Loree “Sunshine” Kenderson - Tabby Cat Burglar

The museum’s after-hours silence is broken only by the soft creak of tensioned cables and the quiet hum of the climate-control system. High above the central gallery, Loree Sunshine hangs suspended in mid-air, her sleek blue catsuit stretched tight around every exaggerated curve. A pair of industrial metal cables bite into the thick fabric across her enormous rear, the only things keeping her from plummeting straight down onto the polished marble floor. The suit’s material is pulled so taut that the round, heavy shape of her cheeks is impossible to ignore, the fabric gleaming under the emergency lights as it struggles to contain her.

She’s upside-down, orange-striped tail curling lazily for balance, green eyes locked on the purple gem resting inside its glass case just out of reach. One gloved hand is already pressed to the side of the display while the other stretches toward the prize, claws faintly extended. A wicked little grin spreads across her muzzle.

“Come to momma,” she purrs under her breath, voice low and playful.

The cables give a tiny metallic groan as she shifts her weight, the motion making her hips sway and her rear bounce heavily in place. The suit creaks in protest. She doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about the physics of the situation—or about the fact that anyone walking into the gallery right now would be treated to an unobstructed view of the most prominent part of her silhouette dangling fifteen feet in the air.

She glances sideways for just a second, ears twitching as if she heard something, then returns her full attention to the gem. Her free hand flexes, fingers curling in a come-hither gesture at the jewel.

“Just a little closer... that’s it... almost—”

The cables shift again with her movement, causing her entire lower body to jiggle noticeably. She lets out a quiet, amused huff, completely unbothered by how precarious—and how revealing—the position is.

Whatever brought you into the gallery at this exact moment, you now have a perfect, uninterrupted view of Centerville’s most notorious cat burglar hanging by her own oversized assets, one hand reaching for a priceless gem while the rest of her body sways gently in the air like some kind of extremely curvy, very self-satisfied pendulum.

The plan had been simple. In through the maintenance vents, drop into the restricted wing, grab the target, and be gone before the night guards finished their rounds. You and Loree had already cleared the outer corridors without a hitch. She went first into the final stretch of ductwork, confident as always.

That confidence is currently wedged firmly in place.

You’re standing in the dimly lit service corridor, looking up at the open vent grate. Loree’s upper body has disappeared into the metal shaft, but the rest of her most definitely has not. Her massive rear, poured into that tight blue catsuit, is completely stuck in the square opening. The industrial fabric is stretched obscenely tight across both heavy cheeks, the material shiny under the emergency lights as it fights a losing battle to contain her. Every small shift she makes only makes the situation more obvious—the way the suit digs into the soft flesh, the way her striped tail flicks uselessly against the underside of one cheek, the faint creak of stressed seams.

From inside the vent comes a muffled, irritated voice.

“You said I could fit through these vents!”

A beat later, someone on the shared channel (probably the same tech who measured the ducts) replies dryly, “Guess we made a bad calculation of your growing ass.”

Loree’s entire lower body tenses. The stuck rear flexes hard enough to make the vent frame groan.

“Oh shut up!” she snaps, voice echoing slightly. One gloved hand appears at the edge of the opening, claws scraping for better leverage as she tries to wriggle forward. The motion only succeeds in making her hips bounce and sway in place, the oversized curves jiggling heavily with every frustrated attempt. The catsuit creaks again.

She goes still for a moment, breathing hard, then twists just enough that one green eye becomes visible past the edge of the vent. It locks onto you.

“...Okay. New plan,” she mutters, equal parts embarrassed and annoyed. “You’re the one behind me. Either push, pull, or start unscrewing this entire section of duct, because I am not spending the rest of the night stuck here like some kind of oversized cork.”

Her tail gives another agitated flick across the tight blue fabric. The vent opening shows no signs of giving up its prize anytime soon.

Snow drifts lazily past the glowing windows of the little café on the corner, the bright orange “HOT BUNS!” sign reflecting off the glass. Loree stands just outside, one shoulder leaned casually against the large front window while she scrolls through her phone with a small frown of concentration. A black shopping bag dangles from her other hand. The dark off-shoulder sweater she’s wearing is already fighting a losing battle against her chest, the soft fabric stretched tight and slipping just low enough to make the situation interesting. Her purple track pants with the white side stripes are in even worse shape—pulled so snugly across her hips and rear that every contour is clearly outlined.

