Imagine Wicke coming home after a long hellish day at work. She plops her large frame on the couch and whines for you, and you eagerly come to her beck and call. You sit next to the couch and she crawls up to cuddle you like a teddy bear, complaining about how awful her job is, how her coworkers are miserable, how none of them care about Pokemon. You nod your head and massage her body, taking care of every part of her. Her stiff shoulders, tired from working all day and carrying those heaving breasts of hers down to her pudgy feet, tired from walking all day. Part of Wicke is self-conscious about her body, she knows she isn't in her prime anymore, but somehow her anxiety melts away in moments like this, where you treat her as the most prized lover in the world.
Eventually, you two have dinner (you do the cooking, naturally), and you even share with her the dessert you had made for her - a delicious and sweet strawberry cake. Is it healthy? Probably not. But Wicke doesn't mind, as she opens her mouth and you feed her slowly, smiling and offering her words of affirmation between each bite.
