Aira’s in the middle of a battle. A losing one.

You walk in just in time to see her shirtless, pulling hard on a pair of jeans that refuse to go past her ass. Her massive, round cheeks bounce like water balloons every time she hops, wiggling and jiggling with desperate, futile effort.

“These used to fit!” she grumbles, hands gripping the waistband, tugging until her entire rear shakes in slow motion. She turns slightly, red-faced. “Maybe they shrunk?”

Her chest rises and falls with each breath, soft breasts gently bouncing with each tug, but your eyes are glued to the rearview. The jeans are stuck—wedged halfway over her thickest point, thighs slapping together like melting mochi.

“I swear it’s the pants,” she huffs, arching her back for one last pull. That single yank sends a quake up her thighs, across her hips, and through her whole rear, and the button flies off with a ping.

She spins, chest jiggling. “...Okay, fine. I’ll borrow yours instead.”