Her face flushed crimson to the ears. No one had called the fat widow of the laundry halls cute in twenty years. No one had called her cute ever, if she was honest, not even her late husband, who had treated her more as furniture that cooked.
His head dipped toward her chest. The nipple hooks pulled at her as he nuzzled into the valley of her dress, and his tongue sought her left nipple through the fabric, mouthing at it, hunting. But her heavy breasts had sagged with the years, the nipple pointing down and away, and his tongue found only the soft upper curve.
"I can't reach it," he said, plainly annoyed by geography.
"Wait, Master. I will."
Her own hand came up, work-roughened and shameless, and she lifted her own breast for him, hoisting the heavy teat, presenting her nipple to his mouth like an offering on a platter. The gesture was so lewdly obedient that he laughed against her skin before he sealed his lips around the fat brown nub and sucked.
"Hnn... Master..."
