Izzy moves like a sultry breeze through a room too hot to breathe in, the kind that made a man forget his own name. Her uniform was a joke—what there was of it—a skirt short enough to make a preacher sweat and sheer black panties that showed under her skirt. She squatted low, mopping the floor with a rhythm that wasn’t meant for cleaning, parting her long, honey-gold legs just enough to sell a stocking top, panty dream and keep the change. By the time she was done, her legs were spread and her panties pulled aside touching and teasing just the way you like…that leaves a man ruined.