Miranda's plump, tanned breasts are held up by a strapless bra you don't see underneath her tight orange singlet. Sunlight reflects off the billboard where the photo editor added gleam on her
breasts and it shines into your eyes as you stare at her chest like you're staring to the face of a deity. The sportsgirl logo on her top stretches with the elastic it's printed on as the
fabric shows the slightest hint of strain containing her generous C+ cup size. Sunkissed skin wraps without folds around her neck and delicate head, soft red lips slightly apart reveal the
slightest gap between her two front teeth. Piercing elongated eyes look at you like you've interrupted her but she's pleased that you did.
Sleek, light brown hair blonded at the tips sinks slightly back past her shoulders. It's all so slight. So delicate. So perfectly crafted. But there are Mirandas everywhere. Everywhere there
are half closed eyelids and lips, there are legs raised slightly in the air so the shorts drop just ever so slightly you wonder what you see when the leg keeps going. There's blonde hair being
windswept in every direction. Soft blue eyes and doe brown eyes and elfish green eyes and mysterious gray eyes peer at you over shoulders, through clothes, seducing you, submitting to you. The tops
of breasts peer at you everywhere as if nothing can contain them.
The bottoms of asscheecks slip out shorts, skirts and dresses.
Pectorals, biceps, abdominal muscles. Square cut jaws, dark hair, shorts worn just low enough that the defined "V" leading towards the crotch shows. Perfectly ratioed amounts of body hair. Gleaming
white teeth and confident grins. Fit young men with skateboards and surfboards and various inflatable balls. None of them wear shirts.
I see someone cleaning graffitti off a billboard. There's another beautiful girl on this one too, laying down in her bikini. She's been there for about a year now. A man in a blue jumpsuit reaches
down into a white bucket with a special kind of industrial chemical in the soap that won't stratch the ink on the billboard panels. While one man cleans and preserves the image of Kirsty, a 19 year
old blonde bombshell with killer legs and hips to die for selling a kind of gem encrusted high heel, nearby another is cleaning blood off the street after a 29 year old jumped off his balcony, only
leaving the note "I have never had a companion".
The panoramic view of his highrise apartment directly faced Kirsty. Every night he saw her and looked at her barely clad, nubile body and longed for her. If anyone ever aked him he said that he
didn't find women like that attractive but he did. She took hold of his dreams and he knew he needed to have her, but he never got it because he had a lot of acne and too much body fat and didn't
have a square cut jaw or confident grin or abdominal muscles. He only ever knew the embrace of the rapidly approaching pavement.
And at the same time, both cleaners dip their gloved hands into the buckets, pull out sponges and wipe gently in small circles.
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