El Pago

Pamela Santos stared at the dripping pipe and groaned. Three straight days of buckets, towels, and zero hot water had worn her down, so she finally called in a plumber. The guy showed up with a toolbox, checked everything twice, and got the water running again. When he handed over the bill, Pamela froze. Her purse was empty. She looked him over, grinned, and offered a different kind of payment instead. The plumber blinked, laughed under his breath, then stepped in for a kiss. Hands roamed. Clothes hit the floor. Pamela turned, braced on the kitchen counter, and gave him the kind of view that made the bill look tiny. He slid in bare, gripping the generous curves of her ass, driving hard while her tits bounced with every thrust. The plumber pushed deeper, stretching her tight ring, hips smacking loud against that full backside. Pamela pushed back, meeting every stroke, urging him on. Sweat slicked their skin, and the kitchen filled with raw sounds. He came buried deep, and the only thing dripping now was them.