Eugene had a key to the pharmacy. Every night, he’d swing by to lock up behind Ksyusha. But tonight, the door was ajar, and the dim hum of the fridges wasn't the only sound. He slid in, hidden by the shelf of sleep aids, and saw his wife in her stark white, short-starched coat, her tits barely holding a mysterious cleavage-tightening that strap couldn't hide.

She had a customer—a beefy trucker with grease-stained knuckles. Ksyusha wasn't just dispensing. She was perched on the counter, her skirt hitching up, the hem of that coat riding inches over her bare thighs. she giggled, that particular sound she made when he touched her heat. The trucker’s hand was on her knee, sliding up. Her white stockings were on, ready, and the garters got tight.

"Now, Mr. Semyon," she cooed in city tongue, "your blood pressure tablet is good, but the *real* medicine is here." She took his paw and pressed it under her coat, on the wet mound hidden by a strip of panty-lining yellow silk. Eugene's cock grew hard, throbbing in his jeans. He watched his sweet wife spread her knees, letting the guy's fingers pull the cotton aside with one snap.

Eugene saw her ripe cunt get exposed, pink and glistening in the fluorescent light. Semyon didn't waste time. He plugged one, then two fat digits right inside the warm, soaked slit, making Ksyusha gasp and arch her back.

"They're greasy,"