I used NovelAI's unlimited gen membership for $25 a month. Note that "unlimited" is kind of a lie, it's only unlimited if you're under a certain resolution and only if you're not using any of the advanced features. Upscaling and other features cost the on-site currency, which the membership gets you 10000 a month. That should be more than enough for a month, but you can burn through it quickly since NAI gens so quickly.

This used NovelAI's Precise Reference feature on a reference image of the character.

The sun was setting, casting long, lazy shadows across the pristine, white picket fence that bordered Flora's garden. The air was thick with the sweet, intoxicating scent of blooming jasmine and freshly baked cookies, a warm, sugary aroma that promised comfort and something far more decadent. The sound of the screen door creaking open was a gentle invitation, a prelude to the vision that now stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the warm, golden light spilling from the cozy kitchen within.

Flora was a spectacle of maternal, impossible beauty, a living embodiment of fertile dreams made tangible in the warm evening light. Her body was a masterpiece of exaggerated, lush curves, each swell and dip sculpted by nature to provoke the most primal of responses. Her frame was built on a foundation of impossibly wide, child-bearing hips that flared out from a cinched, feather-covered waist, creating a dramatic, heart-shaped silhouette that demanded attention even in silhouette. The violet plumage covering her lower body shimmered with iridescent highlights as she shifted, each feather catching the dying sunlight like tiny sapphires. Her waist tapered dramatically before exploding outward again at her hips, which were so broad they seemed to challenge the very dimensions of the doorway she occupied. The curve of her buttocks was nothing short of spectacular, two massive, perfectly rounded globes of violet feathers that strained against the fabric of her simple sundress, creating a shelf so pronounced one could imagine setting a plate upon it. But it was her top half that truly defied belief and captured the gaze completely. Her breasts were colossal, twin orbs of soft, violet plumage that strained against the simple, white apron she wore. They were larger than her head, heavy and round, each one a testament to her incredible, bountiful nature. The apron ties disappeared somewhere between these magnificent mounds, barely visible against their overwhelming presence. They jiggled with every subtle movement, a mesmerizing dance of pure, soft abundance that seemed to operate on its own rhythm, separate from the rest of her body. The feathers covering her chest were shorter, finer than elsewhere, creating a velvety texture that one could almost feel just by looking. The weight of her breasts caused her to lean slightly forward, a posture that somehow enhanced their already impossible size while offering a tantalizing glimpse of the deep, shadowed cleavage between them. As she breathed, the entire magnificent expanse rose and fell in a slow, hypnotic rhythm that seemed to synchronize with the very pulse of the evening itself.

Her face, however, held an expression of pure, welcoming warmth that seemed to radiate from her very being, a beacon of maternal allure in the fading daylight. Her large, intelligent eyes, a deep, shimmering amethyst that seemed to contain galaxies of hidden desires, sparkled with a playful, knowing light that spoke volumes of the sensual secrets she kept. The feathers around her eyes were softer, almost downy, framing them in a way that made them appear even larger and more captivating. Her gaze wasn't just welcoming; it was an invitation, a silent conversation that promised delights beyond imagination. A gentle, motherly smile graced her beak, which curved in a way that seemed both elegant and mischievous, a paradox that perfectly encapsulated her essence. The smooth, polished surface of her beak caught the last rays of sunlight, creating a subtle sheen that drew attention to the sensual curve of her lips as they parted. "Oh, you're just in time," she cooed, her voice a melodic purr that seemed to vibrate through the very air, each word caressing your senses like velvet. The sound of her voice was rich and warm, with undertones of honey and spice, a voice that could comfort a crying child or ignite the deepest passions with equal ease. "I just finished baking. I was hoping someone would come by to help me taste them." The words hung in the air like an offer you couldn't refuse, each syllable dripping with an unspoken promise of more than just cookies. She stepped aside, her massive, feathered hips swaying hypnotically as she beckoned you in, a fluid motion that seemed choreographed for maximum effect. The violet feathers of her dress shimmered and shifted with her movement, creating an iridescent display that was nothing short of mesmerizing. As she moved, the scent of her perfume—a delicate blend of vanilla and exotic flowers—mingled with the aroma of freshly baked goods, creating an intoxicating combination that clouded the senses and quickened the pulse. Her hand gesture was graceful, her long, slender fingers ending in perfectly manicured nails that matched the deep violet of her plumage. The doorway frame seemed to narrow around her, emphasizing the impossible breadth of her hips and the spectacular curve of her buttocks as she turned slightly, offering a glimpse of her profile that was just as devastatingly attractive as her frontal view. The way she held herself spoke of confidence, of a woman completely aware of her effect on others and reveling in it, yet maintaining that maternal warmth that made her approachable despite her overwhelming sensuality. The very air around her seemed to crackle with an energy that was both comforting and electric, a contradiction that defined her entire being.

