Isis Love and Johnny Law

Isis doesn’t wait for him to finish talking. The executive’s smirk barely has time to fade before she has him stripped, wrists cinched behind his back, and his own silk tie shoved between his teeth. She works fast—rope biting into his forearms, ankles lashed to the chair legs—until the arrogant prick can only grunt and twist. Every time he tries to bark an order she answers with a sharp slap across his balls. He jerks, cock twitching, and that earns him another. She peels off her skirt, climbs onto his face, and grinds down until his nose is buried between her cheeks. He has to breathe through her. When his tongue finally moves she rides it, rocking until her slick folds smear across his mouth and chin. She comes once, hard, thighs locked tight around his skull, then again with two fingers stuffed in her cunt while his lips suck at her clit. Only after she’s satisfied does she stand, circle behind him, and spread lube over the condom already rolled down his straining cock. One slick finger pushes into his ass, then two, scissoring until he opens. She lines up and drives in, burying the strap-on to the hilt. Each thrust rocks the chair; each withdrawal drags a broken sound out of him. She keeps him right on the edge, never letting him come, until the front of his thighs are streaked with the mess leaking from his swollen balls. When she finally pulls out she strips the rubber, straddles his lap, and sinks onto his aching cock. She fucks him slow, deliberate, squeezing every inch until he’s gasping into her palm. She milks him dry, takes every drop, then stands, wipes herself on his tie, and drops a pen into his bound hand. “Sign the raises,” she says, voice flat. “All of them. Now.”