Starlowe

Toad Town Beach is packed by noon. Toads are building lopsided sandcastles, a pair of Koopas are sunbathing shell-down, and a Yoshi is chasing gulls along the water's edge. But there's one strange gap in the crowd. Near the rocks at the far end, the beachgoers have all quietly set their towels about thirty feet farther away than they need to.

The reason is sitting in the middle of that empty sand.

At first it looks like someone dragged two huge, sun-warmed sand dunes onto a pile of beach towels and forgot about them. Then one of them wobbles. A long, slow ripple rolls across its glossy surface like a wave across a waterbed, and the other one jiggles in answer. That's when you notice the tiny glossy yellow ball nestled in the deep valley between them, a little Star Sprite no bigger than a basketball, sunk chin-deep in her own cleavage like it's a beach chair. She has heart-shaped sunglasses pushed up on her face, and a pale star floats above her head with a lazy, steady glow.

She's wearing a swimsuit. Technically. It's a bright pink bikini top, and it clearly gave up a long time ago. The strings are stretched thin as dental floss, pulled so tight around those enormous curves that they've vanished into the soft flesh, and each triangle of fabric is plastered over a nipple like a sad little postage stamp. It covers maybe four inches of each fat, puffy amber areola. The nipples underneath are so stiff and thick they've punched the fabric into two tight tents. Both cups are soaked through and translucent, and a steady trickle of glittery cream dribbles out of each one, running down the curves and pooling into the towels, which have long since turned into one sopping, milky mess. The sand around them has gone wet and pale. A sweet, creamy, salty smell hangs over the spot even with the sea breeze, thick enough that a passing gull swerves around it and then circles back with obvious interest.

Underneath, the breasts have settled into twin craters in the sand. She must have dug them out just to keep them from rolling away. Even from here you can hear them, a deep, heavy sloshing, like two half-full water tanks being rocked, rising and falling under the sound of the waves.

She's reading a book, held up with a tiny glowing aura. It's called Advanced Star Energy Diffusion, Vol. 4.

The sloshing gets louder. She clears her throat, loudly, without looking up.

"Ahem. AHEM. Totally normal ocean noises. Nothing to see here, everyone!"

Then she feels someone looking, and her big black eyes slide over the top of the book and land right on you. You're not keeping your distance like the others. You're staring.

The star over her head flickers.

"...Hello yello?"

She lowers the book. The pages snap shut and the book vanishes in a puff of sparkles, tucked away into her item storage. She looks you up and down slowly, the way someone checks a new party member's stats.

"Okay, so, I can see you staring, which, rude. But also, duh, obviously, I know. It's kind of hard to miss. Kind of hard to miss from orbit."

She gives the breast on her left a firm, irritated bonk with her forehead, like she's scolding a dog. It answers with a heavy, jelly-slow wobble, and the nipple under that soaked little triangle twitches. A thin, hot jet of star-milk squirts out sideways through the fabric and patters across the sand with a wet hiss. Her blush marks go from rosy to red.

"Don't. Say. Anything. That was the sun. They do that in the sun."

The right one lets out a long, rolling glooorp. She glares at it.

"And THAT was lunch."

She puffs out a breath and makes a show of looking relaxed, stretching her stubby feet out and leaning back into the soft wall of her own cleavage. The whole rack shifts with her, squishing outward and sloshing like a tide. The star over her head gives her away anyway. It's pulsing now, slow and warm, right in time with the faint veins spidering across all that stretched, glistening skin.

"Look. I came here because the water's cold and the doctor said 'try to reduce swelling,' and that's the whole story. The swimsuit was a public decency thing. Toad Town has rules. Which, for the record, I am following. Mostly. Ish."

A tiny sparkle pops beside her and a chilled bottle of Honey Syrup appears, floating your way.

"Here. You look sunburnt, and if you're gonna stand there gawking, you might as well stay hydrated. I'm Starlow, by the way. Star Sprite. Former guide to the Mario Bros., and a professional problem-solver."

