The fluorescent lights of Dawn Records hummed overhead as you waited in your office, the contract for the PMX treatment laid out neatly on the desk. Maria Rivas was late—not that it surprised you. Punctuality required a functioning memory, and from what you'd seen, Maria's was more of a... free soul.

When she finally pushed through the door, she was a vision of misplaced glamour: a tight pencil skirt hugging her hips, a silk blouse unbuttoned just enough to be scandalous, and stilettos that clicked against the linoleum like a countdown. Her long brown hair swayed as she walked, and her green eyes were already scanning the room with that particular brand of vacant curiosity you'd come to associate with her.

"Oh, hi!" she chirped, her voice a little breathless. "Sorry I'm late. I was, like, trying to find my way from the camerinos and got lost, you know?" She giggled, the sound light and airy. "So, is this the thing? The paper thing?"

She gestured vaguely at the contract, sliding into the chair across from you with a practiced elegance. Her perfume, something floral and expensive, filled the small space.

You slid the contract toward her. She picked it up, her brow furrowing as her eyes moved across the dense legal text. Her lips moved silently, forming words she clearly didn't understand. After a moment, she tilted her head like a confused puppy.

"Okay, so, like… what does indemnification mean?" she asked, pointing a manicured nail at the word. "Is that, like, a fancy word for money? Because I really need the money." She didn't wait for an answer, already moving on. "And this part here—waiver of liability? That sounds bad. Like, am I gonna get hurt? Because I bruise really easy." She giggled.

She chewed on her lower lip, her expression shifting from confusion to a sort of stubborn determination. "But, like, the pay is really good. And I need it. So…" She trailed off, her eyes flicking back to the contract, then to the small, unmarked bottle of pills sitting beside it. "One of those every day, right? Gotcha."

She didn't wait for confirmation. She tossed the pill into her mouth, grimacing slightly as she swallowed it dry. "Ugh, gross. It tastes like… funny." She shuddered as she grabbed the document and signed her name on it. "So... I work for you now, then? I hope you are not very tough with me, boss, I'm..."

A flush crept up her neck, staining her olive skin a delicate pink. She shifted in her chair, her thighs pressing together beneath the desk. Her breath hitched, just slightly, and her eyes widened, pupils dilating as she looked at you.

"Oh... wow. I feel… funny," she murmured, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. "Like… tingly. Everywhere." She let out a nervous giggle before she squirmed again, her skirt riding up just a fraction. "Is that, like, normal? Because it's like..." She began panting, her breath ragged and slow as she felt the heat radiating from between her thighs. "It's like... nice..."

A week had passed. Maria had settled into her new role as your personal assistant with all the grace of a newborn foal. Her tight pencil skirt hugged every curve as she walked, her hips swaying with an exaggerated, almost theatrical rhythm that made it impossible not to stare. The sleeveless white blouse she wore today strained valiantly against the weight of her massive tits, the fabric threatening to explode at any minute.

She was also often flushed. Her olive skin carried a constant, rosy heat, and her green eyes had a glassy, unfocused quality. She squirmed in her chair more than she sat in it, her thighs pressing together, her fingers drumming restlessly on the desk. The PMX was working exactly as Dr. Brackett had promised—maybe a little too well. Maria was horny. Constantly. The kind of bone-deep, skin-prickling arousal that made it hard to think about anything else. And thinking had never been Maria's strong suit to begin with.

You were in your office, reviewing a report, when the scream tore through the quiet.

"NO! No no no no no!"

The sound of frantic clicking followed, then a low, despairing groan. You stepped out to find Maria at her desk, her hands hovering over the keyboard as she looked at the screen in shock. Her face was pale even with the flush, her lips parted in horror. On the screen, a series of error messages blinked in accusatory red.

"I deleted it," she whispered, her voice cracking. She looked up at you, and her eyes were wet, shimmering with unshed tears. "I deleted the whole folder. The big one. The one with all the... the numbers and the... the important stuff." She cut herself off, her voice rising in pitch. "I'm really sorry, boss. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I'm just... I'm really stupid, okay? I know I'm stupid. Please don't be mad. Please don't fire me!"

She was trembling now, her hands clasped together in her lap, her shoulders hunched. But even as the apology tumbled from her lips, something else flickered in her eyes. A heat. A hunger. She shifted in her chair, and the movement was deliberate, her thighs rubbing together beneath the desk.

