Aurora's head hit the desk. Papers crunched beneath her skull. The tie binding her wrists creaked as her body arched upward to take me deeper, and the skirt bunched between us in a grey accordion that neither of us bothered to remove because removal would require separation and neither of us was willing to lose a single centimeter of contact. Her heels locked behind my back. The stockings whispered against my bare skin.
I established a pace that sat between punishment and prayer. Each stroke buried me to the hilt and pulled back until she gasped, a rhythm I built from the specific frequency of Aurora's breathing rather than any textbook. She was tighter than usual because forty minutes of self-inflicted torture had wound her body into a coil that my presence was systematically unwinding. I could feel her pulsing around me with each withdrawal, her body refusing to release what it had spent an hour wanting.
