Poor Little Shyla #02

He took her against the cold steel of the server rack. June 6th, 2012. She came in for the midnight backup and he was already waiting—jacket off, sleeves rolled, the single red server light painting half his face. The hum filled the room like a pulse nobody else could hear. He spun her around, yanked her pencil skirt up to her hips, tore the panties down hard enough to leave a pink mark across her ass. One hand locked her wrists behind her back; the other spread her open. He dragged two fingers through the slick heat, grunted at how wet she already was, and shoved them inside without preamble. She bit her lip, knees buckling, thighs shaking. He unbuckled, freed his cock, lined up and drove into her in one long, grinding thrust that knocked the breath from both of them. The rack rattled. Metal clinked. He fucked her fast and filthy, hips slapping skin, her stilettos sliding on the tile with every impact. No condom. No mercy. Just raw, wet friction and the sharp smell of sweat and sex under the sterile fluorescent light. When she clenched around him he reached under and rubbed her clit in tight circles until her whole body seized and pulsed around him. He kept pounding through her orgasm, then let go inside her—pulse after pulse of hot, thick come painting her walls. They stayed locked like that, breathing hard, her skirt bunched at her waist, his come leaking down her inner thigh and catching on the torn lace still twisted around one ankle.