A Pink Triangle Microkini

It's a bold choice, but you doubt that Peach will say no to anything you suggest at this point. As confused as she may be, she also seems grateful... And that gratitude could get you far, provided you continued to play your cards right.

Upon your return from the walk-in closet she smiles up at you, and - though clearly unimpressed by the sight of the garment you've come back with - accepts her new bikini without complaint. You then move to depart with a wave, closing the door behind you before making your way into the living room so that she can get dressed in peace.

You have a fully-stocked bar and some knowledge of mixing drinks, so while you're waiting you decide to whip up a fruity drink for your Love Doll; after all, if the manual was to believed, **** would effect her system like any other woman's unless the feature was disabled by voice command.

She enters the room just as you're finishing up, heralded by the clack of her high heels... And when you finally turn around to face her, drink in-hand, you're met with an exquisite sight: your Love Doll - a curvy, thick-bodied manifestation of Princess Peach herself - shifting in discomfort as the strings of her too-tight bikini dig into the ample flesh of her hips and bosom.

"I-I think it's a little too small..." she complains, still adorably persistent in trying to obscure her most sensitive regions... But taking the drink from you forces her posture to become a little more unguarded, allowing you to sneak glances at her thicc ass and huge, straining tits to your heart's content en route to the couch.

Once there, you turn the TV on, which seems to capture her attention pretty successfully even though it's just the daily news. She sips at her drink in a detached sort of way, her ponytail (when did she put her hair up?) bobbing along in time with the motions of her head as she slurps up the tasty cocktail.

"Another?" you ask when she's done, prompting an emphatic nod in return. You slyly fetch it for her and, sure enough, end up fetching her several more in the half-hour that follows. By the time she starts refusing you she's already slumping in her seat and barely capable of acknowledging the lewd way her body is positioned.

"Hey, Peach... I've been thinking," you begin, sidling a little closer to her on the couch, "You can't remember much, right? You don't know of any place to get food, or money, or to find a place to stay... Right?"

She gives a lolling nod, her expression sheepish for a drunk girl:

"Y-Yes..." she manages, her face threatening to crinkle as she confronts the hard truth; "I'm trying, b-but... It all feels so new. I can't remember... I can't remember who I was, or w-what I did..."

"Hey, now... I'm here for you," you reply, taking the opportunity to slip your arm around her, "And I can let you stay here 'til you figure things out. I'll provide for you - food, water, all the cocktails you want... All I ask is that you do what I say when you're under my roof."

"Really?" she gasps, pausing to wipe at her eyes before meeting your gaze; "I think I can do that... T-Thank you for being so kind to me, Mr...?"

"Blackwell. Eric Blackwell,"

Your fingers drift down to her shoulder, allowing you to toy with the straps of her bikini while your formulate your next move.

"Do you think you're ready to repay some of that kindness right now, Peach?"

The girl jumps at your touch, and for a moment you think that you might have lost her; the silence is deafening, and you can tell that she's mulling your advance over in her **** mind... Luckily, her eventual answer is both encouraging and delightful in its simplicity:

"W-What do you have in mind?"