Caroline Pierce and Sandra Romain

Caroline walks back in, dark hair messy, eyes already flicking to the carpet. Sandra’s waiting behind the desk, sleeves rolled, strap-on already buckled over charcoal trousers. No hello, no warm-up. She yanks Caroline forward by the blouse, pops buttons, and stuffs a red ball between her teeth. The gag strap snaps tight. Caroline’s wrists are crossed and cinched behind her; her skirt rides up as Sandra bends her over the blotter. A hard palm spreads her ass, checks the plug already seated there, then yanks it free. Caroline jerks. Sandra spits once, lines up, and drives the strap-on straight in—smooth, deep, relentless. She sets a pace that rattles the desk drawers. Mid-stroke, she snatches the black office phone off its cradle. She works the hard plastic receiver in beside the strap-on, stretching Caroline wider, cold and unyielding. Every thrust pushes both shafts deeper. Caroline’s breath hisses around the gag. Sandra watches her knuckles whiten, then grabs Caroline’s hand, forces two fingers into her own mouth, and bites the nails to the quick—sharp, deliberate. Pain sparks through Caroline’s fingers while the double penetration rocks her hips forward. Sandra keeps going until the phone handset glistens and Caroline’s thighs shake. Only then does she ease back, leaving red welts and bitten nails behind.