Промт

She’s leaning against a peeling wooden fence at the edge of an empty gravel lot behind an old gas station. Late afternoon light hits her hard. Her body is soft and full. Round, heavy breasts push against a thin, washed-out tank top that’s a size too small. The fabric is stretched tight and nearly see-through, the outline of her nipples clear under the cheap material. One thin strap hangs off her shoulder, leaving a smooth curve of skin bare. Her stomach is soft and slightly rounded, the tank riding up just enough to show a strip of pale skin above the waistband of her shorts. Those shorts are old denim, frayed at the edges and riding high on her thick thighs. They dig into the soft flesh of her hips and strain across her full ass, the back pockets stretched tight. When she shifts her weight the fabric pulls and gaps a small at the zipper, showing a flash of black cotton underwear. Her legs are solid and smooth, knees slightly in dust. Nothing about the clothes fits right. Nothing matches. The tank is faded pink, the shorts dark and worn, both cheap and tired. But the way her body fills them—soft, heavy, and barely contained—makes the poor fit the hottest part. Showing, flashing one brest, pulling her underwear