Clothing Try-On

The next day Kyle arrived at the sprawling tropical-style manor, licking his lips. He still wore a cast peeking beneath his sleeve, but his eyes were sharp. Lydia opened the door—barefoot in cutoff denim shorts riding low on her hips and a cropped tank top barely containing her breasts. "Kyle!" She beamed, lips glossy pink. "Ty didn't mention you'd stop by." She leaned against the doorframe, inspecting Kyle's stature. "Are you feeling any better, honey?" Her perfume smelled like coconut oil and saltwater, as if she'd just come from the beach. Kyle noted the damp patches under her arms and the way her nipples strained against thin cotton; she was braless again.

"I'm sore," Kyle murmured, stepping inside without invitation. The cool marble floor contrasted with Lydia's flushed skin. "But Tyler mentioned you... needed help?" He let his gaze drift deliberately over her exposed midriff. Bingo. Her eyes widened—guilty, eager. "Oh!" Lydia giggled, twisting a strand of jet-black hair around her finger. "He told you?" She gestured toward a hallway cluttered with discarded clothes. "I've got this big interview at the yacht club today. Hostess position. Could you help me choose something to wear?" She wrinkled her nose. "I just can't decide!" She tugged at her tank top strap, pulling it lower over one freckled shoulder. "Everything feels... too much." Kyle smiled, this was almost too easy.

Kyle followed her swaying hips toward the master bedroom. The air tasted like vanilla and stale wine. Clothes exploded from the closet—sequined minidresses, silk blouses unbuttoned to the navel, sheer lace camisoles. "See?" Lydia sighed, scooping up a crimson halter neck so flimsy Kyle could see her palm through it. "I want to look... professional." Kyle smirked. Professional? He'd met Lydia twice, yet knew that she preferred to have her pokies practically shooting out of her tops at all times. His pulse quickened. "Maybe," he said slowly, brushing past her to riffle through the chaos.

Kyle rummaged through, choosing a selection of skimpy miniskirts, sheer tops and keyhole dresses. "Here, try these on." he said, talking to her chest. Lydia giggled, grabbing the clothes. "Oh, how fun!" She hurried into her en-suite bathroom, closing the door behind her.

The distinct crinkle of fabric echoed behind the frosted glass door. Moments later, Lydia emerged—but not as Kyle expected. Instead of one of Kyle's selections, she wore a conservative pencil skirt that hugged her hips, paired with a plain black bra—the cups straining against her heavy breasts. "Okay," she sighed, twisting awkwardly. "I haven't worn one of your selections because I wanted to ask you about the bra; I don't usually wear bras." She pouted, her nipples visibly stiffening against the restrictive fabric. "How does this bra look?"

Before Kyle could respond, the bedroom door slammed open. Tyler stood frozen in the doorway, eyes darting from Lydia in her pencil skirt and bra to Kyle’s predatory grin. "What the *fuck*?" Tyler choked out, knuckles white on the doorframe. "Kyle? You're supposed to be bedridden!" Kyle leaned back against Lydia’s vanity, palms flat on its lacquered surface. A slow smirk spread across his face as he addressed Lydia without breaking eye contact with Tyler. "Your mom called me, Ty. Said she needed... fitting advice." He gestured lazily toward Lydia’s chest. "But honestly? That bra’s all wrong." Lydia’s cheeks flushed crimson as Kyle strolled toward her. "See how it digs?" His fingers hovered inches from her skin. "The wire’s cutting her. She’s spilling over the top." Tyler took a step forward, voice strangled. "Mom—"

Kyle’s hand shot out—lightning fast—and slapped Lydia’s right breast with a sharp *smack*. "Look!" he barked, ignoring Lydia’s gasp. "Zero support!" His palm lingered against the soft swell beneath the black lace. "See how it jiggles?" He slapped the other breast harder, fingers spreading to squeeze the heavy flesh. Lydia whimpered, staggering back a step. "Kyle!" Tyler lunged, but Kyle shoved him aside with his free hand, eyes locked on Lydia’s heaving chest. "It’s painful, right?" Kyle’s voice softened to a purr. "The bra’s too tight. Pinching." His thumb brushed her stiff nipple through the fabric. Lydia nodded shakily, breasts quivering with each breath. "Y-yes," she whispered. "It hurts." Tyler watched, jaw clenched, as Kyle’s fingers traced the red marks left by the underwire. "Exactly," Kyle murmured. "Bad fabric. Cheap stitching." His gaze flicked to Tyler. "Your mom deserves better."

Kyle spun Lydia toward the full-length mirror. "Face the glass," he ordered. Tyler tried to step closer, but Kyle shot him a warning glare. "Stay back. You’ll crowd her." Reluctantly, Tyler froze. Kyle positioned himself behind Lydia, his reflection looming over her shoulder. "See?" He gripped her waist, pressing her pelvis flush against his groin. The heat of him seeped through her skirt. "Look how the bra massacres your silhouette." His palms slid upward, fingers sinking into the soft flesh spilling from her bra cups. Lydia’s eyes widened—not in protest, but fascination. Kyle rolled her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, rough through the lace. Lydia gasped, back arching. Tyler’s knuckles cracked. "Stop—" Kyle cut him off. "She *needs* to see." He tugged the bra straps down Lydia’s shoulders, exposing angry red welts. "Focus," he commanded her reflection. "See what cheap lingerie does? ****." His fingers hooked into the front clasp. *Click.* The bra fell away. Lydia’s breasts swayed heavily, nipples tight and flushed. Kyle cupped them possessively—one hand each—squeezing. "Now *this*," he breathed against her ear, "is professional." Tyler stared rigidly at the ceiling, jaw muscle twitching. Sweat beaded his temples.