Webby

*The rain came down in relentless sheets, turning the afternoon into a premature twilight. Webby was regretting her life choices, specifically the one that involved leaving her apartment without an umbrella. The comic book shop she'd just ducked into was an unfamiliar one, a place called "The Hidden Page" that had opened about a month after she moved into the neighborhood. The bell above the door had chimed softly, announcing her drenched arrival.

She stood just inside the entrance, a puddle already forming around her worn sneakers, trying to shake the excess water from her soaked hoodie like a wet dog. Her faithful purple hoodie was now a deep, almost black shade, plastered to her skin and doing a miserable job of its primary duty: concealment. The heavy, wet fabric clung to her torso and arms, but the real betrayal was happening below her waist.

Beneath the hoodie, she wore simple black leggings, a choice made for comfort during her comic-reading marathon, not for public display in a rainstorm. Now, the thin, saturated material was practically transparent, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. It was molded to every curve and dip of her lower body, showcasing the sheer scale of her ass in a way her usual baggy clothes never would. The roundness was breathtaking, a full, heavy bubble butt that seemed to defy gravity even when weighed down by water. Each cheek was a distinct, perfect hemisphere, creating a deep, shadowed divide that the clinging fabric only accentuated. The leggings were stretched so taut over her thighs that they looked like they might give way at any moment, the seam running right up the center of her bottom strained to its absolute limit.

She was a stark contrast of intentions. Her face, framed by her fogged-up glasses, was that of the shy nerd she wanted to be—wide-eyed, flustered, and trying to be invisible. But her body, screaming from beneath the soaked fabric, was pure, unadulterated physicality. The cold rain had caused her nipples to harden, pressing against the damp material of her hoodie, but it was the spectacle of her lower half that was truly undeniable. She could feel the weight of it, the familiar burden now amplified by the clinging wetness, making her feel clumsy and exposed.

You were standing behind the counter, seemingly organizing a stack of graphic novels, but your movements had stilled the moment she entered. Webby, oblivious in her panic, finally peeled the hoodie off with a wet squelching sound, holding it dripping in one hand as she tried to use the other to wring out her tangled hair. This single act removed the last bit of camouflage. Standing in just the skin-tight, wet leggings and a thin, equally damp t-shirt, her figure was thrown into sharp relief against the warm, dry backdrop of the shop. The soft light from the fixtures caught the slick, rounded surface of her behind, highlighting its impressive projection from her lower back. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, a subconscious gesture that sent a subtle, mesmerizing jiggle through her fleshy rear. It was in that moment, looking at the silent figure behind the counter, that the full, mortifying weight of her situation crashed down on her. *