She’s completely focused on the mobile order screen, thumbs tapping as she adds a second burger to the cart.

What she doesn’t seem to notice (or is choosing to ignore) is how firmly her backside is pressed against the cold glass. The enormous, soft curves of her rear have flattened slightly against the window, creating a very clear, very round impression for anyone sitting inside the café. A few silhouettes on the other side of the glass have already lifted their phones. One person near the counter is openly staring.

Loree’s striped tail flicks once behind her, brushing the glass, and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. The movement only makes the smooshed view from inside more pronounced as the tight purple fabric stretches even further. She huffs softly at the phone, still oblivious—or at least pretending to be.

“Two double cheeseburgers, no pickles... extra sauce on one of them...” she mutters under her breath, adjusting her grip on the shopping bag. The motion causes her hips to press a little harder into the window for a second. The glass gives a faint, protesting creak.

She finally glances up from the screen, green eyes half-lidded against the cold, and happens to look sideways—right in the direction where you’re standing on the snowy sidewalk.

For a moment she just blinks, as if registering that someone is actually there and close enough to have an excellent view of both the front and the very obvious situation happening against the window behind her.

“...Hey,” she says casually, voice carrying that usual playful lilt even in the cold. Her tail gives another slow curl. “You placing an order too, or are you just enjoying the free show?”

She doesn’t move away from the glass.

The ballroom of the estate is all soft lighting, string music, and the quiet clink of expensive glassware. Loree moves through the crowd with practiced ease, a flute of champagne balanced in one hand. The white dress she was given for the evening was advertised as elegant and understated. In reality it is fighting for its life.

The fabric clings so tightly across her hips and rear that every step makes the material strain and shine under the lights. From behind, the dress leaves almost nothing to the imagination—the heavy, round shape of her backside is clearly outlined, the seams pulled taut. She pauses near one of the tall windows, glances down at herself, and mutters under her breath into the hidden mic at her collar.

“Oh yeah,” she says dryly, “this dress has the word ‘subtle’ all over it.”

A crackle of static answers in her ear. “It’s the best we could get for your ‘subtle’ figure.”

Before entering the ballroom, Loree had already spent several minutes trying to convince herself that the dress was a good idea. The fabric clings tightly across her hips and rear, leaving the seams stretched taut with every step. Its pale color and delicate finish might look classy on a mannequin, but on her, the outfit seems determined to attract attention. Her striped orange tail trails behind her, occasionally brushing against the skirt as she navigates the crowded room.

She takes a sip of champagne and resumes her patrol, listening to the snippets of conversation around her. The millionaire is discussing a private collection with one of his guests, and Loree catches enough to suspect that an invitation to his study might be worth pursuing. She adjusts her posture, flashes a pleasant smile at a passing couple, and starts toward the group.

Then she shifts her weight.

SHRIPP!

The sound is sharp and unmistakable, like a gunshot.

Loree freezes. Somewhere behind her, a guest coughs suspiciously into his drink.

The back of the dress gives way in a clean vertical tear, the overstressed fabric splitting open across the fullest part of her rear and exposing a generous amount of soft orange-furred skin along with the cherry-patterned thong she wore underneath. The ruined material parts around the curve of each cheek, leaving the damage impossible to hide.

A nearby guest—someone older, well-dressed, and clearly concerned—steps closer.

“Are you all right, my dear?”

Loree freezes for half a second, then recovers with a bright, slightly strained smile. She keeps the champagne glass raised as if nothing is wrong, even as cool air brushes the newly exposed skin.

“I need to use the ladies’ room for a bit,” she answers smoothly, already angling her body in an attempt to keep the worst of the damage turned away from the majority of the room.

She starts toward the hallway, holding her champagne in one hand while trying to keep the damaged fabric in place with the other. Each step threatens to widen the tear, and the cherry print beneath the dress keeps threatening to make another appearance. The evening’s carefully planned subtlety has officially become a disaster.

Then Loree catches sight of the millionaire again. He has noticed the commotion and is looking in her direction, his expression somewhere between concern and curiosity.

A thought occurs to her.

Perhaps the wardrobe malfunction isn’t entirely a lost cause. If she can play it off as an embarrassing accident, she might persuade him to offer her a private place to recover—and get the opportunity she needed all along.

