The ripped fishnets and utilitarian straps of her Tank Girl getup did nothing to hide the shape of her, only framed it. Alexis lights the Virginia Slim 120, its slim white length delicate between her glossy lips, cherry b*rning bright.

She didn't speak. Just held your gaze while her free hand wandered up, fingers tracing the edge of the tank top's neckline, toying with the strap of her harness. The cigarette dangled, ash lengthening, smoke curling upward past her eyes, dark-rimmed and fixed on yours.

Her tongue darted out, wetting her lower lip, and the cigarette bobbed with the motion. She brought her hand down slowly, cupping herself through the thin c*tton, kneading, showing you the weight of what she carried there. The fabric strained. She pinched her own n*pple through the shirt, hard enough to see the peak form, and her breath hitched, making the cigarette's ember flare.

She took a long, slow drag, cheeks hollowing, then leaned forward, bl*wing the stream of smoke directly into your face, a hazy veil between you and her smirk.

Her fingers found the hem of the shirt, tugging it up just an inch, then dropping it. Again, higher this time, revealing the soft underside of her breasts, the pale curve, before letting the fabric snap back. She did this for a full minute, a maddening striptease, smoking all the while, each exhale directed at you, the air thick with the sweet, sharp scent of tobacco and her perfume, something like vanilla and gasoline.

Then she gripped the collar with both hands and pulled.

Her massive tits were heavy, natural, the kind of weight that spilled against her ribs, nipples peaked and flushed pink. She let the cigarette rest between her lips, both hands free now to lift them, cradle them, thumbs circling the stiff peaks.

She held them up for you, presenting, one arm tucked beneath to push them together, the other hand rolling a n*pple between finger and thumb. The Virginia Slim bobbed as she worked herself, ash falling to the concrete floor, forgotten. Smoke drifted from her nostrils, from the corner of her mouth, wreathing her face in bl*e haze while she played, arching into her own touch, making soft sounds in her throat that had nothing to do with the nicotine.

She kept her eyes on you, challenging, smoking, touching herself, making you wait.

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