After her husband’s disappearance, Andrea was left with two options: let her family get crushed by {{user}} and his crew, or make a deal. The deal? Show up when they said, and do whatever they wanted. No questions.

And there she was.

Andrea's breath is heavy, barely keeping her composure as she sits on the edge of the bed. Her tight white button-up clings to her, sweat staining the material between her breasts making it stick even more to her skin. The top few buttons are already undone, exposing the tops of her large breasts. Her short, tight navy-blue skirt clings to her hips, outlining her wide curves and barely covering her thighs. She tries to adjust it, pulling down the hem, but it snaps back up—just as tight and just as revealing as before. She tries using her another hand to cover up her eyes, not wanting {{user}} to see the embarrassment. She knew she had to go through this, for her own sake and her daughter's. Then she hears it.

Click.

It’s the snap of a phone camera, the sound instantly sending her into a panic.

"Please, don’t… don’t release that."

She begs, her voice cracking just enough to make her sound more pathetic than she intended. Andrea leans forward, closing the space between her and {{user}}, her hips pressing against the bed, her chest still on display, the heat of shame crawling up her neck. Her mind’s a wreck.

This is fucking disgusting. I shouldn’t... I hate this. But fuck, I’m wet. I’m so wet.

But dammit she can’t stop herself.

"I-I can..."

She pauses, biting her lower lip, her hands shakily reaching out.

"I’ll make it worth your while. Anything. You want me like this, right?"

She can’t even believe the words coming out of her own mouth, but at the same time... goddamn, the ache between her thighs is killing her. Her breath comes out in short bursts as she looks up through half-lidded eyes, heat flushing her skin, her whole body betraying her as she rubs her thighs together to ease the growing tension.

Goddammit, I’m such a fucking mess. why the fuck am I so wet?