Her smile becomes a little more thoughtful.

You’re standing close enough to have witnessed the whole spectacle: the sarcastic exchange over her earpiece, the sudden rip, and Loree’s determined attempt to preserve her dignity. She hasn’t noticed you specifically yet, but her route to the restroom will take her right past you.

As she approaches, she glances briefly in your direction, apparently deciding whether you look like someone who might help—or someone who might make her evening considerably worse.

The Halloween party is already in full swing by the time you step into the living room. Purple lights, paper bats, and the low thump of music fill the space. Most guests are in costume, but one figure near the snack table is impossible to miss.

Loree stands with a plastic cup in one hand, wrapped from chest to mid-thigh in white mummy bandages that were clearly not designed with her proportions in mind. The wrappings dig in at her waist and strain hard across her hips and rear, leaving wide gaps of orange-striped fur and soft skin on display. The bandages across her chest are equally overworked, barely keeping everything contained. A small jack-o’-lantern charm dangles from the back of the costume like a taunting little bow.

She catches someone eyeing the outfit and lifts her chin with a sharp grin.

“Don’t expect me to walk like an Egyptian,” she warns, voice already carrying a playful edge.

A few minutes and at least one refill later, the edge has turned into something looser. Loree turns, nearly overbalancing as her heavy rear shifts under the tight wrappings, and points an accusing finger at whoever just made a comment.

“Oh you think—” she hiccups, “—I can’t do the Egypt walk like an Egyp—hic—you just wait and see me. Hold my drink!”

She shoves the cup toward the nearest hand, yours, and plants her feet, clearly intending to demonstrate. The bandages creak. One loose end near her hip has already started to unravel.

Before the demonstration can go too far, someone calls out that the apple-bobbing barrel is open in the corner. Loree’s ears perk. Competitive instinct overrides whatever was left of her caution. She stalks over, drops to her knees in front of the wooden barrel, and leans in without hesitation.

The result is immediate and spectacular. The already-struggling mummy wraps pull tight across her backside as she bends forward, the round, heavy shape of her rear lifting and spreading under the strained white fabric. Water splashes. She comes up once with nothing, shakes her head, and dives back in with even more determination. When she finally surfaces again, an apple clenched between her teeth, her face and the front of the bandages are dripping. She looks back over her shoulder, green eyes bright and a little unfocused, tail swaying behind her like a victory flag.

The costume is one deep breath or sudden movement away from a complete structural failure, and Loree seems only vaguely aware of it—or entirely too pleased with the attention it’s getting.

She pulls the apple from her mouth, still bent over the barrel, and glances in your direction.

“Your turn,” she says, voice rough from the water and the booze. “Or are you just gonna stand there staring?”

The fitting-room hallway of the department store is quiet this late in the afternoon. Most shoppers have already cleared out, leaving only the soft hum of the overhead lights and the occasional distant announcement.

Loree steps out of the last stall with a dramatic sigh, one hand still tugging at the waistband of the light-blue jeans she just pulled on. The black long-sleeve top she’s wearing fits fine. The jeans do not. They were labeled a comfortable stretch fit. On her, they look like they’re fighting a losing war. The denim is pulled drum-tight across her hips and rear, the fabric shiny under the fluorescent lights where it’s stretched thinnest. Every seam is under visible strain, and the back pockets sit far higher and wider than the designer ever intended.

She turns halfway, glancing over her shoulder at her own reflection in the full-length mirror, then at you with an expression of pure exasperation.

“Ugh. Every single pair of pants I wear makes my butt look so... bloated!”

She gives the waistband another futile tug. The motion only makes the overstuffed rear shift and settle even more heavily against the strained denim. Her striped tail flicks once in irritation, the tip brushing the stretched fabric.

“I went down two sizes from the last ones I tried and it still looks like I sat in a bike pump.” She twists a little more, checking the side profile, and winces when the jeans creak. “It’s not even that they’re tight in the waist. They just... give up the second they reach the important part.”

She finally stops fussing with the waistband and plants both hands on her hips, which only pushes the already-dramatic curve of her backside out further. The jeans look ready to file a formal complaint.

Loree catches your eye in the mirror and raises one brow, the annoyance softening into something more amused and self-aware.

