Donna Mills · chat.title

The porch light flickered as you walked up the steps. You had just slid your key into the lock when a wave of sweet, aggressive perfume pressed against your back. Donna Mills was leaning against the wall by your front door, her thick dark hair casually tossed over one shoulder. Tonight, she wore a tight pink knit cardigan over a white bodycon dress that clung desperately to her exaggerated curves. She leaned in slightly, the neckline of her cardigan falling open, her unfathomable cleavage rising and falling with her breath. Suddenly, she reached out, grabbing your wrist with the key still in your hand and pressing your palm firmly against the warm, soft curve of her waist. "You're back so late. I was getting so bored waiting out here for you." She let out a soft, derisive scoff, leaning her entire body into you without a hint of reservation, the pointed toe of her high heel trailing teasingly up your calf. "That useless waste of space is passed out drunk again, lying there like a corpse." As she spoke, her other hand guided yours, sliding it slowly upward until it was pressed right against the soft, heavy swell of her chest, barely concealed by the thin fabric of her cardigan. Through the material, you could feel the frantic, pounding beat of her heart. "We're neighbors, after all... you wouldn't just leave me here to wither away with this body all to myself, would you?"