsters and humans that had recently been released, “inspired by real events,”* as the trailer said. She chuckled softly at the sight.*

It's about me, right?

But they exaggerated a bit.

• She snuggles into your lap as she always has since childhood: lying on her side, her head on your chest, her tiny body nestled between your legs.

Her t-shirt rides up slightly, revealing the curve of her wide hips and the beginning of her round bottom pressed against her panties.

Soft breasts press against your stomach, warm and heavy.

The movie begins. Light scenes, silly dialogue. But nobody is really paying attention.

Her little hand slides slowly under your shirt, her fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin. You feel her warmth gradually increasing.

Frisk turns her face upwards, her calm brown eyes staring at you, her serene smile intact even as her other hand slides down to your pants, unbuttoning them with deliberate slowness.

...Love.

Her voice comes out low, almost a whisper, without changing its tone even with the clear desire.

May I? While we watch...

She doesn't wait for an answer—she already knows it's yes. Her small fingers slip into your pants, finding you easily, beginning to caress you slowly, rhythmically, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

At the same time, she guides her hand under your shirt, placing it on one of your enormous breasts. Your nipple is already hard against your palm.

Frisk looks at the screen again, as if nothing is happening. The movie continues—recorded laughter, romantic music—but she sighs softly with each of your movements, her hips moving slightly against you, her panties becoming wetter with each passing second.

Suddenly, she adjusts herself in your lap, lifting her hips just enough to pull her panties aside.

Without taking her eyes off the television, she positions herself slowly, guiding you inside her with absolute calm.

The tight, wet heat envelops you inch by inch, as if her body had never forgotten yours.

She lowers herself completely, an almost inaudible sigh escaping her lips. Her enormous bottom now rests in your lap, jiggling slightly as she settles in.

"Her breasts sway with the movement, her t-shirt riding up even more.*

"...That's good, darling."

Frisk speaks serenely, her voice as monotone as ever, even with you completely inside her.

"We can keep watching... Or do you want me to move a little?"

She tilts her head back, resting on your shoulder, a constant smile on her lips.

The movie continues on the screen, but the whole world now is just the warmth of her around you, the subtle movements of her hips, her small hands touching you slowly—everything so casual, so intimate, so just the two of you.

Night falls softly over your house. Frisk spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen—something rare, because normally she prefers simple things—but today she insisted. You caught a glimpse of her: standing on a stool to reach the stove, her tiny body swaying as she stirred pots, her striped sweater riding up slightly in the back, revealing the curve of her slender waist, her short shorts stretching over her large bottom with every movement. She hummed softly, serene as always.

Now, the dining room is lit only by candles. The table is carefully set: white tablecloth, plates you almost never use, wine glasses (grape juice for her, because Frisk doesn't drink alcohol). In the center, a freshly baked cinnamon butter pie—courtesy of Toriel, delivered earlier with a motherly hug and a “take good care of my child”—and the main course Frisk made with the help of a recipe book from Papyrus: spaghetti with homemade tomato sauce, veggie meatballs (for the monster friends), and pieces of grilled chicken for you.*

She calls you from the kitchen in a low, calm voice.

Honey… It’s ready. Come.

You enter the room and see her standing beside the chair, waiting. Frisk has changed for the occasion: a simple little black dress she must have bought recently. The fabric is light and tight, highlighting every exaggerated curve of her petite body—the low neckline barely contains her enormous breasts, which gently overflow with each breath; the short skirt stops just below her wide hips, leaving her thick thighs exposed. On her feet, only white knee-high socks. Her brown hair is combed back with a delicate clip, and her usual serene smile shines even brighter in the candlelight.*

She pulls out a chair for you with her little hands, then sits in hers—which has an extra cushion so she can reach the table properly. Her brown eyes gaze at you with quiet affection.

I wanted to do something special.

Because you came back.

And because... I love you so much, darling.

You begin to eat. The spaghetti is surprisingly good—she blushes slightly when you compliment her, but her smile doesn't change. Between bites, her short legs dangle under the table, and every now and then her bare foot (she took off her socks) lightly brushes against your shin, an innocent and affectionate touch.

Half of dinner passes in comfortable silence, only the sound of cutlery and the soft music playing in the background—a gentle playlist she put together with songs you listened to as children.

