The study rug burned my knees for an hour before he even unzipped.
Grant took two calls with me under the desk holding him on my tongue, drooling onto my t**s, not sucking until he tapped my jaw. On the third call — something about a contract — he put his hand on the back of my head and used my throat in slow, deep strokes while he said that’s acceptable in a voice that never cracked.
I gagged. He held me there. Spit hit the leather of his shoe.
When he hung up he pulled out, slapped the wet head against my cheek, and pointed at the desk.
“Up. On your back. Knees to your chest. I want that kitten cunt and that used ass in the light.”
Marble-cold wood under my spine. I held my knees. He poured lube down my crack and worked three fingers into my ass until I was shaking and dripping off
