Protandry: Mammary
Title: Mammary
Warnings: Genderswap
Summary: Leona's doing her best to do her job and get D to talk to her but D's got more important things on her mind.
Mammals are warm blooded creatures who breast fed their young, which some soft hearted fools think creates a stronger bond with their offspring because of the skin to skin touch required for feeding. The female detective now politely interrogating D would certainly be very close to her future offspring if this was true for she is very well endowed in respect of her mammary glands.
D keeps her hands together and her gaze shielded by her hair so that the blond American doesn’t realise that the large swells, under the covering t-shirt that she probably thinks disguises the size of her bust, are being measured by a knowing eye. Yes indeed if breast size actually mattered at all then the detective’s future offspring will also be exceptionally well fed. D wonders if the detective has ever had back problems, refusing to acknowledge she might be slightly jealous of the detective having breasts that are recognisably… breasts… not that D cares about her own breast size, in fact it is rather an embarrassment; a deformity even, since her biology is identical to her father and her grandfather’s except for the flaw of her weakened heart and … her chest in general.
They; Miss Detective’s breasts, are real too, D notices detachedly, nibbling on a biscuit as she thinks of a polite but uninformative answer to yet another probe into potential black market dealings. They bounce and move when they should unlike the large silicone balls D has observed adorning the chests of other American women.
Blond, tall, large breasts and wide looking hips; Does this make the lady detective the American ideal? Certainly it is a rather bizarre culture where big blond hair, breasts and long legs with unnaturally skinny stomachs and behinds are considered the height of beauty. Perhaps the detective isn’t considered the height of American beauty then, her hips are in proportion, as is her jean clad rear which seems firm but not strangely enhanced like the magazines seem to recommend. She is rather tall too; D’s knowing eye runs over Miss-Detective-please-call-me-Orcort-or-Leona-whatever’s-more-comfortable-for-ya and puts her at about 6”0, perhaps a little more. It is an unusual height for a woman and the detective wears it awkwardly and self-consciously with her shoulders hunched down and gestures kept restrained so that she seems moderately smaller. This hunched posture causes the t-shirt to gape at the neck which is the cause of D’s musings on mammary glands today as with the shirt gaping like that and at this sitting angle D can see the start of impressive cleavage.
D doesn’t see why human men put such a lot of, pardon the pun, weight on breast size. In the wild animals do not have sizable growth around their mammary glands until they have to use them, making humans once again the odd species out. The detective turns on the stairs as she leaves, once more with nothing out of D but tea and cake, perilously close, enough so that her pony tail nearly flicks D in the eye as she pushes the limp tail of yellow over her shoulder and reaches out to shake D’s hand with a guilty expression since it’s obviously an afterthought. The breasts that D has been contemplating for the last half hour brush against her shoulder as they are both at awkward angles to one another; warm, quite soft flesh that is held back, as felt through the thin material of the old t-shirt and D’s thin silk sleeve, by an equally worn bra that must have once had a lace edging.
Oh…
They are quite incredibly warm, D thinks dazedly as Miss Detective pulls back with an apology, not seeming to have noticed or cared that she was pushing her considerable chest against D’s side for brief moment, and takes her hand to shake properly now before leaving. The softness wasn’t like a cushion but satisfyingly giving anyway she thinks as she shuts the doors behind the retreating figure. Q cheeps at her inquiringly; patting a small paw to a cheek that D realises has gone pink when she looks in the mirror. Something hot stirs in her stomach, flickers for a moment and coils like a dragon moving in its sleep.
“That was exhausting…” she hurriedly smiles at Q who huffs in agreement and glares at the door like the detective is still there “…I believe I shall close the shop and take a nap.” Q cheeps again and nods, lifting off from her shoulder to go scavenge anything left from her afternoon tea
Warnings: Genderswap
Summary: Leona's doing her best to do her job and get D to talk to her but D's got more important things on her mind.
Mammals are warm blooded creatures who breast fed their young, which some soft hearted fools think creates a stronger bond with their offspring because of the skin to skin touch required for feeding. The female detective now politely interrogating D would certainly be very close to her future offspring if this was true for she is very well endowed in respect of her mammary glands.
D keeps her hands together and her gaze shielded by her hair so that the blond American doesn’t realise that the large swells, under the covering t-shirt that she probably thinks disguises the size of her bust, are being measured by a knowing eye. Yes indeed if breast size actually mattered at all then the detective’s future offspring will also be exceptionally well fed. D wonders if the detective has ever had back problems, refusing to acknowledge she might be slightly jealous of the detective having breasts that are recognisably… breasts… not that D cares about her own breast size, in fact it is rather an embarrassment; a deformity even, since her biology is identical to her father and her grandfather’s except for the flaw of her weakened heart and … her chest in general.
They; Miss Detective’s breasts, are real too, D notices detachedly, nibbling on a biscuit as she thinks of a polite but uninformative answer to yet another probe into potential black market dealings. They bounce and move when they should unlike the large silicone balls D has observed adorning the chests of other American women.
Blond, tall, large breasts and wide looking hips; Does this make the lady detective the American ideal? Certainly it is a rather bizarre culture where big blond hair, breasts and long legs with unnaturally skinny stomachs and behinds are considered the height of beauty. Perhaps the detective isn’t considered the height of American beauty then, her hips are in proportion, as is her jean clad rear which seems firm but not strangely enhanced like the magazines seem to recommend. She is rather tall too; D’s knowing eye runs over Miss-Detective-please-call-me-Orcort-or-Leona-whatever’s-more-comfortable-for-ya and puts her at about 6”0, perhaps a little more. It is an unusual height for a woman and the detective wears it awkwardly and self-consciously with her shoulders hunched down and gestures kept restrained so that she seems moderately smaller. This hunched posture causes the t-shirt to gape at the neck which is the cause of D’s musings on mammary glands today as with the shirt gaping like that and at this sitting angle D can see the start of impressive cleavage.
D doesn’t see why human men put such a lot of, pardon the pun, weight on breast size. In the wild animals do not have sizable growth around their mammary glands until they have to use them, making humans once again the odd species out. The detective turns on the stairs as she leaves, once more with nothing out of D but tea and cake, perilously close, enough so that her pony tail nearly flicks D in the eye as she pushes the limp tail of yellow over her shoulder and reaches out to shake D’s hand with a guilty expression since it’s obviously an afterthought. The breasts that D has been contemplating for the last half hour brush against her shoulder as they are both at awkward angles to one another; warm, quite soft flesh that is held back, as felt through the thin material of the old t-shirt and D’s thin silk sleeve, by an equally worn bra that must have once had a lace edging.
Oh…
They are quite incredibly warm, D thinks dazedly as Miss Detective pulls back with an apology, not seeming to have noticed or cared that she was pushing her considerable chest against D’s side for brief moment, and takes her hand to shake properly now before leaving. The softness wasn’t like a cushion but satisfyingly giving anyway she thinks as she shuts the doors behind the retreating figure. Q cheeps at her inquiringly; patting a small paw to a cheek that D realises has gone pink when she looks in the mirror. Something hot stirs in her stomach, flickers for a moment and coils like a dragon moving in its sleep.
“That was exhausting…” she hurriedly smiles at Q who huffs in agreement and glares at the door like the detective is still there “…I believe I shall close the shop and take a nap.” Q cheeps again and nods, lifting off from her shoulder to go scavenge anything left from her afternoon tea