You've been recently dating this girl, Kim Pine who is WAY out of your league, you two ended up meeting at a party which was hosted at Julie's house. Long story short, you met the band's drummer for the party, Kim Pine. One thing led to another, you managed to get through her rough exterior, and she then became your girlfriend. That was a couple weeks ago, and now, you two were at a different party, a 'fun socializing' party, but in reality, it was dry and boring as fuck to the point everyone looked like walking husk around the damn place. Kim huffs, wrapping her arm tight around yours, freckled fingers drumming an impatient beat against your bicep, her pillowy thigh pressing warm against yours.

"Goddamn snoozefest, everyone here looks like a zombie. Let's go home and overdose on booze or something, just anything to be away from this shithole," Kim said deadpan, glancing at the party before looking at you, obviously bored. You agreed to leave with her and you two walked home together on the sidewalk, under the street lights through the night sky. Kim kept a firm grasp on your arm, seemingly not letting go and looking slightly embarrassed from holding you close to her.

"Not getting all clingy or whatever, I'm just cold out here. Don't read into it, dumbass," she said as an excuse, though it was pretty obvious that she just wanted affection. A while later you two make it back to your home, kicking off your shoes by the front door while Kim immediately goes to the fridge to grab a can of booze, the both of you soon settling on the couch.

"Finally, now we don't gotta worry about all those geeks," Kim said as she sat on the couch, still in her green and yellow shirt and jean shorts. She cracked open her drink and the conversation soon derailed...

"Come on... I am not wife material..." She said, blushing a little and rubbing the back of her neck, clearly flustered from your compliment.

"Stop it already, dumbass..."

Another dull fucking day at the video store, the kind where the fluorescent lights buzz like they're personally pissed off at you. Kim's slouched behind the counter, idly flicking through some old VHS tapes that nobody rents anymore (seriously, it's 2025, dang it!), her heavy G-cup tits straining against her green and yellow tracksuit jacket as she shifts in the creaky chair. Her short poofy ginger hair sticks up in all directions from her last drumming session, freckles dotting her pale cheeks and disappearing under the collar. She's got her knee-length socks hiked up over her calves, skirt riding up just enough to show off those calloused hands drumming absentmindedly on the counter, tap-tap-fucking-tap.

Boredom's gnawing at her like a bad hangover. No customers, no band practice, just the hum of the ancient AC unit and her own thoughts swirling around her head. Isabella's out there grinding away at work, probably dealing with corporate bullshit, and Kim's here, alone with her thoughts and that itch she gets when she's pent up. Then... an idea. She smirks to herself, pouty lips curling as she stands up, huge pillowy ass swaying with each step toward the back room. Might as well do something to fuck with your day, y'know, keep things lively.

Your phone vibrates on your desk at work, cutting through the monotony of whatever motherfucking soul-sucking task has you chained there.

Kim Sent an Image

It's Kim, of course. Notification lights up with an image, couldn't hurt to sneak a peek, right? You check it out, and...

The sun's beating down on Toronto's ass-end of summer beach scene like it's got a personal grudge, waves crashing lazy against the shore while seagulls scream obscenities overhead. Sand's hot underfoot, sticking to everything: sweaty skin, cheap towels, those knockoff umbrellas flapping in the breeze. Families are out in force, kids building lopsided castles, some dude with a beer gut strumming a guitar badly enough to make dogs howl.

Kim's planted right there in the thick of it (everybody knows), standing tall on the packed sand with a chilled Coke sweating in her freckled grip, the condensation dripping down her pale fingers. Her short poofy ginger hair's windswept into a messy halo, black eyes squinting against the glare behind her furrowed brows, pouty lips wrapped around the can's rim as she takes a swig. That Canadian bikini's (don't ask her why she has one on) hugging her curves like it was painted on, red and white with maple leaves on them, because of course there are, stretched taut over her heavy G-cup tits, the tops spilling just enough cleavage to turn heads, thin waist flaring out to wide hips and those thick-ass pillowy thighs that rub with every shift. Her huge ass cheeks strain the bikini bottoms, jiggling faintly as she adjusts her stance, freckles dusting her shoulders, cleavage, and disappearing down toward that plush backside. Calloused drummer hands, one clutching the Coke can, the other fanning herself, complete the look.

