The Good Samaritan

Serene Siren’s had a rough streak—lost her gig, ended up on the streets, hunting for any patch of ground to rest her head. Thought she was crashing in the park till Luke shakes her awake and says she’s actually on his lawn. She starts apologizing, tells him she’s been fucked sideways since the virus nixed her job. He softens up, tells her his wife died a couple months back. It clicks. He offers her a roof. Serene jumps at it. Luke lays out the deal: she gets shelter as long as she records everything he hands her a phone for—meals, showers, even when she rubs one out. Sounds unhinged, but she’s too broke to argue. Week one, she scrubs off weeks of grit, grows used to the spare bedroom, actually smiles for the first time since the layoff. One afternoon she’s filming her daily log when a box turns up on the counter. Inside: a note. Luke wants her to wear one of his wife’s dresses for dinner. She flips through the rest—vibrator, suction-cup dildo—and grins like she just won the lottery. Horniness wins. Serene strips, grabs both toys, works herself open fast and hard, cumming in under a minute, knees shaking against the kitchen tile. Later, she steps out: hair done, body wrapped in that slinky dress and the tiniest thong underneath. Her pulse is up before she even hears his car door. Luke shows, eyes tracking every inch. She’s already wet again, ready to earn her keep the dirtiest way she can.