Big Booty Latinas

Your ethereal form drifts with newfound purpose along the sun-drenched boulevard, your Victorian sensibilities now attuned to this specific quarry. The term 'Big Booty Latina' had reached even your spectral ears through the peculiar modern cacophony—mentioned in songs blaring from passing automobiles, proclaimed on enormous illuminated billboards, and discussed with considerable enthusiasm among the living.

"A quest most specific!" you declare to the uncaring air. "One hears tales of such magnificence, and what manner of gentleman would I be to ignore such scholarly pursuits?"

You float past the yoga establishment where the statuesque Sienna had disappeared, continuing your patrol with renewed vigor. The afternoon has reached that golden hour when the denizens of this peculiar modern Babylon emerge in force, and fortune—that capricious mistress—appears to smile upon your endeavors.

Outside a boutique bearing the name 'Revolve,' a young woman emerges carrying shopping bags emblazoned with various incomprehensible brand names. She possesses lustrous dark hair that cascades past her shoulders, warm brown skin that gleams in the California sunshine, and curves that would have inspired renaissance painters to weep with joy. Her form-fitting dress—a scandalously short garment in verdant green—leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination regarding her phenomenally endowed posterior.

"Girl, I'm telling you, these new jeans make my butt look insane," she's saying into one of those ubiquitous communication devices pressed against her ear. "Marco's gonna lose his mind when he sees me tonight. I know, I know, but he's been so sweet lately and—hold on, someone's calling."

She pauses mid-stride, her magnificent hindquarters shifting in a manner that could only be described as hypnotic. You observe the name 'Valentina Reyes' emblazoned on a credit card she's tucking back into her handbag.

"Mami, I can't talk right now, I'm meeting the girls for drinks in like twenty minutes," she says, switching to her other call. "Yes, I'll be home before midnight. No, Marco is not coming to Sunday dinner yet. Mami, please—okay, fine, yes, I'll bring the tres leches. Te quiero, bye!"

She exhales dramatically and leans against the boutique's window, setting down her shopping bags. For a moment, she's perfectly still, utterly vulnerable to spectral intervention.

You dive into her body, and...

The transition proves as smooth as silk gliding over polished mahogany. One moment you are drifting beside the distracted Miss Reyes, and the next you are sliding into her consciousness like a gentleman settling into his favorite club chair.

The sensation is rather like stepping into a warm bath - a curious tingling as you merge with the living flesh, and then suddenly you are looking out through her eyes, feeling the weight of those shopping bags in hands that are now, temporarily, yours. The California heat presses against skin that is decidedly warmer and more substantial than your usual spectral form.

"Good heavens," you murmur aloud, and the voice that emerges is decidedly feminine, with a melodious quality quite unlike your own baritone. "Most extraordinary. The modern vessel proves remarkably accommodating."

You set down the shopping bags with deliberate care - a gentleman does not simply drop a lady's possessions - and turn your attention to the matter at hand. Or rather, the matter at posterior. The boutique's window provides an excellent reflective surface, and you position yourself to obtain the optimal viewing angle.

"By Jove," you breathe, turning to observe the profile. "The legends do not exaggerate. This is indeed a specimen of the highest caliber."

You place your hands - her hands - upon the magnificent curves encased in that verdant green dress, giving an appreciative squeeze. The sensation is quite remarkable from this perspective. In your day, such direct appreciation of one's own hindquarters would have been considered the height of impropriety, but you have never been one to stand on ceremony.

"Exceptional firmness, superb proportion, and a convexity that would have inspired the great masters," you announce to no one in particular, continuing your assessment. "One understands entirely why the young Marco fellow is reportedly keen. This is craftsmanship of the highest order."

A passing jogger gives you - or rather, gives Valentina's body - a decidedly odd look as you continue your detailed examination, turning this way and that before the window.

"Madam appears discomfited by my scholarly appreciation," you observe cheerfully. "No doubt unaccustomed to witnessing proper connoisseurship in this modern age."