Playmaker Kirsten was a friend of a friend. She had a face like a triangle. Her jaw was thick with thin lips and her cheeks akin to apples. She conversed with a relatively strong accent. Her breasts were, for want of a better term, enormous. She often packed them into a tight Abercrombie shirt.

On a cool June morning she was washing the windows inside her flat as I held the ladder for her. Her shirt pulled away from her stomach slightly. Slightly, but just enough.

We went out with some friends that night. My first inclination that there might be a semblance of attraction was when I found her hand placed on my leg. She slid it towards my junk thinking that I wouldn't notice. Later, I was looking around the bar, turned in her direction and she kissed me. Her thin lips weren't great for kissing, but nevertheless we headed back to her place.

On the living room floor she pulled me towards her. I wasn't that in to her.
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