The vaulted ceiling of the mass room acted as a sounding board, amplifying the wet, rhythmic cadence of Marcus straddling the laboratory director.
His weight shifted, his muscular thighs gripping the director's hips as he began to bounce. He moved with an agonizing, rapid desperation, his entrance aching for the full, thick exploration of the shaft. Every upward thrust and downward plunge brought a jolt of golden, honey-sweet fire that scraped against his sensitive prostate, driving him into a state of total, uninhibited madness. The sound of his own moans—unfiltered, raw, and high-pitched—filled the empty space, a humiliating confession of his body's deepest, most hidden desires.