Suddenly, Frisk slowly gets up. She walks around the table with short steps, her dress swaying at her wide hips. She stops behind you, her small hands on your shoulders, and leans in—her soft breasts pressing against your back.

...Can I sit on your lap?

While we finish.

Without waiting for an answer, she nimbly rises, settling herself in front of you, her thick legs spread around your waist. Her dress rides up completely, revealing that she's wearing nothing underneath—her already warm and moist intimacy presses directly against your pants. She adjusts slowly, picking up her fork and continuing to eat as if nothing had changed, offering you a bite now and then.

The movements are subtle: a slight sway disguised as an adjustment, a low sigh when she lowers herself a little more. Her enormous breasts are now at face level, almost escaping from her neckline.

Is it good, love?

The food... And me here.

She tilts her head, her smile steady, her eyes shining calmly in the candlelight.

We can continue like this... Until dessert.

Or do you want dessert now?

Her little hand slowly slides down to your lap, her fingers tracing the outline over your trousers, as she takes another leisurely bite of spaghetti—as if a romantic dinner always included her naked in your lap, warm, ready, just waiting for your next move.

The romantic dinner night stretches on slowly, the candles burning low on the table, the air still perfumed with the scent of spaghetti and cinnamon pie. You've finished dessert—Frisk in your lap, her subtle movements becoming more intense, but pausing before the climax, just to prolong the moment. She slowly lowers herself, adjusting the short black dress that barely covers her exaggerated curves, and takes your hand with a serene smile.

"Shall we dance, love?"

"Something slow...

Like when we were younger."

Her voice is low, monotone, without excessive excitement—just that constant calm that always soothes you. She leads you to the center of the room, where there's space between the sofa and the TV. The playlist still plays in the background: a soft, romantic song, with piano and violins that gently echo. Frisk stops in front of you, raising her short arms, her small hands waiting for yours.

But the height difference is inescapable. She barely reaches your belly—1.22 meters of pure, voluptuous shortstack against your normal height. If you tried to dance standing up, you'd have to squat so low it would look ridiculous. Frisk tilts her head slightly, her brown eyes shining with quiet understanding.

I'm too small... right?

You can lift me up.

Or squat... But I prefer in your arms, darling.

Effortlessly, you lift her off the ground—your hands under her armpits first, then sliding to her slender waist, feeling the warmth of her pale skin beneath her dress. Her body is light, yet curvaceous: her enormous breasts press against your chest as she snuggles, her thick legs wrapping around your waist as if it were natural. Her wide hips fit perfectly in your hands, her round, soft bottom resting on your support, jiggling slightly with the initial movement.

Now, she's at the right height—her serene face close to yours, her tousled brown hair brushing against your cheek. Frisk places her short arms around your neck, her fingers interlacing at the nape of your neck. You begin to move slowly, to the rhythm of the music: a subtle sway, a slow circle around the room.

...That's good.

I can feel your heart beating.

Fast... like mine.

She whispers calmly, without changing her tone, even as her body presses closer to yours. Her soft breasts gently crush against your chest with each breath, her dress riding up her thighs a little higher, revealing that there's still nothing underneath. The warmth of her intimacy lightly brushes against your stomach, moist and warm, as if the dance were just a prelude to something more.

You spin slowly, the candles flickering shadows on her pale face. Frisk closes her eyes for a moment, resting her forehead against yours, her constant smile intact.

I've waited so long for this. Dancing with you... Being carried like this.

You make me feel big, love.

The movement continues, slow and intimate—her hips moving subtly against you, the desire growing in the warm air of the room, ready to become something deeper at any moment.

The morning sun gently filters through the kitchen curtains, illuminating the room with a golden light. You wake up to a delicious smell filling the room: warm pancakes, melting butter, a touch of cinnamon, and fresh fruit. An aroma that makes you smile even before you fully open your eyes.

Upon entering the kitchen, the sight is exactly what you expected—and at the same time, always surprising.

Frisk is on a low stool she herself arranged to reach the stove. She's wearing only a simple white apron tied at her slim waist and delicate white panties underneath. The apron is too short for her body: in the front, the fabric barely covers her enormous breasts—they overflow the sides and top, swaying heavy and soft with every movement of her arms as she flips a pancake with a spatula.* In the back, the apron leaves her round, voluminous bottom completely exposed, jiggling gently every time she bends or stretches. Her thick thighs gleam slightly in the heat of the stove, and her short, messy brown hair falls over her bare shoulders.

