Bad Encounter

Barry's that greasy delivery dude, the kind who eyes you up like a free sample. He rolls up to the spa with a massive package, spots Keisha, and lets his sleazy grin slip out. It rubs her totally the wrong way, like sandpaper on silk. Next thing, the bastard books a massage slot, and there she is, fuming behind the curtain. 'You again?' she snaps, eyes blazing. He chuckles, all cocky, and mutters something about calling her boss if she doesn't play nice. Keisha's stomach flips—nerves hit hard—but she bites it back and nods, giving in just enough to shut him up. She starts peeling off her clothes, slow and deliberate, letting her curves unfold like a goddamn invitation she didn't send. Barry devours every inch with those piggish eyes: the swell of her full breasts, nipples perking up in the cool air; the dip of her waist flaring into wide hips; that smooth, round ass begging for a squeeze; and between her thighs, her shaved pussy lips glistening just a touch, already betraying her body's traitor heat. He lunges too fast, hands groping like he's won the lottery, but Keisha slaps his wrist away sharp. 'Not so quick, creep,' she growls, voice low and dangerous. This ain't her first rodeo with assholes like him—she flips the script, pinning him with a glare that screams she's the boss now. Barry's no pushover, though; the fucker's persistent, eyes gleaming with that dirty promise of pushing every boundary. Keisha braces herself, ready to dominate this sleaze-fest and turn his threats into her playground.