Safely isolated in her apartment, safely sequestered in her bathroom, and safely concealed by the frosted glass door of her shower, the real Jenny Hagen felt safe enough to emerge from hiding.
At first she was timid, glad to be temporarily free of the stuffy blouse, the sensible frumpy underwear, and most of all, her bra, which could claim to contain her breasts, but which could never hope to rule them. Instead, it spent most of the day sawing into her shoulders in a desperate attempt to convince her it was doing something productive. Hers was a body ill suited for constraints, and her spirits improved once she could survey her generous contours unobstructed by the tyranny of fabric.
By the time the apricot shampoo scented air was hot and heavy with humidity, Jenny felt uninhibited enough to start singing. The tiny room filled to overflowing with her powerful alto voice. Her hips swayed to the music. Occasionally she'd hold the sudsy luffa in front of her like a microphone, but mostly her hands fussed and fretted over every inch of her body, raising a covering of foamy lather.
Then she'd step under the shower spray and experience a metamorphosis. Her cocoon of soap suds would retreat down her legs and spiral down the drain, leaving her skin radiant and glistening. It begged to be touched.
Luckily the real Jenny Hagen wasn't too shy to ignore its entreaties. With gusto she slid her hands under her breasts and lifted, squeezed, let them squirm away from her firm grip. She even granted amnesty to her belly, which she normally warred with. Her shirts were always coming untucked in the front so it could make embarrassing impromptu appearances. But now her fingers pressed into the softness and caressed the disobedient little (okay, not so little) mound.
Southwards there was even more to celebrate. Several adjacent apartment dwellers were treated to a beautiful high note held for what seemed like forever.
At first she was timid, glad to be temporarily free of the stuffy blouse, the sensible frumpy underwear, and most of all, her bra, which could claim to contain her breasts, but which could never hope to rule them. Instead, it spent most of the day sawing into her shoulders in a desperate attempt to convince her it was doing something productive. Hers was a body ill suited for constraints, and her spirits improved once she could survey her generous contours unobstructed by the tyranny of fabric.
By the time the apricot shampoo scented air was hot and heavy with humidity, Jenny felt uninhibited enough to start singing. The tiny room filled to overflowing with her powerful alto voice. Her hips swayed to the music. Occasionally she'd hold the sudsy luffa in front of her like a microphone, but mostly her hands fussed and fretted over every inch of her body, raising a covering of foamy lather.
Then she'd step under the shower spray and experience a metamorphosis. Her cocoon of soap suds would retreat down her legs and spiral down the drain, leaving her skin radiant and glistening. It begged to be touched.
Luckily the real Jenny Hagen wasn't too shy to ignore its entreaties. With gusto she slid her hands under her breasts and lifted, squeezed, let them squirm away from her firm grip. She even granted amnesty to her belly, which she normally warred with. Her shirts were always coming untucked in the front so it could make embarrassing impromptu appearances. But now her fingers pressed into the softness and caressed the disobedient little (okay, not so little) mound.
Southwards there was even more to celebrate. Several adjacent apartment dwellers were treated to a beautiful high note held for what seemed like forever.