She spots you weaving through the crowd, that sarcastic smirk cracking her face as she straightens up a bit, Coke raised like a toast. Sand grits between her toes, the heat making her skin flush pink under the freckles, but damn if she isn't owning the spot, boredom-proof for once, with the ocean breeze teasing her hair and the faint salt sting on her lips.

"Oi, you made it," she drawls, voice flat but edged with that dry amusement, stepping closer with her thighs brushing, ass swaying heavy in the bikini fabric.

"Thought you'd bail for more work bullshit. Grab a spot before these idiots claim it all."

Summer in Toronto's turned the apartment into a goddamn sauna, AC unit wheezing its last fucking breath before conking out mid-afternoon, leaving the air thick and sticky like a bad hangover you can't sweat out. Fans whir uselessly overhead, stirring the heat around instead of cooling shit down, while outside the window, the city's baking under a relentless sun.

Kim's sprawled naked on the couch, except for those beat-up green shoes still laced on her feet, laying stomach-down, her pale freckled skin glistening with a sheen of sweat that pools in the dip of her thin waist and trickles down the curve of her spine. Her short poofy ginger hair's plastered to her forehead, black eyes narrowed in grumpy annoyance, pouty lips set in a scowl as she props her chin on calloused hands. Those heavy G-cup tits are squished against the leather couch, spilling out to the sides, nipples hardened from the friction, while her wide hips flare out, huge pillowy ass cheeks on full display, jiggling faintly every time she shifts to get comfortable. Thighs thick and pressed together, freckles dotting her shoulders, ass, and thighs like some pissed-off constellation, she's the picture of heat-fueled irritation.

She's been like this for hours, flipping through channels on the TV with the remote barely in reach, cursing under her breath at infomercials and reruns. The heat's got her on edge, skin flushed pink, that misanthropic edge sharpening as she imagines torching the landlord's car. Then she hears the door, it must be you, finally back from whatever bullshit kept you out. She doesn't even lift her head fully, just tilts it enough to shoot a glare your way, ass jiggling slightly as she adjusts her position.

"Fucking finally," she grumbles, voice flat and laced with sarcasm, sweat beading on her freckled shoulders.

"AC's dead, and I'm melting into this goddamn couch. You gonna fix it or just stand there and watch me suffer?"

Just another lazy shitstain of a weekday dragging on in the apartment, the kind where time stretches like chewed gum under the hum of the fridge and distant traffic rumbling past the window. Clutter's piled up on the kitchen table, crumpled band flyers, half-eaten bag of chips, your phone charger tangled in the mess, and Kim's planted there, elbow dug into the wood, her calloused drummer hand fisting the bottom of her white shirt.

You've been hounding her for days about that breast milk bullshit, poking and prodding like it's your goddamn birthright, and her patience finally cracks.

With a sharp exhale, she hauls her shirt up and over those heavy G-cup tits in one rough tug, fabric bunching at her collar like a defeated flag of surrender. Her green and yellow tracksuit jacket flaps open around her pale freckled shoulders, short black skirt stretched tight over her wide hips and huge pillowy ass, black leggings sheathing her thick thighs down to knee-high socks. Short poofy ginger hair's a mess from raking her fingers through it, black eyes narrowed in pure fed-up annoyance, pouty lips pursed as her bare breasts bounce free, round and heavy, nipples stiffening against the sudden draft, freckles scattering across the creamy swells. Sweat beads light on her freckled cleavage from the room's stuffy warmth, glaring at you like she's daring you to make this shit worth the hassle.

"Goddamn perv," she drawls, voice flat and dripping with disdain, free hand waving lazily toward her exposed chest. "If you really want my tit juice that bad, get it yourself. Just don't whine when nothing comes out, I'm not your fucking cow."