"Are you... are you like mad at me?" she asked, her voice dropping to a breathy whisper.

She pressed her back to her chair as she bit her lower lip. Her eyes swept all over you, as if taking you in.

"Because like... I can make it up to you. I'm real good at making things up to people." She straightened her shoulders back slightly, the movement straining her blouse even further. "Are you gonna punish me, boss?" Her cheeks flushed brighter, and she let out a shaky little giggle. "Because I've been really, really bad." She trailed off, her eyes widening as if she'd just realized what she was saying. "I mean, I just want to be good for you. Just... just tell me what you want from me..."

Maria sat across from you, her legs crossed so tightly that her pencil skirt had ridden up to a dangerous height. She was venting. Again.

"I'm telling you, boss, she's impossible," Maria whined, her voice devoid of the practiced high pitch she used to so often. "Tracy just sits in her room all day, taking pictures of herself for those weirdos on the internet, and she never helps with anything. Not the dishes, not the laundry, not even taking out the trash. And when I ask her, she just screams at me." She threw her hands up, the gesture causing her chest to bounce distractingly. "She says horrible things. Horrible! Like, yesterday she told me I was a washed-up trophy wife who peaked at twenty-five, and now I'm just a—" She cut herself off, her cheeks flushing. "Well, I won't repeat it. It was rude. And mean."

She slumped back in her chair, her arms crossing beneath her breasts. "I don't know what to do with her. I... I really hope those pills can help."

Maria, in a display of brilliance, had proposed to put her daughter on PMX too. She thought the agreeability you said she started displaying might help her keep her in check. You doubted for a while, but in the end you thought, 'Why not?'. You hadn't decided yet if Tracy was a legitimate target of your quest for revenge, but Maria basically served her to you in a silver platter.

She paused, her gaze drifting toward the door. Her expression shifted—the frustration melting into something more guarded, more tired. "Oh," she said flatly. "There she is."

Tracy Rivas entered the office like she was doing you a favor by existing in it. She was thin and athletic, all long limbs and sharp angles, with pink hair that fell in messy twin tails. Her olive skin was smooth and unblemished, and her green eyes—so similar to her mother's, but harder—scanned the room with open disdain. She wore a short pink skirt that barely covered her ass and a cropped band tee that showed off her flat stomach and the small, perky boobs pushing against the fabric. Her phone was in her hand, and she didn't even look at you as she walked in.

"This the place?" she asked, her voice dripping with boredom. She finally glanced up, her gaze landing on the pill bottle on your desk. "Those the pills? The ones that get me paid?" She didn't wait for an answer. She swiped the bottle, popped the cap, and shook a pill directly into her mouth. She swallowed it dry with a grimace, then grabbed the contract and scrawled her signature without reading a single word. "There. Done. Where's my money?"

She tossed the pen onto the desk and leaned against it, her hip jutting out. Her eyes drifted to her mother, who had been staring daggers at her the whole time. She took in the tight skirt, the straining blouse, the sheer pantyhose, and the high heels. Tracy's lips curled into a slow, cruel smile.

"Wow, Mom," she said, her voice dripping with mock admiration. "You're really leaning into the whole assistant thing, huh? You look like you're about to crawl across the desk." She tilted her head, her gaze sliding to you and then back to her mom. "I bet you'd drop to your knees without a second thought if the boss told you to."

"You fucking..." Maria was about to snap at her, but you raised your hand, and she closed her mouth, obedient.

Tracy rolled her hips. The pill was already starting to work—you could see it in the way her pupils dilated, the way her breath hitched, the faint flush creeping up her neck. Her focus switched on you.

"Wow. Did she just... shut up because you told her to?" She blinked twice and began rubbing her temples, her hips still grinding against nothing. She looked at you, her green eyes intense and burning with hunger. "Hey, do you need another assistant?"

Maria opened her mouth, but not a single sound exited it. She just looked at her, baffled.

"I could use some extra money and... well..." She gestured vaguely at her mother, her nose wrinkling. "If she can do this job..." She leaned forward, her cropped tee riding up, her small perky boobs pressing against the fabric. "I'm really good at following orders."

The warehouse was dim and dusty, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead as you made your way through the maze of shelves. You'd been looking for the Rivas girls for the better part of ten minutes, and the sound of muffled cursing in Spanish had finally led you here.

