Cyril
"On the desk," Alan commanded, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that brooked no hesitation. "Kneel. Pop out your butt."
I obeyed with a frantic, feverish alacrity.
I scrambled onto the polished surface, my palms flat against the cold wood, my body arching in a silent plea for the reclamation I knew was coming.
I felt the heat of him behind me, a towering presence that blotted out the light.
When he pushed into me, a sharp, ragged squeal of excitement escaped my throat, echoing off the soundproofed walls.
His thrusts were hard, rhythmic, and devastatingly strong, each one was a physical manifestation of his rage.
In the quiet, lonely years of my adolescence, I had always imagined what it would feel like to be truly taken, to be overwhelmed by a force that didn't care for
