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Light scrapping of nails on stone, hips undulating to receive a solid thrust.
Fabric chaffing against the sore skin of his bottom. And that hand, closing and squeezing so tightly around him...
A moan forced its way through his parted lips and glasses fell with a distinct clatter on the pavement as he tossed his head in guilty pleasure.
How could he feel pleasure from that demon being buried balls deep inside him, moving at a merciless pace and he stood there, submitting, with his pants around his ankles?
He could barely think coherent enough to place the blame.
Traitorous body...