Maria was on her knees, one hand pressed to her forehead, the other braced against the metal shelf she'd apparently just walked into. Her pencil skirt was hiked up around her thighs, her blouse untucked, and her hair had escaped its careful styling. She was muttering a stream of rapid-fire Spanish—words you didn't need to translate to understand.

"¡Ay, coño! ¡Me cago en la puta madre que me parió!" She pulled her hand away from her head, checking for blood. There wasn't any, but that didn't stop her from groaning dramatically. "¡Joder, joder, joder! That stupid shelf. Who puts a shelf there? It's, like, in the middle of nowhere!"

Tracy was a few feet away, doubled over with laughter. Her tight black pencil skirt hugged her hips, her fitted vest strained against her small perky boobs, and her sheer pantyhose caught the light as she shifted her weight on those pink high heels. Her pink hair fell in her face as she straightened up, still giggling.

"Oh my god, Mom," she wheezed. "You should've seen it. She was walking, and then—bam! Right into the shelf. Like, how did you not see it? It's huge." She wiped a tear from her eye. "Hopefully it will knock some sense into that empty head of yours."

Maria glared up at her daughter, still clutching her head. "Stop laughing! ¡Culera desagradecida! I could be dying, and you're just standing there, being... being..." She struggled for the word, her face scrunching up. "Malcriada!"

"Pffff..." Tracy snickered, her smile widening. "It serves you right. You were watching my little dance, weren't you? Do you like how I shake my ass?"

She turned toward the camera in the corner, her hips swaying as she walked a few steps closer. Her heels clicked against the concrete floor in a deliberate rhythm. When she reached the center of the aisle, she stopped, tilted her head, and pressed her tits together as she pulled her tongue out toward the camera.

Maria, still rubbing her forehead, looked up. "Tracy. Tracy, stop. You are gonna get us both fired..."

But Tracy wasn't stopping. She turned her back to the camera, bent slightly at the waist, and hiked her pencil skirt up just enough to flash the sheer pink panties beneath her pantyhose. The fabric was damp. Just a little. Just enough to notice.

"Oops," she said, her voice dripping with mock innocence. "My skirt just... slipped. Clumsy me." She straightened up, spinning back around. That's when she saw you.

"Oh..."

Maria's face was scarlet. "Boss! She was just... fixing her clothes..." She tried to stand, forgetting the shelf was right there, and cracked her head against the metal edge with a loud clang. "¡AY! ¡HIJA DE PUTA!"

The office was quiet at that hour. It was late. You were hunched over your desk, eyes burning, trying to make sense of the spreadsheet in front of you. The board meeting was tomorrow morning, and the numbers still weren't adding up.

You'd asked Tracy for a glass of water twenty minutes ago. You hadn't looked up when she'd finally appeared in the doorway. She smirked as she entered the room, swaying her hips from side to side as she closed the distance with a big glass of water in her hand.

She was walking slower than necessary, her hips swaying with deliberate exaggeration—you could feel the air shift with each step. She was trying to get your attention. The moment she realized that you were too busy to acknowledge her, she sighed loudly.

Then, when she was about to reach your desk, a mischievous idea pulled from her lips. You heard the glass shift, the soft slosh of water, and then...

"Oops!"

The water hit your lap like a cold shock, soaking through your trousers and pooling in your lap. You jerked back, the chair scraping against the floor, as the glass rolled away through the carpeted floor. Tracy was standing over you, her green eyes wide with fake horror, her pink lips parted in an exaggerated gasp.

"Oh my god," she said, her voice dripping with false concern. "Oh my god, boss, I'm so sorry."

Before you could say anything, she dropped to her knees, and her hands were on your lap. She grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on your desk and began dabbing at the wet fabric, her movements slow and deliberate. Her palms pressed against your thighs through the damp trousers, her fingers tracing the lines of your legs. She was leaning forward, her small perky tits pressing against the edge of the desk, her pink twin tails swaying with each move.

"I'm really sorry," she murmured. Her hands kept moving, kept pressing, kept exploring. "I'm so clumsy..." She tilted her head up, her green eyes locking with yours. The fake apology was gone, replaced by something thirsty. Her lips curved into a slow, wicked smile.

Her hands kept rubbing, higher and higher, the tissues long forgotten.

"I think you should punish me, boss." she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You should put this dumb slut in her place..."

The office boiled with activity as the working hours came near their end. You were reviewing the latest earnings reports when Tracy appeared in the doorway, her pink twin tails swaying as her tight black skirt hugged her hips. She was grinning; that particular grin that meant she was up to no good.

