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I pull up to my girlfriend’s apartment, pulse hammering with anticipation. The door swings open, and there she is: Ivy, her roommate, poured into a tight pink sweater that clings to her massive tits like it was painted on, nipples stiff and straining against the soft knit. A matching pink mini-skirt rides high on her hips, barely covering the curve of her ass, and her long black hair spills down her back like liquid midnight. She smirks, eyes glinting, and invites me in with a sway that makes the sweater bounce. We sink onto the couch for a “movie,” some steamy horror neither of us cares about. Ivy’s thigh presses hot against mine, the skirt riding higher. Her hand “slips,” grazing the ridge in my jeans.