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"Er, Cynthia," you find yourself saying. "Your top seems to have come off."
"Has it now," she says, standing completely unperturbed and gloriously bare-breasted like a Renaissance painting in the champion's lodge. Which is your lodge now, technically, effective since half an hour ago.
"Do you want me to give you a tour?" Cynthia asks, crossing her arms beneath her breasts, and your brain screams as all your blood is abruptly diverted.
"Yes, please," you manage to croak, and you step inside.
