Backstage with Imogene

Zenza steps into the private room, clipboard in hand, eyes already moving over the patient’s chart. He writes something new at the bottom, tells him the therapy they offer now works better than anything else. The door opens again and Nurse Imogene walks in—blonde hair pinned tight under her cap, uniform stretched across a heavy chest. She gives the patient a long, measured look, then starts to peel the white dress down, slow, deliberate. Every button undone reveals another curve. The skirt follows, sliding over her hips until the fabric drops. She steps out of it, bare now except for thigh-high stockings, and climbs onto the narrow bed. Her mouth finds his first, wet and sure, then she slides lower, takes him in hand and guides him between her breasts. She works him there until he’s rigid and glistening, then turns, offering herself. The patient grips her waist, pushes into her ass in one long stroke. She meets every thrust, back arched, blonde hair spilling free as she moans for more. The blonde takes the brunette doctor’s orders and turns them into something raw and exact, right there on the thin sheets.