The Case Of The Mysterious Panties

Riley sits behind her desk, chin in her palm, bored as hell until the door flies open. Kenna storms in waving a scrap of lace underwear like a weapon. Riley lifts an eyebrow, asks if she made an appointment. Kenna’s voice cracks—she doesn’t care, just needs help, someone pointed her here. Riley eyes the panties and guesses cheating. Kenna nods once. Riley spends the next night crouched outside a cheap motel, camera steady, catching the wife’s clumsy goodbye kiss with a stranger. Job done. Next afternoon she spreads the photos across the desk. Kenna stares, eyes wet, then fury floods in. She tells Riley to strip. Why should the bitch get to fuck around while she sits home and cries? Riley tries to shut it down, but one long look at Kenna’s body shuts her up. Clothes hit the floor fast. Kenna pushes Riley onto the desk, mouth already between her legs, tongue working hard, hungry for payback and pleasure at once. Riley moans, grabs Kenna’s hair, pulls her closer. They switch, Riley licking deep while Kenna’s thighs tremble. Every gasp tastes like heat and revenge. By the time they collapse, sweat-slick and shaking, something like hope flickers in the stale office air—small, but it’s there.