I’m still sprawled on the tasting table, legs spread, c*m leaking from both holes in thick streams, when Victor walks back in.
He’s stripped off his shirt, chest glistening with sweat, c**k already rock-hard again, jutting out like a weapon.
He doesn’t speak.
He just grabs my ankles, yanks me to the edge of the table, and flips me onto my stomach.
My t**s smash against the cold wood, n*****s scraping, ass high.
He kicks my feet wider, spreads my cheeks with rough hands, and slams back into my p***y in one brutal thrust.
I scream, fingers scrabbling for grip on the table edges.
He doesn’t ease in.
He starts pounding—harder than before, faster, hips snapping with raw power, the table sliding across the stone floor with every impact.
Bottles rattle violently in the racks, some clinki
