She lasted until he called the cut, and not one minute of it was clean.
On the screen the man f****d the woman in long, filthy strokes, the sheet darkening under her, Elias's voice in the speakers telling him when to hold and when to ruin the angle. Willa's hands stayed on the arms. Her cunt did not. Every order landed between her legs. Spread her. Slower. Make her ask. The woman asked. Willa's hips shifted once and the chair took a wet mark she could feel cooling on the leather. She did not look down. He was standing behind her. She knew he had already seen it.
"Cut," he said.
The feed died. The room hummed. Her knuckles hurt.
"Up."
She stood. The shorts clung. A string of slick pulled when she moved, obscene in the quiet, and she tugged the hem like that could undo it. Elias looked
