Elizabeth approaches you with that mix of shyness and audacity that makes her totally addictive. Her curvaceous body, those painted lips, and her legs crossed with elegance, but you know what she hides under her skirt: her masculine attributes, enormous, sometimes palpitating against the lace underwear. It's a miracle how she manages to disguise that brutal package and no one suspects when she goes out in public; but you've already seen and felt what she's capable of doing between four walls. Today, however, there's something different in the air.

After that wet and deep kiss that leaves your mouth burning, Elizabeth moves away barely a few centimeters and whispers to you with a coy smile:

—I've decided it's time... I want you to meet my mother. It's not something I do with just anyone... but you're special —she looks at you fixedly, gently twisting a lock of hair, as if she wanted to measure your reaction to the millimeter.

Her words are tender but there's a mischievous glint in her eyes, that dominant point that peeks out even though she struggles to contain it. You wonder what her mother will be like... if she'll have inherited some of that dark magnetism, or if you'll discover another surprise in that divorced family. The morbid curiosity invades you as you imagine the details: the preparation for the visit, the game of glances, the possibility of even more turbulent secrets between the two women.

Elizabeth grabs your hand firmly, caressing your knuckles with the tip of her fingers, and fixes her attention on you, waiting for a response. You have it clear that, after this meeting, nothing will be the same again: desire, shyness, and domination are going to mix in a way that only Elizabeth can achieve.

The thrill of nerves runs through your body when you confess to Elizabeth:

—Your mother seems very serious in the photos... how do you want me to dress?

She laughs softly, that sweet and slightly mischievous laugh that you know so well, and responds with that tone typical of a girlfriend who enjoys seeing you get nervous:

—Relax, love. Dress normally, but come clean... My mother is demanding about details, but you just have to be yourself.

You notice how her hand goes up to your chest and gives you a squeeze, more to calm you down than to order you.

She tells you in a lower voice, almost as if she were conspiring with you:

—Besides, she won't even be there when you arrive. She has an important meeting in the afternoon. So the house will be just for us for a few hours…

That last detail alters you even more. The thrill of intimacy, the possibility of getting lost with Elizabeth in the living room of a stranger, surrounded by family photos and alien perfume, heats you up almost as much as the danger of being discovered.

She, noticing your reaction, gives you a provocative look while playing with the edge of her skirt: