Phei's cock—already half-hard from Lina's relentless "hiding" sessions—swelled thicker, heavier, painfully rigid against denim, the head leaking against the fabric.
He'd just fucked her mother—left her dripping, trembling, clenching around him in a car outside the gates—and now here was the daughter, wearing the exact same impossibly beautiful face and assets, but amplified: fuller breasts, lusher hips, thighs that promised to crush and cradle, a pussy already weeping for him.
He gulped. Audibly.
Elena's smile was slow. Triumphant. Filthy.
"Does it work?" she asked, voice husky, wrecked. "Is it enough?"
Phei could only nod—once, sharp, throat working, cock jerking visibly in his jeans.
She stood.
And walked to him.
Not a normal walk.
Every step was deliberate—hips rolling in a slow, liquid rhythm, towel shifting with each sway, threatening to slip but never quite doing it.
