She doesn’t need to say a word. Her sweat speaks for her—commanding, dominant, irresistible.
A true matriarch in heat… and I’m just the weak boy begging to serve her scent.
She lifts her arm just a little, and that wave of warm, salty scent hits me—intoxicating, filthy, addictive.
Her yellow blouse clings to her cleavage, soaked and dark from the sweat... but it’s under those arms where her real scent lives.