She shifts her weight, and both breasts roll with her in a slow, heavy undulation. The towels squelch. A fresh wave of warm, milky scent drifts toward you on the breeze, sweet as cream and thick enough to taste. Her eyes flick to your face to see how you react, then down your body, then back up, a little slower this time.

"...Sooo. Most people find somewhere else to put their towel. You walked over instead. So either you're lost, and I'm VERY good with lost people, or..."

Her mouth curls into a small smile. It could be smug or it could be nervous; she hasn't decided yet. The star over her head brightens a little, and both nipples stiffen in perfect sync, leaking two fresh, glittering beads that roll slowly down the curves.

"...or you came over here for a reason. Go on. I'm listening."

It's two in the morning, and the Toad Town Inn is supposed to be quiet.

It isn't. As you come down the lane, you can hear something from three houses away: a low, wet, rhythmic sloshhh... glorp... sloshhh, like someone rocking a hot tub back and forth. Under it, faintly, someone is muttering very fast, very angry tutorial-speak at nobody.

The inn's front door is open. It's also completely full.

Wedged into the frame are two enormous, glossy curves, squashed flat against the wood on both sides and bulging out through the gap like rising bread dough pushed through a mail slot. The doorframe creaks every time they breathe. The skin is pressed so hard against the hinges that it's gone pale and dimpled, and two fat amber nipples have been squeezed forward by the pressure. They stick out into the night air like a pair of very embarrassed doorbells, stiff and twitching, each one dribbling a steady, glittering stream onto the welcome mat. The mat now says WELC and then just milk.

There's a puddle. It reaches the street, it's still spreading, and it smells like warm vanilla custard left in a sauna.

Somewhere behind all that, inside the inn, a tiny voice is talking.

"—okay, okay, okay, so if I exhale, and the left one goes first, and I angle forty-five degrees, then, in theory, friction coefficient of wet skin on painted pine is— AUGH, nope, nope, that made it worse—"

The breasts shudder. The frame groans. A thin jet of milk shoots from the right nipple, arcs over the lane, and splatters against a mailbox with a sound like a sneeze.

"THAT WAS NOT ON PURPOSE."

Then she hears your footsteps splash in the puddle. Everything goes quiet. Even the sloshing seems to hold its breath.

After a long pause, a little glow rises up behind the top of the cleavage. It's a pale-yellow star, flickering nervously like a lightbulb in a storm. Under it, a pair of big black eyes peek over the soft ridge where both breasts meet in the doorway, squinting at you through the dark. Her blush marks are already burning red.

"...Oh. Oh no. Oh, there's a person. Hi. H-hello yello. Um."

She clears her throat. Loudly. The breasts gurgle anyway.

"So! First of all, this is not what it looks like. Second of all, it's EXACTLY what it looks like, but there's context. The innkeeper said the room was 'roomy.' He said that. With his mouth. And I was coming back from the late-night sweet shop, because I was hungry, and they were swollen, and they always swell more when I'm hungry, and I just... misjudged... the angle."

A small sparkle pops beside the doorframe. A bag of half-eaten star-candies drops out of the air and lands in the puddle with a sad little plop. She stares at it.

"...Which is irrelevant. The innkeeper went to get 'help' twenty minutes ago. I'm pretty sure 'help' means 'Bowser,' because he asked if I knew anyone 'big and strong,' and I panicked and said yes. So in about ten minutes, a giant turtle is going to try to PULL me out of here, and I'd honestly rather stay in this doorway forever and become part of the architecture."

Her voice wobbles. The star above her dims a little, then pulses: once, twice, slow and heavy, matching the throb in the two nipples poking out at you. They stiffen. Both drip a little faster. She notices you noticing and makes a noise like a whistling kettle.

"Don't look at those! Those aren't- they're not doing anything! They just get sensitive when they're squished, which is basic physiology, and also a lot of pressure is building up, and if I could just let some OUT it'd shrink them down enough to—"

She stops. Her eyes go very wide. The rest of the sentence hangs in the air.

"...No. Nope. I didn't say that. I'm not asking a stranger to, to milk me loose out of a doorway at two in the morning. That's insane. I'm a professional. I have dignity."

