Isis Love and Kurt Lockwood

Isis Love plays the secretary who fucked up the numbers. Kurt Lockwood towers over her desk, grabs her by the hair, yanks her out of the chair, and bends her forward until her cheek hits the blotter. Her blouse is torn open, buttons skittering across the wood. He stuffs two fingers into her mouth, wet them, then works them straight into her ass without asking. Isis gasps, hips jerking, but he keeps her pinned with one heavy forearm across her shoulders. He finger-fucks her tight ring until it gives, then forces his cock in. The first thrust knocks a moan out of her; the second makes her toes curl inside her heels. She’s stretched raw, breath fogging the desk, but every cruel shove drags a slick sound from her that gets louder the harder he rides. When she forgets a word and slurs it, he slaps her ass hard enough to leave the print of his hand. Pain blooms, heat spreads, and she pushes back onto him like she can’t help it. Kurt grabs the belt from his slacks, loops it around her wrists, yanks them behind her back. The leather bites into her skin. He uses the makeshift reins to drag her upright, then shoves her to her knees. She opens her mouth on instinct; he feeds her his cock still shiny from her ass. She swallows him to the root, spit running down her chin, eyes watering but hungry. He fucks her throat until strings of saliva hang from her lips, then pulls her back up and bends her over again. This time he doesn’t ease in. One brutal thrust seats him balls-deep in her ass. Isis cries out, a raw, broken sound. He slams into her, each stroke punishing, the belt still cinched around her wrists. Every drive forward rocks the desk; papers scatter. She takes it all—his cock, the slap of his palm, the ache that turns into something darker and needier. Sweat glistens on her spine. Her makeup smears. When he finally pulls out, her hole stays open for a second before clenching around nothing, glistening and used.