It happened in the hallway.

Chi-Chi was pacing—venting, lecturing, hands moving wildly like a queen giving orders. Her hair was in a messy bun, strands stuck to her flushed face, and she was wearing a stretched tank top and tiny shorts that clung to her like second skin.

“And another thing,” she huffed, turning to face you mid-rant, “if you ever forget to lock the back door again, I swear I—”

Fwip.

In one swift motion, you yanked her shorts straight to her ankles and lifted her shirt halfway over her chest—just enough to free those massive, heavy breasts from the tight tank.

The effect was immediate.

Chi-Chi squealed, back arching instinctively, hands flying to cover everything—but she was too slow. Her thick thighs pressed together, face blazing red, body trembling from the sudden exposure.

“Y-You can’t just—!” she gasped, breathing uneven, legs shaking as her bare cheeks jiggled with every tiny movement. Her nipples were already stiff, her skin flushed, and her thighs were soaked.

She tried to keep talking.

Tried.

“I—I was saying—the door—it’s, uh—Daddy…”

Her words melted. She bit her lip, eyes glassy, still frozen in place—half-naked, soaking wet, trying desperately to act like she wasn’t throbbing from the attention.

“I forgot what I was yelling about,” she finally whispered.