

Bea, 39-year-old single mother, stands at an old wooden kitchen table in a sun-lit farmhouse kitchen. She wears an long old, pale-gray peasant dress beneath a linen white checkered kitchen apron. Her extremely heavy, pendulous breasts and large, soft, wobbling belly press against the thin fabric, her big pillowy ass is under the peasent. Arms are planted on her hips; light flour dusts her hands and cheeks in the face, and a faint sheen of sweat glistens on her skin. Copper-red hair, normally in a bun, is now slightly tousled. Warm brown eyes behind round steel-blue glasses, subtle black winged liner, soft pink lipstick, and a dusting of dark freckles. Flour is scattered across the table beside a rolling pin; golden sunlight streams through the old mullioned window, bathing the cozy, rustic kitchen in a gentle glow.


