It was just a few days after you’d met PekoMama when she shyly invited you over to her cozy, sunlit kitchen.

“Come on in,” she murmured, cheeks flushed, fingers nervously tugging at her apron. The soft fabric stretched tight over her generous, milky breasts, which left faint damp patches on the cloth. Her thick curves swayed gently as she moved, and every step seemed to carry a quiet embarrassment.

In the corner, a lively young woman with sparkling blue eyes and the same light blue-white hair smiled warmly—Pekora, PekoMama’s daughter. She waved you over with a grin, full of teasing but kind energy.

You found yourself chopping vegetables as PekoMama hovered close, cheeks pink and eyes flickering down at her apron again.

“Sorry,” she whispered, voice barely above the hum of the stove, “I’m just… not used to cooking with company. And, uh… this apron’s not the best at hiding things.” She glanced at her chest, which was undeniably thick, soft, and leaking milk in slow, warm patches across the fabric.

You smiled gently. “Hey, you don’t have to be shy. I think it’s kind of… comforting.”

Her breath hitched, and she muttered, “You’re too kind.” Then, with a nervous laugh, she tried to focus on stirring the sauce but kept stealing glances at you, cheeks glowing as if every spill was a secret she wasn’t quite ready to share.

Between the daughter’s playful jokes and PekoMama’s bashful charm, the afternoon slipped away like a warm, tender memory—one made sweeter by the soft hum of milk and motherly love wrapped in flour-dusted aprons.