Candidate #35

He picks her out of the lineup without a word. She steps forward, black hair slicked back tight, shoulders squared like she's ready for whatever comes. Bare skin. Muscles tight. The room smells like leather and sweat. He grabs her by the hips, spins her around, and pushes her over the table. No warm-up. Just cold lube and one thick finger working her open. She grunts. Her thighs tense. He doesn't ask twice. Just lines up that big dick and pushes. Slow at first. Mean. She takes it. One inch at a time until he's buried to the hilt. She bites her lip, breathes hard through her nose. He pulls out and slams back in. Again. Again. The sound of skin on skin fills the room. She grips the edge of the table like she's holding on for her life. He leans over her, one hand in her hair, the other on her hip, driving into her ass like he owns it. She moans when he hits the right angle. He picks up the pace. No mercy. Just rhythm and force. Every thrust knocks the breath out of her. Her back arches. Sweat rolls down her spine. He doesn't slow down. Doesn't stop. He just keeps fucking her, harder, deeper, until her legs shake and her voice cracks.