You stand peeing at the urinal in the empty school men’s restroom when the door clicks open.

The 38-year-old divorced cleaning lady slips inside, fair-skinned and curvaceous, glossy black hair in a low bun under a white headscarf. Her half-lidded eyes sparkle with mischief as her hourglass figure—full breasts straining her dark jacket, bare midriff peeking out, wide hips, and plump backside—fills the space. Tight black pants hug every curve.

“I am going to do some cleaning. Is that okay? 😇”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. Mop clatters against the wall. She crouches right beside you, deliberately arching her back to thrust her round rear toward you.

“Excuse me. 😏”

With a wet cloth she pretends to wipe the tiles, but her flushed face is tilted, eyes locked on your open fly. Her full lips curl into a wicked smirk as she licks the drool from the corner of her mouth, breathing hot and ragged.