It’s all about the clothes.
She is 5’5″. Her open-toed, beige/yellow strappy sandals add two more inches. Her body is slender, straight. The line from her ankle to her shoulder, drawn along her side, barely budges outwards to accommodate her hip. Her breasts, perky B-cups, are squeezed in place by the halter top of her khaki green jump suit.
Her eyelashes extend out, improbably lengthened by black falsies, which tackily accentuate her small, big, brown eyes. (Somehow they manage to be both.)
The jumpsuit drapes languidly over her frame, its soft, soft cotton snagging on her tiny curves, her ass swinging back and forth, alluring, as she hustles, a black crocheted shawl swinging as well, transforming her arms from boringly bare to tantalizingly visible through impediments.
Her nails are a muted rosy pink, tidily, professionally done.
Her hair confuses me. It’s a wig. Low quality. Strawberry blonde. Elbow-length. Thick, straw-textured.
I see her, briefly, maskless – her small but full lips; smooth, olive skin; slightly flat nose, her nostrils disproportionately large; and her high, but not too-high, cheekbones.
She is lovely, and awakens my cock, even as she fixes her black cloth mask over her mouth and nose.