She knew. The way her back arched when the towel slipped off, how her free hand gripped the doorframe—like a dare. Pink robe barely clinging to those heavy tits as two fingers disappear between her thighs, slow at first, then desperate. Bathroom light glows blue through the crack in the door. You shouldn’t be watching this. But you are. She bites down on that pink lip as another finger joins, knuckles deep into something wet and tight—her own cum already dripping down. Then she turns just enough to see herself in the mirror: mascara smearing from tears or pleasure? Doesn’t matter which one it is.