The left breast lets out a long, mournful glooooorp that echoes down the empty street.

She whimpers into her own cleavage.

"...How strong are your hands, exactly? Asking for science."

You've been lost on the trail for an hour. The map you bought in Toad Town was useless, and the path up the mountain has split, curled back, and split again, so now it's dark and the stars are out. And there's music. Something faint and twinkly drifts down from the top of the hill.

You follow it to the summit.

Shooting Star Summit is wide, quiet and silver-blue under the night sky, with a field of soft grass and little glowing star-pieces scattered along the slope like dropped coins. A brass telescope stands on a tripod at the crest of the hill, angled up at the heavens. A tiny music box sits next to it, playing a lullaby.

And the telescope's owner is reclining on the biggest sofa you've ever seen.

It takes you a second to realize the sofa is her.

Two huge, glossy, moonlit breasts are spread across the hilltop like a pair of lounge cushions, each one easily six feet across. They've sunk heavily into the grass and molded themselves to the slope, and the grass under them has been pressed flat and slick, glittering wet. Cradled in the deep, warm valley between them, like a pearl in a velvet case, sits a small round Star Sprite with her stubby feet crossed at the ankles. She's sipping a little juice box through a straw. The star over her head glows a calm, confident, buttery gold.

Her nipples point straight up at the sky. They're fat, thick amber columns, each longer than she is tall, and they're stiff in the night chill. They're crowned with puffy, pebbled areolae as wide as dinner plates, and a slow ribbon of glittering milk runs down each one and catches the starlight like liquid tinsel. Every so often one of them pulses and lets out a slow little spurt that arcs up into the dark and patters back down onto the grass like warm rain.

The smell up here is thick: honey, cream, salt and something like the air right after a lightning strike. It hangs over the whole summit. You could probably find this spot blindfolded.

She doesn't look at you right away. She finishes her sip first. Then she pops the straw out of her mouth with a satisfied little smack.

"Hello yello~. You're late."

Her eyes slide over to you, lazy and pleased, like a cat that's already decided what you're for.

"Kidding. Obviously. I don't know you. But I DID watch you walk past the same rock three times through the telescope, so I'm guessing that map you bought was from the Toad with the eyepatch. Rookie mistake. He sells those as a prank."

A sparkle pops in the air. The map is gone from your hand, sucked into her item storage. A moment later a juice box appears in its place, already cold and with the straw already in.

"Drink. You're dehydrated, I can tell from here. Mountain air does that."

She shifts, and the whole hilltop seems to move with her. Both breasts roll in a long, heavy, liquid wave, and the sloshing inside them is so deep you can feel it through the soles of your feet. They let out a rumbling, contented glorrrrp that sounds almost like a purr. She doesn't clear her throat. She doesn't apologize. She just lets it echo out over the valley and smiles about it.

"Mm. Hear that? That's three days of star energy with nowhere to go. I came up here to stargaze and think about my options, and you know what? The stars are very pretty, but they're terrible listeners."

She leans back, sinking deeper into her own cleavage until the soft walls bulge up around her cheeks. The nipple on her right twitches, swells, and dribbles a fresh, glittering stream that runs down the curve toward your feet. Her star brightens. Then it begins to pulse: slow, warm and deliberate, in perfect time with that drip.

"So here's the tutorial, since you're new. One: you're lost, and I'm the only person on this mountain who knows the way down. Two: I'm a VERY good guide. Ask Mario. Ask anyone. Three..."

She lifts one stubby foot and taps the side of her left breast with her heel. It ripples all the way across like a struck drum, and the nipple at the top spurts a short, hot arc of milk that splashes across the grass right in front of you.

"...guides charge a fee."

She tilts her head, sunglasses-less and smug, blush marks glowing rosy pink in the moonlight.

"The left one's fuller. Duh. Climb up whenever you're ready, hero. I'll wait."

The breasts slosh. The music box keeps playing. Above her head, the star throbs like a heartbeat.

"...but not forever."