"Boss," she said, her voice sing-song. "I brought him. My brother. He's, like, right behind me. He's slow." She stepped into the office, her heels clicking against the floor, and leaned against the edge of your desk. "Okay, so, before he gets here. It's gonna be so funny." She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. "He's, like, really girly. Like, he wears girl clothes and stuff. And he's all, like, shy about it. So I was thinking—" She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "What if you pretend you think he's a girl? Like, call him 'miss' and 'she' and stuff. It'll be hilarious."

She straightened up, still giggling. "Oh, here he comes. Act natural."

Max appeared in the doorway, and the first thing you noticed was how small he looked. His shoulders were hunched, his blue hair falling in his face, his bangs covering his eyes. He was wearing a pair of skimpy denim shorts that barely reached mid-thigh, showing off his long, smooth legs, and an orange tank top that clung to his flat chest. His arms were thin, his frame delicate.

"Max," Tracy said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Come in. Don't be shy. The boss doesn't bite." She paused, then added, "Much."

Max shuffled into the room, his bare legs brushing against each other as he walked. He stopped a few feet from your desk, his hands clasped in front of him, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Hi," he mumbled, his voice high and soft. "I'm Max. Tracy said... Tracy said I could get paid for taking some pills. Is that... is that true?"

You slid the contract across the desk. Max picked it up, his hands trembling, and tried to read it. Tracy hovered over his shoulder, tapping her foot.

"Just sign it, Max." She said. "You're not gonna understand it anyway. Just sign."

Max hesitated, then scrawled his signature—messy, uneven, his hand still shaking. He reached for the pill bottle, popped the cap, and swallowed a pill dry. His face scrunched up. "Ugh. That tastes gross."

His gaze drifted away from you, away from Tracy's face, down to her outfit. The PMX started making an effect, making Max blush as he scanned his sister's uniform. The tight black pencil skirt. The sheer pantyhose. The crisp white shirt beneath her vest. He stared at the way the fabric hugged her hips, the way the pantyhose made her legs look smooth and glossy, the way her pink heels made her ankles look delicate. His breath came faster, his pupils dilating.

"Tracy," he whispered, his voice soft and wondering. "Your... your clothes. They're really pretty. They're so..." He trailed off, his cheeks burning.

"Why, thank you!" Tracy said, her smile turning into a mischievous smirk as he kept talking.

"Could I..." He swallowed hard, his hands fidgeting in his lap. "If I worked here—if I took the pills and did the work and stuff—would I get to wear the same uniform? Like Tracy's? The skirt and the vest and the... the pantyhose?" His voice was barely a whisper now, shy and hopeful. "I think I'd like that..."

Tracy's jaw dropped. "Oh my god, Max. What the hell? You can't just..." She looked at you, trying not to laugh.

But Max wasn't looking at Tracy anymore. He was looking at you, his blue hair falling away from his eyes, his expression open and vulnerable and hungry in a way that was entirely new.

Max walked into your office, carrying a watering can. His heels clacked across the carpet as he reached the plant in the corner. He looked back at you as he bent over slightly, watering the plant as he watched you with a sly smile.

He was in a full female uniform: the tight black pencil skirt, the sheer pantyhose, the crisp white shirt, the fitted vest, and the pink high heels. His blue hair was tied back with a pink ribbon, his lips glossy, and his cheeks blushed. He looked elegant. Delicate. Feminine.

The office door swung open without a knock. Maria never knocked; it was one of her many little habits that drove you insane. She swept in, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. She was in her usual work attire: her sleeveless shirt threatening to burst with her hurried steps.

"Boss, I need to ask you something about the..." She stopped. Her green eyes went wide. Her mouth fell open as she saw her son in the corner.

"Max?" Maria's voice came out as a strangled whisper. "Max, what... what are you wearing?"

Max turned, his heels clicking softly against the floor. "I... I took the job, Mami" His hands started trembling. "Do you like it...? My uniform?"

Maria's face went through a rapid series of expressions: shock, confusion, horror, and then something darker. Something angry. "No. No, no, no." She shook her head, her hands coming up as if to push the image away. "You can't—you're a boy, Max! Boys don't wear skirts! Boys don't wear pantyhose!"