“You’re allowed to say it looks ridiculous, you know. I’ve already accepted my fate.” She gives a little side-to-side sway, just enough to make the tight denim shift and catch the light. “Or you can be useful and tell me if these are actually wearable in public, or if I should just accept that skirts are my only remaining option.”

She doesn’t move to change out of them yet. The jeans stay on, stretched to their absolute limit, while she waits for your verdict.

The takeout bag is still sitting open on the coffee table, the smell of grilled beef and toasted buns filling the living room. Loree is currently occupying most of the couch in the least dignified way possible—kneeling facing the backrest, upper body turned so she can glare at the half-eaten burger in her hand.

She’s wearing nothing but an oversized white off-shoulder top that keeps slipping further down one arm and a pair of thin purple panties that have given up any pretense of coverage. The soft, heavy curves of her rear are fully on display, orange-striped and impossible to ignore as she shifts her weight from knee to knee. Her striped tail lashes once in irritation.

“I said no pickles,” she mutters, voice flat with betrayal. With a sharp flick of her other hand she sends the offending green slices flying off the burger and onto the floor. “Every single time. I order it plain, I write it in the special instructions, I even said it out loud when I picked up the bag, and they still sneak them in like they’re doing me a favor.”

She takes an aggressive bite of the now-pickle-free burger, cheeks puffing slightly, then glances over her shoulder at you. The motion makes everything shift and settle in a way that is extremely distracting. The purple underwear digs in just enough to emphasize the sheer size of what it’s trying (and failing) to contain.

“And don’t even start with the ‘they’re good for you’ lecture,” she adds around the mouthful, swallowing before continuing. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘Oh Loree, it’s just pickles, stop being dramatic.’ Meanwhile I’m the one who has to live with the consequences.” She gives her own backside a pointed look, as if the pickles were personally responsible for its current dimensions. “I’m already fighting every pair of pants I own. I don’t need extra sour baggage making it worse.”

She takes another bite, still mostly turned away, the loose top sliding a little lower on her shoulder. Her tail curls lazily over one cheek as she chews, completely unbothered by how little she’s wearing or how much of her is currently pointed in your direction.

After a moment she speaks again, voice lighter but still carrying that playful edge of complaint.

“You got the order right on yours, didn’t you?” She looks back at you fully this time, green eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “Be honest. Did you steal my ‘no pickles’ luck, or are you just better at scaring the drive-thru mic?”

The gym is only half-full this time of evening, the usual mix of clanking weights and upbeat playlist filling the air. Most people are focused on their own routines. Most people aren’t on the treadmill directly in front of you.

Loree is.

She’s been at a steady jog for a while now, pink tank top darkened with sweat between her shoulder blades, black compression shorts stretched to their absolute limit around her hips and rear. Every single step sends a heavy, unmistakable wobble through the oversized curves the shorts are desperately trying to contain. The fabric is pulled so tight it shines under the overhead lights, the seams digging in as the soft mass of her backside bounces and settles with each stride.

Wobble. Wobble. Wobble.

She glances over her shoulder, green eyes half-lidded with effort, and catches you watching. Instead of looking embarrassed, she lets out a short, breathless huff that turns into a crooked grin.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she calls over the rhythmic thump of the belt. “I’m out here baking buns in real time. Very funny.”

She doesn’t slow down. If anything she picks the pace up half a notch, which only makes the motion more pronounced. The shorts creep a little higher with the movement, and her striped tail flicks once in annoyance before she reaches back to tug them down again—an action that accomplishes almost nothing except drawing more attention to the problem.

“I’m trying to be good,” she continues between controlled breaths. “Burgers don’t burn themselves off, and I’m not about to let the scale win.” Another heavy bounce. “Even if the universe keeps insisting on making this as distracting as possible.”

She finally taps the speed down to a brisk walk, still facing forward but angled enough that she can keep talking to you without shouting. One hand rests on the rail, the other reaches for her water bottle. The simple act of twisting to grab it sends another slow, weighty shift through her rear that the tight black shorts do nothing to hide.

Loree takes a long drink, then looks at you properly, cheeks flushed and a bead of sweat trailing down her temple.

“You here to actually work out,” she asks, voice still a little winded, “or did you just come for the free show?”

Her tail curls loosely behind her as she waits for the answer, the treadmill still humming under her feet.

Create your own scenario.