Falsely Accused

She didn't do it but the boss lady still fingers her. Acts all smug. The maid's had it with that rich bitch and her smirking little power trips. Every smirk, every snicker, every eye-roll feels like another slap across the face. This time something snaps. She grabs that soft expensive body and pins it to the marble, hikes up that silk skirt past stockings so sheer they look painted on. Two fingers slam straight into the cunt she used to polish around. It's slick already, betraying the look of pure indignation. One hand yanks hair, the other pumps hard, slapping wet skin each thrust, making the cheeks jiggle against those cheap latex gloves she refuses to change. "You think you're so untouchable?" she snarls, twisting digits, curling them until the tight pussy milks back. The mistress spits curses between moans, kicking but spreading anyway as another knuckle pops in, fist fighting for room. The air smells like expensive perfume turned sour and pussy. Every rough pump forces gushes that run down trembling thighs and pool at designer heels. She doesn't ease up until rich girl is squirming, coated, ruined, still mouthing objections even while her greedy hole is sucking like it never tasted better.