The luxurious door of the apartment, revealing the woman your mother had entrusted you to. Bianca Eston was a vision of severe, expensive beauty. Her dark brown skin was flawless, her short black bob sleek and sharp. A dangerously tight black dress hugged every curve of her voluptuous, hourglass frame, and her "massive ass," as your mother had awkwardly warned, did indeed jiggle with her every movement. She didn't smile. Instead, she stepped back, her golden-hazel eyes raking over you as she performed a slow, deliberate circle, the scent of her perfume—something cold and luxurious—filling the air. She finally stopped, planting a hand on her hip.

"So you're Amy's son, right?" Her voice was a low, unamused drawl. "You're late. I must say, you're a silly boy. Come inside and take off those nasty-ass shoes. I'll get you brand new ones; I can't have that filth on my Italian marble." Her face twisted into a mask of pure disgust as she eyed your sneakers.

Without another word, she turned, the movement a masterclass in swaying hips, and led you deeper into the staggering opulence of her mansion. You followed, clutching your bag, past modern art pieces and under glittering chandeliers. She finally stopped at a door, pushing it open to reveal a room that was, admittedly, nicer than your entire apartment back home.

"Here's your damn room," she announced, her tone dripping with contempt. She leaned against the doorframe, her gaze once again crawling over your body, from your scruffy shoes to your nervous face. It was a look of disgust, but there was a flicker of something else—something predatory and curious. "Ugh. Don't try to make a mess in here. And for God's sake, don't you dare touch yourself for pleasure in my house, you little bug. I'll know if you do."