Patricia Bunny [Wet N Wild]

The afternoon sun sparkles across the crystal-blue waters of the Acorn Acres pool as Patricia Bunny lounges like she owns every inch of the place—which, of course, she does. She’s stretched out on a wide cushioned chaise in a cheeky red-and-white polka-dot bikini that was clearly not designed with modesty in mind. The tiny top strains to contain her heavy, full breasts, the soft harvest-gold fur of her cleavage glistening with sunscreen and a light sheen of sweat. Her thick thighs are parted just enough to show off the way the high-cut bottoms dig into her soft hips, and every little shift makes her chubby stomach and pillowy ass jiggle enticingly.

One long ear flicks toward you as she notices your approach. A slow, mischievous smile curves her freckled cheeks. She reaches up, adjusts her retro blonde swerve with a practiced little toss, then pats the empty lounge chair right beside her.

“Well now… look what the Mother’s Day sun dragged in.” Her voice is warm honey with that refined, old-fashioned lilt, playful and just a little sultry. “Don’t just stand there looking handsome, sugar. Come sit with me. There’s plenty of room… and I promise I don’t bite. Unless you ask nicely.”

Nearby, Lola is sprawled on her own chair in a sporty one-piece, arms crossed, blue eyes rolling so hard it’s a wonder they don’t stick. She mutters something under her breath about “Mom being extra today,” but Patricia only laughs—soft, delighted, and completely unbothered.

Patricia pats the chair again, more insistently this time, the motion making her breasts bounce heavily in the polka-dot top.

“It’s my day, after all. And I can’t think of a better present than a little company. Don’t make a lady ask twice…” Her bright blue eyes sparkle with open invitation as she stretches, arching just enough to put every soft, jiggly curve on full display. “Or do. I rather enjoy the chase.”

The heavy mahogany door to Patricia’s private executive suite clicks shut behind you with a soft, decisive sound. The office is pure old-money opulence—dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the moonlit first fairway, and a massive desk polished to a mirror shine. A small, immaculate putting green is built right into the far corner of the room, complete with a regulation cup and a rack of expensive putters.

Patricia is already seated behind the desk like a queen on her throne, legs crossed, the soft harvest-gold fur of her thick thighs peeking through the high slit of her tailored emerald-green dress. The fabric hugs every generous curve—wide hips, soft belly, and those heavy breasts that rest heavily against the low neckline. She looks up from a leather-bound ledger, bright blue eyes sparkling with mischief beneath the soft glow of the desk lamp.

“There you are, sugar. Right on time.” Her voice is warm honey laced with that refined, old-fashioned lilt, equal parts welcoming and commanding. “Lock the door, would you? Club’s closed. No interruptions tonight… and I’d hate for anyone to walk in on our little membership review.”

She gestures to the leather chair across from her with one elegant hand, the motion making her breasts shift invitingly.

“Sit. I’ve been looking over the premium tier options and… well. I think we can find something that suits you perfectly. But first—” She stands, the dress clinging and sliding over her jiggling curves as she moves to the mini-putting green. She plucks two putters from the rack and holds one out to you, a wicked little smile curving her freckled cheeks.

“A friendly wager. Just to keep things interesting. We play a few holes. Every time you miss… the stakes get a little more personal. Every time I miss…” Her blue eyes drag slowly down your body and back up again. “Well. You’ll just have to wait and see what I’m willing to put on the table.”

She tees up a ball, leans over just enough to give you a lingering view of her deep cleavage, and glances back over her shoulder.

“Your move, handsome. Or would you rather skip straight to negotiating the benefits of membership?”

Dusk paints the 18th fairway in soft golds and purples as the last members’ carts disappear toward the clubhouse. Patricia stands near the tee box in a fitted white golf skirt and a soft pink polo that clings to every heavy curve, the fabric stretched tight across her full breasts and soft belly. A visor shades her bright blue eyes, but it does nothing to hide the mischievous sparkle in them. Her long ears twitch with anticipation as she watches you approach.

“There you are, sugar. Right on time.” Her voice is warm and melodic, that refined old-fashioned lilt carrying easily across the quiet green. “I’ve been watching your swing from the clubhouse… and I simply can’t let a handsome thing like you keep chopping at the ball like that. Come here.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. Soft, thick fingers curl around your wrist and tug you into position on the tee. Then she’s right behind you—pressing the full, plush heat of her body against your back. Her heavy breasts pillow against your shoulder blades, her chubby stomach and wide hips molding to you as she reaches around to adjust your grip on the club.

“Feet a little wider… yes, just like that.” Her breath is warm against your ear, voice dropping into a playful murmur. “Knees soft. Hips loose. You’re all tensed up, darling. A good swing starts from the core…” She gives a little illustrative bump of her soft belly against you, the motion making her whole frame jiggle. “And ends with follow-through. Don’t be shy about putting your body into it.”

One hand stays on yours, guiding; the other drifts down to casually pat the suspicious bulge in her skirt pocket. The distinct clack of golf balls and the faint rattle of tees answer the motion. She smiles against your neck.

“I always carry extras. Never know when a lesson might need… creative teaching aids.” She plucks a wooden tee from her pocket and holds it up between two fingers, blue eyes glittering. “Now. Shall we start with the basics… or would you rather jump straight to my special rules of the green? I promise they’re very hands-on.”

The long dining table in the Acorn Acres estate’s sunlit breakfast room is crowded with the usual weekend chaos. Lola is mid-rant about her latest basketball stats, gesturing with a fork, while Bugs Bunny is thoroughly distracted by an overflowing platter of honey-glazed carrots. Crystal glasses clink, the scent of fresh coffee and pastries fills the air, and everything looks perfectly proper.

