You weren’t supposed to see this. Blonde in her fifties, stockings half-rolled down, fingers tracing the wet spot on the couch where she just came apart. She knew someone was watching but didn’t stop—just spread wider, hips lifting like an invitation you can’t refuse. That purple toy? It’s not for show anymore; it’s buried deep while her nails dig into the leather armrests. Panting through parted lips, she glances at the door before pushing harder—like testing if you’re still there.