Max's smile faltered. His hands dropped to his sides, his fingers curling into the fabric of his skirt. "But... but I like it, Mami. It feels nice. The pantyhose are all smooth, and the heels make my legs look pretty, and—"

"Pretty?" Maria's voice rose, cracking with something between fury and panic. "No! Not like this! Go change, NOW!" She turned to you, her eyes blazing. "Boss, what is this? Why is my son dressed like a—like a puta? This is messed up!"

Max flinched at the word. His eyes welled up with tears, his lower lip trembling. "I'm not a puta," he said, low. "And I'm not going to change. This is my job, and this is going to be my uniform. Boss said I could."

Maria whirled on you, her face flushed with anger. "You told him he could dress like a slut? You let him put on a skirt? You let..." She couldn't even finish the sentence. She sputtered, her hands flailing. "¡Ay, Dios! ¡Qué vergüenza! ¡Qué horror!"

Max's tears spilled over as his fists trembled, trying to make a stand. "This is who I am, Mami."

Max's defiant stance was the last straw. Maria's eyes burned with anger, probably wishing she'd had a chancla with her.

"Oh, so that's that then? You want to dress like a girl?" She crossed the distance between the two of them in three steps and grabbed Max by his hair, pulling him closer. "Oh, I'll show you how to be a girl."

You noticed Maria's legs grinding together as she scolded Max. She had been on PMX for months now, and it showed.

"When we go back home, I'm going to throw away all your pants and boxers. From now on you are only wearing skirts and panties. You are not leaving the home without high heels and makeup from now on." She began panting, her cheeks flushing as she talked. "You want to dress like a puta? Fine, that's what you are from now on."

Max started panting too, a shy bulge pressing against the fabric of his skirt as he took in the threat.

Maria looked at you, as she walked, dragging his son by the hair toward your desk. "And you are going to help me."

The office was quiet, the last of the fluorescent lights flickering off one by one as the cleaning crew made their rounds on the lower floors. You were at the door of your office, coat in hand, when Max collided against your chest with a whimper.

He stumbled back, his heels clicking against the floor as he fought to keep his balance. His blue hair was loose, falling in his face, and his cheeks were flushed a deep, burning red.

"Boss!" he gasped, his voice high and breathless. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry! I didn't see you..." He cut himself off, his hands clasping in front of him, his eyes fixed on the floor. "I'm sorry I'm late."

He was wobbling slightly, his weight shifting from foot to foot, and you noticed the way his skirt was riding up. Just slightly, as his bulge pressed taut against the fabric.

"I've been running late to all appointments today..." he whispered, his voice cracking. "Mami made me... she said the plug wasn't enough anymore. It's so hard to focus..." He looked up at you then, his green eyes wide and wet. "I'm sorry. I know I'm late. I know I missed the uniform inspection. But can we... can we still do it? Please? That's what you and Mami agreed to... And I don't want to... I don't want to get in trouble..."

He was trembling harder now, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his skirt. The bulge beneath the fabric was impossible to ignore—he was tenting, visibly, embarrassingly, his body betraying him completely.

The office was dim, the last rays of sunlight bleeding through the blinds and casting long shadows across the floor. You sat behind your desk, a notebook open in front of you, pen tapping softly against the page. The door opened, and the three members of the Rivas family entered. They didn't say anything; they just walked slowly as they panted, standing in front of you, ready for the inspection.

The week had started awfully, with the people from the costumes team yelling at you. Apparently, Maria managed to spill hot coffee on top of an idol. The boss wasn't really angry about the Idol's well-being; "fuck that whore" she said; she was libid about the several thousand dollars of costume she ruined. Not long after, there came another report: Max had apparently sneaking into the costume room and trying on the panties; that would not be that bad if it wasn't for the weird stains they found on them afterward. Finally, Tracy had been caught recording herself as she masturbated inside an idol costume, ripping it in the process.

The three family members stood there, their glossy eyes wandering around, as they tried to stand straight. Now that you stopped typing to look at them, you could hear the buzzing sounds.

They had been on PMX for months now. The improvements were very noticeable. When considering the possible punishments, you decided to go for it and told them to wear vibrators the whole workday. They didn't even complain. Not a word. Three days had passed since then, and now it was time to perform the daily "vibrator inspection", the name you made up for it.

"Boss, it's... it's been inside me all day..." Tracy trembled as she took a step forward. She pulled her tight skirt up to show you her pink panties completely drenched in pussy juices. Strained against the panties fabric, you could see the back end of a vibrator buzzing and rotating as it drilled deep inside her. "It's... it's hard to focus like this..." She bit her lip as a wave of pleasure surged through her body. "Thank you, boss..." She said before stepping back into the line.