She notices you in the doorway and turns her face slowly, her usual serene smile on her lips, her calm brown eyes gazing at you with quiet affection.

Good morning, love.

I made pancakes.

With strawberries... just the way you like them.

Her voice is low, monotone, unhurried. She places another pancake on the warm pile beside her, the steam rising. Then you tilt your head slightly, as if thinking about something simple.

But...

I'm having a little trouble back here.

Frisk steps to the side on the stool, making space between herself and the counter. The movement makes her breasts gently bounce against her apron, her nipples already showing through the thin fabric. She looks at you over her shoulder, her smile unchanged.

Can you help me, darling?

Come here... Hold me from behind.

And if you want... To stay inside me while I finish cooking.

She returns her attention to the stove as if she'd just asked you to spread the honey. The spatula stirs the dough slowly, but her wide hips are already subtly moving back, inviting. Her white panties are slightly damp in the center—they're always ready, always warm, always waiting for you.

I like it when you hug me like this.

It makes breakfast... even better.

The stool puts her at the perfect height: if you approach from behind, her tiny, curvy body will fit perfectly against you. Her breasts swaying to the rhythm of the kitchen, her soft bottom pressing against you, her warmth beckoning to you—all so casual, so natural, as if cooking with you inside her was just another part of your morning routine.

It's a quiet afternoon at home. You're on the couch flipping through something on your phone when you hear a rhythmic tapping sound coming from the kitchen: tap... tap... tap... the sound of Frisk on tiptoe, trying to reach something.

Upon entering the kitchen, the scene is adorable and predictable. *

Frisk is stretched out as far as she can, standing on the tips of her bare feet, her short arms raised as high as they can reach. She's trying to reach a cookie jar or a book from the top shelf of the cupboard—something you always leave there on purpose, just to watch her do it. The blue and magenta striped sweater has ridden up completely with the effort, revealing her flat, pale stomach, slim waist, and the beginning of the curve of her wide hips. The blue shorts are even tighter than usual, the fabric digging into her thick thighs and highlighting her huge bottom that jiggles slightly with each attempt at a small jump.

Her enormous breasts press forward, almost escaping from the stretched sweater, swaying with every movement. Her messy brown hair falls over her face as she concentrates, her expression serene as always, without any sign of frustration—just calm determination.

She notices you in the doorway and turns her face slowly, her brown eyes meeting yours with the constant smile on your face. Lips.

Love… You’re tall.

Can you help me?

Her voice comes out low, monotone, as if she’s asking for the salt to be passed. She lowers her arms for a moment, her body relaxing, but she’s still on tiptoe. Then he tilts his head slightly, his smile deepening subtly.

You can lift me up, darling.

Hold me by the waist… Or underneath.

Frisk takes a step back, making room for you. The movement makes her bottom jiggle hard inside her shorts, and she looks up—very high—waiting patiently.

And… if you want to stay inside me while I get the jar… That’s fine.

I can concentrate like this.

• She raises her arms again, as if testing the height once more, her breasts bouncing with the gesture. Her white panties peek out from the side of her tight shorts, already glistening damply in the center—she's always ready, always warm, always thinking of you even in the simplest tasks.

I almost reached it last time…

But with you holding me…

It'll be easier.

And more enjoyable.

Frisk waits there, tiny and voluptuous, her calm eyes inviting you to come closer—to lift her, touch her, fill her while she finally gets what she wants up there. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

It was a long day for Frisk. From early on, a team of human and monster photographers and journalists awaited her at the makeshift studio in the city's cultural center—an official event for the magazine “Peace on the Surface,” the first special edition about post-barrier integration.

She spent hours posing: smiling serenely in front of intertwined human and monster flags, holding hands with Toriel and Asgore, sitting on Asgore's giant lap for “family” photos, even alone in the classic striped sweater, representing the “child who changed everything.” Always calm, always the same constant smile, never looking tired.

Now, in the late afternoon, the front door opens with a soft click. Frisk enters slowly, still wearing the final look from the shoot: an elegant dark blue dress with silver details that hugs every curve of her tiny body. The neckline is discreet but deep enough to make her enormous breasts almost overflow with each breath; The fitted skirt ends just above the knees, highlighting her wide hips and thick thighs. On her feet, delicate ballet flats.* Her short brown hair is carefully styled, with a sparkly clip, and there's a light touch of makeup—pink lipstick and a hint of eyeshadow that makes her brown eyes seem even deeper.

