He pushed her across the room, bent over as if in pain. His cock pierced the slit between her thighs, his fingers digging into her hips. Bruises would bloom there later.

There were no words, only the steady slap of body slamming into body, the grunts and whimpers, the dragging, halting steps as he butted her across the room with his rigid shaft.

Onto the dresser top, scattering perfume bottles and lipstick tubes, his hand fisted into her hair pulling her head back and making her watch herself in the oversized mirror.

Watched as his juice-slicked cock withdrew, then slid deep. Like a sensual simulcast, seeing and feeling. Like watching porn. His porn, her body.

Her mouth open, her eyes heavy lidded, her tits pressing into bottles, the chain from her butterfly necklace welding to her flesh.

The wet slurpy sounds as her pussy ran, juices of her violation coating her thighs.

His face clenching as he ground deep, as pulses of his cream filled her, her body, once empty, now filled with his essence.

Released, her head falls to her folded arms, gripping the cool wood to avoid falling to the floor, knees trembling. Behind her, the zippppp of a man putting away his cock.

Footfalls fading, the door shutting, a truck rumbling into life.

Learning to not assume her Master was the one at the door.