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Liz Jefferies tucked her hands beneath the bottom of the faded blue sweatshirt she wore. She pulled upward, easing it over her head and arms, then tossing it atop the granite boulder beside her. She smiled, feeling a rush of excitement.
Hooking her arms behind her back, her fingers found the clasp to her white bra and freed it. The confining halter slipped forward, the heavy mounds of her breasts spilling out and doing a lively little jostling dance.
Her hands slid under the twin, pillow-like tits, massaging away the redness left by the bra. She wasn’t used to wearing the bra and it felt so damn good to be free of the thing — if only for a few moments. She had slipped away from the others for an evening swim.
She glanced to her chest, her smile widening. They were still attractive breasts, firm and rounded with just a bit of a pendulous swing to them. Not at all the breasts one would expect on a woman who had nursed two children. But then, Liz Jefferies’ body wasn’t that of a woman in her early forties. She had seen to that. She was proud of her body and had taken care of it during the twenty-two years of marriage and twenty years of motherhood. She appeared no more than thirty, no longer a girl, but a mature, attractive woman. But what was better — she felt like a woman of thirty.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.