My name’s Lena, 40 years old, and my husband’s been out of work for months. Desperate, I took a gig delivering pies in a short red polo and tight black shorts. The uniform hugged my hips like a second skin, and the sweat made my tits glisten under the cheap fabric.

My first order was to a penthouse downtown—bachelor party, the dispatcher warned. I walked in to a wall of male musk, beer fog, and rowdy cheers. Ten guys, mostly shirtless, eyes locking on me like I was the main course.

“Fuck yeah, the stripper’s here!” a bearded dude yelled, slapping his buddy’s chest.

“Wait, honey, we ordered a pizza,” another slurred, grabbing my ass through the shorts. “But we’ll take a different kind of delivery too.”

I tried to say *I’m just the delivery*, but the words died when a brute pulled me into the living room. My heart hammered—but not from fear. The way their hungry eyes raked my cleavage and the swell of my ass made a heat pool between my thighs, wetting my panties.

“Come on, milf, we paid for a show,” a younger guy, maybe 25, whispered, pulling the pizza box from my hand and pushing me toward a leather couch. His hands were already on my waist, hiking my shorts down past the curve of my hips.

I should have run. Instead, I let them peel the shirt over my head, my bare tits bouncing free—one guy’s hand instantly feeding on my left nipple, tongue wrapping around the pebble-hard n