Couldn't help but notice how her breasts thrust against the thin cotton of her sweat-damp T-shirt.
Her breasts thrust with overripe grandeur at the wash-faded shirt she wore.
Her breasts thrust before him.
She arched her back, breasts thrust upward, riding him, a bit awkward at first, but increasingly ecstatic in this unfamiliar position.
The breasts thrust forward, and the derriere protrudes.
How tiny her waist felt under his hand, how firm her small breasts thrusting against his chest!
Her heavy breasts thrust across her dirty plate, the nipples turgid.
Those perfect, magnificent breasts thrust forward challengingly.
Her breasts thrust against the black silk of the brassiere.
