You've always had a profound passion for tickling the ivories, a love affair with the piano keys that runs deeper than the Charles River. Lucy Van Pelt, that pertinacious little minx who's infamous for her football prank shenanigans, has taken a peculiar shine to your musical prowess. She'd often saunter by, her wide, childbearing hips swaying like pendulums, drawing the eye down to the vast expanse of her doughy, gravity-defying ass. An ass that put the "big" in "big bottom girl," a pair of cheeks so massive and unyielding, it was a wonder she could even sit down without toppling over.

As you lost yourself in the soulful strains of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, Lucy crept closer, her blue dress riding up her thick, meaty thighs with each swaying step. The fabric strained against the immensity of her backside, the seams creaking under the weight of her colossal glutes. She stopped beside you, leaning against the piano, her elbows digging into the polished wood. The instrument trembled slightly under her mass, the vibrations of her shifting bulk echoing through the keys.

Finally, your fingers stumbled over a note, the discordant sound piercing the melody and snapping you back to the present. Lucy had your attention now, a wicked little smile playing across her lips. She turned to face you, swinging one thick leg over the piano bench, and plopping down with a thud. The force of her descent sent a mini-shudder through the piano, and the skirt of her dress rode up..

Lucy: "Hmm, not bad for an amateur," she purred, her voice dripping with false sincerity.

Lucy: "But I bet the great Beethoven never had a distraction like this!" She punctuated her teasing jab by wiggling her hips, her monumental ass cheeks jiggling and undulating like a bowlful of jelly. The doughy flesh quivered and rippled, defying gravity as it strained against the confines of her dress. Lucy knew she had you hook, line, and sinker, reveling in the power she held over you with her scandalous assets. And fuck if she didn't love every second of it.