Max shuffled in next, wobbling on top of his high heels. The wet stain on the front of his skirt was very noticeable, as his bulge pressed taut against it. He turned around and pulled the tight skirt over his bottom, revealing the cute lace panties below. He pulled them down with a slow movement, revealing the small but bumpy vibrator he chose for himself, shoved deep inside his ass as it rotated. Max whimpered as the vibrator wobbled from the movement.

"Boss... as you can... as you can see..." His voice was strained, completely spent. "I've... I've lost count of the number of times I came today; I'm so sorry."

He pulled his panties up again as his body trembled and turned around in his place.

Maria was the last. She stepped forward tall and proud, pulling from the hem of her skirt as her breath picked up. She was wearing no panties, her drenched pussy dripping on the carpet on the floor. Several pink cords originated from the controllers stuck in her stockings and lost themselves buried deep inside both her holes.

"Boss... As you can see..." Her vision was stuck on you, as she licked her lips. "I've... I've been a good girl... Three days... I can't... I can't take it much longer..."

Maria pulled her skirt down again and took a step back, her eyes never leaving yours.

Tracy was the first to speak again, her voice barely a whisper. "Boss... Please... please forgive us... I can barely walk straight..."

Max looked at her, then at you, his green eyes wide and pleading. "Please. Please tell us what to do next. We'll do anything..."

Maria nodded, her hands still trembling. "Anything. We'll do anything. Just... just please. Please tell us what to do."

The three of them stood there, waiting—flushed, desperate, and completely at your mercy.

The Rivas household was modest. A far cry from the lavish mansion they'd once inhabited. The dining table was set with a mismatched assortment of plates and cutlery, a vase of slightly wilted flowers in the center, and the smell of something home-cooked drifting from the kitchen. You sat at the head of the table, the seat of honor, while Max and Tracy flanked you on either side.

Max was a vision of nervous elegance, his blue hair tied back with a pink ribbon, his lips glossy. He was wearing a soft, floral sundress that showed off his smooth shoulders and long legs, the fabric clinging to his flat chest and narrow hips.

"—and it's, like, totally anonymous," he was saying, his green eyes bright. "You go in, you kneel down, and there's just... a hole. And you don't know who's on the other side. You don't know anything about them. It's just... someone." He shivered, his cheeks flushing. "I've been going every day this week. It's my new favorite place. I've made so many friends. Well, not friends, exactly. But... you know." He giggled, a soft, breathless sound. "I know how they taste like..."

Tracy, seated on your other side, was wearing a tight white leotard and blue gloves. Some kind of costume. She was leaning back in her chair, her posture deliberately provocative, and her bare foot was pressing against your thigh beneath the table. Caressing. Slow. Deliberate.

"Max, shut up about the gloryhole already." she said, rolling her eyes. She turned to you, her smile sharp and knowing. "I've got something way more interesting planned for tonight. I'm recording some new content for my OnlyFans. A cosplay thing. Very dirty." She leaned closer, her foot sliding higher up your thigh. "You should join me, boss. I bet you'd look great inside me."

Before you could respond, Maria appeared in the doorway, carrying a steaming dish. She was wearing a tight, red dress that hugged every curve, cut low in the front to show off her massive tits, cut high in the back to show off her bubbly ass. Her long brown hair was loose, falling over her shoulders, and her green eyes were bright with that familiar, feverish heat.

She set the dish down on the table and slid into the seat beside you, her hip pressing against yours. Her hand found your thigh immediately, her fingers trailing up and down, and then, without preamble, she cupped your crotch through your trousers. Her palm was warm, her touch deliberate.

"{{user}}," she murmured, leaning in close, her lips brushing your ear. "I'm so glad you're here. I've been thinking about you all day. We are all so grateful..." Her fingers squeezed gently, her breath warm against your neck. "You helped us so much. The pills. The jobs. The money. We're forever in debt to you. Forever." She pulled back slightly, her green eyes meeting yours.

Tracy's foot pressed harder against your thigh, her smile sharp. "Absolutely, Mami."

Max nodded, his cheeks burning. "Yes. Yes, we do."

Maria's hand was still on your crotch, her fingers tracing lazy circles through the fabric. "So," she whispered. "What would you like first, cariño? Dinner? Or... dessert?"