I showed up at six sharp, same as always, but this time I wore the skirt. Short, black, pleated. No panties, just like he told me. The fabric brushed the tops of my thighs when I walked up the driveway, cool evening air kissing my bare p***y with every step, teasing my c**t until it throbbed.
My heart was already hammering, a frantic beat that echoed between my legs. I’d spent the whole drive gripping the wheel, thighs pressed tight, replaying last week—the way he’d filled me twice, the way his c*m had dripped down my legs on the ride home.
Mrs. C opened the door, wine glass in hand, cheeks flushed from the first pour. Her eyes flicked over the skirt, lingered on the hem riding high, then met mine. “You’re early,” she said, voice light. “Cute.”
I smiled and stepped inside, the scent of
