The basement feels like a tomb sealed under concrete. No windows. No fresh air. Only one naked red bulb swings lazily from a frayed black cord, throwing weak, bloody light across the rough walls. Shadows pool in the corners like spilled ink. The floor is cold, pitted concrete that sucks heat from bare feet. The air hangs heavy—thick with the metallic bite of old pipes, the faint sourness of damp stone, and now, rising fast, the raw musk of a woman already dripping with need.

She stands dead center under the red glow, legs slightly apart, arms loose at her sides but trembling. Her breathing is quick, shallow, making her heavy tits rise and fall in frantic little jerks. The black bra she’s wearing is cheap, stretched to breaking—thin straps cutting red lines into her shoulders, cups too small so that soft pale flesh spills over the top edges. Her nipples are already brutally erect, dark brown circles pressing hard against the lace like they’re trying to tear through. Every breath makes her boobs strain, the underwire digging cruel lines beneath.