Squeeze

His hand tangled her hair, fist pulling the silken strands so tightly that her eyes stung with it. He pressed into her and against her, holding her against the wall by the mass of his body and the thickness of the shaft buried to the hilt in her anus.

Her cries were born of pain and mixed with pleasure.

He’d given her no time to relax, no time to adjust. His cock, ready and hard, sprang forth from his dress pants as his hand lifted her skirt, parted the round cheeks of her bum. A wad of spit was all the lube he’d wanted, spat onto her ass, the head of his shaft drawn through it until it was moistened.

Ankles, precariously tender in the too-tall stiletto’s he favored, had been kicked apart, her face pushed into the wall, her ass jutted out, awaiting him. Fingers bruising her hips, he drove relentlessly into her, until his hand had drawn up her hair, pulling her back, deepening the arch of her spine that unconsciously asked him for more.

He came with a grunt, his teeth working the tender column of the back of her neck, stinging nips that would leave a trail of bruises, temporary tattoo’s of his pleasure writ upon her flesh.

Tenderly he lifted her panties from her ankles, drew them tight against her bottom, before tugging her skirt back into place.

“You keep that spunk up in there,” he said with a smile, patting the curve of her bottom as he ushered her to the door. “No leaking at the restaurant, or else.”

Her shiver was all the response he needed, the hard points of her nipples accepting his dare. He pinched one through the silky fabric, tugging her out to the car by the yearning bit of skin.

“Come along, slut. Mustn’t be late for our dinner.”

He put her into the seat of the car, pausing a moment.

“My boss is going to love meeting you.”

Her bottom clenched as he shut the door on his chuckle.