Rhasylia's milf is back, this time she's in the bathroom, the steam from the shower fogging up the mirror. She's alone, but the house is quiet, too quiet. She can hear every creak, every groan of the old house. She slips her hand under the waistband of her yoga pants, a soft moan escaping her lips as she finds her wet, aching center. She's thinking of him, the gardener, the plumber, the postman... anyone but her husband. She's thinking of his hands, his mouth, his... she's thinking of things she shouldn't be thinking of, but she can't stop now.