I Don't Have The Money

Tiffany Fox gets on the phone and straight-up admits she ain't got the cash—blames it on everything going 'electronical' these days. But her creditor? That bastard Tony still dispatches his muscle-bound collector to shake her down anyway. Door knocks, in he walks, all business and ready to collect. Tiffany? She panics for a split second—no dough in sight, big problem staring her down. Collector looks baffled at first, scratching his head like what's this chick up to? Then bam—she starts peeling off her clothes, letting 'em hit the floor one by one. Smart guy catches on quick, eases back, and damn if he doesn't soak up the view like it's prime-time entertainment. Her body's a knockout, curves that could stop traffic, and she's firing on all cylinders today, hell-bent on keeping this dude grinning. Shower kicks things up a notch—she lathers him up, works those tense muscles till they melt under her touch. But the real magic? Her hand slides down, grips that star player, pumps the blood right where it counts most. Not the slickest scheme in the playbook, but who cares—when she finally milks his load straight onto that wicked tongue ring of hers, he's putty in her hands, ears wide open to whatever sweet talk she spins next.