Anastasia needed a holiday. She had been picking up extra shifts at the ED, where they were always short on nurses. Although the overtime pay had been a welcome boost, she was bone tired. She'd never worked this hard back in Slovenia, where the hospitals saw a fraction of the traffic. Here, the long hours and the constant pressure eroded everyone's sanity. It had gotten so bad that Anastasia felt relief whenever a patient walked out of the waiting room, or left AMA. The alternative was always more tiresome.
Now sitting pretty on a stash of money and six days of PTO, Anastasia was hopeful for a real vacation. She had few friends in America, and those she did have were invariably busy. For the first time ever, she'd be traveling alone. She'd already packed her bags and tidied her apartment. The only question was where she would go.
She broached the topic with her coworker, Felicity. The two women had concluded an especially grueling night float, and were changing out of their work clothes. At this unholy hour of the morning, the locker rooms were empty.
"My folks have a timeshare down in Key Largo," said Felicity, slipping out of her scrub top. She was not wearing a bra - a habit for which she had been reprimanded before. Ana assumed she enjoyed the attention.
"Where is that?" asked Anastasia, her accent thickened by exhaustion.
"The southern part of Florida, outside Miami," explained Felicity, slipping on a thin t-shirt. Her tits shook before they were covered. "You'd love it down there. Lots of sunshine, white-sand beaches, and fresh seafood. The locals drive like maniacs, but once you get outside the city, things calm down."
Ana nodded along, but was distracted by her own likeness in the mirror. The dark circles beneath her eyes looked terrible, but her haggard schedule had helped keep the weight off. Her hips were still full, and her breasts - always disproportionate - were as heavy and perky as ever. Her dark, curly hair was a bit of a mess, but she'd had much worse days.
"I don't know. Is it safe?" Ana sighed, running a hand through her frizzy locks. A part of her was still searching for an excuse not to go. She knew that if she didn't, she'd spend the next week cooped up in her apartment, listening to podcasts and watching TV.
"You're embarrassed about going alone," crowed Felicity, knowingly. "But it's packed with people your age. There's tons to do. You can party, or shop, or lay around day. If you're feeling adventurous, there's boat tours and scuba diving, too. Cheaper than Europe, safer than Mexico."
Anastasia considered this. She'd seen countless American movies and television shows. Americans loved the beach, didn't they? She was American now, she thought, so she might as well start acting like one.
"Alright," said Ana. She smiled. "I will check the ticket prices."
_______
As advertised, Florida was perilously hot and humid. The Mediterranean resort towns Ana had visited as a girl were chilly compared to Miami. At least she was dressed for the weather: a pair of jean shorts and a pastel tank-top with a sports bra underneath. Her generous figure filled the outfit well. She owed her curves to her mother, though she'd inherited her father's green eyes and unruly black curls.
She'd booked a full week in Miami, with the nefarious intentions of sunbathing, lounging, and splurging on whatever caught her eye. Her flight had been a grueling red eye, and she needed some downtime before visiting the beach. She never slept well on planes.
After clearing the airport, she caught the first Uber she could. Traffic was predictably congested. Her driver spoke barely a word of English, and she spoke barely a word of Spanish. It made for a quiet, if somewhat awkward ride.
From the back seat of her cab, she was free to observe the sights and sounds of downtown Miami. Everything was loud, colorful, and cramped. People here lived fast. Everyone had places to go and people to see. She could feel the tension of a city on the move. All the while, she made mental notes of restaurants, storefronts, and boutiques she'd like to visit.
In the midst of the crowded sidewalk, a full block away from the beach, a group of women caught Ana's eye. The gaggle were college-age. Most wore bathing suits and sandals; a few carried duffel-bags or satchels. The girls were giggling and smiling, obviously enamored by their own jokes and conversation. What made Ana gasp was the attire of a particular girl. She was a skinny, coltish brunette, her face adorned by large, red-rimmed glasses. Beneath her unbuttoned beach-cover, she wore an ordinary bikini bottom. It was the girl's top - or lack thereof - which shocked her. The young woman's small breasts were completely bare, brown nipples and all. She wasn't even wearing a bandeau or halter. She was half-naked, walking down the street, chatting with her friends!
Was this really legal? Ana was aghast, but intrigued. She felt an obligation not to stare, and turned her head discreetly. The sight fascinated Ana, she told herself, not because she found the girl's nakedness arousing, but because the girl was so nonchalant, utterly unafraid. She looked completely normal, more concerned by her phone than her own nudity. Who was she? A bored college student? A trashy local? Some laissez-faire French vacationer?
With her taxi was coasting down the avenue, Ana remained glued to the window. The woman was oblivious to her audience. Moments later, the cab passed the topless woman by, turning a corner as if nothing had happened. She wondered if her driver had even noticed.
