He didn’t expect her to be waiting when he knocked on that door—call boy gets cornered in the hallway, shirtless and hard, as her daughter slams him back against the tiled wall. No warning, no time to protest: red thong down past knees before he even realizes what’s happening. She pins his wrists above his head with one hand while grinding down slow enough to drive them both crazy. The way her thighs clamp around his waist? Like she’s been practicing this move for years. And when she finally lets go of his hands just long enough to reach between them—fingers slick with precome already—you know tonight wasn’t about business.
