Power Suit, Bad Intentions
You came to “see the house”—but Luciana? She was always the real draw. Flaming red hair, black power suit, skirt cut sharp and high. Just like her picture in the service you found her. She’s draped across the couch like she owns the place—like she owns you—flipping through the listing just to watch you squirm. You stumble through numbers and comps, pretending you’re here to negotiate. She tilts her head, smiles like she already knows the answer. “Will this help?” The skirt rides up as she leans back, legs parting slowly—stockings stretched, garter clipped, nylon panties on full display. She rubs your cock with her nylon feet. She fucks you like she’s done this a hundred times before—like this moment was waiting, not accidental, but expected. She takes you in her mouth like it’s owed. Rides you like the price was settled long ago. And maybe it was. No one wrote it down. Nothing was said. But somehow, you both understand the terms, and she was very expensive. The offer? Still pending.
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