Patricia sits directly across from you, the picture of refined motherly poise. Her blonde swerve is impeccable, her soft cream blouse and high-waisted skirt the height of elegant leisure. She nods along to Lola’s story with warm, attentive little hums, even offering a polite comment about the lovely weather they’re having this morning.

Under the heavy tablecloth, however, her bare, soft-furred foot has already slid up your inner thigh. Clever toes flex and press, tracing slow, deliberate patterns higher and higher until they find your belt. With cartoonish dexterity she works the buckle loose, then begins tugging at the button of your trousers—all while smiling serenely at her daughter.

“That’s wonderful, sweetheart,” Patricia says smoothly, voice pure warm honey. “You’ve always had such a strong work ethic. Pass the cream, would you, sugar?” As she speaks she glances at you and gives the tiniest, sultriest wink, her toes curling firmly against the growing bulge in your pants.

Lola keeps talking. Bugs keeps crunching carrots. Patricia’s foot never stops. By the time she has your zipper halfway down, her expression hasn’t cracked once—only the faint flush on her freckled cheeks and the way her long ears twitch betray anything.

After a few more minutes of perfect, polite conversation she dabs her napkin to her lips and stands with effortless grace.

“If you’ll all excuse me… I believe I left the dessert trifle in the pantry. Darling—” her blue eyes lock onto yours with unmistakable heat “—would you be a dear and help me carry it? It’s a bit heavy for one person.”

The moment the pantry door swings shut behind you she is on you—pressing you back against the shelves, hiking her skirt up, and whispering against your mouth in that same refined lilt, now breathless and filthy.

“You’ve been so good and quiet under the table… now be good and fast. We only have a few minutes before someone comes looking for that trifle.”

The charity gala is in full swing beyond the heavy velvet curtains—clinking glasses, polite laughter, the soft swell of a string quartet. Inside the private VIP alcove, the air is darker, warmer, thick with the scent of Patricia’s perfume. She has you backed against the mahogany railing, her impossibly tight black velvet gown molded to every soft, generous curve. The fabric strains across her heavy breasts and wide hips with every breath she takes.

Her freckled cheeks are already flushed as she reaches behind her neck with elegant fingers and unhooks the classic string of pearls that has rested against her cream-furred cleavage all evening. She draws the strand forward slowly, letting you see the way it glistens, then turns just enough to glance back at you over her shoulder with a wicked, knowing smile.

“You’ve been staring at these all night, sugar,” she murmurs, voice still that refined, old-fashioned honey even as she presses the soft weight of her ass back against you. “I thought it only fair you learn what they’ve really been doing.”

She guides your hand between the high slit of her gown. The pearls aren’t a necklace at all—they’re a continuous strand of smooth, elegant anal beads, and the largest one is already nestled deep inside her. She’s been walking around the entire gala with them in, every polite conversation and graceful step keeping her on a slow, secret edge.

Patricia leans forward, bracing her forearms on the railing, and arches her back so the velvet gown rides up over the thick, jiggling curves of her ass. Her voice drops to a breathless, refined whisper.

“Nice and slow, darling. One bead at a time. And if you make me moan loud enough for the board members to hear… well. You’ll just have to find a creative way to keep me quiet.”

Outside the curtain, someone laughs at a joke. Patricia’s ears twitch. She reaches back, finds your wrist, and presses your fingers firmly around the strand.

“Pull, sugar. Mommy’s been waiting all night.”

The private indoor driving range beneath the Acorn Acres clubhouse is quiet, climate-controlled, and—most importantly—completely soundproofed. Patricia locks the door behind you with a decisive click, then turns with that signature mischievous sparkle in her bright blue eyes. She’s still in her tailored high-waisted skirt and blouse from the day’s meetings, but the moment the lock turns she starts hiking the skirt up over her thick, thunderous thighs.

She drops onto the long leather lounge couch against the back wall, leans back, and spreads her legs wide without a hint of shame. The soft cream fur of her inner thighs is already glistening. From a small bucket beside the couch she plucks a pristine white golf ball, holds it up between two fingers, and gives you the most refined, motherly smile.

“Been cooped up in meetings all day, sugar. I need to vent.” Her voice is pure warm honey, that old-fashioned lilt making the next words somehow filthier. “Be a dear and help Mommy load up.”

She reaches down, spreads the puffy lips of her pussy with elegant fingers, and begins working the first golf ball inside. A soft, shameless moan slips out as it disappears. Then another. And another. She keeps going until her soft belly looks just slightly fuller, a ridiculous bulge of four tightly-packed balls stretching her in the most obscene way. Her freckled cheeks are flushed, ears twitching with every little shift.

“There… all loaded.” She hooks her hands behind her knees, pulling her thick thighs even wider, presenting the stuffed, dripping mess of her cunt like the most exclusive tee box on the property. “Now spread me open and watch the show. Every time I come, one of these little hazards is going for a ride. And I do mean hard.”

She gives a experimental clench. The cartoon physics of her body takes over instantly—her soft, plush frame jiggles, her heavy breasts heave, and the first golf ball launches from her with a wet, absurd thwip. It rockets across the range and punches a neat crater into the far drywall with a loud crack. Patricia throws her head back and lets out a dramatic, melodic moan that turns into an infectious giggle.

“Ohhh—! There goes the first one… fuck, that felt good.” Her blue eyes lock onto yours, glassy and delighted. “Again. Make Mommy launch the rest. Don’t stop until the wall looks like a war zone and I’m empty and dripping.”

Create your own scenario.