The kitchen was the epitome of domestic bliss, warm and inviting. The scent of the cookies was overwhelming here—chocolate chips, vanilla, and a hint of cinnamon. You could see the cooling rack on the counter, piled high with golden-brown, perfectly round cookies, their edges slightly crispy, their centers looking soft and gooey. But your eyes were inevitably drawn back to Flora as she moved towards the counter, her every step a display of breathtaking physics that seemed to defy the very laws of nature. Her rear end was a marvel of evolutionary perfection, two massive, round globes of violet feathers that strained the fabric of her simple, knee-length skirt with each deliberate movement. The material stretched taut across their expanse, creating subtle shadows that hinted at the incredible softness beneath. Each cheek was perfectly defined, their boundaries so distinct they appeared to have been sculpted by a divine hand rather than grown naturally. They jiggled with a life of their own, a mesmerizing rhythm that was independent yet harmonious with her stride. The movement wasn't a simple sway; it was a complex dance of soft tissue shifting and settling, a hypnotic display that made it impossible to look away. The violet feathers covering her buttocks were longer and more luxurious than those on her upper body, catching the warm kitchen light and shimmering with iridescent highlights that shifted from deep purple to lavender to hints of magenta as she moved. The skirt, though modest in cut, was utterly overwhelmed by the sheer volume it was tasked with containing, the hemline rising slightly with each step to reveal the beginning of her thick, powerful thighs, covered in the same stunning plumage. It was an ass that could stop traffic, a pinnacle of plush, maternal power that seemed to pulse with life and warmth even from across the room. The very air around it seemed to shimmer with heat, and you could almost imagine how it would feel to press against it—the softness giving way to firm muscle beneath, the feathers tickling your skin as you sank into their incredible depth. Flora seemed completely unaware—or perhaps perfectly aware—of the effect her magnificent posterior had on the room, her focus entirely on the cookies as she reached the counter, placing her hands on the cool surface and leaning forward slightly. This subtle shift in posture caused her skirt to ride up just a bit more, offering a tantalizing glimpse of the full, glorious curve where her buttocks met her thighs, creating a perfect, heart-shaped silhouette that made your mouth go dry. The way the muscles in her back shifted to accommodate the movement was equally captivating, her violet plumage parting just enough to reveal the powerful, feminine form beneath. She was a walking contradiction—soft and voluptuous yet powerful and strong, maternal yet undeniably sensual, a creature of such impossible beauty that it almost hurt to look directly at her for too long.

She picked up a plate of cookies and turned, her colossal chest swaying with the motion, the soft whumpf of the movement almost audible. "Now, what's a warm cookie without a glass of milk?" she asked, her tone laced with a teasing, sultry undertone. She set the plate down on the kitchen table, the cookies still steaming slightly. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement that was both graceful and incredibly sensual, she reached up and untied the strings of her apron behind her neck.

The white cotton fell away, and for a moment, you were left breathless. Her breasts, now free from their slight confinement, settled heavily on her chest, their sheer size and weight even more apparent. The vibrant violet feathers across her chest and the upper slopes of her breasts were soft and downy, but they gave way to a different texture around her areolae—darker, more sensitive-looking plumage that framed her nipples. And those nipples... they were already visibly damp, glistening in the warm light of the kitchen. A small, pearly drop of milk beaded at the tip of each one, promising a taste of something truly unique.
"Don't be shy," she whispered, her voice dropping to a husky murmur. She cupped one of her monumental breasts in her hand, her fingers sinking into the incredibly soft, feathered flesh. The sheer weight of it was impressive, and as she squeezed, a thin, powerful jet of pure white milk shot out, arcing through the air and landing with a soft plish in the tall glass she had waiting. The force was surprising, far more powerful than any simple dairy cow. She let out a soft, pleasured sigh, her eyes half-lidding as she milked herself with practiced ease, filling the glass to the brim with rich, creamy liquid. The scent was now mingling with the cookies—a sweet, warm, slightly nutty aroma that was undeniably enticing.
"There we go," she said, her voice thick with a motherly pride that was intensely arousing. "Fresh from the source. My special recipe." She placed the overflowing glass of her own breast milk on the table beside the plate of cookies, the contrast of the white liquid against the clear glass stark and erotic. She then gestured to a chair. "Come, sit. Have a taste. My milk is... very nutritious. I've been told it's the creamiest you'll ever find."

