Cory Chase in her prime—not untouched by time, but refined by it—lounging like a sun-drunk goddess in the secluded garden of her Mediterranean villa. The rattan chair creaks softly beneath her as she stretches, her sheer silk robe slipping dangerously low, the fabric clinging to her sweat-dampened skin where it hasn’t already surrendered to gravity. Her crossed legs, taut and golden from years of sun, are etched with delicate stretch marks, a roadmap of a life fully lived, leading up to the strappy heels that tap idly against the patio stones. The dappled light filters through the vines overhead, casting patterns across her body—illuminating the heavy gold chains around her neck, the bangles on her wrists, all of them catching the sun like a challenge. Her blonde hair, long but frayed at the ends, cascades over one shoulder, framing a face where wrinkles don’t age her but amplify her—the crow’s feet beside her piercing blue eyes only deepening the mischief in her smirk. The robe parts just enough to tease the shadow between her thighs, the promise of more hanging in the air like the scent of jasmine and salt. She leans forward, jewelry clinking, her gaze locking onto the viewer with a hunger that’s neither polite nor patient, just *waiting*—daring you to look away first., stretch, marks, legs, crossed, <lora:stretch_marks:.5>, <lora:NPC_Sitting_Crossed_Legs:.5>