Ray didn't let up. He kept railing Prilly from behind on that cheap sofa in the empty shop, cock punching in and out of a pussy already soaked and gripping him tight. Every deep stroke made that wet slap bounce off the walls. Sofa creaked. Skin smacked skin. Prilly's breath kept breaking into the cushion.
He folded over her, hooked an arm around that slim waist and yanked her flush against him so there was nowhere to go. Still didn't slow down. He buried it to the hilt, held it there a second, then dragged it almost out and slammed it home again. Prilly gasped. Her back arched on instinct.
His hand climbed. He palmed one of her small tits from behind — just enough to fill his hand, soft, nipple already hard. He pinched it, rolled it between his fingers while he kept fucking her. Sometimes he twisted just enough to make her jolt.
"You hate Milady?" Ray rasped against her ear, breath hot on the back of her neck. Hips never stopped. In. Out. Deep. Mean.
