Tracee Ellis Ross, Chiquita Girl

I'm Chiquita banana and I've come to say
Bananas have to ripen in a certain way

From the fruit bowl hat, to golden hoop earrings, to layered blue cloth shoulders with yellow fringes and a matching skirt, Tracee Ellis Ross had never been so embarrassed by what she wore for a job. Or what she didn't. Except for those costume pieces, her only cover for modesty lie with the most ridiculous and degrading touch of all. Chiquita banana stickers barely stuck to her fat nipples, allowing a round halo to sneak out their color from beyond the company's logo. She would have loved to sink her tits below the camera and hide her shame, but her script would not have it, forcing the nearly 50 year old actress to cup and raise them into view below her chin. A big smile completed the picture, though not as big as what she was packing.

When they're flecked with brown and have a golden hue
Bananas taste the best and are best for you!

A firm squeeze made her tips poke outward, loosening the frail glue of her stupid pasties. One drooped on the borderline between tasteful and tasteless, flirting with a future commercial ban, but the director didn't care or stop her. No merciful shouts of cut came to her rescue. Turning her gnashed teeth into a brighter grin, Tracee did the pose. One hand went to her hip. The other raised upward, above her hat. It formed a perfect likeness of the Chiquita brand, while a gentle sashay of her torso made her melons - and not the ones on on her head - glide side to side with a hypnotic appeal.

You can put them in a salad
You can put them in a pie-ayeeeeeeeee

Tracee's eyes widened to a sudden jolt of pleasure down below. Had they... had they installed a vibrator in her costume panties!? It should not have shocked her with what they had her doing and wearing, but it did. It tickled her clit, softly for now, making it harder for her to concentrate on the words. The brief fall of her lips was soon fixed, the occasional twitch and squint on her creamy face the only sign of her troubles as she carried on with her routine.

Any way you want to eat them
It's im... impossible to... to... ohhhh beat them....

The lyrics slurred as the vibrator ramped up. She was sweating, hot and bothered, her stickers peeling further from the mix. Instinctively, her hands slipped to her thighs off-screen, trying to contain a modicum of dignity that her costume denied. Several beats of the song meant for her vocals passed by. She was too busy huffing and puffing for air, and fighting to keep herself standing. A thirst arose in her parched throat that made her voice crackle dryly, all that wetness she needed spilling down her legs.

B-but, bananas like the climate of the... the... very, ve-eeeery tropical e-QUATOR!

She was almost there! Just a little bit more. A little bit...

S-so you should never put bananas in the-the-the refrigerator.

Tracee felt her climax cumming, until she didn't. Right at the edge, her vibrator stopped. It was like a whole load of ice dumped in her crotch to not get her release. She had two minds. One wanted to finish herself off. The other wanted to resist and walk away that much less of a spectacle. In the end, it wasn't her desires or her will that won out, but her tired body, which **** her to fall to the floor from all the strain put on her sore muscles.

"Aaaaand cut! Good job Ms. Ross. I'd say that scene's a wrap. Let's move on to showing everyone the right way to use a banana."