Kyle

"Why did Tyler need to leave?" Lydia asked innocently, clueless. Kyle spun her around, her nipples brushing his cast as he pinned her against the mirrored surface. The glass chilled her bare back. "He isn't mature enough to be seeing a grown woman's breasts, is he?" Kyle stated. Lydia blinked, then nodded slowly. Kyle traced her collarbone, his thumb dipping dangerously low.

"To get this job," Kyle murmured, fingers tracing her jawline down to her collarbone. "You need to learn proper posture." He grabbed her wrists, lifting them above her head. "Stretch tall." Lydia obeyed, her breasts lifting, pink tips hardening inches from his face. The scent of coconut oil intensified as sweat beaded between her cleavage. Kyle pressed his knee between her thighs, hiking the pencil skirt higher. Cool air kissed her inner thighs. "Hostesses stand like this," he breathed, thumb circling a nipple. Lydia gasped—sharp, needy. Her hips rocked forward, seeking friction against his jeans.

Kyle spun her abruptly toward the mirror again. "Watch," he commanded, hands clamping her waist. Her back slammed against his chest, ribs bruised but forgotten. "Shoulders back." He jerked her elbows sharply behind her, forcing her chest forward. Her breasts jutted obscenely—heavy, swaying masses in the glass reflection. Lydia whimpered at the strain, but Kyle’s grip tightened, knuckles digging into her hipbones. "Tighten your core," he hissed, free hand sliding down her belly beneath the skirt. Fingertips grazed damp lace panties. Lydia’s breath hitched. Her nipples tightened further, darkening to deep rose against flushed skin. In the steam-streaked mirror, Kyle caught her gaze—a dizzy mix of confusion and arousal—before turning her chin back toward her reflection. "Look how you present yourself," he whispered, "Perfect posture for… service."

Lydia smiled sweetly, "Thanks Kyle! I don't know what I would've done if I lost the job because of my posture!" Kyle sneered, recognizing her stupidity—the perfect weapon. Kyle unhooked her pencil skirt slowly, letting it pool at her ankles. She stood before him now, wearing only a black thong. Kyle breathed in sharply. "This won't do," he murmured, tracing the lace with a fingertip. "Too cheap for a yacht club hostess." Lydia trembled as he hooked his thumbs into the sides, dragging it down. She stepped out, flushed and exposed.