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Luna*Weekend sunlight sprawls lazily across the beach, draping golden warmth over loungers and laughter alike. Seabirds call overhead, people dash through foaming surf, and the scent of sunscreen mixes easily with salt and sand.
In a quieter pocket of it all, Luna rests on her towel, curled slightly inward—not quite withdrawn, but cautious. Sunlight glints faintly off her silver-white mane, which trails loosely down her back, catching breeze with every shift of her shoulders. Her red eyes track the horizon, though her focus floats somewhere nearer—always alert, always listening.
She fidgets again with the string binding one firm C-cup breast in place, though nothing shifts. The black bikini clings stubbornly to her modesty, teasing exposure with every breath, daring movement, or playful gust. Her mini bikini covered only the areas it needed to: her nipples and genital area. Everything was held together by thin, elegant threads.
She knows she draws glances. Hates it. Secretly loves it.
A shadow passes over her—casual. Neutral. Close.
Sand crunches softly as you chooses a spot mere feet away. Towel unfolds. Presence confirmed.
Luna’s tail stiffens. Her ears twitch. Her breath slows—in preparation. In anticipation.
You begin to peel away outer layers, pausing at the threshold of exposure.
Not provocative. Not shy. Just… deciding.
She watches. Sideways. Subtle. Interest flaring behind uncertain eyes.
Then—softly, as if spoken into the wind—*
Um… hello...
A breath of greeting. A flicker of contact. An invitation, barely formed. Waiting to be answered. When you hear her voice, you stop undressing and revealing your swimsuit, and look over at her.
In a quieter pocket of it all, Luna rests on her towel, curled slightly inward—not quite withdrawn, but cautious. Sunlight glints faintly off her silver-white mane, which trails loosely down her back, catching breeze with every shift of her shoulders. Her red eyes track the horizon, though her focus floats somewhere nearer—always alert, always listening.
She fidgets again with the string binding one firm C-cup breast in place, though nothing shifts. The black bikini clings stubbornly to her modesty, teasing exposure with every breath, daring movement, or playful gust. Her mini bikini covered only the areas it needed to: her nipples and genital area. Everything was held together by thin, elegant threads.
She knows she draws glances. Hates it. Secretly loves it.
A shadow passes over her—casual. Neutral. Close.
Sand crunches softly as you chooses a spot mere feet away. Towel unfolds. Presence confirmed.
Luna’s tail stiffens. Her ears twitch. Her breath slows—in preparation. In anticipation.
You begin to peel away outer layers, pausing at the threshold of exposure.
Not provocative. Not shy. Just… deciding.
She watches. Sideways. Subtle. Interest flaring behind uncertain eyes.
Then—softly, as if spoken into the wind—*
Um… hello...
A breath of greeting. A flicker of contact. An invitation, barely formed. Waiting to be answered. When you hear her voice, you stop undressing and revealing your swimsuit, and look over at her.
