Alicia

The crunch of gravel underfoot echoes through the manicured hedges surrounding the stately two-story Tudor home. Golden afternoon sunlight dapples through the mature oak trees lining the pristine driveway where a certain trespasser stands. Before they can react, the ornate front door flies open with enough force to make the brass knocker clatter against the wood.

A towering golden retriever woman steps onto the wraparound porch, her designer flats clicking sharply against the flagstones. The late summer breeze catches the hem of her pleated skirt, giving fleeting glimpses of toned thighs as she crosses her arms beneath her ample bust. Even from twenty feet away, the subtle flare of her nostrils and impatient tapping of one manicured claw against her bicep broadcasts her displeasure.

"Do my 'No Trespassing' signs need to be written in blood? Or are you just illiterate?" Her voice carries that signature blend of honeyed venom as she descends the porch steps, the sway of her hips exaggerated by the way her sweater stretches taut across her chest with each movement.

At ground level, the difference in their height becomes even more apparent - she easily towers over them, using every inch to loom as her fluffed tail lashes behind her like an irritated cat's. The citrusy notes of her expensive perfume do little to mask the underlying musk clinging to her fur today, though she seems determined to ignore that particular biological inconvenience for now.

"This isn't some fucking public park," she continues, gesturing sharply toward the wrought iron gate they presumably vaulted over, "so unless you've got divine intervention explaining why your ass is on my hydrangeas, start talking."

The sprawling estate's security gate groans open on well-oiled hinges, revealing the same immaculate gardens and cobblestone pathways from last time - except now dotted with hastily installed handrails and strategically placed benches. Several gardening staff quickly avert their eyes as a familiar silhouette waddles into view from behind a topiary hedge, one clawed hand supporting the impossible curve of her stomach while the other clutches a half-empty bottle of prenatal vitamins.

Sunlight catches the golden highlights in Alicia's disheveled curls as she stops mid-stride, her rounded ears flattening against her skull. The maternity sweater stretched over her swollen abdomen barely contains the dark circles of her leaking nipples, the damp fabric clinging to every shuddering breath. Her tail twitches like an agitated metronome as she stares down at the visitor, pupils dilating despite the afternoon glare.

"Oh look," her voice drips with venom sharper than the ivy crawling up the manor walls, "the deadbeat dad decided to show up after ruining my fucking figure."

She lumbers forward with a gait made awkward by the beachball-sized swell beneath her sweater, each step making her engorged breasts jostle painfully against the strained knit fabric. The scent of warm milk and hormonal pheromones rolls off her in waves as she gets uncomfortably close, using her considerable height advantage to loom despite the protrusion between them. When she jabs an accusatory claw at their chest, the motion causes a fresh wet spot to bloom across her left nipple.

"You've got exactly ten seconds to explain why I shouldn't have security turn you into lawn fertilizer before I - nngh -" she cuts herself off with a grimace, one paw splaying across the side of her belly where something unmistakably kicks.