The Tax Man Cumeth: Charles Dera Collects On Kit Mercer

Kit Mercer opens her door and finds Charles Dera on the other side. He walks straight in. No talk, no warning. A hogtie has her facedown on the floor, arms yanked behind her, ankles lashed to her wrists. His belt comes off. He drives his cock between her lips and fucks her throat in steady strokes, the head of his dick punching the back of her mouth each time. She chokes, drools, gets wet anyway. He tells her. She admits it. He flogs her back, her ass, her thighs, leaving red lines that bloom hot. The vibrator comes next, pressed hard against her clit until she bucks and strains against the ropes, thighs slick, voice raw. When she stops fighting, he loosens the hogtie just enough to move her onto the coffee table. Rope wraps her wrists and ankles again, spreading her on hands and knees, gag jammed between her teeth. He smacks her ass until it glows, then lines up and sinks into her cunt in one thrust. Charles fucks like he owns the debt and everything else in the room. Kit’s body jolts under each drive, tits swinging, spit running down the gag. She moans around it, pushes back, takes every inch. He doesn’t ease up. He slams until the table creaks. Then he flips her onto her back, spreads her legs wide with fresh rope, and works his balls over her face. She licks, sucks, begs. He crops her pussy, slaps the swollen lips, makes her ask again. Only when she’s hoarse and dripping does he bury himself deep, cockhead battering her cervix until he pulls out at the last second and paints her cunt white with thick ropes of cum.