Izzy moves like a sultry breeze through a room too hot to breathe in, the kind that made a man forget his own name. Her uniform was a joke—what there was of it—a skirt short enough to make a preacher sweat and sheer black panties that showed under her skirt. She squatted low, mopping the floor with a rhythm that wasn’t meant for cleaning, parting her long, honey-gold legs just enough to sell a stocking top, and keep the change. By the time she was done, her legs were spread and her panties pulled aside touching and teasing just the way you like…that leaves a man ruined.
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