Ana was perplexed. She'd heard of nude beaches, but not of walking topless through a dense metropolis. Even if it was legal, she couldn't imagine what kind of slut would go tits-out in public. And Ana was no prude. She kept her eyes peeled for any other risqué beachgoers, but for the remainder of her ride, saw no one else dressed quite so scandalously. A few wearing thongs or string bikinis, but nothing compared to the brazen topless walker.
Her hotel was a cheap franchise, a modest two stars. Not bad, for the price. It was situated near the city's suburban edge, where fashionable gentrification met suburban sprawl. As long as she was close enough to the beach, the setting didn't concern her. She thanked her driver, grabbed her suitcase, and made her way to the lobby.
Inside the hotel, a blast of cold air greeted her. Every Florida interior was unnecessarily refrigerated. She verified her reservation, got her keys, and headed straight for her room. Once inside, she locked the door and drew the blinds. The solitude was a relief. She collapsed onto her bed, sinking into the comforter, and allowed herself to sleep.
Hours later, her alarm woke her. The early afternoon sunlight was creeping through the gaps in her blinds. She rolled over, checked her phone, and then the time. She'd managed a solid three-hour nap. She took a moment to clear the gunk from her eyes. Her timing had been off. She'd intended to spend today shopping at some of the downtown boutiques, and go to the beach tomorrow. Now, she had far less daylight than she'd hoped.
At least her current attire would suffice for a casual outing. She quickly washed her face and brushed her teeth, then set about re-applying her makeup. She was grateful that her eyeliner and lipstick had survived the journey, although her blush and concealer had been sacrificed to the plane ride. The radiant heat from her hotel balcony told her all she needed to know about the temperature outside. She stripped from her tank-top, leaving her in just her sports bra and jean shorts. She then reached behind her back and undid the bra's clasp. The tight fabric slipped from her shoulders. Her plump breasts fell freely, pink nipples exposed.
Ana felt a little glamorous, standing topless in her hotel room, the sunlight pouring across her skin. She struck a few poses, imagining herself as some Brazilian supermodel. Her full chest was pale and milky-white. Her breasts had grown softer and fuller over the years. They hung a bit, but were still buoyant and youthful. She was never short on lecherous leering, though ruefully admitted to herself that she sometimes found it flattering, especially as she got older.
Her thoughts wandered back to the topless college girl, so casual and confident. Her boyish body had been as erotic as a trip to the doctor's office. Was this what made it acceptable? Ana knew that if she went anywhere dressed the same, she'd look like walking porno. She caught herself mid-thought. Why was she even thinking about this? She was thirty and employed, not some horny, flat-chested co-ed. A wave of embarrassment washed over her, but passed quickly.
She snatched her sports bra and hastily stuffed her boobs back inside. She modeled before the mirror, and decided that the look would be good enough for shopping. Her ample cleavage spilled a little out the top. Sexy, she thought, but sane, appropriate, and legal. She completed the ensemble with a pair of aviator sunglasses and her cross-body bag.
The downtown boutiques would have to wait. For now, there was a mall within walking distance of her hotel. It was a sprawling outlet of brand-name stores, mostly designer shops and chain outlets. If she was going to hit the beach, she needed a bathing suit; the frumpy one-piece she'd brought hadn't been worn in years.
She began with a familiar retail clothing shop. A middle-aged employee met her at the door with a plastic smile and a canned greeting. She couldn't help but smile - no matter the climate, Americans were always the same. She returned the courtesy, then began her search.
Ana had already committed to wearing a bikini. (She rarely found the opportunity, after all.) Within minutes, however, she found herself flustered by her selection. Thongs and strings galore. A few of the tops comprised triangles of fabric so small that they wouldn't even cover her areolae. The bottoms weren't much better: low-cut, cheeky, or almost nonexistent. By contrast, the more moderate garments she found were invariably ugly. She wanted cute and comfortable, not downright whorish.
After several minutes of indecision, she drifted to the next retailer to continue her search. Yet her luck was no better. Soccer mom or slut - that was the choice. She begrudgingly collected a basket of lesser evils and headed for the dressing room.
With the curtain was closed, she examined her options. A particular suit was winning her over: a dark red, bra top with a simple geometric design, and its matching bottom, an uncomfortably revealing thong. Its coverage was... adequate. Ana let out a sigh as she stripped, kicking her shoes and jeans aside. She supposed that Miami would see her ass one way or another.
The top was snug, clearly designed with a buxom frame in mind. She was grateful for this. The bottom also clung tightly to her waist and hips, but left her buttcheeks fully exposed. And it was STILL among the more conservative pieces she'd found.
"This will have to do," Ana muttered, staring at her reflection. She didn't dare turn around. She thought to herself that she was not normally this prudish; her modesty felt almost heightened by the sight of that bare-chested college girl, strolling nonchalantly through downtown. She donned her clothes once more, then stepped from her cubicle, glad to have made up her mind.
