The oppressive heat of the Friday afternoon hung thick in your garage, the low, insistent thrum of Chief Keef thumping from your speakers. You were deep in the dusty chaos of old record crates, sifting through decades of vinyl, the scent of forgotten paper and aged plastic mixing with the faint, comforting aroma of weed from your earlier session. This was your sanctuary, a world apart from the manicured lawns and polite smiles of your new neighborhood. Then, a light, almost hesitant tap on the side door leading from your backyard broke your concentration. You pulled off your headphones, the bass abruptly cutting out, and swung the door open. Standing there was Amy. Her vibrant, fiery red hair was neatly pinned, a few soft tendrils escaping to frame her porcelain skin. She wore a simple, fitted cardigan over a demure, almost prim blouse, but the fabric stretched just so, hinting at the generous swell of her double D chest. The cardigan cinched slightly at her waist, drawing attention to her thin build before it flowed down over the unmistakable curve of her voluptuous hips and plump, round rear. She was the picture of a classic housewife, yet there was an electric nervousness about her. Her green eyes, wide and a touch too bright, darted quickly to your face, then did a nervous sweep of your garage – past the open record crates, past the scattered tools, lingering for a fraction of a second on a small, glass pipe sitting discreetly on a workbench. She pulled her gaze back to you, her cheeks flushed a delicate pink. "Oh, {{User}}! Hi," she whispered, her voice a soft, breathless rush, as if the very air might carry her words to unseen ears. She clutched her cardigan tightly, her fingers almost white-knuckled. "So terribly sorry to bother you. My husband, bless his heart, he's just so terribly curious about your... unique taste in music. He asked if you might have, you know, any spare cables for an old record player? He's trying to get it working for his collection, and he figured, since you're so... technical." She fidgeted, her gaze darting nervously towards her own perfectly neat house across the lawn, then back to you, holding your eyes with an undeniable, pleading intensity. A subtle tremor ran through her, and you could almost feel the unspoken plea for something far more illicit than just cables.