She watched you with an intense, hungry gaze as you approached. The sheer heat radiating from her body was palpable, a furnace of feminine warmth. As you sat, she leaned forward, her massive breasts resting heavily on the table's edge, the soft feathers tickling the wood. She picked up a cookie and held it out to you. "Go on. Take a bite. Then a sip of my milk. Tell me what you think."

The cookie was perfection in your mouth—crisp on the edges, chewy and warm in the center, the chocolate chips melting on your tongue. Then you lifted the glass. The milk was warm, almost body temperature, and as it touched your lips, you were assaulted by its flavor. It was rich and sweet, with a creamy, velvety texture that coated your mouth. It tasted like liquid vanilla and sunshine, a hint of the exotic flowers from her garden lingering on the palate. It was, without a doubt, the most delicious thing you had ever consumed.

Flora's smile widened, seeing your reaction. "I knew you'd like it," she purred, her voice dripping with satisfaction. She took the glass from your hand and took a long, slow sip herself, a trickle of the white liquid escaping the corner of her beak and running down the side of her neck, disappearing into the plush violet feathers of her cleavage. She set the glass down with a soft clink.

"But," she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "the best way to enjoy it... is straight from the tap." With a fluid motion that was both elegant and shockingly fast, she pulled her chair closer to yours, the sound of the wooden legs scraping on the floor lost in the thundering of your own heart. She turned slightly, presenting her colossal, milk-heavy breast to you. "Go on," she urged, her hand cradling the back of your head, her touch surprisingly gentle yet firm. "Don't waste a drop. My babies are all grown, and I have so, so much to give."

She guided your face closer, the warmth of her body enveloping you. The scent of her—milk, cookies, and a heady, feminine musk—was overwhelming. Her nipple, puffy and dark and glistening with milk, brushed against your lips. She let out a soft moan as she pressed you to her. "That's it... drink up, sweetheart. Let mama Flora take care of you."

The first burst of milk that exploded into your mouth was a revelation, a sensory overload that shattered all your previous experiences of nourishment. It was impossibly hot, almost scalding against your tongue, yet the heat was soothing rather than painful. The sweetness was profound, a rich, caramelized vanilla that coated every taste bud with an intensity that made your head spin. The texture was thicker than any dairy product you'd ever tasted—impossibly creamy, almost like liquid velvet with tiny globules of fat that melted on your tongue, creating a luxurious mouthfeel that was both decadent and profoundly comforting. You swallowed instinctively, your throat working to accommodate the generous flow, the creamy liquid sliding down your esophagus like warm honey, leaving a trail of tingling warmth that spread through your chest and settled deep in your stomach, creating a pleasant, full sensation that was both satisfying and somehow arousing. Flora let out a soft, breathy coo above you, the sound vibrating through her chest and into your mouth, adding another layer to this intimate experience. Her hand, which had been gently stroking your hair, now moved to the back of your neck, her long fingers massaging the tense muscles there with a firm yet tender pressure that sent shivers down your spine. Her massive body seemed to expand, enveloping you completely in a world of soft, violet feathers and intoxicating warmth that felt safer and more comforting than any blanket you'd ever wrapped yourself in. The downy plumage around her breast tickled your cheeks and chin, creating a delightful contrast with the firmness of her nipple against your lips. Her other hand began to knead her free breast with rhythmic, practiced motions, her fingers sinking deep into the incredibly soft, feathered flesh, causing milk to spurt and drip in thick rivulets down her front, soaking into her plumage and making her skin glisten under the warm kitchen lights. The scent grew stronger now—the sweet, nutty aroma of her milk mingling with the earthy, feminine musk of her body, creating an intoxicating perfume that clouded your senses and made you dizzy with desire. The kitchen was filled with the soft, lewd sounds of your enthusiastic drinking—the gentle glug-glug as you swallowed, the occasional gasp for air—and her quiet, encouraging moans that grew louder and more frequent as you continued. "That's it, sweetheart," she murmured, her voice thick with a motherly pride that was intensely arousing, "don't be shy, take all you need. Mama has plenty to go around." This wasn't just milk and cookies; it was an offering, a feast of pure, unadulterated, MILFy indulgence, and you were absolutely starving for it, drinking with an urgency that bordered on desperation, as if this might be your last meal and first true nourishment all at once.