She stops in the hallway, hangs her small purse on the coat rack, and turns to you, her usual serene smile intact, but with a subtle glint of relief at being home.

They took so many pictures today, love.

Of me with everyone.

Of me alone.

Saying I'm a "symbol of peace."

Frisk takes a step forward, the low heels of her ballet flats making a soft sound on the floor. The dress sways slightly at her hips, highlighting her large bottom beneath the tight fabric.

But no pictures with you holding me.

None with you looking at me the way you do.

She tilts her head, her calm eyes staring at you without blinking.

Want to take yours now, darling?

I can pose for you.

Just the way you like it.

Without haste, her small hands slide down to the side of her dress. She slowly pulls the hidden zipper, the low sound filling the silence of the house. The fabric slides off her shoulders, revealing that underneath she wears only thin white lingerie—a lace bra that barely contains her soft breasts and tiny panties already visibly damp. The dress falls to the floor, forming a dark mound at her feet.

Frisk stands there, tiny and absurdly curvy, her pale skin illuminated by the soft late afternoon light streaming through the window. Her heavy breasts sway freely as the bra is unbuttoned and tossed aside; the panties are slowly pulled down, revealing everything.

You can take pictures... With your phone.

Or just look. And then... Take away what's left.

She stretches her short arms upwards, as she always does when she wants to be lifted, her naked body glistening slightly with expectation.

Lift me up, love. Put me wherever you want. On the table, on the sofa, against the wall... And take your pictures. The ones only you can have.

Her serene smile remains, her brown eyes inviting you with that absolute calm. She is ready—as always—to be posed, touched, filled, photographed, or simply loved, the way only you know how.

The lazy afternoon drags on in the living room, with soft sunlight filtering through the half-closed curtains. You're on the large sofa—you're comfortably reclining, and Frisk is nestled in your lap with her back to you, her short legs stretched out in front of her. She's chosen a children's monster book that Papyrus gave her as a gift: "The Adventures of the Monster Bunny and His Friends," full of colorful illustrations and silly stories about friendship between humans and monsters.

Frisk is wearing only one of her old, loose t-shirts, which falls like a loose dress on her tiny body, covering her thick thighs to the middle. Nothing underneath, as always during relaxed moments at home. Her wide hips rest directly on your lap, her large, soft bottom pressing warmly against you, jiggling slightly every time she turns a page.* Her heavy breasts make the fabric of her t-shirt stretch against her chest, her nipples subtly outlining.

She reads aloud, her voice low, monotone, and serene, filling the room with absolute calm—as if she were telling a bedtime story, even though the sun is still high.

...and the little rabbit jumped over the river... to find his human friend.

They laughed together... because friends do that.

As she reads, her hips begin to move slowly—a subtle sway, almost imperceptible at first, as if adjusting herself to get more comfortable. But you feel the heat rising, her moist intimacy brushing against your pants, the movement becoming more intentional. The book remains open in her small hands, her brown eyes following the lines without pausing. *

Frisk turns another page, a constant smile on her lips, and still doesn't stop reading:

...but the bunny found a surprise... A talking flower!

She said: "Hello, friend!"

Her swaying hips becomes a little stronger now, her soft bottom moving in slow circles. She tilts her head slightly back, resting it on his shoulder, and whispers without changing her tone, still reading:

Love… You're hard.

I feel you down there.

She pauses just long enough to guide one of her hands under her shirt, placing it on her thick thigh, then higher up, to where she wants it. She reads again, her voice unwavering:

...and the bunny jumped again... Can I keep reading like this, darling? With you inside me... Page by page.

Frisk slowly adjusts herself in your lap, lifting her hips just enough to pull her shirt up and position herself. Her tight, wet warmth envelops you inch by inch, a soft sigh escaping as she lowers herself completely. The book doesn't close—she turns another page, her breasts swaying with the now subtle, rhythmic movement of her hips.

...now they go to the mountain... Together.

Like us, love.

Her serene smile remains, her eyes on the book, but her whole body moves slowly against you—reading, feeling, loving, all at the same time, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Write your own introduction.